(that’s Liberian for goodbye)
Five months have somehow passed me by, and my (embarrassingly huge) bags are all packed to leave Liberia in less than an hour! I’ll be stopping in Greece, Scotland and London on the way home to visit friends and relatives (and to make sure the Greek islands are still there – you never know), and I will be back in Connecticut on May 30, at which time I’ll tidy up this blog and post some more pictures. I’ve come to love it here and will miss it dearly, but I won’t pretend I’m not looking forward to a chicken ceasar salad and fresh milk, and seeing everyone at home, especially Homer (I find I miss Homer more than anyone else –sorry Mom – I think it’s because he’s hard to talk to on the phone, or communicate with via email; it’s hard to type without opposable thumbs).
Goodbye-o Mercy Ships! Over and out :)
Monday, May 14, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Ch-ch-cha-anges
(That title is meant to be sung, so if you don’t know the tune to which I refer, then just…well…I dunno, ignore it or something, and get yourself some culture for goodness’ sake)
This is a very exciting time to be on the Mercy Ship. The ship on which I am currently working, the Anastasis, has been in service since 1979. It is a classy ship – every time I walk onto the dock and its elegant white hull comes into view, I can’t help thinking how beautiful it is, in both its design and in its function – but it has served its purpose, and is slated to sail next month for some Asian ship graveyard where it will be scrapped.
A newer, bigger ship – called the Africa Mercy – has been in the process of conversion from a rail ferry to a floating hospital for quite a long time now, having been delayed in its departure from English shipyards by about seven years for various logistical and technical reasons. The waiting time has been an emotional and spiritual trial for many people involved, turning plans upside down for entire families and necessitating superhuman patience and flexibility. Finally, to the tune of a collective sigh of relief, the ship set sail for Liberia last week, and will be here by the end of the month.
The final surgeries on the Anastasis took place last Wednesday, and it was a privilege to be a part of the historical day. I did my traditional annoy-the-surgeon routine and poked in to watch Dr. Parker perform the last of 25 years of surgeries on this ship, a routine cleft lip repair. We now have a little over a month to pack up the ship and prepare to move everything across the dock to where the Africa Mercy will berth when it arrives (two weeks after I leave – bummer).
The day after surgeries ended, Thursday, we had a mass screening day in order to fill up the surgery schedule for the Africa Mercy, once its operating rooms are up and running. Screenings are usually done at the beginning of an outreach when we first arrive in a country, but we didn’t know until after the outreach started that we would be allowed to hold one in Liberia – for the past two Liberian outreaches we weren’t allowed to because of the security risk involved when large groups of people gather in unstable countries (I used to think that was silly, but after being here it makes perfect sense; fights break out over less than nothing).
The screening was held at a large stadium in the middle of Monrovia, and information was disseminated through posters, radio and word of mouth. A few nurses went at around midnight the night before to start turning people away whom we definitely couldn’t do anything for; most of the people slept at the stadium anyways, as it’s too dangerous in Monrovia to travel in the middle of the night. When the rest of the crew arrived in the morning, the line was long but manageable: A disturbing array of massive tumors, shrivelled limbs, facial deformities, bullet wounds, and disfiguring burn injuries, often endured for years in quiet desperation. Many of these people have spent a good deal of their life hidden from view in shame and embarrassment, only brought out of hiding into a brave position of public vulnerability by the hope of being freely restored to normality.
Patients were pre-screened at the entrance to the stadium, and only sent inside if there was a good chance that we could help them. They snaked through an assembly line of nurses taking histories, surgeons examining their various ailments, and lab tests to determine fitness for surgery. If they were lucky, they received an appointment card at the end, with a date for them to come to the ship for a surgery. The final station was a prayer station, where they could receive prayer whether or not they had an appointment, if they so chose.
My job was to usher people from the prayer station to the exit. Many of them had either come to the stadium the night before or very early in the morning, and were exhausted, so that the completion of the long-awaited process released a flood of emotion. Those with appointment cards clutched them jealously, reciting to me the date on which they would return, at times crying tears of relief. Of those whom we were unable to help, some were frustrated, many seemed too tired and resigned to be upset, and still others were somehow incredibly grateful despite their situations, praising God and joyfully thanking us for even trying.
No matter their state, each person who walked with me through the stadium had been wounded more deeply than I can understand by forces beyond their control, either from the war or from the rampant poverty and lack of healthcare resulting from the war. To listen to their stories of endurance and suffering was intensely saddening to be sure, but also in a way inspiring: The human spirit can endure far more than we give it credit for, I believe, and if these people can find joy and resilience after all they have been through – some at the hope of pending relief, but others for seemingly no reason at all – then perhaps our concept and expectation of joy is quite a bit smaller than it should be.
More pictures and an official article (what, mine isn’t good enough for you?) can be found on the Mercy Ships website.
This is a very exciting time to be on the Mercy Ship. The ship on which I am currently working, the Anastasis, has been in service since 1979. It is a classy ship – every time I walk onto the dock and its elegant white hull comes into view, I can’t help thinking how beautiful it is, in both its design and in its function – but it has served its purpose, and is slated to sail next month for some Asian ship graveyard where it will be scrapped.
A newer, bigger ship – called the Africa Mercy – has been in the process of conversion from a rail ferry to a floating hospital for quite a long time now, having been delayed in its departure from English shipyards by about seven years for various logistical and technical reasons. The waiting time has been an emotional and spiritual trial for many people involved, turning plans upside down for entire families and necessitating superhuman patience and flexibility. Finally, to the tune of a collective sigh of relief, the ship set sail for Liberia last week, and will be here by the end of the month.
The final surgeries on the Anastasis took place last Wednesday, and it was a privilege to be a part of the historical day. I did my traditional annoy-the-surgeon routine and poked in to watch Dr. Parker perform the last of 25 years of surgeries on this ship, a routine cleft lip repair. We now have a little over a month to pack up the ship and prepare to move everything across the dock to where the Africa Mercy will berth when it arrives (two weeks after I leave – bummer).
The day after surgeries ended, Thursday, we had a mass screening day in order to fill up the surgery schedule for the Africa Mercy, once its operating rooms are up and running. Screenings are usually done at the beginning of an outreach when we first arrive in a country, but we didn’t know until after the outreach started that we would be allowed to hold one in Liberia – for the past two Liberian outreaches we weren’t allowed to because of the security risk involved when large groups of people gather in unstable countries (I used to think that was silly, but after being here it makes perfect sense; fights break out over less than nothing).
The screening was held at a large stadium in the middle of Monrovia, and information was disseminated through posters, radio and word of mouth. A few nurses went at around midnight the night before to start turning people away whom we definitely couldn’t do anything for; most of the people slept at the stadium anyways, as it’s too dangerous in Monrovia to travel in the middle of the night. When the rest of the crew arrived in the morning, the line was long but manageable: A disturbing array of massive tumors, shrivelled limbs, facial deformities, bullet wounds, and disfiguring burn injuries, often endured for years in quiet desperation. Many of these people have spent a good deal of their life hidden from view in shame and embarrassment, only brought out of hiding into a brave position of public vulnerability by the hope of being freely restored to normality.
Patients were pre-screened at the entrance to the stadium, and only sent inside if there was a good chance that we could help them. They snaked through an assembly line of nurses taking histories, surgeons examining their various ailments, and lab tests to determine fitness for surgery. If they were lucky, they received an appointment card at the end, with a date for them to come to the ship for a surgery. The final station was a prayer station, where they could receive prayer whether or not they had an appointment, if they so chose.
My job was to usher people from the prayer station to the exit. Many of them had either come to the stadium the night before or very early in the morning, and were exhausted, so that the completion of the long-awaited process released a flood of emotion. Those with appointment cards clutched them jealously, reciting to me the date on which they would return, at times crying tears of relief. Of those whom we were unable to help, some were frustrated, many seemed too tired and resigned to be upset, and still others were somehow incredibly grateful despite their situations, praising God and joyfully thanking us for even trying.
No matter their state, each person who walked with me through the stadium had been wounded more deeply than I can understand by forces beyond their control, either from the war or from the rampant poverty and lack of healthcare resulting from the war. To listen to their stories of endurance and suffering was intensely saddening to be sure, but also in a way inspiring: The human spirit can endure far more than we give it credit for, I believe, and if these people can find joy and resilience after all they have been through – some at the hope of pending relief, but others for seemingly no reason at all – then perhaps our concept and expectation of joy is quite a bit smaller than it should be.
More pictures and an official article (what, mine isn’t good enough for you?) can be found on the Mercy Ships website.
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