It was written on the faces of every person I saw on Wednesday---- hope. Hope for an opportunity, a chance to be helped, a chance to be made well by this big white ship.
Wednesday was the day we had been looking forward to for months. All the prep work had been done, and the anticipation was at max. As we set off in the land rovers at 0530, the excitement was palpable. Today was the day we were going to finally meet so many of the people whom we will share this next 10 months with. This was the day we would meet the faces we would laugh, cry, and rejoice with. This is the day that the patient stories would begin for this outreach. The day that we would meet the thousands who have been hopeless for so long, and to finally give them a chance.
Although the line began forming the night before, it continued to grow throughout the day. Over the course of the day we have estimated that there were 7,534 people in line. 4,236 patients and caregivers came through the main gate and 1,326 were given a “yes” by the prescreening nurses to be seen by the surgeons. It was a long and overwhelming day for all involved, but it was also an amazing day. It was a very special day to be a part of, and I am so thankful to be given the opportunity to continue living out my passion.
What I have written below is my account of screening day. If you were to ask someone else, they will have a very different story. It’s amazing to think of this day from all 311 angles of the crew on site. No two of us will have the exact same memories or the same lingering feelings--it was a unique experience for each and every one of us. We all were a part of a greater story that day, all a part of the bigger picture. Some crew members spent their day taking histories of potential patients, some spent the day handing out water and food, and some assisted the surgeons. Some wrote out patient appointment cards, some helped to walk people from one point to the other and some spent their day praying. There were joyful moments to the day, and if you asked me for my overall view on the day I would say that it was absolutely incredible how many people we saw and could help. However the people who I will remember forever are not the ones we said “yes” to. But rather those I had to look in the eye and say “no” to as I watched their hearts break and spirits whither.
I knew going into this year that my experience would be different from the year before. I knew that as a “line screener” I would have a much harder job. I had prepared myself, but It still for me was one of the hardest days I’ve had in Africa. Actually, I take that statement back-- it was one of the hardest days of my life. As a “line screener” my role for the day was to walk up and down the lines essentially picking out the people that I knew we could not help. I was paired with a wonderful Congolese man name “Cena” to translate for me. When we began walking the lines at 0630 I quickly knew that we were going to be a great team. We said a quick prayer for wisdom and safety and with our hearts pounding in anticipation headed out into the crowd.
One of my very first patients of the day was named Victoria. I saw her almost instantly from far away, and as I slowly approached I braced myself for what I knew was to come. Victoria has a severely misshapen body and although I have never seen this condition in the West it is not uncommon here in Africa. I have seen many people who look just like her in the markets both here in the Congo and in Guinea last year. Due to her crumpled, twisted skeleton, she actually moves about on all fours, something very similar to a dog. She wears flip flops on her hands to protect them from the African soil and is considered the lowest of the low here in Africa shamed by all that look at her. She had been waiting in line with her mother for hours--hoping that maybe this would be the day her body could be changed. I spoke with her for a few minutes telling her how sorry I was, but that unfortunately this was something that we could not do. I was crouched down with my knees in the sand so that I could look her in the eyes as I delivered this terrible blow. She held it together, stoic, unwavering.....until I told her that I thought she was beautiful. Tears began streaming down her face, matching the ones coming down mine. I honestly don’t know if she had ever been told that before. Imagine living your entire life without one person ever saying that you were beautiful, that you were worth something. I prayed for her and sent her on her way. It was not even 6:45am and I stood tears still lingering in my eyes as I watched her maneuver her tangled limbs back through the line.
I took a deep breath, regrouped and moved on, knowing that the day would not be getting any easier.
The morning continued much the same, walking up and down the lines telling people how sorry I was and turning them away. Working my way through the line, it was obvious to me at one point in the day that people were avoiding my eyes. They were actually hiding behind other people, or turning their heads the other way so that I wouldn’t look at them. I could see their fear and desperation and it broke my heart. I could see that they were afraid that my eyes would lock with theirs, and that they would be the next person I would ask to step out of line and ultimately send away. The thought hit me like a load of bricks.... To them, I was just like a vulture picking out my next prey. My “prey” were the kids with obvious neurological problems, and adults with leg or arm deformities. It was the elderly people who I knew would tell me they have leg, back and body pain---spent from years of hard labor. It was honestly shocking how many people I could peg, before even beginning the conversation. As the day went on, face after face, conversation after conversation, I realized that the hardest for me were the mamas and papas who looked hopefully into my eyes as they took their children off their backs and said “He does not walk, he does not stand, and he does not speak”. Each had the same words, but even without these I already knew their story. I knew the words that would come out of their mouths long before they even saw me looking at them across the line. I knew their story after seconds of looking into their deep dark eyes. A few could focus and track my movement, those were the Cerebral Palsy kids. Others had devastating neurological injuries and had no awareness of what was going on around them, a life filled with blank stares and non-purposeful movements. These injuries for some were maybe due to prolonged labor and others from the high fevers associated with malaria. Each parent that I talked to looked at me desperately as I explained that this was not their fault. That this was no ones fault, and I watched in their eyes as I told each of them that there are children born in my own country just like this. Each one had a spark, for just a brief moment. I could tell they were thinking, could this be true? Could it be true that there are children born in the west just the same? Each parent I complimented on what great care they were taking of their child. How I could tell they were an amazing mama or papa by the facts that their children were clean, without sores, and well fed. I showed each of them how to do passive exercises with their child to prevent their arms and legs from contracting. But this wasn’t enough, because at the end of it, no matter how many compliments I paid and tips I gave--I was still sending them away hopeless. I had confirmed for them that their child would always be this way. That no amount of surgery or medicine could change their outcome. I will never forget the Papa who sat weeping as I prayed for him and his son. I will never forget how he sat for a few more moments, my hand on his back. How he slowly looked over at me, wiped away his tears, gathered up his belongings and walked away carrying his son with his head held high into the world that would not be kind to them.
This heartbreaking process went on for hours----12 hours and 20 minutes to be exact. My translator, Cena, caught on so quickly. He could tell when I paused and took a deep breath that we were going to approach someone and give the dreaded “No”. He saw parts of me that day that few have ever seen. He saw me praying for people who I knew would continue out their lives without another opportunity for help. He heard my prayers, when all my patients could discern was their name. He heard me asking God to give these beautiful people strength, provision, and comfort. He saw my tears, and he heard my cries to above to give them all that they would need to care for themselves. For him it was just as difficult. I was the one making these decisions, directing these difficult conversations. But ultimately it was him delivering the news. He was the one whose words could be understood. Who they would remember speaking with the day their hope disappeared.
Some people were stoic in receiving the news, others could not believe it but eventually accepted it and walked away. The hardest were the ones who stood in front of you and continued to ask why. There was one woman who I had to turn away that I feel physically ill every time I think about. As she stood in front of me and I told her that we could not help she transformed from stoic to emotional. I kept explaining and telling her how sorry I was, but she did not move. Finally, she burst into tears. As she wiped them away with her beautiful green dress she looked me straight in the eyes and asked boldly, “If you won’t help me, then who will?” To this I had no words, because she was spot on-- it left my gut aching and my mouth dry. The two word answer to this question I knew; No One. No one will help her, no one will try to ease her burden, no one will show her compassion, love, or her worth.
I know that we can’t change the whole world, but we can change it for a person at a time. That day I felt as though I changed many worlds....but not for the better. I can’t stay wrecked in this sad spot, because I know that for every “no” I said, there were many other crew members saying “yes” to someone else. As much as it is my inclination to think of all the people I spoke to, I actively have to remember all the other faces in the line. All of the people who I didn’t talk to because for them, the answer was an obvious “yes”.
Starting this evening our wards will begin to fill with patients. I am slowly transferring out of the dark and back to my other way of thinking. I am regaining excitement for our service here, but am still working out the hurt, the raw emotion and the ache that comes with knowing we can never fix all the brokenness in the world. As much as it hurts, this is the country in which we work and the people in which I have been called to serve. The poorest of the poor. Those without another opportunity, those who have very little hope.
As this service starts please just be thinking of us over here in Congo. I know that we will do so much good in the next 10 months, and I’m excited to share that all with you as it comes...but for now, please just sit in the reality of why we are here with me.....this sickening, hard, place. The place where as hard as it may be, we choose to see the need in order to feel the necessity for action.
