Ordinary Days

I must stress the fact that we do have ordinary days here. Those kind of days where there are no earth shattering epiphanies, no tear jerking stories, or deep thought provoking moments. Some days are just ordinary. Here, i was forced to pose for a photo that is now posted on the wall down in the hospital. There is a world map glued to the wall, the ward nurse's faces and names are a-fixed to their countries (or close by).

I thought I'd share a few glimpses into the day by day happenings here on the ship. I can't do too many as it takes forever for them to load, but here are a few of my favourites!

This is Giles' special friend, though he does have many.

Here Dad and I are sitting on deck 8, watching the fishermen come in for the day. This is a gloriously windy corner with shade for Dad. It is perhaps my favourite place on the ship.

Giles has found a local orphanage recently, and is helping coordinate the building of new bunk beds for the kids. He was dropped off here one Sunday afternoon while i was working, and played soccer for hours. This set of twin boys are his newest Benoinese friends!

These are some of the fabulous nurses i work with. I have no idea how many countries are represented in this picture alone, but i know each one of them is passionate about helping their patients and are terrific at their jobs. There couldn't be a better lot of them!

Giles plays soccer every Monday & Wednesday evening. They've joined a league here in Benin starting last weekend, and they even won!!!

There you have it, a glimpse into our lives. I spent the afternoon walking through the markets searching for fabric to have an African dress made, and I am frankly too tired to write anything more !!!

Gratitude

Dad is on his way home now. I had the day off today, and decided i would tag along with him. I spent the morning in the OR while he finished his last two cases. After lunch, we headed off to a local hospital called Bethesda which will be a story for another day.

I wish I could describe the feelings I had as various people said goodbye to him throughout the day. Pride was definitely one of them. Joy was another, as well as a strange and surprising peace. My Dad spent 4 weeks working with me as I fulfilled my dream of working on a Mercy Ship. And did he work! He worked long hours here, serving the children of West Africa. How many people can say their parent participated alongside them as they fulfilled a dream? I venture to say not many. I will never forget these four weeks, and will treasure them always. I know they were as meaningful to him as they were to me in ways that words cannot express.

Farewell Dad, and have a safe journey home. See you in 5 weeks. I'm so proud you're my Dad.

Operating on Faith

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."Heb. 11:1

It's hard to believe that my Dad will be leaving on Friday. It's already been a month since we greeted him on the gangway. But, sadly, the time is drawing near when our trio will soon be down to two. It has been an honour to have him here, to share the same dream and vision with my Dad. No words can describe it. The last few afternoons, my Dad and I have been enjoying the view and breeze off of the top deck. We've been able to talk about our experiences on the ship. That in itself has been a highlight of this trip. We work in very different capacities on the ship, but the people we help are the same.

This afternoon in conversation he said, "so many times we have operated in faith..." I have been thinking about this phrase ever since. Limitations. Doesn't matter where in the world you are, we will always run into that word. We are limited in our ability. We are limited in our supplies. We are limited in our knowledge. We are limited by our own exhaustion. We are limited by the abilities and weaknesses of others. The list is endless. This 10 letter word has been the topic of our conversations as of late. To quote him, "If you put a sick child in my arms in the middle of a Western children's hospital many things can be done. But, put a sick child in my arms in the middle of the dusty roads of Cotonou and I may as well not be there." This ship is limited by the people who volunteer, the supplies that are donated, and by so many other things. In comparison, yes, this is a first rate hospital compared to anything inland and has many modern amenities. But at times, so very illequiped. It is in these very challenging times that we must all operate in faith.

Our experience here in Africa on the ship, is not easily translatable. We try to give you a taste through our blog entries, but the truth is you will never meet the people in the pictures. I have been struggling with this reality lately. The one and only thing I so desperately want to communicate is that these people are PEOPLE, they are human beings, created for a purpose, created to be loved and to love. But in this world of mass media and world vision commercials, you are immune. There is very little I can say that will shock you, truly. We live in a world that reads about bombs and mass casualties during breakfast. During lunch, we learn about the latest murder trial, 3000 dead in [enter place of your choice], flip channel...blink... I can say all these things bluntly because I'm guilty of it too. I've been there.

My hope is that your heart can be softened just a little, to think twice about the blessings in your life and to be thankful for them. Oh, but do i wish you could meet our patients. Sadly, you will not see them smile, hear their hearts beat, shake their hands, give them huge hugs or share in their tears. You will see them, but you won't know them. You will know their stories, but not see their faces of celebration, or their faces of sadness. You will not really understand that these are people, worthy of the BEST this world can offer. Worthy of clean water, adequate nutrition and properly trained health care professionals.

It is the knowledge that there is a worldly possibility for better lives that troubles Dad and I. That thought in the back of our minds, "now, if only they were in Canada ____ could be done" that eats away at our consciences. The medical equipment, people, you name it exists, we live in the place where it exists. We live where, now thinking about it, limitation is a very unfamiliar word. But we are here in Africa, on this ship, and a child is sick. That word may as well be lit up in fluorescence on our foreheads. No amount of hoping and wishing will make her better.

Here, we operate on faith... faith that this person, this child will see another day, and that the little we can do will help. Faith that our limitations will not limit their little lives, faith that God is bigger than we are, bigger than medical supplies.

These people, these children are alive, they live, they breathe, they feel, they love. They are not merely an image on a screen.



Please never forget that.

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." 2 Cor. 18

Love in any language!

What does it mean to love? What does it feel like to reach out to someone in need of a friend? How much does a smile cost? A hug? What about time? What does it cost someone to spend their time? How do we spend our time? Can we do more? How much is enough? What about the ones that we can not help? What about those we had to turn away? What about the person who cries out to you on the street in hunger? What about the injustice? The pain? The suffering? When does it end?

Questions: raised but unanswered.

I struggle as to what to write and have avoided the blog for too long now. I look around me, I smell the air, I feel the sea breeze and I hear the constant noise around me. But do I see, do I feel.... how can I walk through the streets of Africa and not be crushed by the injustice? How can I say to a hunger man I will not give you money... How can I shake my head to the vender and say I will not buy from you..... eyes plead with you..... voices cry out to you...... you do not go unnoticed... every step you take through the streets of Africa someone notices you.... eyes follow you where ever you go.... many wave happily and give you genuine smiles... others glare at you with accuzing eyes.... many look at you and put out their hands: expecting, requiring, demanding money... some eyes plead with you for mercy, with outstretched hands of need, genuine suffering as they walk on their hands down the streets with what should have been their legs dragging behind them. The blind reach out, somehow knowing you are there.

Where is the end to the suffering? How does one cope in this world that surrounds us? A world of injustice..... a world that believes there is no hope. Just two weeks ago Mercy Ships had a screening that was booked months ago. They thought there would be more spaces for surgery, more doctors and nurses and staff to support them. They told the people to come and be screened for surgery.... since then the beds have been full, the operating rooms booked. They tried to send out word that they would not be able to take more people. The day neared... they asked for staff to come to the screening day. They asked them to come and pray for the people because they would have to say no. They would have to stand there and look a desperate person in the eye and tell them that they will not be able to have surgery. They would have to hold them as that last hope faded away. The chance to be healed stolen from them, possibly their last chance.

The night before, reports came in that there were already people lining the streets near the screening center. People were there to sleep overnight in the streets in hope that they would then have a better chance of getting surgery. They may have traveled for days to be there. There would have been no way for them to hear the news that the answer to their life changing question would be No! One thousand one hundred and fifty people came that day. They lined up for hours and hours. Mercy Ships staff served them water and smiles. How can one smile though? How can one say it will be okay?

Announcements were made and translated in many languages. People were told there was no more room. Yet they stood in line, hoping amongst hope that they would still have a chance. People who came through and were told they would not be able to have surgery even got back in line for hours more in the glaring sun, standing despite their pain, carrying their child, hoping, waiting.... desperate.

How do you say to someone we will not be able to help you? How do you look them in the eye, amongst their pain, their suffering? How do we then go back to our little comfortable world and turn off our eyes, close our minds, silence our hearts to the cries and the tears?

It is hard, harder then I had imagined.... harder than I would ever have thought......

But there is a way.... so simple.... yet not perfect... the tears and the cries will never leave us... and I hope that we do not forget...... but what about the ones we are helping? What about the woman crying out for joy because they are healed? What about the child who walks for the first time? What about the man who's painful tumour is removed and he can stand tall, free from the deadweight of suffering that grasped him for so long? What about the boy who for the first time can speak clearly because a tumour that consumed his face has been removed? What about the mother who will see her baby nurse for the first time because the babies cleft palatte has been repaired?

We shout for joy! We see the smiles! We lift them into our arms and hold them tight! For these people we have made a difference.... we have changed their lives! We have shown them that God does love them and He knows them by name!

Watch a child enter mishapen, shunned by his community, children may run from him, adults turn away from him. He may survive only because of the immense love of his parents. He is blessed to have parents who love and protect him. Many children that are born with cleft pallete's and tumours are shunned by the vodoo community and sometimes cast out because of their beleifs. Left to die, alone. Thrown aside, unwanted and unloved.

We may not be able to help everyone but we have helped so many. People flow through our hospital wards every day. People flow through our dental clinic every day. People flow through our eye clinic every day. We make a difference!

We connect... we love... what more can we do!

Celebration and Tears

You cannot tell someone to look at a camera and smile like these ladies are doing. It's impossible. These are faces of pure joy. Faces of women whose prayers have been answered. You've already met these women over the last few weeks. I've told you their stories and now you've seen their beautiful faces. These celebrations occur on a weekly basis on the ward now. 25 of our approximate 50 beds are allocated to the VVF ladies now. We have 3 more weeks of VVF surgeries planned, and many more shining faces to see. I thought it was important you see a glimpse of them yourselves.

I've just come off of a stretch of night shifts and can genuinely say I still don't like working nights. Sure it's quiet and there's less work. But, those are two terrifically good reasons for me to not like them! I tuck the ladies in for the night, and spend the next 8 hours watching them sleep. They're all in one room with no curtains dividing them, so it's a fairly simple task to do. The ladies scheduled for surgery the next day get woken up at 5:30am for special showers and baths. Then I'll spend a good half hour emptying their drainage bags and refilling water bottles. At 7am, the day staff come in and wake up the remainder of the women.

It's really that simple, not like at home where a call light goes off every 5 minutes, most of the time for little ridiculous things. Rm 29 puked, Rm 14 is anxious, Rm 46 needs kleenex, Rm 46 needs a cotton swab.... oh wait, Rm 46 wants the light on (remember the person in Rm 46 is independent and can reach all these things herself but feels that the healthcare system owes her the luxury of having someone else reach them for her). Remember this room 46, because she is exactly the person that i have been thinking about during my last few nights while i looked after a different bed 20, now struggling to survive.

The general view point of the Room 46ers:

"The healthcare system owes me _____."
"I've paid my taxes, give me what I've paid for."
"I'm not satisfied with the level of care here, I'm writing to my MP."
"I have a right to this surgery."
"I want a second opinion."
"Where were you, I've waited 5 minutes for you to come refill my water, it's warm!"
"I am not satisfied with this healthcare system"

I am in no way talking about one particular person, so those of you reading this from work can stop racking your brains for who was in room 46. This could be anybody. I am merely generalizing what some of the patients i have looked after at home think and believe, and to some degree what all of us who live in a first world country think we deserve; what we think is our right as a person to expect of our world and health care system.

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She's younger than me and has had a few children. Her story is just like the others, she's been wet for some time. She came to Mercy Ships with hope, and for the first three days after her surgery, seemed well until 2am. She was in incredible pain and her temperature was climbing. She settled later in the day with some medicine though. Her fever left, but something still was not right. 6pm the next night her fever came back, 40 degrees, rigoring with the sheets soaked with sweat. Delirious with fever and pain, things started to change for the worse quickly.

I had a busy night that night, and discovered along with the doctors once again, that we are in Africa. Since we arrived here almost a month ago, there have been 4 ICU admissions. Two very young babies who are doing well thankfully, recovering on the wards. And two adults. The first did not survive, the second is still there. We do not have the diagnostic capabilities that a standard north american hospital would have including the simple ability to do a portable Xray. Benin does not have dialysis machines nor does the ship, let alone a nephrologist. Where the majority of the transportation occurs on the zimmyjohn (aka dirt bike) and traffic accidents/fatalities are extremely high, Benin does not have a neurosurgeon. We alone on the ship do not have half of the resources including medications and supplies to do what could be done in Canada, let alone the local hospitals who have even less.

So what do we do?

She was tiny, less than half the weight she should have been (only 2 kilos). Her little smile was adorable except for a huge tumor protruding off the side of her neck. Her parents, like so many others, came to the ship as a last attempt to save their baby's life. Without the surgery, she would die. It was just a matter of time. But, as the doctors explained to her parents, she could die during the surgery. "She is so tiny and frail." Her parents agreed to the surgery, and while she was being carried into the operating theater, the medical staff worried with the knowledge that we have limited resources to help her if something were to go wrong.

So what do we do?

I wonder what happens to our patients when they leave the ship. Do they remember to clean their wounds, do they do it properly? Do these women who's VVF's have been repaired remember to do their exercises or do they now leak due to stress incontinence, but think it's because the surgery has failed ? Do they understand the importance of what we are teaching them? There is no long term followup here. We will follow them for 3 weeks at the most, but there are no specialists to see them.
I wonder how many of the debilitating tumors come back? There is only one kind of chemo here and nobody can afford it. No such thing as radiation. How long does the "hope" last ?

Sobering thoughts, the kind i come up with when i'm staring at the floor for hours on end during the middle of the night. The kind i come up with after sorting through boxes of rejected medical supplies from hospitals at home searching for anything i could use to make a makeshift somethingorother.

The injustice of this world is so much greater than room 46's luke warm jug of water. If only she'd understand. If only the world would help and stop exploiting the poor. Who decides who gets what ? Why does the 60 year old woman who's abused her body all her life get to live another 15 years on dialysis when an innocent young person dies in africa because she doesn't have the luxery of the North American medical system ? As one Africa Mercy nurse, Ali, wrote on her blog, "where you were born is so often exactly what decides how you die."

The little baby girl lived, despite the complications that arose. I saw her yesterday in the arms of one of the nurses being fed. The young woman is doing better, she'll make it though we still don't really know what's wrong. Her tests should come back today.

Truth is, we do what we can, with the best of our ability. We hold onto the smiles, and celebrate mightily with the successes. Later in the night, we try not to let the tears defeat us.

Bringing hope

VVF Dress Ceremony

As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years, but no one could heal her. She came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped. "Who touched me ?" Jesus asked. When they all denied it, Peter said, "Master," the people are crowding and pressing against you. But Jesus said, "Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me." Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. Then he said to her, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace." Luke 8:43-48

she said: Two and a half years ago I was married to a wonderful man. I became pregnant, and when the time came to deliver the baby it would not come. Three days i was in labour, and the baby would not come. My husband tried everything. He took me to doctors and they could do nothing. Then he heard of a man who could make the baby come. He tied a cloth around my waist and pushed. The baby would not come. I pushed and pushed, but the baby did not come. After the baby was born, my bladder did not work. I was always wet. My husband tried to find help for me, but when he could not, he left me at the hospital and never came back.

she said: For twenty two years, i have had this problem. My husband, my family and my friends have all left me.

she said: Five days i was in labour, and no one could help me. My baby was born dead. After then, i was always wet and nobody could help me. I did not have money for doctors. My husband left me, my mother would not see me, i was so alone.

she said: I have no mother, no father. My friends have left me, my husband left me. I was a farmer and nobody would help me.

They all said: Praise the Lord for He has healed me!

One of our leading translators, a woman who once suffered with this condition herself, began the ceremony with the words of Luke. She told these women that this problem has been going on for centuries, causing just as much hopelessness and despair as it did to them. But, she said, "Jesus brought this ship to Benin, He brought the doctors and nurses to Mercy Ships, and HE healed their bodies through them." She didn't need to tell the ladies to be thankful, they have been thankful from the moment they first got that little appointment card at screening day. For many, the first glimmer of hope in years. I have never seen such faces of gratitude. I have never seen such authentic praise.

I cannot begin to imagine the daily suffering each of these women have gone through. I've heard their stories, and so many of them are the same. Stories of abandonment, hopelessness and despair. And yet they find hope to smile again, to laugh and make new friends. I wish I could bottle up their optimism and strength. I would take this bottle and give a dose to each patient i look after at home. But, it doesn't work that way does it ? These African women are special. Short of meeting them, you'll never truly understand what a joy they are, and what strength they posses.

The dress ceremony is something special, only for these ladies. Each lady receives a new dress, a symbol of a new life. They are given a chance to tell their story amongst their new friends, it is a time of celebration. A cornerstone of change in their lives. I wish them well on their journey.

If only this happy ending could be copy and pasted to every woman who enters the ship. But it can't, and it wouldn't be fair of me to tell you that it was. I will remember those women for a long time. The ones we walk down the hallway to the OR. The ones whose faces glimmer with hope, carrying their IV bags and hope that today will be the last day of shame. She comes back from the OR, eager with anticipation despite the grogginess. She still cannot feel much, her legs are still paralysed from the anesthetic. She doesn't have to say anything, her eyes say "am I dry, did it work ?" That first evening, we'll help her turn, check her frequently, monitoring her drainage bag, smiling that everything is ok so far. The next morning, she can get out of bed. She lifts her hips only to feel that familiar feeling, wet. Maybe the tube is plugged we say. We try our best to fix the problem. She relaxes and settles back into bed. Two hours later, she motions over to us, perplexed, wet. A few days later, the surgeon pulls up a stool with a translator to tell her the surgery didn't work. "There must be more holes, we didn't get them all. We are sorry, we tried our best." The other women are laughing and joking all around her, but for this woman i can see the cloud of darkness overwhelm her. The surgery failed. Hope is gone.

Some women have come back to the ship for as many as three times. I was explaining the surgical procedure to one lady, telling her what to expect in the OR and what to expect 24 hours after surgery took place. I ended my teaching session by asking her if she had any questions. She replied, "I have come to this ship two times before. Each time I hope that the surgery will work. I know that my case is difficult and there are many problems. I know you will try your best. That is all i can ask of you. I trust you to do this. Lord willing, this time will be my last."

Sometimes the damage is too great, sometimes there are other problems that prevent the surgery from being attempted at all. Doctors and nurses alike, no matter their level of skill and experience, can only do so much. For the ladies left behind, may they never loose sight of hope. Jesus healed the lady who suffered for 12 years by faith. If there is nothing else we can give these women, may they know Jesus and His power to heal, if only by faith.

Living in three worlds

One of the great things about working here on Mercy Ships, are the fascinating people that we meet. At home, we're used to being the odd balls who would rather go to a third world country and volunteer than spend our vacation lounging on a beach in the Caribbean. It's part of what makes us who we are, and i'll admit a little unique. Here however, we have met so many people who are 10,000 more 'strange' according to the world's standards. We've met people whose life stories are absolutely incredible, who have spent their entire lives serving the poor in strange and incredible ways. The chief surgeon here came for 3 months 20 years ago. He never left, having raised a family on the Mercy Ships. That story is not uncommon on the ship. So many people have come and stayed, endless others are here indefinately... having sold their homes with no idea what the future will hold for them. But they are here whole heartedly, giving the best of themselves, the better part of their years, helping where they can.

Amongst all of these incredible people, we meet the ordinary people like us. Struggling to figure out why we're here, enjoying every minute, but still a little perplexed by the experience. Here for a short while and with future plans vague. But, with these new friends come new insights as we attempt to put into words our thoughts and feelings. Trying to process what we see on a daily basis is exhausting in the least. It was through reading a friend's blog that i came to an important realization, we are living in three worlds.

"Culture shock," such a funny word. It means something different to everyone, i'm convinced. To some, a daunting word bringing about memories of intense emotion. To others, an excuse for inaction, and i'm sure the list could go on. The definition for me is vague, and i'd really rather not to spend much time on it. However, it is an important word to bring up at this point.

My typical work day goes like this: (World A)I wake up in a comfortable bed, in a neat and tidy room where the temperature is usually around 18 degrees celcius. I have my own washroom and shower with hot water. I can go upstairs and help myself to breakfast hot or cold. My choice. Then I walk downstairs to the hospital (World B) This hospital is nothing like at home, but not all that different. I can still function in the same capacity at home, with a lot of creativity of course. The practice of nursing is little different in Canada then in Africa. The environment is crowded, and i can't communicate with 95% of my patients verbally. There are mattresses beneath the beds to watch out for, and at least 50% of the patients are under the age of 18. The quality, quantity and variety of supplies varies. However, it is still clean, warm (not hot), dry and has very similar resemblances to home. My shift will progress until 8-12 hours later. Then I am finished. I may choose to email some friends and family afterwards, enjoy a hot meal, and sit on the top deck for the last few hours of sunlight. This world of "B" is a combination of home and Africa. It is strange in both it's similarities to what is my considered normal, and the differences which constitute the considered normal of local Africans. On a day off, or morning before an evening or night shift, I may choose to venture into World C. This is Africa. I walk down the pier to the security gates in the stiffling heat. No more pavement, just dust, broken glass, road side shacks etc. The odd car may pass you by, but mostly the zimmyjohn (aka dirtbike/motorcycle). No matter the length of excursion i choose to take, i will ultimately walk back through those security gates, back up the pier, up the gangway, and into the ship called World A. I will be greeted by a blast of cool air ...

So perhaps you can see a cause for confusion. Where are we ? We are physically located in Africa, though living on a ship registered in Malta. Strange. I was prepared to live in Africa and this surprising comfort as left me... surprised. Some may define this perplexity as culture shock, but i wonder with this constant shift from one culture to the next, if that is truely what it is ? Needless to say, that is how we Mercy Shippers live. It is strange.

And so you have it, we are living in three different worlds. Something we did not expect.

Day trip to the Stilt Village of Ganvie

My work schedule is very similar to at home, including weekends. I work every other weekend, so when i have one off, Giles & I try to find day trips to go on. This weekend, we traveled by boat to the village of Ganvie. This village is on the northern tip of one of the inland lakes fed by ocean rivers. Established in the 1700's (according to our boat driver), this village survives off of the fish market. The lake, or lagoon rather, is full of nets and fish farms.

Faces of Friends

The Hospitality center acts as an "in-between" center for patients and families. It is used as a base where patients can stay while they wait for their surgeries and where they can stay when they are recovering. Also they do physio therapy and run an eye clinic. In the second photo, a group of nurses spent a couple of hours giving the women at the center full foot massages and pedicures. For most of the woman this was the first time they had ever had this kind of special attention. I happened to be there and was designated the photographer. You should have seen these woman, some in their 50's and 60's, they were giggling and slightly overwhelmed with excitement. It was a pretty amazing event. I spent an entire memory card on one of the ladies cameras taking photos of the woman and then showing them.... they were so funny. I could not get them to smile for the photos but as soon as I would show them the photo on the camera they would break out into a huge smile and show all their friends.

So many memories and experiences... hard to capture them all!
Giles

"Drivers, please look under your vehicles for sleeping patients before departing"

...Definitely not your typical daily reminder! A few other funny things from my week that only my fellow nurses could appreciate are denture cups as specimen containers and making makeshift outhouses from little wooden kids chairs,wash basins and magnetic curtains. Needless to say, the request for commodes went out this week. The walls and ceilings are all magnetic on the ship. So, when curtains are needed for privacy, we have magnetic hooks that hold curtains to the ceiling. I think i tripped on them at least 5 times today, making the ladies burst into laughter. I'm sure it was a combination of the ship moving and my regular clumsiness. I try to console the patients who are learning to use crutches on the ship that if they succeed learning on a ship, they should win a prize (in the very least they get a pat on the back and a big cheer!)

My Dad arrived on the ship last Friday, and I've really enjoyed having him around! As my Mom wrote in an email, "half of my family is in Africa!" Experiences like these are hard to express on returning home. It means so much to know that one of my family members (other than Giles of course), will know first hand what Mercy Ships is like!

Anyone want to play "telephone tag ?"

You remember don't you, in kindergarden you played this. Everyone sat in a line or a circle, you whisper a message to the person beside you. He then turns to the person beside him and says the same thing until you get to the end of the line where the original phrase, "the cow jumped over the moon," somehow morphs into "my uncle's cow has a moon on it's head." Ahh, yes. The class bursts into laughter and the game continues!

I play this game EVERYDAY!!! Only, I begin the chain of communication with, "have you had a bowel movement today?" I have since learned a quicker way to find out this answer is to graphically act out the question.. which you can only imagine. If i wasn't already red from a little too much sun, i would be after acting out #2. But all is well, and many laughs are had by all. Think of all of the 'wonderful things' we nurses ask our patients on a daily basis... and then think of the game. Because, today, I had to communicate through 4 translators to talk to 3 of my patients.

For the next 6 weeks, one of the OR's is dedicated to VVF surgeries. This acronym stands for Vesico Vaginal Fistula. This condition is relatively isolated to developing countries whereby women are in labour for days and days. The majority of these women are from remote areas where doctors do not exist, much less skilled midwives. These prolonged labours unfortunately ultimately end in the birth of a stillborn child days after labor. The women too, suffer greatly. The damage to their bodies result in tracts forming between their bladder and uterus, meaning they are constantly wet. These women are often isolated from their communties, cast out from their families, and left to live alone in the bush. One woman told me today, "you know, at home many women from my village have killed themselves because of this problem. They cannot bare it, they cannot bare to be looked upon in the way we are. But, in my heart God told me he understood my problem and would give me the strength to endure it. I did not know if i would one day be cured, but not once did i think about killing myself. And today, I am dry! And I praise God for the healing in my body."

I spent my day working with these wonderful women. For years, these women have not known a friend. A handful still have welcoming families, but for so many, they have lived a life of lonliness and abuse. Here, an entire ward is dedicated to them. For those of you women, it's like one gigantic sleepover on the ward. You would think they had known eachother for years. There is so much laughter and singing. Post-op care is fairly tedious in the first few days, and considering the great distance many of these women have come, the languages become harder and harder to translate. It is fascinating to watch them teach each other. As a group they go for walks, do their special exercises... learn how to care for themselves etc. I cannot describe the awesome comrodory that exists on this ward.

Perhaps it is my medical background that makes this ward my favourite so far. Who knows. I've only spent a few days on each, and i'll probably say that of all the wards in the end. But, today was a great day. It is not everyday that a person has the opportunity to see lives transformed so dramatically. Today was one of those days.

So, anyone want to play 'telephone'?