I'm here again, only not positioned on the little couch of our portside apartment, but in my own living room, surrounded by the comforts of home. I've come home from work about one hour ago and spent the last hour reading the blogs of my friends on the ship. It still seems like I'm there when I read them. Their words, stories, and pictures transport me back in seconds. It's hard to think that it's already been 5 months since we've returned.
I could write you all the standard Christmas letter, one that tells you what you probably already know. Nice surface level news, something you may or may not read. However, if you are receiving this letter, you were likely following our blog this summer. We are so thankful for your support, and on the suggestion of a few special people, I write this final entry.
Giles and I returned home from Africa early August. We settled back into our home quickly, enjoying the space. Giles had scheduled shoulder surgery a week later. He experienced complications, leading to a difficult fall start for us both. I plowed straight back into work, having to repay my shifts missed while we were gone in Africa in addition to my regular rotation. Giles started back into university full time. Life got busy fast, without much time to think or reflect on our experience in Africa.
As I mentioned in my last entry, I had many apprehensions about returning to work after an experience like the one we had. I feared in many ways that I would become bitter and callus; numb towards people and pain here in light of the depravity I witnessed first hand. I didn't know what my reaction would be to the first person that three a fit about lukewarm water, or even worse, the first person that complained about the waiting list for a test.
Turns out, it wasn't lukewarm water, but hospital food that was the first complaint I heard that first shift. I smiled, made a joke, said I'd see what I could do. I contemplated re-frying the food and mashing it with beans, but the thought soon passed and work carried on as it usually did.
I walked into her room that morning; her bed was by the window. I could see the windowsill from the doorway; it was full of flowers and cards. Pictures covered the wall at the foot of her bed. There were teddy bears and blankets tossed aimlessly on the chair in the corner, all signs of someone who'd been there for some time. A curtain separated her from her roommate. I walked around the curtain and met her for the first time. She turned her head toward me, offered up a faint smile and brushed away her tears. Her life, her story, was heartbreaking. I looked after her for a few weeks and watched the disease slowly take over her body. Every morning was the same; she'd offer a smile while wiping away the tears, everyday a little harder than the last. The doctors said then, she didn't have long to live. She wouldn't meet her first grandchild because there was no cure and there were no more treatments. She died a few week later at the age of 52. *
Truth is, sadness is everywhere. Africa changed me. It changed my perspective of life in a very slow and subtle way. I have connected with my patients and their families differently than I did before. I felt with the same conviction, while a grieving widow cried on my shoulder, that this is where I am supposed to be as I did the moment I handed the little toddler back to his mom on the ship. (see entry July 1 "Merci Sista")
This is not to say that I won't return to Africa. Giles and I continue to dream of when we'll be able to return. However, Giles has 3.5 years of university remaining, and I will be returning to school this winter for further training in critical care nursing. We still hope and dream of working abroad for a longer period of time. However, for now, we are where we are supposed to be.
As we head into this Christmas season, the Africa Mercy is preparing to leave for Togo. It will continue to offer hope and healing to the people anxiously awaiting its arrival in January. Please remember to pray for those serving this year and the people they will be helping.
Thank you all once again, for supporting us this past summer. It will never be forgotten.
Merry Christmas and Happy New year,
Giles & Adrienne
*details have been changed to protect patient privacy
