Monday

Monday, November 13

I am awakened by the gentle light and the cool breezes of the morning. On my way to breakfast, I encounter Kenny.  He is five and lives at the Guest House with his dad who is the manager.  He is dressed to perfection in his school uniform and it is clear from his face that Monday is not his favorite day. After a breakfast of avocado and egg it is time to go. As I approach the van, I smile at Zo, our driver.  He shows me his sore knee with a face swallowing grin and I show him mine and we laugh at our shared malady, a word also used in Creole.  I sit by a window in the van and soak in the day.  Mountains rise from the green fields dotted with palm trees; the sun dusting the tops as school kids ironed and starched with bows and backpacks walk together, the youngers hand in hand with the olders. It is such a sweet, Haitian sight.

I consider the words of our hostess, Suzette.  She introduced the notion of primacy and recency.  In America, the newcomer to a group expects that those already there will greet them=recency.  In Haiti, the newcomer is expected to greet those already present, starting with the oldest and working down=primacy.  So what happens when an American enters a group of Haitians?  Each side waits for the other to begin the greeting and often there are hurt feelings simply because of unspoken cultural differences. I love the simplicity of this concept and it reinforces my desire to greet each patient and speak their names.

First clinic days are typically slow starters as everyone acclimates to the new place and so it is for me.  My day begins much as one of my devotions might.  The focus is on me and my challenges until I focus on another and am freed.

Bas is my interpreter.  He is a tall, handsome 29 year old who works at our Guest House.  He lives in a house he inherited from his mama nearby.  It is a varied day of clinic for all sizes and shapes.  I take each patient’s hand in mine and greet them by name.  I also take each parent’s hand and do the same.  The parents invariably do not anticipate this.  When I ask their names, they begin telling us about their child. I stop them and again ask their name.  Every time their faces are transformed from concern to delight.  There is power in the speaking of a name.  It delights me as much as it delights each of them.

St. Elaine brings her elderly husband to me.  She is aptly named as she takes care of him and the foley bag he carries with him.  Her smile of unexpectant blessing brightens the room when I greet her by name.  Her husband and she live in a one room dwelling with dirt floors and wooden roof.  They wash, both their bodies and their clothes, with the muddy irrigation water with which they cook and drink, yet, this man does not complain of bladder pain as I most assuredly would have thought.  He comes with a headache and dry eyes.  The foley seems to be  simply an extension of himself and is hardly noticed.  They go to a clinic every month to have it changed and they are due there next week.  St. Elaine  must take very good care of him, I think, as they walk arm in arm to the Pharmacy.

My attention is captured by a distant wailing of a tiny new one.  I leave my post to see what is distressing him so.  Tiny, two month old Bowden is being held by his mama while Deanna is working skillfully to give him some fluids.  He is pale and limp yet trying to be fierce in his continued battle to breathe. I come alongside and squeeze the mama’s shoulder and talk softly to this precious little one, stroking his chest and head.  Getting fluids into him proves to be no easy task though we call upon every resource we can muster.  We treat him today and ask that he returns tomorrow, and will pray him and his mama through the night.

I see Francesca from across the room.  She is an elegant, 87 year old lady who wears a grand, black, Derby worthy hat.  She and her daughter, Mylene, smile when I fuss over it. They are lovely together on many levels.  Their love for each other shines from their eyes.

The bus ride home finds me in the way back of the van, eavesdropping on the young male translators in front of me.  They are all in their 20’s and they are full to the brim with laughter and friendship.  I smile as I listen, understanding no words but awash in their connection.  It makes me wonder if my own sons would laugh and connect over the same things.

It has been a full day of stories, lives and challenges.  I will sleep well in the embrace of His blessings.