Prayers for A

I have fallen face first in love........Yes, it’s true. Someone here in Africa has captured my heart. 

I call her Baby A, and she isn’t really that much of a baby, but a 4 year old beautiful girl. We admitted her on Monday for a biopsy for the tumor that is growing both inside and protruding out of her nose. The tumor has only been growing for five months, and she can no longer pass any air from her nasal passages. She was brought to us by her loving uncle, who until last night I thought was her father. This wonderful man has been taking care of her ever since the tumor started showing. Her mother is his youngest sister, and she doesn’t have the time to both care for her and make a living. Unfortunately like so many of the stories here, her father abandoned her when it started showing...Through it all though she is just a joyful little thing. From the minute I saw her and she gave me a wave with a twinkle in her eye, she stole my heart. Jonathan, one of the dayworkers actually started referring to her as my daughter yesterday because he doesn’t see us apart much. She spends her time playing and coloring while on my lap and pretending to type while I work on the computer for my charge nurse duties. She spends some quality time here and there strapped to my back, snuggling up as we fall fast into the rhythm of one another’s heartbeat. Yesterday we had a bit of praise for another patient on the ward and she was giggling from my back while I danced up a storm. She knows how to blow kisses, and just bats her eyelashes for anything she wants. She does this thing where she sighs, like its all just too exhausting, and thats when emotion bubbles up in me. Its just the same as the little boy in bed 6 that I told you about during the beginning of the outreach. This is the part where no matter what I do, I can’t save her. All I can do is love her, pray for her, and ask God to make her tumor something that we can change. She has so much love to give, and such a bright future and it wrecks me to know that these things may never happen for this beautiful girl. Last night after I put her to bed with a kiss and tucked her in just like my parents did for me when I was a kid it really hit me. This wonderful little girl may be labeled with an ugly word in the next 2 weeks: Cancer. Because she wouldn’t fall asleep and kept getting up and reaching for me I took an extra hour after my shift to snuggle her, to hold her close, and breathe words of life upon her. So there she sat on my lap, snuggled up with her legs wrapped around mine, rubbing my arm, and blowing kisses at my friend Jen. I can’t kiss her enough, love her enough, or tell her how wonderful she is enough. This is where I have to shrink back, give it up, know that My God has it in control, and that HE is the only thing that is enough. So please, if you can take a moment for Baby A over the next few days, just ask God to make this tumor something that we can surgically fix. Thanks for all the support you show this big hospital ship in Guinea, both I, Baby A, and all the other patients need you... 

Taking T home......

Last Friday, I had the honor of making a very special trip, one that I wouldn’t have missed for the world. I was invited to accompany T home to his aunt’s house here in Conakry. She lives about 50 minutes from the ship by Landrover, and will be a crucial step for him making his way back home to his village. This is a test to see how well he can care 100% for himself, and how his wound will continue to heal in a real Guinean environment. So after a long night, I walked myself home (all 50 steps), splashed some water on my face, and grabbed a cup of coffee. I wanted to be in tip top shape for this adventure, so I had to take a moment to pull myself together after 3 night shifts in a row. I headed out to the tent a tad early, and asked if he wanted to head into the ward to say an official good-bye to the dayworkers and nurses. YES! He shook his head excitedly, and took off towards the ship without his mother. The half hour we had on board was amazing. We happened to get to the wards in perfect timing, and our hospital chaplaincy team was beginning morning praise. T was given a hero’s welcome, because let’s face it--he is a legend on this big white ship. I daresay he has hit celebrity status and invaded the hearts of all those who have met him! He was able to sing, dance, and thank each of the nurses, hugs all around. As we were leaving he said, “what about Dr. Gary”? I told him Dr. Gary was in surgery so we wouldn’t be able to see him today, but then another dayworker happened to have spotted him in the screening room. I headed down to ask if he had a few minutes to see T. Dr. Gary was so excited, he bounded back up the hall and had a mini examination/consultation right there in the middle of the hallway. This is what I love about this place, Dr. Gary, one of the VERY best surgeons in the world has dedicated his life to caring for these people. He takes every opportunity to be with them, and is so tangibly excited by their success. His love just oozes out, and I wish honestly I could work with him forever. He takes every moment he can for teaching, both us and the patients and does it in such a genuinely loving way. Even with simple things like his word choice, he makes each person to feel important, holy and dearly loved. So after they guys had their moment in the hallway, we were given a royal send off---with all the chaplaincy team walking him to the door of the car and we set off for outer Conakry. It was a bumpy ride, but thanks to our Landrover and local driver we made it without delay. There we were also given such a warm welcome full of hugs, kisses, and hand holding. It seems that everyone in the area of her home made it out to welcome him back. Lots of men, aunties, children and even his grandma. We took a tour of the area, got to love on some kiddos, and I got to hold his grandmas hand for a good solid amount of time. It’s funny how even in Africa Grandma’s just have something special about them. In their beautifully lined faces, their soft skin, and the way they hold onto you. Since I didn’t get to love on my grandma this year for her birthday or Thanksgiving, I held T’s just that much tighter--thinking of all the grandma’s who give up time with their grandchildren so they can go and follow their dream to serve abroad and how their faith is similar to those here in Africa who put their loved ones into our hand, without hesitation hoping that we can change their lives. They both want what is best for their babies, sacrifice their own time because they want them to have a bigger and brighter future. (thank you grandma!)

After a few interviews on the media team’s side, a few pictures demanded by T, and lots of hugs, we piled back into the rover and headed home. It was great to see where he has started the next phase of his recovery, and to see his loving family. This man gets to make a future, to start over, a new lease on life. When we asked him what is next, his only thought was that maybe, just maybe, he would like to become a taxi driver. I am here to tell you that I would give anything for that man, and would happily let him drive me all over this beautiful green country. 

December is here!

I apologize for shutting you all out for almost 2 weeks! When I flipped to my blog today thinking “I should write an update” I had no idea that it had been that long since my last post. It’s amazingly easy to get caught up in the day by day here, working shifts, hanging out with friends, and forget that I have a group of faithful supporters who want to hear about what has become my new “normal” in my African home. These past two weeks have been wonderful, as most of the others have been also since my arrival onto the Africa Mercy. So sit back, relax, and prepare yourself....this will be a long one, jam packed with thoughts, stories, and pictures from Guinea. 

The 1st of December was a tough day around here. Two rocks in my Africa Mercy family headed home. Beth and Becky are two of the most loving, amazing, faithful people I have ever known. They were not rookies to the Africa Mercy, and took us all in- playing a key part in our little family. They were great examples of what it looks like to pour our hearts out on our patients, and an excellent reminder of God’s goodness and plan. I could rave about them all day, but the bottom line is this: Good-byes are exceptionally hard here. You live in a super tight community 24-7, eating three square meals a day together, working alongside them, worshiping with them, playing games, watching movies, relaxing, and de-briefing with them. It was said to me after first arriving that you could get closer to these people in three months than ever imaginable--and I see now, that is true. I will miss them something terrible, and It makes my gut hurt, knowing how many more of these will happen in the coming weeks. 

So after a proper AFM send off, what do you do when your heart is heavy and you’ve said a tough good-bye? You hug someone who is still here, be thankful for your blessings, and craft! We spent from 3-11 pm Sunday crafting the newest addition to the 3rd deck hallway. It was a fun, fantastic way to bring us all together on an otherwise gloomy feeling day. 

The idea of leaving, moving on, and trusting God with the plan has been a constant topic of conversation over the last few days. As I laid out on the deck with my dear friend Maura, looking at the stars, chatting about the past few months, it doesn’t seem real. God used so many different things to bring us all here, in his perfect timing. We all had to make the choice to leave our happy, safe, normal lives behind to come to a place where we knew no one. Here we made life long friends, had experiences that only we can understand, and then have to say goodbye. It’s exhausting, and so challenging to give so much of yourself over and then watch it walk off ship and back into your Western world. I wouldn’t trade a minute of it away, and I know that there will be many familiar faces returning and new friends to come, but as my wise friend Jasmin says-- “The amazing thing about traveling is that you get to befriend people from all over the world---but the other side of that is that no matter where you are in the world, no matter the adventure, you will always be missing someone”. So as heavy as my heart is, I have  been impacted and changed by these wonderful friends--

Ward Updates: Every day down in the ward makes my heart soar, and I feel so lucky to be a part of it.  B (our outgoing woman with the trach/feeding tube) has gone home, and been back several times to visit. Every time she barrels in with a new hairstyle, hugs everyone, dances around a bit, and then shuffles back out--all of our hearts leaping for joy over her success. 

S--the patient from the Peanut M&M’s story has made a miraculous recovery and he left Friday for the Hope Center. The night after his surgery his Mom kept a careful watch at his side, never once shutting an eye. When I sat next to her and asked why doesn’t she try to get a little sleep while he is resting, her answer was this. “Today I’m not hungry, I’m not thirsty, I’m not tired, I have no needs....Today is the day my baby has been changed, and I just want to sit here and look at him”. How’s that for powerful at 2am? Heart swelling, I understood. For so many of our patients we get to witness the day they never thought would ever come. For her, she thought she would witness her sons premature death after a long fight with a tumor so far out of their control, but instead she  is able to witness him blossom, rejuvenated, new life gained. Every day we had Mr. S I teased him, just to hear his laugh. I would cover him in stickers, blow bubbles at him, or tickle him, just to see his smile. He, like T, has a lot of extra skin to shrink back over the coming months. Even in the week and a half after his surgery his lips have amazingly shrunk to less than half their pre-operative size. To put it in perspective it was enough to make even Dr. Gary joke that he should have measured them for a research study. This last week he was regaining control of his facial muscles, and he has the most beautiful smile. He doesn’t have one of those little smirks, but literally a gigantic smile that lifts the corners of a mouth far stretched from the trouble that almost took his life. 

What is happening here is impossible to describe. Just yesterday, during an 8 hour shift as charge nurse in the wards I was faced with so many thoughts. We sent five people home, ranging in age from 1-40 and we brought in three new people who all have a story to tell. Of these three, two have already impacted me. The first was a woman who I received a call about at 6pm. She was late to the assembly area and missed the Mercy Ships shuttle through the port to the ship. She ran through the port, trying not to be left behind and then sat outside for almost 2 hours because unfortunately, I didn’t know she was there---so when I found her she was tearful, and worked up. When I walked outside to find her, I took one look at her and was hit square in the chest by the emotion on her face.  Desperation, fear, worry, and defeat. I can think to when I am racing a deadline, and that rush of adrenaline that hits. But for her, it was so much more. She was running,  scrapping to gain to control and then sitting with this thought--That if I am late, if I don’t make it onto that ship, that my chances of having this surgery, of having this life changed could be squashed. Gone in an instant because I was a few minutes late. After settling her in and getting her a solid meal I think she felt better, but the amount of desperation, of her future depending on this surgery....whew, its exhausting! How’s that for an emotional load to carry?

The second is of our newest cleft lip patient. She is joyful, excited, and a little ball of energy. As I played with her, finding coloring books and stickers, bubbles and balloons this thought crept in... I was born into a country that regardless of my physical appearance or mental ability I was given the right to receive an education- No questions asked. For the beautiful 6 year old girl in bed 10 that has not been an option. Education is what her grandmother, grinning ear to ear yesterday, was most excited for. She told me within 10 minutes of meeting her not only how blessed I am and how she is asking God to change my life for changing her grand-baby’s lip, but that because of Mercy Ships she will now be allowed into school--and that’s the part that dug into me. It’s easy to get used to the physical changes we are making here, to get wrapped up in the day to day, and forget all of the other things under the surface. The emotional healing, spiritual healing, and practical opportunities these changes create.

I recently had a friend ask how I have the energy to connect with every patient. And my honest answer is this-- I don’t, and as one person I couldn’t possibly carry that load. I don’t connect with every patient, and as many as I tell you about have gone by without me really ever getting to know them. There are beautiful stories happening in our ward and the other wards that I am not a part of and I will never have the insider perspective on. I tell you about the ones who impact me, and even though I don’t connect with every single patient, thankfully there is one of us who does. God has put different patients on different hearts to care for, to pour out his love on, and to make know that they are special, not forgotten-but dearly loved by him.

With all of that said, I think I owe you all this confession: My soul fits here, it feels like home, and I feel as though this is the exact place I am supposed to be. I don’t feel a stirring saying “its time to move on”, “you need to be doing more” or find myself  doubting my chosen path. I finally found my place. The place where I can connect the service I am passionate about and the skills that God gave me to be a nurse. I’ve said a lot since graduating that I’m not sure I want to be a nurse forever, but If I could do this job every day then I would be complete. One way that I know I am where I am supposed to be, is that I am in this beautiful tension of missing home, but not able to bear the thought of leaving here. My soul feels pulled here, rooted by both gravity and Jesus. I am not finished yet, my work is not done, and I have barely made it half way through my journey. 

Looking forward, here are a few things to be excited for: 

• The return of Beth and Noemie two Africa Mercy favorites, and the arrival of my dear friend Allison from STL coming to spend one month on board! 
• The amazing adventure that will happen when a small group of us get to spend Dec 27th to Jan 1st trekking far upcountry during our vacation time.....
• And my favorite of all--something I need prayer for, is that there is a possibility myself and Brenda (The Outpatient Team Leader) will get approved to make a trip to take T home to his village....how amazing would it be to meet all the faces he has known for years and be welcomed into his home. To see his impact on all of them who doubted his survival, and to witness their initial first glances at a changed man. 

Thanks for being faithful, and for sticking with me to the end. I hope each of you is having a joyful start to the holiday season!

Peanut M&M's---

Today, three of my favorite gals and I headed off ship to enjoy a day in the sun before 2 of them leave this coming weekend. As we sat poolside with our sunscreen lathered on, books in hand, and hummus at side we began chatting. This story was told to me through my friend Beth who is amazingly wise and has such a heart for the Lord and her work. It brought such powerful emotion up in me, and I hope that you can feel the weight of her words and this beautiful story across the ocean. 

Mr. S that I told you about in the last post has been integrating fairly well to the D ward world. He most of the time just sits in his little area around his bed with his mom, and takes in the action with his big beautiful brown eyes. A few times he has crossed the ward to see what the commotion is on the other side of the wall, but for the most part stays to his own territory like a skittish little bird. Beth has been able to love him so well over the last few days, and has made some progress with him feeling comfortable. On Saturday she asked him if he would like to go upstairs to enjoy some fresh air with the other patients during our hospital wide Deck 7 time. To her disappointment he said No, but she understood his hesitation so she decided to see if he would consider going the next day after he built up a little more courage. Yes, he said, tomorrow he would go. Sunday afternoon rolled around and as it approached 230 she saw him hop into bed and pull the covers over his head. “Ohh no” she thought, she knew this tactic all to well. She saw straight through his teenage boy mind, and desperately wanted to change it. So instead of just letting him be a typical teenage boy she thought of a better plan. She went to her room and grabbed a bag of peanut M&M’s. She approached him and his mother holding the candy out like bait. She asked S if he was feeling up to going outside, and that if he was, he could share some candy with her. (What she also mentioned is that she was a tad concerned if he would be able to eat crunchy M&M’s with his tumor. But in her wonderful mind of a pediatric nurse, she remembered he had chewed a multivitamin that morning---so M&M’s should be just fine!) Quickly S looked from Beth, to his mom, to the M&M’s and back to Beth with a nervous look in his eyes. Beth says that Mom stood up instantly, as if to say “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get some candy!” To her joy, S decided to go also, but he took his piece of fabric along. She took them 4 flights of stairs up, out into the sunshine, and placed three chairs all in a row for them. She said he sat there for awhile, only eyes peering out of the cloth. Next, he started to take it down a bit after he realized no one was looking at him, and then a bit later after realizing there truly was no one there to shame him, the whole thing came down. So there they sat-- Beth, S, and his mom. The three of them in a little row, munching on M&M’s. They were sitting for a few minutes taking in the beautiful view, when our lady who had the basketball sized goiter removed picked up her chair, walked over to them carrying her drain, put it next to them and sat down without a word, staring off into the ocean. Next the man from bed four who just had the second part of his surgery to remove a large facial tumor did the same, he stood, hobbled over and sat down silently next to them, looking out onto the horizon. Next the two mommas from beds 9 and 13 came with their chairs, lugging their two year old boys alongside to sit in the row with the rest of their D ward family. A few more gathered, all without saying a word. All of them silently came, ready to support S, who had taken such a brave leap and came outside with the rest of them. In my mind I see them all, just sitting around him as if to say “you mess with him, you mess with all of us”. They all could have stayed away, but instead made the choice to move their chairs to make him feel welcome, loved, and supported. It’s such a beautiful picture of what community looks like here. S, who has been ridiculed and outcast for 3 years has spent 2 days in a tight living situation with 20 other people, and they are already in silent but powerful ways wrapping their loving arms around him. They each know his pain, know his struggle, and are there walking alongside him in it. I am just so thankful for what we have here, and know how rare it is. Never in the western world would you head into the hospital for an operation, sleep in the same room with 20-30 other people, all share one toilet, and leave with new friends-- stronger, encouraged, and maybe feeling your worth for the first time. This place is a constant wonderful reminder of God’s unfailing, unchanging, unending love for us. That he loves each of us,  knows our needs, and knows how to create little ways to make us all a comfortable place in his world---and sometimes it all starts with one bag of Peanut M&M’s.  

Updates and photos from D ward....

Last night I had to tell a woman, two days post-op from having a goiter removed that maybe she should take dancing a little slower until her neck heals. This is how the situation went down. She is from upcountry and speaks a language that few of our translators do (and none on shift that night did), but to our rescue was the man two beds down who so proudly told me he speaks 4 languages. So there was quite a lovely triangle: I would tell the translator something, who would translate to French to him, who would translate into Pular to her. Then the triangle would reverse and the message would get back to me. We carried on a conversation this way for a bit, talking about the medicine I was going to give her, how he skin would continue to shrink just like a mothers stomach after she gives birth, and when her suction drain would come out. It went very well, and at the very end I asked does she need anything else or have any questions....down the chain it went, and this time a message was returning that each person smiled after hearing. The translator turned to me, and said with such a straight face, “She wants to dance with you”. I burst into laughter, went to find a drum and there we had the most amazing, impromptu dance party I have had on this ship or possibly ever. Did I mention that the goiter was literally the size of a basketball and she has a hemoglobin value so low that I would transfuse blood at home, and here she was literally jumping up and down in front of me joined by all the other lovely ladies from the ward her joy shining like a light, a beacon for all those who have been touched by God’s healing hands. 

I’m including a few pictures of our current favorite lady. She has been on the ward for about 2 weeks and time with her is pure bliss. She has kept us entertained, and with constant smiles on our faces. She is a riot, always stirring some sort of mischief up, dancing like a fool, or braiding someones hair. She had her trach and feeding tube removed a few days ago, and actually will be heading home to her husband and babies today. We will greatly miss her sense of humor, hugs, and encouragement..... 

Notice her trach and feeding tube.....can't stop this ball of sunshine

Our patient who loves to color-- his walls are literally coved in pictures now! 

A group of our D ward team---and that lovely patient again!

Happy as a clam!

This guy needs a hand to go anywhere....he is
really special and a wonderful reminder
that sometimes all you need is a little extra attention......his picture is above 

My gorgeous friend Becky and two of the Mommas
 on the ward (on the Left is T's mom)

She is a riot!

My lovely friend Emily

G is such a ham!

Our lovely Grandma "H"

Even he tube feeding can't stop her from getting in front of the camera...

One last thing.... Friday we admitted a 17 year old they found during upcountry screening who we will call S. He has the same type of tumor that T did, and his actually may be bigger. His has only been growing for 3 years, and somehow he is still able to breathe and eat without complication. He came in, head and neck completely covered by fabric and stayed that way for some time. After many smiling faces greeted him and made him to feel welcome, the cloth came down a bit. Then as the evening progressed it came off little by little until he has completely removed it, revealing a tumor stemming from his right cheek. It is from directly below his eye down to his chest stretching his skin and mouth in a way that you can no longer see inside, but rather all you see is tumor. That evening I let him pick the movie and told him that since he is the newest patient on the unit he gets to do the honor. After many minutes of careful consideration he chose “UP”. I told him it was one of my favorites and he made a great choice! As much as I understand his caution, I am so insanely thankful that he has felt welcome here. That already he somehow knows he doesn’t need to be ashamed, and that we will love and care for him despite his appearance. He is super silly, loves to color, has a beautiful little laugh, and like T has the most expressive eyes. His tumor has displaced his nose to the Left side of his face, is necrotic in spots, smells pretty awful, and drains constantly, but in my eyes he is perfect. He is one of God’s lovely children and he has made it here. He has found hope, and I can’t wait to see his story further unfold. He has been scheduled for surgery on Tuesday. I am asking if you all can think about him and pray for him like you did for T. He is younger and stronger, but this surgery is something that will take all hands on deck to pull off.......So as you head into your week please take a few moments each day to think of S over here in Guinea as we head into this life changing process for him. 

A farewell to T....

Wednesday was one of the most bittersweet days I have had since I have been here. T was discharged to the Hope Center. During rounds Dr. Gary told him, “well- I think you are going to go to the Hope Center today!” Dr. Gary obviously thought it was a joyful thing to say. As Dr. Gary moved on there were tears on T’s face, I had tears in my eyes, and all of us echoed with a “are you sure?” We all knew it was coming soon, but it was still a shock. It is so hard to watch this man, who we have come to love and adore just walk out----healed, changed, made new. T drug his feet getting ready, I had to tell him to put on his street clothes, and he kept saying he was going to miss us all so much. His eyes were a mix of sad and happy, and it’s a look I will never ever forget----painful joy. His mother on the other hand was estatic! She was so excited to get out of the cold air-conditioning and get that much closer to home, she kissed us all goodbye as she had every morning and every night since they arrived, packed up all the stuff, thanked us, and was ready to go. All the patients, nurses both those on shift and off, dayworkers, housekeeping staff, and anyone else touched by T had a massive send off. Sam from patient life lead about 30 of us in several songs to celebrate his miraculous recovery. What a site we were, clapping, singing, and praising God for his healing hand. T still has some progress to make, his trach and feeding tube sites must heal, and the skin on his face will continue to shrink back to normal over the next year. But his life has been changed, he has been saved from death, and he has a new license on life. I asked what his plan is next and he replied with a simple, I’m not sure yet, I guess I’ll go home and figure it out. As time goes on, as he regains his life and goes back to things he enjoys a few things will stay with him forever. He will always carry scars as a reminder of his past, his time with us, and the love he felt on this big white ship. He will have a scar on his stomach to show where we had a tube when he couldn’t eat. He will have a scar on his neck where we gave him air, and a few scars on his face where we removed the tumor that would have killed him. He leaves us with not only the obvious physical changes but having lived for over a month in a place where people genuinely loved him, cared for him, and poured into his life every single day. I can’t wait to see him grow over the next few months and to see the path that God has planned for his beloved child. As we marched him outside carrying all the bags of stuff he has acquired, and a box of 24 cans of ensure (supplement for only 3 days)-- we looked like a parade fit for a king. The LandRover was jam packed with people heading to the Hope Center, but the workers happily placed him in the front seat, the seat of honor, and as he was driven away my heart was overflowing. He waved until he was out of site, motioning Mercy---”thank you”. But I wish he understood how much gratitude I have for him. I thank him that just by living he has shown me things in my life, I thank him for pulling on my heart, showing me what true striving looks like, and putting it all in perspective. Just as he has been changed by this big white ship, so have I. Even though my transformation is not outwardly visible, and I don’t have physical scars from this time here, my life has been changed. I will remember him forever, his story has touched so many here in Guinea, and reached you all on another continent--all of this he has done completely unaware and without intention, but just by his life. I need to mention that I have seen him twice since he left for the Hope Center, and I will see him tomorrow--but I acutely miss him, his smile, and his presence on the ward...Here is a small tribute to T, pictures we took just 2 days before left the ship for the Hope Center, and the next phase of his life. 

A game of cards during outside time

I think Emily may have won

Sometimes you just have to laugh at each other....

...and then show off strong muscles for the camera....

I'm so blessed to know him....

T's beautiful new face

Today is the day that her bracelet came off......

Today I was able to admit and care for a woman who was brought to us promptly after our upcountry screening completed this past Saturday. For 2 weeks a team of nurses, security, and translators were traveling all over upcountry Guinea trying to find those patients who were until now unreachable. These are patients who would not otherwise even know we are here, untouched by the world outside their village. So many others will come over the next few months, but they made her come quickly- not knowing how long it would be before she died of malnutrition or lack of air. Her tumor was large, stemming from the roof of her mouth and expanding back into her throat. She, like T, had been suffering from this for years--she has lasted 13 years with a tiny area to eat, drink, and breathe from. She is malnourished, far underweight and for being 32 years old, the width of her wrist is roughly the size of three of my fingers. How I know exactly the size of her wrist is where this story begins....... She was admitted in a hurry and planned to go to the Operating Room almost immediately. Because she comes from so far upcountry I have found only 2 people here who speak her language. Both are dayworkers who also came from the forest region of Guinea so many years ago. Both men are on our hospital patient life team and were simply angels today. They helped me to explain everything in her new environment to her- including how to use running water and a toilet. Kokoi went with me to hand her over to the OR staff, and there we learned that no one inside spoke her language. He happily suited up in the appropriate gear, and headed in with her so that he could explain everything that would be happening. They needed to put in her trach while she was still conscious for fear of loosing her airway, something that is scary even if you can understand what is happening to you. As we sat on the bench before we headed in I noticed she was wearing a bracelet made of string. I asked her if it came off, and she motioned to cut it off. I went to retrieve scissors, and after I had made the cut, she began talking. It was a long story, long enough for me to ask Kokoi- What did I just cut off? He smiled, and this is what he told me: Years ago when her tumor first started she tried everything she could. She saw countless doctors, visited clinics, and finally resorted to seeing a healer. At this point her tumor was opening up, bleeding, and causing her great pain. The healer tried many things, and finally one day told her that if she wore this bracelet that her tumor, and along with it her pain would go away--never to return. For years she has had this visible reminder on her wrist, living every day hoping that she would be healed. She has never taken off the bracelet....Until today. After he shared all of this with me I told her that it was okay, because today was the day that her bracelet came off.....That her wish was coming true. That all she had hoped and prayed for was happening, and that when her surgery was over she would be made new. She would have a recovery period, but then her mouth would be healed to eat and breathe. I told her that tomorrow, we can make her a new bracelet to place on her wrist as a reminder of the day that her tumor was taken away... 

Another week has flown by.....

Here is a quick list of the things that have happened in the last week:

• T began eating solid food (well “soft foods without rice”), and he LOVES it! 
• I was scolded yesterday by him for not visiting on Saturday since I have visited EVERY single day since he was admitted. It broke my heart to walk in, and first thing have him ask through motions why he didn’t see me yesterday?  It was humbling to realize how taking those 10 minutes out every day really does mean something, even if it is just to play a game, hold a hand, or give a backrub. I apologized from the bottom of my heart, told him how wonderful he looked, he forgave me and then beat me at several games of cards to prove his point.... 
• T was promoted to move to bed #2 because he is no longer the patient on the unit requiring the most observation--success!
• I learned how to make rice cereal (because African food is too spicy for a mouth that hadn’t eaten food in 2 years)
• I finished my training as a charge nurse on the ward and made it through my first two evening shifts as a manager/helper/fellow nurse/resource/leader to my friends and patients
• I learned that a can of Coca-Cola contains approximately the same amount of Phosphorus as a can of Ensure. --Mr. T is very happy about this one!
• I’ve been able to see a ton of former patients both at the Hope Center and in the Outpatient Tent. It’s such a joy to see familiar faces, ones that you wish you could keep tabs on for years to come. 
• I attended my first African football game! It was amazing, crazy fun, very sweaty, and our crew team beat a local team!
• After a long weekend of family hangouts several friends all packed their bags and headed home to various continents.
• My bunkmate and I moved from the front cubby to the back of our cabin, literally doubling our sleeping space. Wall to wall we now have about 5.5 feet by 7 feet instead of  5.5X5.5 
• Even though it insanely hard saying goodbye to people who have gotten so close, it has its perks.  I am unashamed to say that you get great stuff as parting gifts!  A few of my favorites have been bottles of lotion, clothing, shoes, and other miscellaneous things your friends don’t want to lug home. 
• After saying a bunch of goodbyes I was homesick for the first time since arriving on this big white ship.....
• And this is the one I want to leave you with. For the last two days I have had the honor of helping a fellow crew member from Sierra Leone apply for college in the United States! For me, that experience was ushered along by my parents. But who do you turn to when you have had to fight for every single thing you have ever had? We are the same age, but I have not experienced even 1/8th of the things he has. I have never had to face insane poverty, civil war, homelessness, abandonment, and all the other things that come with being born into a third world country. It left me thinking, if you take away the country in which I was born, the parents to whom I was born, the people who have impacted my life and steered me along the “right” path what would be left? What is at the core of me as a human? What would my life look like? Would I have the strength to fight for a future, or would I succumb to what is easy- drugs, corruption, and all the other things poverty goes hand in hand with. What would that look like for me, a path so far from my story? I would love to say “YES”, I am a fighter and I would conquer it!  But would I? Would I have a story like Papanie’s, going from living on the streets, abandoned by his only family to finishing a top five prestigious secondary school in Sierra Leone 12th out of a class of 75? So as I leave you tonight I want you all to also cheer alongside Papanie-- who as of a few hours ago is a College applicant! You can read more of his story here: http://www.mercyships.org/blog/entry/a-joy-to-work-with

A beautiful voice......

T got his tracheostomy out today!! This is a HUGE accomplishment just 6 days after his surgery. He has a fantastic voice, and after weeks of silence and years of being hardly understood his speech is fantastic! He kept forgetting that he could speak early in the day nodding his head for answers, but by night he was coming up with things to say just to hear himself. It probably helped that each time he spoke we all started cheering, happy to hear his beautiful, husky, deep man voice. I teared up a bit when he called my name out, overjoyed to hear his voice call out “Annah” and to think of how far he has come. Had this ship not come to Guinea he would surely be dead by now, and here he sits in front of me healing at an amazing rate. When I told him that he was healing so quickly he would be leaving us in no time, he told me simply to just come home with them. I told him I wish I could, but I don’t think that could happen, I have a job to do here for all the other patients like him. I told him maybe I could come to visit? He was so excited at the idea-- so maybe before I leave in April I will be making the trek up to the Senegal border to visit this guy who has become family. I can’t lie, It makes me really excited to think about! To see him as he continues to heal, and to see his home would be wonderful. His skin will continue to fall back into place over the next year where it has been stretched to the brink over the last 5. We have to leave some of the extra skin, so that when nature takes over and tries to bring back in the loose skin we don’t end up stretched in the wrong direction. Dr. Gary knows this from years of removing large tumors, that if you take too much making it look better up front, you pay in the long run with skin stretched thin over the facial bones. I demonstrated this with my own face, and I must have looked pretty silly, because he laughed, shaking his head at me as he so often does. One little thing, that seems pretty small when I say it, but really touched me tonight was that he saw me messing with my ear and a few of the other nurses looking at it. I have a piercing that I bumped yesterday and it had a bit of bleeding forming a nice little scab.  He pulled me over, made me to sit down, and he wanted to check in out. Asking what had happened and if he could do anything for me. He checked back on me two more times over my shift-- asking how my ear was feeling. It was just a powerful reminder to see him worried over me, at something so little and silly. It once again puts all my “first world problems” into perspective as I look into the beautiful face of a man who has stared down deaths door, and won. 

Photos!

Just thought I would share a few photos with you all from onboard the Africa Mercy-- have a great start to your week!

A cute little one with whiskers after we repaired her cleft lip

My very favorite teenage girl on board.....We are in the process of making her a nose!

My favorite little guy "L" before he left us a few weeks ago

A few nurses, a dayworker, a caregiver, and a long term patient before he left. Can you tell we are family?

L biting some bubbles--- doesn't he look like a pirate?

Two of my roomies and I out to dinner

 A sunset family dinner on deck 8

Playing cards during our outside time

A super cute munchkin was my helper

Jenga is a crowd favorite and a new essential on the ward

An update for T

As promised- I would LOVE to take a few minutes of your time and update you all to how “T” is doing. The beginning of this week were super emotional for all involved. It was hard to pour out all the love you had in you caring for this guy, taking him up to watch the sunsets and kick around a football knowing what the reality of Wednesday was. I left work after night shift Wednesday morning not really knowing how to leave things. So I said, I’ll see you tonight, he promised me a smile when I came back to work after his surgery, I told him to stay strong and that I believed in him. I walked away, tears in my eyes hoping that I would in fact see him that night. I went to sleep, waking up a few times throughout the day to send up a quick prayer for all those involved in the operating room. At 5pm I got up and couldn’t muster the courage to walk over to the ward alone. I decided instead to head up to the cafeteria, hoping that someone would be up from the ward on their dinner break. The first person I saw when I walked in was Deb, one of our  long term crew and charge nurses on the ward. She threw up a thumbs up and told me he still had about 2 hours left in his case but that all was well! I clapped my hands and smiled ear to ear, full of joy. That evening I had a one hour slot in which I had signed up for to pray for him.  It was the 6-7pm slot--the same time in which I had spent the previous two evenings with him. I sat out on the deck, watching the sun set, and I prayed for all of his days and for how deeply he had impacted all of us. He touched us not only with his story, or the way he faced his illness, but with the way just by existing he forced us all to think of our lives. How we should strive each day to be better, to do more, to make every day count, and question how we would act knowing the end could be near. It is heavy, and things he has taught me will stay emblazed on my heart forever. Wednesday night after getting to work I somehow felt silly for being so concerned with his surgery. I felt silly that I didn’t just believe that he would come through but focused too much on the medical facts. What does that say of my faith? He came through it with flying colors, doing better then any of us could have ever imagined. It is hard to remember looking at him that his entire blood volume was replaced, almost three times. That 9 people gave blood for him, essentially replacing all of his own blood, and that he was at the hands of a surgeon for 8 hours. That night he just kept reaching up, touching where his tumor had hung down to his chest, and writing to ask if it was all gone. Yes, I joyfully told him each time, It’s gone, we saved your eye, and in a few days once all the swelling has gone down we can undo the tight bandages you can see your new face. His biggest complaint is that his ankles and legs hurt, stiff from being immobile for such a long case. All night I just sat, rubbing his feet hoping to alleviate some of the pain in order to let him rest. It reminded me of times in my childhood when my knees would hurt so bad from growing pain. I would lay and cry and my Mom and Dad would just rub my legs until I could rest, staying up late themselves in order to comfort their child who they loved so much. So there I sat, managing all of his ICU monitoring devices, but really the best part of it was that I got to just be with him, rubbing his feet and letting him know that we were all still here, caring and loving him. Hoping that by rubbing I could somehow infuse into him my hopes for his life, that by osmosis he could feel my love and his worth. The next day he requested to leave the ICU. He wanted to go back to his own bed, be with all the other people of the ward in loving community. By the time I came on shift he was walking to the bathroom with a lot of assistance, being shorter than him I was the perfect height for him to wrap an arm around and lean on during the walks. Each time, before he got back in bed he would do some leg stretches, then curl up, and let me stuff pillows around him to make his skinny body comfortable. Looking at him it’s easy to see how well he’s doing, to celebrate his victory, and to cheer him on to a full recovery. He has seen his imminent death and conquered it because of what Mercy Ships has been able to do for him. I am in awe of the life I have been called to, insanely grateful for the gift that I have been given by faithful supporters like you.... To live here on a hospital ship in West Africa, to have a hand in changing lives, and through these experiences be transformed myself every single day. 

Joy! Joy! Joy!!!!!

Thank you all for the prayers! I just got off night shift (its 730am here) and I am thrilled to report that T did amazing! He surpassed all expectations that we had for him, he truly is a miracle. He came out of the OR after an 8hour case not even requiring the ventilator for support. I had the honor of caring for him last night, and he was rock solid stable. He has some pain control issues, and his joints unfortunately are very achey from laying flat for that long, but he is a pretty happy camper. Everything is looking up for him-- we are not out of the woods yet, but praise the Lord! I will update you all later to our last few days together. Thank you for your prayers! Both T and myself are so grateful for your support and love!

He needs you.....

Here is what is on my heart today as I sit down after my shift. I had another day to take care of the bravest guy I know, “T”. Our morning began with him clapping to get my attention a towel clamped over his face. His tumor had ruptured open, again, this time in a different spot. There was blood pouring out in fine steady stream, I grabbed a dish to collect it in, but not before it was on the floor, on his sheets, his gown, and the towels. About 100mls came out before it stopped- no this doesn’t seem like alot, but when its blood straight out of the tumor on your face it’s scary. The upside is that he feels alot better after this happens, it actually relieves some pressure! We had a great day and he even went to ward service with me to spend some time worshiping and dancing. Our afternoon was spent out on Deck 7. After all the other patients have left after their allotted hour the two of us always stay. This gives him time to stretch, exercise, and sit in the peace and quiet of the outdoors gazing onto the horizon ocean as far as you can see. The last two days he began doing pushups against the railing of the ship. Of course I jumped it, thinking this can count as my workout right? Brother did 50 pushups in a row, I may or may not have been sweating! Today he did 5 sets of 20 of varying types. I was corrected more than once because I was placing my arms incorrectly. I think he secretly loved teasing me that I was wrong because when I told the other nurses about it back down on the ward he was smiling ear to ear. It’s wonderful to spend my days with him, but every time I stop moving its suffocating to think of the reality. Today may have been “T”’s last Sunday and his first and last ward service. Tomorrow he may begin his last week. Wednesday may be his last day on this earth. The risks are infinite going into his surgery, one wrong move and he could bleed out or have a stroke, his body may just be unable to handle the stress of the operation. I pray that neither of those things happens and that we can remove the tumor and change his life. Because we use crew members as blood donors we begin the process tomorrow of prepping 10 crew members for his big day. He will take 2 infusions straight before surgery. They will be fresh, literally still warm from the donor in order to have the clotting factors on our side. 6 more will have already given in preparation for the OR and then 2 more will give as they are closing in order to give him more of the factors he needs. It is all hands on deck for his case and I know that Dr. Gary Parker is the best man for this case. He has operated on many cases just like this and is the most kind, compassionate, and skilled surgeon I have ever worked with. But it’s hard, my heart aches, I am so physically aware of what can happen. It’s consuming, my desire for God to heal him. I know that it is possible, that of all places it could happen here on this hospital ship in West Africa. I just ask each one of you to please pray for him. Please send up a few thoughts in the next few days and especially on Wednesday as he heads in for surgery. It’s a difficult place to be knowing that you need so much faith for him, but in the back of your mind preparing yourself in case the worst happens. I’m here in yet another situation that I just cannot fix. I can’t change it, I can’t save him, this is where I shrink and God has to take over. He has a plan for “T”, whether or not it’s one I want. So  today I hand it over to the one who can change it for “T”. I give Him my entire heart. I owe Him my full faith, I owe Him my desperate prayers. I will deal with Wednesday afternoon when it arrives, but for now all I can do is pray. Please join me- he needs you.....

So there is this patient....

I promised I would tell you all about him, and I will do my very best although I know my words cannot do him justice. We will call him “T”. Attached is the only picture I have of him, it is from the screening day. Since then his tumor has grown significantly.  For now this other one will do to allow you to see the man who is just pulling on all our hearts. Just looking at this picture you can see the large lump on his face, what you cannot see beneath the bandana that he constantly wears is that his tumor actually protrudes from his mouth stretching the skin until it reaches down to his chest. What you cannot see in this picture is his bony body. He has gained a few pounds and is now up to 49kg, but how much of that is tumor weight we cannot be sure. His thigh is about the size of my upper arm and I can count every bone in his rib cage. What you cannot see is that we have to feed him small amounts and often, cautious that we could actually cause harm if we re-nourish him too quickly (and he is NOT happy about this--I mean who wants to feel hungry?)  What you cannot see in this picture is that he has terribly kind eyes and a sense of humor. What you cannot see in the picture is the way he works, pushing himself to the limits in order to get better. He is an exercising machine and puts the rest of us to shame. He uses a 1/2 liter bottle of saline for weights, and does at least 200 arm curls a day. Yesterday evening I was asking him about his weight lifting for the day and through motions he told me he had exercised his legs, but that he hadn’t done his arms. When I asked why he motioned he couldn’t because he didn’t have a bottle. I tried to hand him one and he stopped me, it was only half full. He wanted a FULL bottle to do weights with......well excuse me Mr. T I said, I shall get you a full one. He laughed (as much as one can laugh with a tracheostomy. Because you cannot make sound --all you get is the silent motion of laughter.) What you don’t see here is that even with being outcast for 5 years he still has a heart for children and the affection of other people. The kiddos here somehow have an amazing peace with him. They don’t run afraid, but actually come to him. To give him a high five, shake his hand, or just sit next to him with one of us. He plays with babies and you can see the desire in his eyes for one to call his own, maybe this will happen for him one day....maybe. He is kind of brilliant and beats everyone at checkers, chess, cards, and truly wishes we had books here for him to pass the time. What you can’t see are the pictures his mother has shared of him prior to the tumor when all he worried about were football and fun. What you don’t know is that his mother describes him as a “light” to all those around him, constantly working to improve his surrounding and help the future generations. What you can’t see is that even on his best days when his mood is at its prime, he still gets anxious. When he gets anxious he also gets stubborn, but really what control does he have right now? I cannot imagine what it is like to live each day knowing that this surgery is your only hope. That even with this surgery you may not make it. To know that you will go into a surgery next week that you may never come out of. But for him, there is no other option. He either goes for the surgery and takes the gamble or will surely die a slow suffocating malnourished death. How would you live knowing that essentially your days are numbered? How do you spend the last week you may be alive? How can anyone ever do enough for you? It has been hard to watch him, but I cannot imagine taking an ounce of my care back. I will be wrecked if his outcome is not what I pray for--but I will know that I did everything in my power to show him love. To show him his worth, and to show him that people care. I know that God has used him so much to change my heart and maybe, just maybe I am being used to change his. I have earned his trust, and even tonight as I was training to become a charge nurse he congratulated me. We are invested in each others lives-- every time he coughs we all jump, ready to suction him if he needs it. He gives us a “stay” motion, or a “come” motion. It truly is a charade that somehow works. We try so hard to keep him calm, distracted, but naturally it just creeps up sometimes. How could it not? For now I will leave you with a snapshot of our moment the other day. I ask that you will keep him in your thoughts and prayers, and pray that God will bring him through this surgery for his glory. 

Friday T blessed us all with a glimpse of God’s beauty and peace. The patient life team here on board is made up of 8 locals who visit the wards, provide worship time, and play games with the patients. They come in about 10am every day to sing, strum a guitar and beat a drum to the African beat. There are some songs that we do daily with little dance motions and some that are newer to us all. The patients love this time, and I think I may love it a little more. Its a time for dance, to tie a kiddo on your back, get people out of bed and moving to the sounds of their normal life away from this ship. On Friday the team was playing a song I had never heard before. The words were simply this, “Every day I wake and see the rising of the sun, and I say Thank you Lord, Thank you Lord”. We started with a fast beat, moving about and dancing, clapping, just repeating the words over and over. As I was going around grabbing kiddos and adults out of bed convincing them to dance I walked by T’s bed and held out a hand to him. To my surprise he reached out, took off his monitoring devices and blood pressure cuff and got out of bed. He came with me around the corner to where it was all happening and joined me in dancing. The joy in the room was uncontainable. Every one was clapping, dancing, cheering him on. It was a HUGE day for his spirits and beautiful to see. At one point he turned me towards him and started dancing with me in a ballroom fashion--laughter filled the room and again, the joy in his face was overwhelming. We continued dancing for awhile and then slowed it down to a harmonious wail. There really wasn’t a dry eye in the room, tears streaming down peoples face as the presence in the room was so heavy. It was a beautiful moment, one that is imprinted in my mind-- I am simply unable to put it into words.  After awhile, he motioned he needed to go back to bed and he sat there exhausted, spent by his morning. I can’t tell you enough, but what I can tell you is that I am convinced that God is working in this place, smiling down at his children and changing our hearts.