tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4835326029712401502024-03-13T12:05:37.321-07:00Memories in the jungleAshleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-68739500823458876472017-05-03T10:26:00.001-07:002017-11-09T10:16:37.097-08:00Marisa<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">When Marisa came to the clinic that stifling
October afternoon, she didn’t say much. But then she never did. If
not for the village gossips, I would not have known how she suffered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">“They live upriver all alone on that island,
and her man almost never lets her leave the house,” they told me. “They
say he beats her when he gets drunk and sometimes he hurts the children
too. He refuses to buy her any maternity
clothes and always makes her wear jeans just to shame her. We don’t know if he is a little slow, or just
plain mean.” <i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"> Upon entering the clinic she
needed no gown since her eight-month stomach protruded from below her cute
blouse and above her fitted jeans. I
gently performed her prenatal exam and ran through my standard questions. Because so many of my prenatal patients were
teenagers, my questions were basic, designed to educate and make sure the
mother-to-be was planning and preparing for the birth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">When
I asked how she was planning to travel out to the hospital she hung her head
and quietly stated that as much as she would like to obey me, she didn’t think
her husband would allow it. My heart
sunk. Her island was an hour upriver
from my clinic which was three to four hours and across a river from the
hospital. The only midwife in the area
was eighty-five, illiterate, and blind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Thinking
over the times she had already refused offers from me and other to help her
leave her man, I knew she didn’t believe she had many options. I wasn’t qualified to deliver her baby, and
neither was anyone else on this side of the river. Even though I was convinced that the natural
childbirth most of my patients experienced needed no intervention, we were just
too far from the hospital to risk the complications that could appear
mid-labor. I explained that by planning
to give birth so far from a hospital, she was risking her life and the life of
her baby. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Unwilling
to discuss the subject further, she gathered her things and paid the small
consult fee of 5 Quetzales. The
equivalent of 85 cents, the consult fee was designed to avoid charity and did
not include any necessary medications. I
filled a small black plastic bag with the standard: prenatal vitamins, iron
supplements, and a few sheets of patient information that explained the
benefits of colostrum and encouraged mothers to nurse their babies immediately
after birth. As she left, with the bag
in her hand and her children by her side, I wondered if I would ever see her
again. Would she end up being just one
more statistic of Guatemalan maternal/fetal death? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">I sent a short prayer heaven word on her behalf
and then returning my attention to the small stack of charts and group of
waiting patients. I knew that if I
allowed my heart to get too wrapped up in one case, I would useless to everyone
else. Still, pushing thoughts of her
from my mind wasn’t easy as I focused on the wide eyed eleven-year-old with a
tooth infection in front of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Marisa and her husband arrived at our dock in a
small boat just a few weeks later, and I confirmed that she was in labor.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’ve come to take you back up river to deliver
the baby,” her man strongly asserted to me. “She’s going to have this
baby at home just like the last two.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Marisa’s man had never spoken to me before, and
I wondered if all the things they said about him were true. He didn’t raise his eyes to mine, and there
was no clue in his quick, loose body movements.
What was his story? How did he
see himself and his beautiful little family?
A new contraction of Marisa’s stomach cut off my ponderings, and I
considered her options. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">While Marisa had no signs that suggested
complications, the idea of labor and delivery in a dark little home of sticks
didn’t appeal to me. I quickly reassessed my feeble midwifery skills.
No formal training, twenty hours of study on the subject, and
participating in less than ten other births; no, it didn’t make sense to travel
in the opposite direction of the hospital.
</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Her pleading eyes, set in that strong, young
face started to sway my decision. Obviously, the hospital was the best
option, but she was headed back up river with or without me. Should I go with her to support her? Should I
make myself responsible for any problems or complications, when I wasn’t even
sure if I would recognize them? Or should I let her on her own with two
preschoolers and the man who had a lousy record of taking care of her?</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Feeling myself start to lean towards helping
her, I called my superiors for advice. ‘’The ultimate decision is
up to you Ashley, but it certainly isn’t the recommended course of action,’’
was the response I got from everyone.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Finally, I decided to put into words the prayer
that had been running through my mind. ‘’Lord, what should I do? I
can’t bear to say no. If something goes wrong and she or her baby dies, I
will always ask if I could have done something to help. But if I am
present, and something does go wrong, am I strong enough to face the guilt and
the certain recriminations?’’</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">In the past, I had an unfailing track record of
following my superiors’ recommendations.
I trusted Holly and Norma implicitly, and after all, that was why I had
called them. But the sense of stillness, of peace and the assurance that
my hands would know what to do made the decision for me. The security
that God would get me through, not only the birth, but also through whatever
followed, overcame my heart. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">I ran to the river’s edge to the waiting couple
in the boat, and asked them to give me just a few minutes more to collect some
supplies, and get Yalonda. I rushed to the clinic and grabbed the large,
almost suitcase-sized, plastic, mickey mouse printed bag I had packed for
emergency deliveries. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Always game, Yalonda hopped into the small
wooden boat behind me. We sat opposite
each other balancing our weight on the sides of the boat, and settling in for
the sixty-minute ride up river. I alternated between prayer, and
worriedly watching Marisa shift uncomfortably on the bottom of the boat.
“Just not in the boat, Lord, please not in the boat.’’</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">The boat finally slid through the reeds at the river’s edge, and
bumped softly against the mud. We were here. Her home was even less
than I hoped for. It was indeed one dark room. Strips of light
shone through the saplings that formed the outer wall. The alternating
shadow and light was disorienting and my eyes struggled to adjust. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">A few minutes into my assessment and preparation of the scene my
one consolation was dashed. I heard the motorboat being started and
driving away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">Apparently, considering this women’s work, her husband decided he
would rather be off with friends, abandoning us to the island with no
transportation in case of emergency. My last link to help and
civilization gone, I asked Yalonda to search the island for cell phone
service. She was no novice and had
become adept at climbing trees and waving the clinic cellphone around.
Then I repeated with wide eyes what would become such a common
instruction, “And Yalonda, keep praying.”</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">It was nearly 1 o’clock, and Marisa seemed more concerned with
being hostess than birthing a baby. She started a fire and began patting
out the toasty warm tortillas to go with the boiled potatoes she served us.
Her movements were the fluid almost subconscious movements that come with
a task so often performed. Every few minutes, she would hesitate, almost
stopping as she leaned against the elevated platform where her fire was
located. I recognized these hesitations and started timing them. Every
suggestion of mine to lie down, or to head to the bed was countered with a
soft, ¨Not yet.¨</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">I started to wonder if she would insist on finishing the tortillas
before giving birth. Just how strong was this woman? Continuing to
eat my potatoes with salt, and completely enjoying getting acquainted with her
two dark eyed beauties; suddenly her eyes locked onto mine. My heart
started to pound as I realized that there was no turning back. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">Without a word, she moved towards the bed with me close behind, a
prayer on my lips and my prayer warrior Yalonda on my heels with the oversized
Disney bag. As I adjusted her on the small string bed, the large square
of light provided by the open door went dark.
Unfortunately, we were not the only ones to enter the house. In
behind us walked a six-week old calf who nudged Yalonda’s back, almost knocking
her over. Marisa pointed to the oversized bottle filled with milk, and
was pleased that the calf’s feeding time had so coincided. “That will
keep the children busy,” she murmured. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">No more than ten minutes later, I was holding a most precious
little black-haired bundle. Suctioning
they baby’s nose and mouth, I wrapped her gently in the flannel Yalonda handed
me from the delivery packet. Passing her
to Yalonda, Marisa and I delivered the placenta quickly. After getting Marisa and the baby comfortable,
I went outside to stretch and quiet my mind from the still running danger
scenarios. Allowing mother and baby to rest, Yalonda swept her little
yard area and played with the children while we waited for her husband to
return. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">A few hours later he appeared, apparently unconcerned and
obviously intoxicated. On the ride back
down river, we were surprised to feel how much the satisfaction of the safe
delivery and the deflation of our worry had tired us. It was a thankful
prayer and a sigh of relief that filled my heart that night when I crawled
under my mosquito netting just before the generator went off at 9. My
worries for the day were over. My hands
had been guided and new life had come to the little island home. For tonight, at least, I would fall asleep without worrying about tomorrow. I’ll let it in God’s hands. I’ll just show
up.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">In the next few weeks I noticed a growing confidence in my medical
practice. I stopped questioning my own
judgement, and I started trusting God’s guidance. My best was all I could offer these people,
and it was enough. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">Hearing nothing from Marisa for several months, I was pleased to
see her waiting on the bench outside the clinic one afternoon. Her
husband had come to town to drink, and had brought her along so that she would
help navigate the boat through the rapids on the trip home. Taking
advantage of the trip, she came for a well-baby checkup. To my delight
everything was fine, and the baby seemed to be gaining weight. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">I’ll never forget, how just before she left, she looked at me with
a little sparkle in her eye (the most emotion I had ever seen from her) and
said, ¨You know, the children say that now they know where babies come from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">Soon the news had spread among the children of the village
too. They had figured out what no adult
would tell them. The origin of new
babies was no longer a mystery. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10pt;">“Keep an eye out for the Mickey Mouse bag.” the children whispered
among themselves. “If the Gringa ever
visits your house with that bag, there will be a new baby when she
leaves.” </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-74999409615218253622017-05-03T10:01:00.002-07:002017-05-03T10:01:20.898-07:00Elena<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Whenever
I wasn’t busy with patients, I was entertained by the children of the
village. They spent their afternoons
teasing me, hanging from the big squeaky, swinging gate in front of the
clinic. They begged to come inside, and
I looked for ways to expand their minds beyond the little village. I searched eBay, stretching my missionary
budget to buy Spanish children’s books by the lot. We spent hours reading the books, looking at
the pictures and making up new stories to go with the pictures. The fruit trees behind the clinic and the
church also were a great attraction, and many a little thief would bring me a
ripe grapefruit as a peace offering for the dozens he had stolen. The adults of the village were busy with
daily tasks; besides, they were not nearly as interesting as the Gringa in the
clinic. My impromptu classes of tooth
brushing or wound care, which were followed by small gifts of bandages or small
tubes of toothpaste were very popular. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Elena
was among the many children who hung around the clinic. Pixie faced and slight for her four years,
she constantly readjusted her little sister on her hip. Talkative and bright, Elena’s
comments became more disturbing as our relationship grew. While watching me count out pills, or
prepackaging bandages, she casually explained that she had to bring the baby
with her since her mother was sleeping.
Her mother spent her nights fishing or crabbing on the river with
different men of the village almost every night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
had already noticed that the women of the village barely spoke with Elena’s
mother, and I found this information troubling.
I decided to investigate further.
My friend and neighbor girl, Suri was always a trusted source to explain
the dynamics of the village. I spent my
lunch break in a hammock on Suri’s porch trying to understand. Suri carefully explained that Elena lived
with her mother, and little sister. No,
there was never a father. Because of the
shameful nature of the situation, I had to be especially direct to get the
answers I needed out of Suri. Sadly, my
assumptions were correct; Elena’s mother was the village prostitute. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
inescapable loneliness, shame, and responsibility that this little girl faced
angered me. At the first opportunity, I
spoke with her mother in private. Breaking all the rules of convention, I verbally
acknowledged her business and then tried to convince her of the love of Jesus
for her and her girls. Assuring her of
God’s promises to care for the husbandless and orphaned, I pledged to support
her on her journey, should she decide to change her life. She thanked me, but she remained unconvinced
that God could forgive someone like her. As
we talked, I was astounded to learn that Elena’s mother was only twenty-two
years old, even though her face showed the worries and cares of someone who had
lived much, much longer. She told me of
the many women of the village who berated her angrily. The women were jealous, not only of their
husbands’ attentions, but of the money wasted on this woman when their homes
and children were barely scraping by. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
several attempts to alter Elena’s mother’s thinking, I decided to focus on Elena,<span style="color: white; mso-themecolor: background1;"> </span>while continuing to show
love and support for her mother. One day,
Elena confided how scared she was at night alone with her baby sister. She told me how she didn’t know what to do
when the baby cried all night. Sometimes
there was milk, and sometimes there wasn’t.
Angry that anyone would force such responsibility on a four-year old, I
determined to improve her life. I
invited her and her little sister to stay with me in the clinic any night that
she felt scared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Too
poor for candles or a flashlight, there was often no warning of Elena’s arrival
at my door since the area existed without electricity. Soon, our impromptu slumber parties of three
took on a life of their own. I dreamed
of the day I could keep her with me and save her from her hardships. I wanted to offer her everything she and her
little sister deserved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
afternoon after only a few weeks of our new arrangement, she came running to
the clinic without the baby in her arms.
Her rapid-fire Spanish explained that she didn’t have permission to come
and see me, but she couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. The pressure from the town women was too much
to bear and her mother was moving the family several hours away to La Libertad.
Business was poor in the village, and by moving to a larger town, her mother
could take advantage of the groups of immigrant travelers on their way to El
Rio Grande. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
tight hug from her strong, skinny little arms was almost more than I could
bear, but I held back the tears for her sake.
Hurried by her predicament, I grabbed a bag, and filled it with vitamins
and a package of cream of wheat for her to take with her. Including a clinic business card with our
phone number, I implored her to call if she ever needed help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two
months went by with no word, but I wasn’t surprised. However capable she may have seemed, she was
only four years old. It would be
impossible for her to dial a phone or even know exactly where she was. However, one sticky afternoon during rainy
season, I received an alarming phone call from her mother explaining that Elena
was very sick. She had a high fever for
several days, and now she wasn’t taking any food or liquids. Hoping for a prescription, my quick response
startled Elena’s mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Give
me two hours, and I’ll be on my way,” I said. “Just tell me where you are.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> She gave me hesitant directions to a
bar/brothel on a back street of La Libertad, instructing me to park at least
block away and to call before coming in to make sure that the man in charge was
not around. My housefather, Dave supported
my hasty decision, and 90 minutes later, we were parked, hearts pounding, a
block from the brothel. I called the
number and heard the fear in her voice as she told me to come quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Worried
that the truck could alert unsavory people of my presence, Dave dropped me off
at the front door and pulled away. I
walked through the front doors of a saloon for the first time in my life and
looked around. Inside, nothing was as I
expected. Three women with faces as worn
and hard as that of Elena’s mother were cleaning the bar of last night’s
partying, hosing down the concrete floor and plastic tables and chairs in the
main room. This was no life of
luxury. Elena’s mother quickly directed
me to her “room.” The main room was
lined on three sides by doors every eight feet or so. Opening her door into what seemed like a
closet, I saw her cot sized bed touching three of the four walls. Between the door and the cot, there were only
two feet of space where she had an end table with a small pile of folded
clothes. Elena lay on the bed drenched
in sweat. The apprehension in me grew as
I looked down at her listless body. I
was sincerely concerned, but not too concerned to keep myself from wondering,
where does she go when her mother is working? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shoving
this thought aside, I checked Elena’s pulse and temperature. She was alive, but she was burning up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Suddenly,
I was filled suddenly with a courage and purpose not wholly my own. I turned to
Elena’s mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“This
is no place for her to get better,” I asserted.
“I’m taking her home with me, and you can come get her when she’s
better.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Waiting
only an instant for her to nod her assent, I began stuffing my thermometer back
into the bag. I scooped Elena into my
arms and walked out, past her mother, past the women cleaning the main area,
and through the front door. I prayed for
protection even while wondering what the consequences of my actions would
be. I knew that stealing a working girl
from her pimp was a murdering offense in this town, but what about Elena? Surely, she hadn’t been working.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
loaded Elena into the tuk-tuk, and we drove towards the ferry where Dave was
waiting with the truck. The drive home
was tension filled as I tried to explain what I had seen. I didn’t understand how anyone could live in
those conditions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Once
home, I focused on rehydrating Elena and decreasing her fever. A few days later when her mother showed up, Elena
was playing with the other children, good as new. With her hair neatly combed, and wearing a
long dress, an onlooker would have been unable to guess that she hadn’t grown
up Mennonite. Her mother had brought her
clothing, and to my surprise, her little sister. Not yet walking, the baby’s smile and almond
eyes were irresistible. My house mother
and I promised to care for the girls while Elena’s mom straightened out her
life. We assured her that while we
wanted nothing more than to provide her girls with a stable safe environment,
they needed their mother. She agreed to
try to start a new life and promised to be back for them in a few months. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over
the next two months, the girls fit into our life as if they had always been there. Their smiling faces welcomed me to the
breakfast table, and I cuddled them in their flannel pajamas after bath time
for a bedtime story. It was to my
surprise and dismay one afternoon that I received a phone call at the clinic
from my housemother Christine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Elena’s
mother came and got the girls,” she cried softly. “She and a man with a gun just showed up and
packed them up and they’re gone. I don’t
know where she is taking them, or if she has her life figured out, but she
didn’t look good. She almost seemed a
little high.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We
mourned the loss of the girls for several weeks, but comforted ourselves with
the knowledge that they were with their mother.
While my fellow missionaries and I thought that adoption was beautiful,
we believed that children should be with their parents whenever possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then
the stories started to float back through different sources. A woman had gotten to Elena’s mother. This woman offered money for the girls. She insisted that the gringos were stealing
the girls. She insinuated that Elena’s
mother might as well sell them and get something for them if she wasn’t going
to be with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We
barely believed the stories even though everyone in town assured us of their
veracity. It wasn’t until two years
later that I saw Elena’s mom at the clinic again. She was pregnant, and her story confirmed and
exceeded my worst fears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
confessed that the rumors were true. She
had sold the girls. She had been
reassured that they would be adopted out to American families who desperately
wanted children. Badly in need of the
money, she caved, telling herself she was giving them a chance at a better life
while freeing herself from the clutches of her pimp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unable
to live with what she had done and having been told by other women that this
was an unforgivable sin, she had traveled to the city to try to get the girls
back. The baby was long gone, but the
woman in charge assured Elena’s mother that the baby had gone to a nice family
in the states. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
Elena, however, was too big for adoption. Childless couples in the United States wanted
babies. Elena had been put to work
instead, caring for the babies who came through the house on their way to homes
in the states. Elena’s mother was
allowed a few moments with her daughter before she was told she could only
redeem Elena by providing them with another baby to sell. Elena’s mother returned to La Libertad, and
now, six months pregnant, she knew she was only a few months away from buying Elena’s
freedom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“This
baby,” she said, touching her stomach, “is how I’ll get my Elena back.” And sure enough, four months later she and Elena
returned to our village alone. Elena
looked older than her now six years. She was sadder than I remembered. She was glad to see me, but there was none of
the freedom in her expression and her heart was closed off from me. Her mother was soon pregnant again and
delivered yet another baby girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Once more, Elena’s face became a
regular at my clinic window, as she brought her new baby sister for weekly
checkups and for the free weight boosters we provided to underweight
infants. Hesitant to describe her time
away, she did tell me that her time as a slave wasn’t so bad. After they sold her little sister, they
brought other babies, and Elena took care of each baby that came through the
home as if it were her lost sister. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Elena’s
mother continued to work at night in our village, but she never had enough
money for food. I soon found out that even
the cream of wheat meant to bolster the baby’s weight gain was being exchanged
at the local store for cigarettes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This
information initiated me into one of the saddest practices I was to adopt
during my time as a nurse in Guatemala.
Every week when Elena brought her baby sister for a weight check, I opened
the bag of cream of wheat with my scissors, nullifying the resale value, and
then taped it shut. I reviewed the
instructions for preparation with Elena, now eight years old, and I gave her a
week’s worth of vitamins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> In the days and months that I
worked with Elena and her mother, I constantly assured them of their infinite
value in God’s eyes. But mine was one
small dissenting voice in a chorus that chanted their worthlessness and their
doom. Perhaps I’ll never know if my
presence as a witness, a bystander in their story ever made a difference. I tried to show Elena love, but she didn’t
believe in love anymore by the time she came back to me. She must be close to seventeen as I write
this, and I am haunted by the fear that she is out there somewhere working,
just as her mother taught her to. And
somewhere else in the world, there are two little girls who will never know
just how loved they were by me and my fellow missionaries and by Elena who gave
everything she knew how to sacrifice for their wellbeing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-68271050766769610542017-05-02T19:50:00.004-07:002017-05-02T19:50:49.250-07:00My Writing Process<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> This semester I undertook the task of beginning my memoirs with the
help of Mr. Dan Glass.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It became a
journey of self-discovery and self-understanding as I set aside time to reflect
on my past experiences and what they mean to me.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It feels good to remember and record the many
people who have influenced my life.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">While the rush of my busy life in the present usually occupies most of
my thoughts, it is important to look backwards occasionally to consider where
we have come from and to contemplate where we are headed.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Often, I, like others forget that my past is
a big part of my present.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">This time of
focused remembering has healed some pain and helped me polish up some of my
treasured memories.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">My writing style is just beginning to evolve. I tend towards dry recounting of facts and
forget all the details that my reader doesn’t know. Much of my storytelling deviates little from
the conversations I have with friends about my past. While I don’t yet know what my writing style
is, I am certain about what I want it to be.
I want my stories to be an honest portrayal of the people I met and of
those who gave me access to their lives.
I want to give a voice to those who felt like they had none. There are so many people who have limited
choices for their future. I want those
of us who have many opportunities to recognize them, be grateful for them, and
use them to increase the options for those who have none. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">This journey has taught me many things.
I learned that I have something to say, and that there are people
interested in my story. I learned that
writing well is possible if I am willing to dedicate the time to learning this
art. Writing for me begins with not only
a clarity of mind, but with a clarity of soul.
Sorting out the feelings from an event is crucial before I can write and
share it with others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I received great encouragement from interviewing two writers and one
editor. They, and the books I read,
demystified the writing process and gave me hope that I may someday be happy
with the writing that I produce. Mr.
Glass’ gentle guidance has improved the clarity of my writing, as well as
expedited my somewhat arduous process. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">I felt an incredible lifting of my soul after putting some of these
stories to paper. I did not realize that
I was still carrying some of the sorrows of the beautiful people I met. There are so many stories still trapped
inside that now I know I must write them out, even if they never get
published. This act of writing liberates
a part of my spirit and honors the memory of the people that I love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The past sixteen weeks has only scratched the surface and I would like
to spend quite a bit more time learning what makes writing good, and how to
express myself in a way that the general public understands what I am trying to
say. I am grateful, however, for the
opportunity to have dedicated time to learning the writing process and to
studying my past. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-78157193656210338372017-04-26T10:50:00.003-07:002017-04-26T10:50:49.315-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Edwardian Script ITC"; font-size: 36.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chapter 4<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
first few days running my new little clinic were so full of cleaning and
organizing the medicines that I hardly noticed the lack of patients. The Petén was home to some of the largest
rats I had ever seen, and during the last nurse’s absence, they had broken into
the supply of laxatives and subsequently spread them and other unidentifiable
materials over all the other shelves. Every
bottle had to be carefully wiped down and checked for expiration date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While
I worked, I practiced my new Spanish vocabulary and tried not to jump at each new
scratching sound in the thatch roof. My
clinic was inhabited not only by the rats, but by small lizards, innumerable
bugs and the occasional tarantula or scorpion.
Focusing my thoughts away from the strange sounds, I dreamed of the many
people I would help here. The babies who
stop crying, the smiling children, and the adults I would counsel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was content setting the little clinic to rights, but as the hours started to
drift slowly by, I could only spend so many hours studying medical books and
praying for the patients that God had sent me to care for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You
can imagine the thrill that came to me when I heard the slapping of running
flip flops outside on cement porch and the call of “Buenas!” God had finally answered my prayers. My moment had come. The moment I had sacrificed so much for, and
prepared for, and dreamed of. My moment
to ease someone’s suffering and be their savior. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
hurried to the pharmacy. The brown face
staring in through the window was much smaller than I had expected, but I
didn’t have much time to register this before the little girl cried, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Mom
says to come quickly.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> My heart leapt. Was my first case to be a real, live
emergency? When she saw my confusion,
her words slowed down, but the urgency did not leave her voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Slipping
my feet into my rubber flip flops, I looked anxiously around my tiny clinic,
adrenaline impeding my ability to choose supplies decisively.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What’s
wrong with your mother?” I demanded from the anxious little face, desperate for
a clue as to what should be my next move.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s
her goose.” she replied, “The neck is flopping.
It’s my brother’s fault, he hit it with a stick and now it might die! Mom wants you to come and massage it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
eyes widened and my face flushed. My
excitement turned to indignation. Did I
hear the word correctly? Could my
Spanish be the problem here, or did these people really think I had traveled
3000 miles to attend to their poultry? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
grabbed my Spanish/English dictionary, but yes, <i>ganso</i> was the word, and yes, she was talking about a bird. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I
am not a veterinarian,” I replied tersely, but then I suggested that when her
mother had time, perhaps, she could bring the family by for a routine checkup
and vitamins. I saw the dread creep over
her little face as she realized she would be conveying the bad news. She turned and headed up the dirt road
towards home, much more slowly than she had come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
plopped back into my small plastic chair and retrieved my cumbersome textbook,
but I was now unable to focus on the signs and symptoms of renal failure. I had niggling thoughts all trying to get in
around my concentrated effort to learn and prepare myself for future patients.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally
breaking, I listened to the small voice asking me if pride was what was keeping
me from attending the goose. I admitted
that my pride was hurt, but I was certainly not qualified in this type of
medicine. The longer I insisted that God
could not possibly be asking this of me, the more convinced I became that I was
turning down the first open door I had seen in a week. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
slowly started looking at my supplies and questioningly began adding this and
that to my bag. What do you need to massage a goose’s neck anyways? Are they fuzzy? Furry?
Feathery? I had never seen a
goose up close and it certainly wasn’t on my bucket list. Little did I know that someday my list of actual
life experiences would be much longer than my bucket list. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
few minutes later I arrived at the simple home of saplings and tin. This family of six had two small rooms for
sleeping and cooking. At the time, it
seemed insufficient to me, but I did not yet realize how much of life in the
tropics is lived outdoors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With
little questioning on my part, a child pointed to a dark corner where the goose
lay, with its distraught owner crouched at its side. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
looked up at me with pain in her eyes and asked, “Is it a goner?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
felt a pang of fear and inadequacy as I realized I had no idea what normal
goose vital signs were, or where to find them. I clawed through my mental space realizing
there was no box labeled ‘goose’. For the
first of many times, and I pulled my professionalism around me like a cloak and
used the phrase that would become an old standby. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well,
now, let’s take a look.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
had no hope for this goose, and even less for my reputation, but I reached out
my hands and touched the limp neck. It
was fluffy and feathery, making massage difficult. After a few moments of awkward stroking, I
wrapped it carefully in an ace bandage. I
then introduced myself to Doña Mima and her little tribe of adorable
children. A talkative woman, she explained
to me how she spent her weekends selling tacos and other small food items at
her mother’s store to make ends meet. After
many months of working and saving, she purchased this goose and was fattening
it for Christmas. Losing the goose would
be a terrible loss for her family and might mean no celebration in
December. How could she and her family
face Christmas without tamales? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
I started to realize the importance of the animal lying at my feet, I said a
quick prayer that God would heal the sprained goose’s neck so this family could
reap the benefits of their mother’s hustling.
After several cups of fresco and another forty-five minutes of chatting,
I returned to the clinic to scrub my hands clean and try to re-gather some of
my dignity. I hoped this would be the
last I would hear of geese.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
next morning, I had only been in the clinic for a few minutes when I heard the
slapping of many flip flops on the front porch.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“<i>Buenas!” </i> shouted Flor, their oldest daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Five smiling faces with hair slicked back and
perfumed with baby oil smiled in at me from the bench on the front porch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We’re
here for our checkups,” said Flor, “And my brother has some weird skin patches
that Mom wants you to look at. Oh, and
by the way, the goose was up and walking around like new this morning!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Over
the next several weeks, new patients dribbled in as Doña Mima spread the news
to her taco customers the new nurse cared about patients. I never again was called on to treat a goose,
but I am thankful for the goose that gave me the chance to spend my first hour
in a village home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I learned that things are often more than they
seem, and when in doubt, follow your patient’s lead. Had I allowed my pride to win, I may have never
found my way into the hearts of the people of Santa Rosita. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-38821351450747440982017-04-25T10:24:00.002-07:002017-04-25T10:24:18.459-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Edwardian Script ITC"; font-size: 35.0pt; line-height: 115%;">El
Chal<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
hands shook as I once more pulled out and tightly re-rolled the new cape dresses
trying to fit one more rice crispy treat or granola bar into my suitcase. There were 10 dresses total, sewn in a flurry
over the past three weeks by Mom and Gramma.
Five plain white ones for nursing duty and five with small floral print
and sleeves below the elbows to comply with the stricter dress code of the
Mennonite mission. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“It
doesn’t matter how many more granola bars I stuff in here,” I thought to
myself. “It’ll never be enough to keep
me alive for six months.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
members of my congregation had been surprisingly dismal when I announced my
decision for a short-term mission trip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You’ll
never make it,” and “What will you eat?” were comments I heard more than once. While it was very strange for my church not to
fully support a young person’s mission dream, it made sense when you took into
account who they were talking to. It was
no secret that at church potlucks I ate only from the dishes my mother
prepared. My unwillingness to try even
the most basic foods made it hard for them to imagine me thriving in another
culture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
knew they weren’t crazy to wonder how I would survive my six-month commitment
to the Guatemalan jungle clinic. I
wasn’t prepared for this. Aside from a
single ten-minute phone call to the pastor of the small church in El Chal, I
had not spoken to, much less met the missionaries with whom I would be living
for the next six months. I patted the
epi pen carefully stowed next to an emergency supply of antibiotics and several
bottles of bug spray. Having no idea
what I was getting myself into, I clung to the one thing I knew for sure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“This
was what God wanted me to do. Surely, he
would provide everything I needed, including the faith to get me there.” But even this knowledge didn’t keep my hands
from shaking as I folded and repacked everything once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
few days later upon arrival at La Aurora International Airport in Guatemala
City, I located a small cart for my two 50 pound suitcases, a 40 pound carry on
and an overloaded backpack. Reaching the
curb, a small man talked rapidly at me in Spanish, and I tried to ignore
him. He then graduated to wild
gesturing, until I understood that I must leave the cart at the door. Physically unable to move with my mountain of
luggage, I created a small pile on the sidewalk and settled myself to
wait. The foot traffic flowed around me,
child vendors, taxi drivers, and other unknown parties accosted me from various
sides. Armed with only one year of high
school Spanish and my lack of local currency limited my interactions. I didn’t know what my ride would look like,
but I was sure whoever was picking me up would stand out from the crowd. Anabaptists don’t tend to blend in anywhere
with their blatant head coverings and long dresses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> With my ingrained German-American
background, I couldn’t imagine being late to pick someone up at the airport,
let alone an international arrival. Maybe
they weren’t coming. Did they
forget? Trying not to think about the
fact that I didn’t have a phone number for anyone in Guatemala, I alternated
between mounting worry and calming prayer to control my panic. Just slightly short of an hour later, a van
pulled up and out jumped Holly Long, the LPN that I would be working with. Her arms were full of roses which she placed
in my hands. They seemed ludicrous to me
at the time as I was barely able to manhandle my luggage and now I had an
armful of flowers. I never understood
why cut flowers, slowly wilting away and dying, were considered beautiful by
most people. Recognizing this as a
demonstration of welcome, however, I knew enough to keep this thought to myself.
Holly, the mission driver, and I hurriedly
climbed in and pulled away from the crazed pickup zone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
traffic of Guatemala City was just as I remembered it. The smog and motorcycles swirling around the
tightly packed vehicles made me feel slightly dizzy. Deciding it was better not to look, as our
vehicle repeatedly screeched to a halt inches from the bumper in front of us, I
tried to focus on the conversation coming at me from Holly and the young man who
was driving. The awareness that this was
real, that I was 3000 miles away from home and that I had to navigate this on
my own, hit me even as I tried to politely answer the general travel questions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Holly
was sincerely excited to get to know me, and had carefully executed all her
medicine shopping before my pickup. The
errands caused the delay, but she knew it was worth it as we now could head
straight to the mission headquarters for me to get some rest. She purchased overnight bus tickets hoping to
sleep on the trip back before her full clinic hours the next day. This was my first exposure to mission life. With outposts 6-8 hours from the city, doctor
visits and supply runs were packed into one day to minimize Holly’s absence
from the clinic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Previously
two or more nurses always staffed the clinic, but recently Holly had been left
alone when Charlotte G married.
Elizabeth M, a local, who started working in the clinic as secretary and
then chose to enter nursing school, would be graduating in the next month. To replace her as secretary, Holly hired a 14-year-old
neighbor girl who, a few weeks before my arrival, abandoned her job and family
to run off with a man. Mark Andrew, the missionary’s
son was temporarily filling the position until I could take over. My head swirled from all the new information and
names of people I didn’t know. The night
on the bus passed in a haze of exhaustion and culture shock. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Arriving
in El Chal in the wee hours of the next day, Holly directed me to a room across
the hall from hers where I registered nothing of my surroundings except the
warm, humid air as I crashed onto the bed. Waking several hours later, I wandered
downstairs to be greeted by Norma G, the house mother. A woman with 30 years’ experience in
Guatemala, I must have seemed a truly raw bit of help. She offered me some reheated scrambled eggs
for breakfast, but they were laced with green pieces of something. Having never seen cilantro before, I hardly
touched them, and instead asked about Holly.
She had slept only a couple of hours before heading over to the clinic
to see patients. Norma encouraged me to
take some time to make myself at home in my room before checking out my new
workplace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
bedroom was small and bare, but very clean.
I had never seen a bare room before.
My mother always decorated my room attractively with increasing input
from me as I aged. I unpacked my
belongings, and what had seemed like so much luggage when I was hauling it
through the airport now barely made an impression on the room. The one decorative detail, a woven textile on
the wall, drew my attention. As I
fingered the warm, beautiful colors so foreign to my culture and so telling of
the one I was entering, I remembered the warnings of friends from home about
tarantulas and scorpions in the jungle. Wondering
if this could be a hiding place, I gently pulled the tapestry away from the
wall, exposing to my surprise a large hole in the wall, studs exposed. How was I going to sleep tonight, not knowing
what could crawl into my room from the depths of the house? I turned away in shock and considered the
worn sheets on my bed and the simple furnishings. While my Anabaptist parents were never
extravagant, I realized I was facing a much more frugal lifestyle. Evident in every decision was Mark and Norma
G’s careful consideration of God’s money.
They administered it frugally, pinching pennies wherever possible even
when it meant their own discomfort. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
meager belongings were soon distributed around the room and it still didn’t
feel like mine. Who was I without my
pink ruffled curtains and Himalayan cat?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No
answer immediately forthcoming, I decided to check out the clinic. Twenty yards from the mission house sat a
small building with a porch full of milling people and a sign, <i>Clínica El Buen Samaritano. </i> The
clinic was small, with two exam rooms, a pharmacy, and a reception area. Seeing me in the doorway, and sensing his
time in the clinic might finally end, Mark Andrew quickly brought me to the
small table and filing cabinet that consisted the reception area. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Handing
me a carefully printed sheet with questions in Spanish, he hoped I would immediately
jump in and take over. He was sadly
disappointed. Even if I could have read
the questions in Spanish to the patients without feeling self-conscious,
understanding their answers was impossible.
Not comprehending my limited Spanish, they digressed, explaining
symptoms, and trying to impress upon me the importance of being seen soon since
they came from so far away. I was unable
to distinguish these speeches from the information I sought, leaving me wholly
overwhelmed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
responsibilities included checking each patient into a log book and then
locating their chart from a previous visit or creating one. This was quite a bit more complicated than it
sounds. Many considered themselves long
time patients, however, extended searches revealed no chart in their name. Family relationships also were much more
complicated than my brain could comprehend.
In my world, the lines of mother, father, children, and extended family
made for easy identification. Guatemalans, however, as I was later to
discover, had a much more fluid understanding of family. Many children lived with their grandparents
or aunts, especially if their mother was working ‘in the States.’ Sometimes, aunts or even uncles who had
errands near the clinic would offer to bring the child while the mother stayed
at home, limiting the medical history we could obtain. Some children born to the same mother had
different last names. Our filing system of
nearly 10,000 charts depended completely on each individual complying with the
cultural norm of two last names. As many
of our patients were illiterate, they were unable to help me with the
spellings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
several bumbling weeks of practice, my job became easier. I learned which questions to ask, and what
possibilities to consider. Weighing each
patient before admitting them to an exam room helped me fix the Spanish numbers
in my head. Some days focusing was hard
as visions of C & C’s pizzas danced through my head. I couldn’t remember a time when I had missed
my family’s weekly ritual of takeout from our favorite local restaurant. What I would give for a hot slice of pepperoni
pizza.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
the first few days of finding cilantro in everything, I worried over my quickly
depleting stash of granola bars. I
noticed that the corn tortillas were served with almost every meal. Still unconvinced that I could learn to like
Guatemalan food, I decided that my survival depended on my ability to tolerate
tortillas. Valiantly forcing myself to
take a tortilla each meal, I graduated from swallowing ¼ of it to ½ and in a
few weeks, I was consuming an entire tortilla with each meal. I didn’t know it then, but Norma was
sincerely worried about my calorie intake.
Considering herself responsible for my health and unaware of my secret
stash, she prepared special family favorites that I only picked at. I felt only disapproval from her and tried to
hide how little I was eating even while she (a nurse herself) tried to monitor
my intake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
few months later, I became aware that I was not longer forcing the tortillas,
but enjoying them, and the small bits of rice and eggs, and even black beans
were going down easier at each meal. Now
I could focus my energy on language learning and medicine study.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From
the beginning, Holly asked me to study what seemed to me to be large amounts of
medical information. To my surprise, my
LPN training seemed to be of little use here.
Had I realized that just a year later I would be prescribing medication,
I would have paid more attention in pharmacology class. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Because all of Holly’s time was occupied in
patient care, the pharmacy was cluttered and confusing when I first
arrived. On three walls, there were
bottles and tubes, inhalers and sample packets, boxes and labels. She soon assigned me the task of organizing
the jumbled shelves. This organization
appealed to my obsessive side, and while she was grateful for the help, Holly
had another motive. Reading each of the
labels, I slowly learned the most common medications used in her practice and I
realized that while Holly didn’t prioritize straight lines, there was a
definite order to the chaos. The
antibiotics had a shelf of their own, as did the anti-hypertensives and the
antipyretics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Before
I was ready, she had typed up a list of questions for me to ask each patient in
Spanish. I memorized the questions, but
panicked the first time I was alone in the exam room with a patient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
patients just didn’t seem to understand my limited abilities. When asked “Tienes tos?” “Do you have a
cough?” rather than answering with “Si” or “No,” they would run off into long
paragraphs where I was quickly lost. Politely
allowing them to finish, I then repeated my question. “Tienes tos?” While a confused look was common in the beginning
of each interview, most patients soon realized I was only looking for yes or no
answers. This documented partial-interview
was then handed to Holly for her to complete along with a physical exam,
diagnosis, and prescription.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
learned to hold down squirming three-year-old asthmatics for nebulization
treatments, to test urine for pregnancy and infection with dipsticks, and to anesthetize
and remove ingrown toenails. I watched
Holly clean machete wounds before stitching them up. Since many of her patients came from far
away, they often stanched the bleeding by stuffing the wound with the nearest
substance. We scrubbed out toothpaste,
coffee grounds, medicinal herbs, and even dirt that patients had used as a
temporary bandage until they reached the clinic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
also began to fill prescriptions from Holly’s notes, counting out the pills,
preparing the bottles, and handwriting the labels. Elizabeth picked up the slack when my Spanish
was insufficient to verbally explain the medications. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Elizabeth’s
patience was unending as she put up with my faltering Spanish as well as my
occasional superior remark. Ignoring my
ethnocentric behavior, she taught me, gently corrected me, and became my
friend. Her years as secretary in the
clinic as well Spanish being her first language put her light years ahead of me
in ministering to patients. However,
both she and Holly saw the potential in me that I in my arrogance never
doubted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Most
days there were overwhelming numbers of patients to be seen, and all three of
us, as well as the newly hired secretary Silvia worked until we were
exhausted. We became a team, and as I
grew in knowledge and cultural understanding, the work became less overwhelming
for all of us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-18339084583671604782017-04-24T16:47:00.000-07:002017-04-24T16:47:12.863-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Edwardian Script ITC"; font-size: 36.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chapter 1</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
1985, I was born two years into my parent’s marriage when my mother was just 20
years old. They brought me home from the
Reading Hospital to the old tan house that my father renovated during his
engagement to my mother. Brought up in
an Anabaptist community, both of my parents, during their teenage years, had
made a personal decision to follow Jesus Christ and a public decision to join
the Dunkard Brethren Church. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Occasionally
in public they were approached by excited strangers, thinking they had spotted
their first Amish family. While both groups reject much of mainstream American culture, the Brethren church is very
different from the Amish. Both groups
have Anabaptist roots, consider themselves to be evangelical Christians, and
promote a close family culture. Both
wear plain clothing, and head coverings but avoid television, divorce and remarriage,
and violence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Dunkard Brethren Church is considered more liberal, allowing the use of
technology such as cellphones, computers, vehicles, and electricity. Many of the members also wear store bought
skirts and blouses rather than homemade dresses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
churches are small, usually one hundred members or less plus children who
gathering each week to worship, pray for each other, and listen to a sermon
preached from God’s word. This lifelong
commitment to God and each other creates a community and safety net where joys
are celebrated together and sorrows are shared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
the weeks that followed my birth, family, friends, and members of the
Anabaptist community came to visit, usually bringing baby gifts and a
home-cooked meal. My grandmother and aunt
came in to assist with the housework and hold me while my mother napped. All of this was meant to ease my mother’s
burden as housewife and new mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">However,
the scene was not idyllic. For the first
four months, I tortured my parents, crying inconsolably during every waking
moment. The pediatrician dismissed my
symptoms and said they were due to colic and a nervous mother. This difficult time eventually resolved
itself, and soon I was developing as expected.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Growing
up in an Anabaptist community, my mother had ample experience babysitting the
children of other members of the church.
After surviving the traumatic initiation of my first few months, my
mother began to recognize my behaviors as strange. Now looking back, she thinks the first clue
was when, during my eighth month, she rearranged my nursery furniture. While most infants wouldn’t notice such a
change, I screamed, unable to be calmed.
Desperately trying to figure out what set off this particular crying
session, my mother mentally reviewed our day.
Nothing stuck out to her until she considered the new layout of the
nursery. She rushed around the room until
everything was moved back into place.
The effect was immediate. My sobs
subsided into hiccups, and I gently fell asleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This
was not the end my panicked tantrums.
Fiercely opposing any uninitiated change, the transition from one season
to another was especially traumatic during my early years. As my first and second summer ended, fall brought
on violent battles between my mother and me.
Resisting shoes and long sleeves, I fought and bit my arms until she
feared for my safety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
1985, few people had heard of the term Asperger’s Syndrome, and it is doubtful
that even now a baby so young would be correctly diagnosed. So, without the plethora of books and
articles by qualified and experienced, my mother faced my abnormalities
alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Heartily
blessed with practicality, she did the only thing that made sense to her. She removed and replaced the clothing that
caused the new sensations for five minutes at a time until my panic subsided. Then, by incrementally increasing the time
frame, I slowly adjusted to the new apparel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This
scientific pattern of her empirical understandings for introducing me to
change by measured degrees characterized my childhood. She announced every event of my day, hours
ahead of time as well as all possible differing scenarios. This time to process and question our
schedule prevented the huge discussions that were necessary to deviate from the
plan later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
claims I was conversing as clearly and complexly as a teenager at 18 months of
age, and I had an attitude to match.
When at two and half years I was reciting entire verses and the Lord’s
Prayer without prompting, my mother thought I was a little genius, until upon
reaching kindergarten the lopsidedness of my abilities became apparent. I enjoyed the tasks and tests, and I related
well to the teacher, but the other children remained a puzzle to me. Every day
after school during my afternoon snack, I recounted verbatim the conversations
of the day. Seeing my confusion, my
mother patiently explained what the other children meant by their comments, and
we ran through the various scenarios of ways I could respond. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
got another glimpse into my ‘strange’ little mind at the beginning of second
grade. On one of the first days of
school my new teacher spent some time reviewing nouns and adjectives. I told my mother I hadn’t felt prepared for
the day as I hadn’t yet unpacked the box in my mind where that information was
stored. When she questioned me further,
she learned that all of first grade was stored in boxes in my head, and that
each box had many files. Over the
summer, I had moved many of the boxes from first grade to the back of my mental
room. That night, while I lay in bed, I
mentally checked each box to see what I might need for tomorrow. <span style="color: red;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
little brother was born when I was two and a half, and as he grew, my
opportunities for social learning increased.
No matter how rough my day at school was, his presence assured me that I
would have a friend once I got home. We
spent our summers in the woods around our house, acting out the few scenes of
cowboys and Indians we had managed to watch in the electronics section of
Walmart. Our winter evenings were full
of Legos, rubber band guns, and the Farming Game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
spring evening, my mother, father, little brother, and I sat around the kitchen
table, wolfing down the roast beef, carrots, and baked potatoes my mother
prepared. Anxious to get outside and
start enjoying the lengthening daylight, my brother and I focused on cleaning
our plates when my mother cleared her throat suspiciously. My head flew up. At nine years old, I had noticed her
declining health. My brother and I were
worried about the vomiting that had become a new part of our supper
routine. Unwilling to prolong my
torture, my parents decided to tell us the news and risk our disappointment if
things didn’t work out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Not suspecting that my years of
pleading for another sibling were at an end, my heart leapt with the news. It was a miracle. We were expecting not just one baby, but
twins! With one for each of us, my
brother and I wouldn’t have to fight or take turns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Their safe arrival was as
marvelous as my brother and I had always known it would be. Our family finally felt complete. The twins were born in October, and my mother
no longer had to struggle to get my brother and I ready in time for
school. Knowing that if we got ready in
plenty of time,we would be allowed to give the babies their 8 am bottle was all
the incentive we needed. My morning Lucky
Charms were consumed in record speed, and I waited in front of the bathroom
mirror for my mother to wind my hair up into a bun underneath my white prayer
covering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">+++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
pleasure my family took in watching the twins develop offset my continued
social difficulties at school. In fact,
the ever-increasing anxiety from social disparity with my peers caused my mother
to withdraw me from my private school for most of sixth grade. While few believed that this would remedy the
problem, the break from social pressures was just what I needed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
mornings in my room with my schoolwork and the afternoons playing with the
babies somehow gave my brain the space it needed to mature. My return to school at the beginning of
seventh grade wasn’t without difficulty, but now somehow, I was able to form
tentative friendships with the other girls.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">+++<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
February of my seventh-grade year, when I was fourteen, my parents took me with
them on a 10-day mission trip to Guatemala after Hurricane Mitch displaced
730,000 people with mudslides and flooding.
Our days were spent purchasing supplies and distributing donated items
to small refugee villages. <span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Growing up in an Anabaptist home and church, I
regularly heard and read about mission work. My childhood dreams of being a
veterinarian or horse trainer quickly morphed into more humanitarian desires as
I witnessed real people struggling to survive.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
saw how the Guatemalan government provided four posts and two sheets of tin to
each family uprooted by the weather.
Those who had no additional materials to add found this devastatingly
flimsy structure no match against the rains and winds that constituted the
aftermath of Mitch. The refugee children
lit up at our gifts of stuffed animals even though the parents’ tired eyes
rested with gratitude upon the sacks of rice and jugs of oil. It was as I watched them haul their new possessions
back to the saddest of makeshift dwellings that I felt the first tug. It was then that I knew I could never live
contentedly in the USA and accept the suffering that was inescapable for so
many in the rest of the world. I
realized that my idyllic life in the Pennsylvanian countryside was not the
standard. This new knowledge created a
sense of responsibility and a determination to change the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Once
back in Pennsylvania, I was unable to forget the devastation and suffering I
had seen. My life as a seventh grader,
which focused on tests and birthday parties seemed to lack meaning. I began to plan my return to Guatemala. Astounded by my determination and
foolishness, my parents convinced me that I could do much more good in the
world if I would first finish high school.
All I knew was that God had called me to Guatemala, and I wasn’t very
worried about the particulars. I reluctantly
agreed to finish high school and graduated through an advanced track from my
private church school at age sixteen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Much
to my parent’s relief, I was unable to find a mission willing to take on a
sixteen-year old girl. My parents then
persuaded me that the best way to prepare for mission work was to become a
nurse. Lebanon Valley Career Technology
Center had an eleven-month program that fit the bill. Nothing had prepared me for the culture shock
of my non-religious classmates view of life.
Growing up without a television and limited contact with the outside
world, their loud recounting of weekend parties and custody battles felt like
another world to me. Their disrupted
lives seemed full of unnecessary pain and selfishness as I compared them to the
peace and unity of my community. They
discussed their tattoos and piercings, as well as past lovers and ex-husbands
without shame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I welcomed their questions about my clothes,
abstinence, my hair covering, and even my cosmetic use (or lack thereof). While my Anabaptist upbringing was just
normal life to me, their looks and questions were my first inclination of how
strange I seemed to the rest of the world.
I freely shared my convictions and opinions, convinced that just knowing
how good my life was would immediately convert them by the dozens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
dozens of converts never materialized, and I began to suspect that missionary
work might not be straight forward. Newly
fitted with my license as an LPN, I was accepted by Mennonite Air Missions for
a temporary six-month trial. A
conservative Anabaptist mission established 30 years prior, my family and I had
only learned of its existence a year before.
The fact that they were willing to overlook my age, two years below
their 20-year limit, was a testimony to their need for nurses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was to join another LPN at a clinic in the wilds of Petén. I knew nearly nothing about the mission or
what my job description was to be, but I was determined, and my naivete was as
powerful as my determination. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
parents worried themselves sick even as they purchased the plane ticket, and my
church gathered for a going away party/commissioning service. There was no detaining me now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Suddenly the knowledge I
had about the mission field felt incredibly sparse. Could reading about Amy Carmichael, Mary
Slessor, and Elizabeth Elliot really help me at all in Guatemala? What did missionaries really do? What did
they do on a day to day basis, in between the incredible events that they told
when they got back home? </span>Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-483532602971240150.post-85931880146921264732017-04-14T06:52:00.000-07:002017-04-14T06:52:29.903-07:00Getting Started<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Born in Reading, Pennsylvania, I moved to Central America as a missionary nurse at age eighteen. After ten years abroad, I moved home due to health complications. Now, several years later I am moved to write about my time there, the things I saw and the people who touched my life. </span>Ashleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03704571715126718994noreply@blogger.com0