So I feel more peaceful about our decision every day. Although it has been a tumultuous week with some of the hardest moments of my professional career, I have been surrounded by great people here at Baylor, and have been comforted by messages of support and love from friends and family. I've had several more conversations with people who have families and who either live in Lilongwe already or are planning a move imminently. I know I am feeling more settled, because I have started worrying again about whether or not to bring the trampoline, and how to make homemade soy milk.
Things on the ground in Malawi continue to be peaceful, although the turmoil will likely bring more suffering to the poorest people in the country. Disruptions in transportation during demonstrations and the withholding of aid money from countries dismayed by the government's decision to fire live ammunition and tear gas at the demonstrators will likely result in interruptions in access to medications. When sick children can't get their meds, they die. Life is likely to get harder in Malawi unless things change.
So how do I feel? I feel scared, excited, anxious to live in a home that is not the Residence Inn in Houston, dreading the two days of flying with the children, grateful that I have my
husband by my side as we set out on this journey together. I know it will be hard. I know I will watch babies die every day, for no other reason than because we have too much, and they do not have enough. I know I will miss home, and that people will be worrying about me and my children from thousands of miles away. I do not have high hopes for changing the course of the world. I know that I will have to find success in small accomplishments, and learn to live with the heartache of inequity. If I cannot save lives (and I pray that I can), then I hope that I can bring some comfort to the dying and peace to the grieving. I hope that my kids learn and grow, and remain unharmed and happy, but with a more
realistic view of the world and the miracle that is our life here in the States.
It is bizarre to be huddled in bed in a hotel room, waiting to leave and knowing that I will come back a changed person. The next time I write it will be from our new home.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Decision
So Malawi is the only option. It is the job I was hired for, and is where the need is greatest. I met with members of the administration, and was told that, although they respect my concerns, and recognize that the situation on the ground is uncertain, that they do not believe we will be put in harm's way (except, of course, for the inherent risks associated with moving to the developing world). I was urged to call and speak to people on the ground in Malawi, especially those with children, and was given the cell phone number of the medical director of the hospital in Lilongwe, who spoke kindly and at length with me about his thoughts and opinions.
Dave and I spent most of yesterday sequestered in our hotel room, crying and incredulous, on the phone with the administrators at Baylor and with friends in Global Health while the children sat outside watching cartoons and rapidly losing IQ points. We had a long conversation with a doctor who works for Partners in Hope, the organization that will be employing Dave. He has three children, ages 6, 3, and 4 months. He said that, while we may be deterred by the prospect of daily life in Lilongwe, with it's power outages and poverty, that he would definitely not let the events that have transpired in the last few days be our deciding factor. He told us that, driving home from the clinic, which is in a very poor and
overpopulated area, he did have rocks thrown at his car, but that when he arrived at his home
his kids were outside climbing trees and people were walking freely in the neighborhood. He said that his 6 year old had heard the gunshots, and asked him if "the people were still fighting", but that neither the children nor his wife felt afraid or threatened.
I feel physically sick. I am nauseous, and I feel like my body is humming. I cannot imagine that my choices are either to go into a place that seems suddenly so politically unstable, or go home. Actually, my home is rented out, so we would be both jobless and homeless, and have to start all over. We chose Malawi because it has historically been so safe. How did it go so wrong, so fast?
A some point yesterday, and maybe it was the Xanex, I began to feel peace. I have felt from
the beginning that this was what we were meant to do, and the worries that I have had along the way (money, nanny, health insurance) have largely sorted themselves out almost despite my obsessive ruminating. Maybe the reason that this is the only path that I am being given is because it is the one that I am meant to take. Then again, maybe not. Maybe this is
empirically the stupidest decision we will ever make. That's the problem with faith.
So on Monday I will meet with the people at Baylor, and I will ask them to help us hire a driver for the first month (or longer, if necessary), so that we are able to get the lay of the land and feel that we are in good hands should there be more demonstrations or riots. I will ask what the criteria are for pulling docs out of the country ( they have had to do this before, and are reputedly conservative compared to other organizations). And I will remember that this is the reality of life for most of the world: disease, political unrest, and poverty. I will try to integrate this tremendous new uncertainty into my view of life in
Malawi, and try to take precautions to ensure the safety of my family, as we do with vaccines and malaria prophylaxis. I will try to count on the fact that, as foreigners, we are usually spared from the true hardships and dangers of life in the developing world. I will scour
the news for developments and register with the embassy right away. I will pray to the god that I have historically had such ambivalence about. I will try to have faith. And, if I ever feel that I or my family is threatened in any way, I will leave.
Dave and I spent most of yesterday sequestered in our hotel room, crying and incredulous, on the phone with the administrators at Baylor and with friends in Global Health while the children sat outside watching cartoons and rapidly losing IQ points. We had a long conversation with a doctor who works for Partners in Hope, the organization that will be employing Dave. He has three children, ages 6, 3, and 4 months. He said that, while we may be deterred by the prospect of daily life in Lilongwe, with it's power outages and poverty, that he would definitely not let the events that have transpired in the last few days be our deciding factor. He told us that, driving home from the clinic, which is in a very poor and
overpopulated area, he did have rocks thrown at his car, but that when he arrived at his home
his kids were outside climbing trees and people were walking freely in the neighborhood. He said that his 6 year old had heard the gunshots, and asked him if "the people were still fighting", but that neither the children nor his wife felt afraid or threatened.
I feel physically sick. I am nauseous, and I feel like my body is humming. I cannot imagine that my choices are either to go into a place that seems suddenly so politically unstable, or go home. Actually, my home is rented out, so we would be both jobless and homeless, and have to start all over. We chose Malawi because it has historically been so safe. How did it go so wrong, so fast?
A some point yesterday, and maybe it was the Xanex, I began to feel peace. I have felt from
the beginning that this was what we were meant to do, and the worries that I have had along the way (money, nanny, health insurance) have largely sorted themselves out almost despite my obsessive ruminating. Maybe the reason that this is the only path that I am being given is because it is the one that I am meant to take. Then again, maybe not. Maybe this is
empirically the stupidest decision we will ever make. That's the problem with faith.
So on Monday I will meet with the people at Baylor, and I will ask them to help us hire a driver for the first month (or longer, if necessary), so that we are able to get the lay of the land and feel that we are in good hands should there be more demonstrations or riots. I will ask what the criteria are for pulling docs out of the country ( they have had to do this before, and are reputedly conservative compared to other organizations). And I will remember that this is the reality of life for most of the world: disease, political unrest, and poverty. I will try to integrate this tremendous new uncertainty into my view of life in
Malawi, and try to take precautions to ensure the safety of my family, as we do with vaccines and malaria prophylaxis. I will try to count on the fact that, as foreigners, we are usually spared from the true hardships and dangers of life in the developing world. I will scour
the news for developments and register with the embassy right away. I will pray to the god that I have historically had such ambivalence about. I will try to have faith. And, if I ever feel that I or my family is threatened in any way, I will leave.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Man plans, and God laughs...
So, for those of you who are not scouring the news like I am for information about one of the world's smallest and most impoverished countries, Malawi has descended into civil unrest in the last 24 to 48 hours. Typical of the American news media, it is only through frequent and fervent Google searches for "Malawi riots" that I have been able to obtain any kind of information about the political and social turmoil that has apparently erupted in the place to which I am due to bring my family in 8 days. I can, of course, find out all about Casey Anthony's new haircut and post-prison plans.
Oh. My. God. So much work, so much planning, and so many worries. According to the news reports I have found, 12 people have been killed, the army has been deployed to the major cities, and looting is rampant. The president has banned journalists from reporting, and there have been witnesses who said that the police have beaten them on the streets. One report, which I have not seen repeated, said that tear gas was released in the hospital in Lilongwe. We are supposed to leave next Friday.
The organization that I am working for, the Texas Children's Hospital Global Health Corps, has been phenomenal and reassuring, and I think would be supportive of any decision we make. I feel certain that I cannot, at this point, bring my family into a country that appears to be trending toward chaos, especially in light of the belligerent response the President has had to the oppositioon party, and in the context of the violence that has taken place in northern Africa in the last few months.
So what are our options?
1. Stay in the States and see if Malawi improves. Not my favorite idea, as we have spent $6000ish on tickets for Africa for next week, we are packed, and we are as ready as we will ever be. Plus, it's really hot in Houston.
2. Go to another area where the program works and wait a few months to see if this passes. Reasonable, except that the kids need to start school and Dave needs to work (both mentally so he doesn't engage in child abuse, and financially, as we cannot live on my salary alone). And we really need to settle and nest before beginning this work.
3. Decide that this is unlikely to resolve in any kind of short term, and try to move to a different country for the next year. This would involve disappointing all of the doctors in Malawi who have been waiting for relief from the new physicians, losing the $9000 we have paid ahead for our apartment, and choosing, almost at random, from among the other sites available. We would, however, use our tickets, and be able to settle in sooner.
My priority has to be keeping my family safe. It is so ironic that all of the planning and obsessing and lamenting over every detail of life in Malawi may be rendered moot 8 days before departure. I will keep you posted.
Oh. My. God. So much work, so much planning, and so many worries. According to the news reports I have found, 12 people have been killed, the army has been deployed to the major cities, and looting is rampant. The president has banned journalists from reporting, and there have been witnesses who said that the police have beaten them on the streets. One report, which I have not seen repeated, said that tear gas was released in the hospital in Lilongwe. We are supposed to leave next Friday.
The organization that I am working for, the Texas Children's Hospital Global Health Corps, has been phenomenal and reassuring, and I think would be supportive of any decision we make. I feel certain that I cannot, at this point, bring my family into a country that appears to be trending toward chaos, especially in light of the belligerent response the President has had to the oppositioon party, and in the context of the violence that has taken place in northern Africa in the last few months.
So what are our options?
1. Stay in the States and see if Malawi improves. Not my favorite idea, as we have spent $6000ish on tickets for Africa for next week, we are packed, and we are as ready as we will ever be. Plus, it's really hot in Houston.
2. Go to another area where the program works and wait a few months to see if this passes. Reasonable, except that the kids need to start school and Dave needs to work (both mentally so he doesn't engage in child abuse, and financially, as we cannot live on my salary alone). And we really need to settle and nest before beginning this work.
3. Decide that this is unlikely to resolve in any kind of short term, and try to move to a different country for the next year. This would involve disappointing all of the doctors in Malawi who have been waiting for relief from the new physicians, losing the $9000 we have paid ahead for our apartment, and choosing, almost at random, from among the other sites available. We would, however, use our tickets, and be able to settle in sooner.
My priority has to be keeping my family safe. It is so ironic that all of the planning and obsessing and lamenting over every detail of life in Malawi may be rendered moot 8 days before departure. I will keep you posted.
Monday, June 27, 2011
What the $?@& am I doing in Ireland?
A great question, you may ask, and I hope that you will not feel deceived that Our Great Adventure in Africa did not begin when we left our home. Maybe in the interest of time, or perhaps in an effort to be more dramatic, I decided to omit this leg of our journey when posting my previous blogs. The truth is that we packed up our house, left our lives and families, and journeyed to NY, where we spent time with Dave's brother and his family, then set off for the great green land of Ireland, with my wonderful father in law and three whining children in tow. The month of June has been spent on "vacation" (and I put that in quotations because anyone with children knows that a true vacation can only be spent on white sand with blue water, margarita in hand and children being cared for by a doting grandparent far away) in the land of my husband's ancestors. Faced with the prospect of being (at least temporarily) jobless, with kids out of school, it seemed that the natural thing to do was to pack ourselves onto a plane, drug the children with Benadryl, and see a little bit more of the world. My kids may not have been blessed with the most patient or carefree of parents, but one advantage to being in our family has been that they have traveled quite extensively in their young lives.
My travel lust, which has largely driven our family adventures, was inspired by my father, whose deathbed regret was that he had not seen the lands he had read about and imagined throughout his life. I spent my early twenties waiting tables and saving pennies, then loading up a backpack and exploring the world, with the goal being to stay abroad for as long as possible with a given amount of money. There was something about being alone, without personal history or the context of the familiar that left me free to discover who I really was. I would spend hours watching the scenery unfold from the windows of buses and trains, journaling and reading, contemplating my future and my past while drinking in the sights and sounds of foreign lands. A stranger among strangers, I got to know myself.
Traveling with three kids in the back seat of a rental car: not so much. It has sometimes
seemed like we are on a tour of the public restrooms of Ireland (much like the US, but with accents at the gas stations). There is little self-discovery to be had when one is trying to drown out the blood curdling screams from the back seat with the giddy refrains of Irish music on the radio, and it turns out that there are no strangers in Ireland, as apparently my husband is related to EVERYONE.
However, amidst the angst of being a permanent referee to the endless squabbles between my children, and despite the strep throat that ravaged my tonsils in Kilkenny and the stress of trying to keep three small people warm, dry, and well-fed in a land of rain and wind and unfamiliar foods, this has been one of the best months of my life. I find myself looking across the front seat of the car at my handsome Irish husband with his strong jaw covered with a five o'clock shadow, eyes squinted as he navigates the narrow road, and I feel an overwhelming sense of love. I stay up late reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to the kids, then tuck them into their sleeping bags and kiss their sweet sweaty heads and the moment is magic. The clarity that I found in my youth, when introspection was not a luxury but a daily occurence, reveals itself in the quiet moments I have to reflect on our travels together. It is not myself that I see more clearly, but the people I love most in the world. At risk of romanticizing the journey, which has at times been exhausting and left me yearning for the escape of employment, I have found that the hours and days and weeks we have spent in each other's company has shown my family to be the loving, compassionate, interesting people that I have always known them to be, but never have time to enjoy.
This week our Irish adventure ends, and we will fly back to the States. I will proceed immediately to Houston, where I will start training for my job in Malawi (pediatricians in the US do not care for children with HIV, or malaria, or malnutrition, so I am eager to be taught). Dave will drive the kids from NY to North Carolina to get our bags, then on to Houston (kind and wonderful soul that he is...) Then, at the end of July, we will fly to Lilongwe, and on August 9th I will begin my work. In the pleasant chaos of vacation, with its procession of castles and beaches, extended family and unfamiliar towns, I have almost forgotten to worry about the future. Almost. We have managed to find a home in Malawi, and it looks gorgeous. It is a townhouse, with air conditioning and a community pool (!!!). We still do not have a school for the children, but are hopeful that the International School will have space by the time we arrive, and I have prepared myself (and Eamonn) for the possibility that it may not. As I told him when we had the chance to walk home together, hand-in-hand down a winding Irish lane overlooking verdant hills lined with iconic crumbling stone walls, everything has a way of working out for the good. The example I gave him was of my father's death, which at the time seemed an unimaginable tragedy, of which no good could come. And yet, it led to my decision to become a doctor, and to travel the world. Without his illness, I would never have gone to medical school, met Dave, or had Eamonn, and I certainly wouldn't have been given the gift of that magical time spent with him on that meandering Irish road.
My travel lust, which has largely driven our family adventures, was inspired by my father, whose deathbed regret was that he had not seen the lands he had read about and imagined throughout his life. I spent my early twenties waiting tables and saving pennies, then loading up a backpack and exploring the world, with the goal being to stay abroad for as long as possible with a given amount of money. There was something about being alone, without personal history or the context of the familiar that left me free to discover who I really was. I would spend hours watching the scenery unfold from the windows of buses and trains, journaling and reading, contemplating my future and my past while drinking in the sights and sounds of foreign lands. A stranger among strangers, I got to know myself.
Traveling with three kids in the back seat of a rental car: not so much. It has sometimes
seemed like we are on a tour of the public restrooms of Ireland (much like the US, but with accents at the gas stations). There is little self-discovery to be had when one is trying to drown out the blood curdling screams from the back seat with the giddy refrains of Irish music on the radio, and it turns out that there are no strangers in Ireland, as apparently my husband is related to EVERYONE.
However, amidst the angst of being a permanent referee to the endless squabbles between my children, and despite the strep throat that ravaged my tonsils in Kilkenny and the stress of trying to keep three small people warm, dry, and well-fed in a land of rain and wind and unfamiliar foods, this has been one of the best months of my life. I find myself looking across the front seat of the car at my handsome Irish husband with his strong jaw covered with a five o'clock shadow, eyes squinted as he navigates the narrow road, and I feel an overwhelming sense of love. I stay up late reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to the kids, then tuck them into their sleeping bags and kiss their sweet sweaty heads and the moment is magic. The clarity that I found in my youth, when introspection was not a luxury but a daily occurence, reveals itself in the quiet moments I have to reflect on our travels together. It is not myself that I see more clearly, but the people I love most in the world. At risk of romanticizing the journey, which has at times been exhausting and left me yearning for the escape of employment, I have found that the hours and days and weeks we have spent in each other's company has shown my family to be the loving, compassionate, interesting people that I have always known them to be, but never have time to enjoy.
This week our Irish adventure ends, and we will fly back to the States. I will proceed immediately to Houston, where I will start training for my job in Malawi (pediatricians in the US do not care for children with HIV, or malaria, or malnutrition, so I am eager to be taught). Dave will drive the kids from NY to North Carolina to get our bags, then on to Houston (kind and wonderful soul that he is...) Then, at the end of July, we will fly to Lilongwe, and on August 9th I will begin my work. In the pleasant chaos of vacation, with its procession of castles and beaches, extended family and unfamiliar towns, I have almost forgotten to worry about the future. Almost. We have managed to find a home in Malawi, and it looks gorgeous. It is a townhouse, with air conditioning and a community pool (!!!). We still do not have a school for the children, but are hopeful that the International School will have space by the time we arrive, and I have prepared myself (and Eamonn) for the possibility that it may not. As I told him when we had the chance to walk home together, hand-in-hand down a winding Irish lane overlooking verdant hills lined with iconic crumbling stone walls, everything has a way of working out for the good. The example I gave him was of my father's death, which at the time seemed an unimaginable tragedy, of which no good could come. And yet, it led to my decision to become a doctor, and to travel the world. Without his illness, I would never have gone to medical school, met Dave, or had Eamonn, and I certainly wouldn't have been given the gift of that magical time spent with him on that meandering Irish road.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Ugly Cry
18 days until we leave our home...
The house is mostly packed and cleaned. The children and I have had check-ups and shots. The pets (three cats and a dog) have been freshly vaccinated and groomed. The house has been readied for the renters (new shower, new deck, newly insulated walls). We have saved as much money as we will be able to before leaving. In truth, our family and our home have never been in better shape. If nothing else, preparing for this adventure has helped us to get our acts together, at least temporarily.
There are still some fairly overwhelming hurdles. The three cats do not yet have foster homes (anyone? anyone?). Malawi (our daughter) does not yet have US citizenship or a US passport, as the readoption process has, of course, taken much longer than we'd anticipated. We do not yet have a house to rent in Lilongwe. Most significantly, I recently discovered that the children may not be able to attend the International school which I have been describing in romantic detail for them for the last few months.
I discovered this development a few days ago, when I finally received a response to one of the many e-mails I had been sending to the school since February. I was politely informed that there is not sufficient space at this time, but we could certainly put our names on the waiting list.
Having read this e-mail on my i-phone in line at Starbucks, I had an immediate and uncontrollable emotional reaction, and began sobbing as I stood waiting for my Americano. It was a visceral, hiccuping Ugly Cry, as humiliating as it was undeniable, and I could only nod apologetically at the Starbucks employee who warily handed me my bagel as tears streamed down my face. It was the culmination of weeks of stress and anxiety, unleashed and unbidden.
My kids have been struggling as our departure date approaches, and I have comforted them as they faced leaving the things they love (school, friends, sports) by assuring them that the new school they will be attending has all that they are used to and more. Poor little Aine was bereft at the idea that she could not advance in "Flip" (gymnastics) this autumn, and was only placated by the prospect of continuing Flip in Lilongwe. Eamonn is a very shy child, who does not like having to make new friends, and the similarities between the International school and his current school gave us both peace and comfort that he would be able to transition gracefully. Their attendance at Bishop Mackenzie was one of the foundations upon which we had been planning to build our new life, and their rejection felt like my emotional undoing.
That morning, after I wiped the snot off my face and gathered myself together, Dave and I skyped the director of the school and sent frantic e-mails with their records and application, as well as an imploring letter from me, begging them to accept my kids. Now we wait.
We have since discovered that, according to the experts at UNC whom Dave e-mailed, malaria is prevelant in Lilongwe, and the vast majority of the infections are with the most deadly form of the parasite, p.falciparum. We were informed that we should strongly consider giving our children anti-malarial medicines for the duration of the year we are there. We are therefore faced with the unenviable choice between trying to convince my three stubborn children (who think bubblegum flavored Tylenol is gross) to take a daily pill (which costs $7/day per person, for those of you who are good at math), and giving them a weekly pill that is known for causing hallucinogenic nightmares (I've had them. They are horrible).
Since that first Ugly Cry, I have had two more significant sobfests, including a second at Starbucks on my lunchbreak today. (If I wasn't such a caffeine freak I might start avoiding the place). I think my emotionality stems from fear, as much as the sadness I expected to feel about the move. I am not afraid for myself. I'm adaptable, I love to travel, and I am committed to our goal of working in the developing world. I welcome the challenges and changes of our move. I am overwhelmed by angst and fear because it goes against every cell in my body as a mother to take my children away from their home, away from their safe, secure, familiar environment to one that is statistically more dangerous, completely foreign to them, and far away from the people they know and love. I am so afraid that they will be scared, or lonely, or sick, and that I will have failed in my job to protect them and keep them from harm.
Tonight while I cried over my Thai yellow curry,(for the third, and hopefully final, time of the day), Dave held my hand and told me to have faith. He told me to remember my belief that if your motives are pure, and your intentions are good, then your success is certain. I never expected this to be easy, I just don't want it to be hard on them.
The house is mostly packed and cleaned. The children and I have had check-ups and shots. The pets (three cats and a dog) have been freshly vaccinated and groomed. The house has been readied for the renters (new shower, new deck, newly insulated walls). We have saved as much money as we will be able to before leaving. In truth, our family and our home have never been in better shape. If nothing else, preparing for this adventure has helped us to get our acts together, at least temporarily.
There are still some fairly overwhelming hurdles. The three cats do not yet have foster homes (anyone? anyone?). Malawi (our daughter) does not yet have US citizenship or a US passport, as the readoption process has, of course, taken much longer than we'd anticipated. We do not yet have a house to rent in Lilongwe. Most significantly, I recently discovered that the children may not be able to attend the International school which I have been describing in romantic detail for them for the last few months.
I discovered this development a few days ago, when I finally received a response to one of the many e-mails I had been sending to the school since February. I was politely informed that there is not sufficient space at this time, but we could certainly put our names on the waiting list.
Having read this e-mail on my i-phone in line at Starbucks, I had an immediate and uncontrollable emotional reaction, and began sobbing as I stood waiting for my Americano. It was a visceral, hiccuping Ugly Cry, as humiliating as it was undeniable, and I could only nod apologetically at the Starbucks employee who warily handed me my bagel as tears streamed down my face. It was the culmination of weeks of stress and anxiety, unleashed and unbidden.
My kids have been struggling as our departure date approaches, and I have comforted them as they faced leaving the things they love (school, friends, sports) by assuring them that the new school they will be attending has all that they are used to and more. Poor little Aine was bereft at the idea that she could not advance in "Flip" (gymnastics) this autumn, and was only placated by the prospect of continuing Flip in Lilongwe. Eamonn is a very shy child, who does not like having to make new friends, and the similarities between the International school and his current school gave us both peace and comfort that he would be able to transition gracefully. Their attendance at Bishop Mackenzie was one of the foundations upon which we had been planning to build our new life, and their rejection felt like my emotional undoing.
That morning, after I wiped the snot off my face and gathered myself together, Dave and I skyped the director of the school and sent frantic e-mails with their records and application, as well as an imploring letter from me, begging them to accept my kids. Now we wait.
We have since discovered that, according to the experts at UNC whom Dave e-mailed, malaria is prevelant in Lilongwe, and the vast majority of the infections are with the most deadly form of the parasite, p.falciparum. We were informed that we should strongly consider giving our children anti-malarial medicines for the duration of the year we are there. We are therefore faced with the unenviable choice between trying to convince my three stubborn children (who think bubblegum flavored Tylenol is gross) to take a daily pill (which costs $7/day per person, for those of you who are good at math), and giving them a weekly pill that is known for causing hallucinogenic nightmares (I've had them. They are horrible).
Since that first Ugly Cry, I have had two more significant sobfests, including a second at Starbucks on my lunchbreak today. (If I wasn't such a caffeine freak I might start avoiding the place). I think my emotionality stems from fear, as much as the sadness I expected to feel about the move. I am not afraid for myself. I'm adaptable, I love to travel, and I am committed to our goal of working in the developing world. I welcome the challenges and changes of our move. I am overwhelmed by angst and fear because it goes against every cell in my body as a mother to take my children away from their home, away from their safe, secure, familiar environment to one that is statistically more dangerous, completely foreign to them, and far away from the people they know and love. I am so afraid that they will be scared, or lonely, or sick, and that I will have failed in my job to protect them and keep them from harm.
Tonight while I cried over my Thai yellow curry,(for the third, and hopefully final, time of the day), Dave held my hand and told me to have faith. He told me to remember my belief that if your motives are pure, and your intentions are good, then your success is certain. I never expected this to be easy, I just don't want it to be hard on them.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Black Mamba
And still, the anxiety mounts. Finally, FINALLY I have actually reached the level of anxiety ( No... not panic...not yet...) that has motivated me to attempt some of the tasks on the ever-expanding To Do list Dave and I have created. For weeks we have spent date nights drinking wine and writing lists (well, we are usually drunk by the time we get to list-making, and realize we do not have a pen or paper, so the lists are often theoretical). This last week when Dave suggested that we spend a romantic Saturday evening sitting at a bar with the computer making lists I broke down, suggesting testily that perhaps it was time to stop theorizing and planning and start DOING, as we have only 55 days until we have to be ready to leave the house.
This forces me to confess that I have:
1. Begun counting down the days until we leave (which is harder than it sounds, as it involves counting backwards by 7's).
2. Become very testy lately about a lot of things.
I think that the testiness is because I have so many emotions, that sometimes it is simply overwhelming. I asked the kids at the table the other day how they felt about our upcoming adventure, and Eamonn said "Happy, but sad", which I think really sums it up for me, too. For weeks now in clinic I have had to say goodbye to families, give farewell hugs to children whom I have truly grown to love, and begin to unravel the tapestry that has intertwined my life with theirs. Tonight, after a weekend of packing, I walked through the downstairs of our house and saw bare walls where family pictures had hung, saw boxes of belongings stacked neatly by the door, and felt a dizzying wave of unpreventable, inescapable, impending change. The thought of taking my children away from their extended family (grandmas and grandpa, aunts, uncles, and cousins) breaks my heart. I have truly been aware, almost constantly lately, of all that we will be leaving behind, all that I am giving up, and all that I am asking my children to give up.
I'm not saying that I am bitter or resentful, and only sometimes am I even sad. Often I am excited. There is a class at UNC on Malawian culture and language which Dave and I signed up for. I went to my first class last week, and have been teaching the kids how to greet each other and ask someone's name in Chichewa. We walk through the house bowing or curtsying to each other (as is the custom in Milawi) and saying "Moni!" "Zikomo!" I have been sneaking away to study in the morning sometimes, and am 200 pages into a manual on TB and HIV in kids in the developing world. I am very worried about how much I am actually retaining, as much of it is completely foreign to anything I currently do or have done, but I am hopeful that some will stick, and looking forward to being trained in Houston in July by Baylor.
They say that every physician has a closetful of ghosts that they carry with them, and (spoiler alert) I'm about to share a particularly tragic one with you. When we lived in Belize (some of you may remember my writings from that year, and may have already read about this) I took care of a little boy who ended up dying of malnutrition and dehydration after having a diarrheal illness. In an effort to save him I had driven two hours into the village to try to help refeed him, as the parents refused to take him to the hospital (I did not entirely blame them, as it was often less safe to be hospitalized). I returned to town only to learn about 36 hours later that the baby was dying in the hospital. After a long, impossible attempt to resuscitate him and a longer voyage overnight to Belize city, he died. I was faced with the task of driving his body back home in a tiny wooden coffin, sliding in the back of my pickup truck for 4 hours, with his bereft mother wailing in the arms of her husband, sobbing the child's name the entire way. I am still tortured by the thought of all that I could have done differently. This regret, which I have carried with me for years, is part of my motivation for reading and trying to educate myself. I am so thrilled for the opportunity I will have to learn, and to be mentored, and to have knowledgeable colleagues. Dave and I often felt very alone in Belize, and frequently faced situations where we felt unprepared and inadequate. I do not want any new ghosts...
On the lighter side, I recently got up the courage to Google "snakes and malawi", and instantly regretted it. It turns out to be the home of the deadliest and fastest snake in the world, the Black Mamba. The bite of the Black Mamba injects enough venom to kill 144 men in an hour, and requires that anti-venom be administered within 20 minutes in order to prevent excruciating death. Given that there is no Emergency Response team to speak of and given the scarcity of medical resources, I am fairly certain that a Black Mamba bite would mean certain demise.
I often gauge my emotional response to new information by comparing it with Dave's. Dave is, for the most part, a pretty level-headed guy. If something stresses him out, then it is definitely something that I feel justified being terrified of. After I shared my knowledge of the Black Mamba with Dave, he made the mistake of doing further Google searches, and discovered the story of an unfortunate gentleman who came across a Black Mamba in his dryer. That night Dave had a horrible nightmare that the snakes were coming in every door and window, attacking him and our family.
I have begun shopping fervently for all-weather knee-high boots for every member of our family.
I still haven't found the nerve to Google "bugs and Malawi".
This forces me to confess that I have:
1. Begun counting down the days until we leave (which is harder than it sounds, as it involves counting backwards by 7's).
2. Become very testy lately about a lot of things.
I think that the testiness is because I have so many emotions, that sometimes it is simply overwhelming. I asked the kids at the table the other day how they felt about our upcoming adventure, and Eamonn said "Happy, but sad", which I think really sums it up for me, too. For weeks now in clinic I have had to say goodbye to families, give farewell hugs to children whom I have truly grown to love, and begin to unravel the tapestry that has intertwined my life with theirs. Tonight, after a weekend of packing, I walked through the downstairs of our house and saw bare walls where family pictures had hung, saw boxes of belongings stacked neatly by the door, and felt a dizzying wave of unpreventable, inescapable, impending change. The thought of taking my children away from their extended family (grandmas and grandpa, aunts, uncles, and cousins) breaks my heart. I have truly been aware, almost constantly lately, of all that we will be leaving behind, all that I am giving up, and all that I am asking my children to give up.
I'm not saying that I am bitter or resentful, and only sometimes am I even sad. Often I am excited. There is a class at UNC on Malawian culture and language which Dave and I signed up for. I went to my first class last week, and have been teaching the kids how to greet each other and ask someone's name in Chichewa. We walk through the house bowing or curtsying to each other (as is the custom in Milawi) and saying "Moni!" "Zikomo!" I have been sneaking away to study in the morning sometimes, and am 200 pages into a manual on TB and HIV in kids in the developing world. I am very worried about how much I am actually retaining, as much of it is completely foreign to anything I currently do or have done, but I am hopeful that some will stick, and looking forward to being trained in Houston in July by Baylor.
They say that every physician has a closetful of ghosts that they carry with them, and (spoiler alert) I'm about to share a particularly tragic one with you. When we lived in Belize (some of you may remember my writings from that year, and may have already read about this) I took care of a little boy who ended up dying of malnutrition and dehydration after having a diarrheal illness. In an effort to save him I had driven two hours into the village to try to help refeed him, as the parents refused to take him to the hospital (I did not entirely blame them, as it was often less safe to be hospitalized). I returned to town only to learn about 36 hours later that the baby was dying in the hospital. After a long, impossible attempt to resuscitate him and a longer voyage overnight to Belize city, he died. I was faced with the task of driving his body back home in a tiny wooden coffin, sliding in the back of my pickup truck for 4 hours, with his bereft mother wailing in the arms of her husband, sobbing the child's name the entire way. I am still tortured by the thought of all that I could have done differently. This regret, which I have carried with me for years, is part of my motivation for reading and trying to educate myself. I am so thrilled for the opportunity I will have to learn, and to be mentored, and to have knowledgeable colleagues. Dave and I often felt very alone in Belize, and frequently faced situations where we felt unprepared and inadequate. I do not want any new ghosts...
On the lighter side, I recently got up the courage to Google "snakes and malawi", and instantly regretted it. It turns out to be the home of the deadliest and fastest snake in the world, the Black Mamba. The bite of the Black Mamba injects enough venom to kill 144 men in an hour, and requires that anti-venom be administered within 20 minutes in order to prevent excruciating death. Given that there is no Emergency Response team to speak of and given the scarcity of medical resources, I am fairly certain that a Black Mamba bite would mean certain demise.
I often gauge my emotional response to new information by comparing it with Dave's. Dave is, for the most part, a pretty level-headed guy. If something stresses him out, then it is definitely something that I feel justified being terrified of. After I shared my knowledge of the Black Mamba with Dave, he made the mistake of doing further Google searches, and discovered the story of an unfortunate gentleman who came across a Black Mamba in his dryer. That night Dave had a horrible nightmare that the snakes were coming in every door and window, attacking him and our family.
I have begun shopping fervently for all-weather knee-high boots for every member of our family.
I still haven't found the nerve to Google "bugs and Malawi".
Saturday, March 12, 2011
So much anxiety, so little time...
My obsession with our move continues. My relentless thoughts range from the mundane (comparing the costs of airline flights) to the ridiculous (how will I get my eyebrows waxed in the middle of rural Africa??!?). Some details have been worked out, somewhat.
We have found a nanny! Her name is Laura, and she is the daughter of a good friend of mine from the ED. She is a college graduate, with a degree in Commuinty Health Education (which I am hoping will somehow translate to effective childcare skills), who is interested in living and working in Africa. She is bright and enthusiastic, although she has not yet met my children, and for some reason she believes that living with my nutty family in a foreign country for approximately $2/hour is a great opportunity. In fact, I have had to ask her to please stop saying "You don't even have to pay me", lest the prospect of free labor becomes overwhelming, and I have to take her up on it.
I have decided on the international school for the older two. After looking at it more closely, it seems to have some hippy tendencies, and I am starting to feel a little more hopeful that it will be similar enough to what the kids are used to that it won't be a devestating change. Plus, it has a pool.
I will have Laura stay home with Malawi, as she would only have a 5 hour day for her $10,000/year, and she is not even in Kindergarden yet. I am hoping that we can rent a house in the neighborhood of the school, so that Laura can walk them there and back. Their school day, unfortunately, begins at 7:15...in the morning. Considering that we already cannot get everyone to school by 8:15 without several large glasses of Diet Coke and multiple melt downs, this has me concerned, but I will deal with it as it comes up.
Dave has been unofficially offered a (paying!) job, which is exciting, but it has not yet been finalized, so I am waiting anxiously for that minor detail to be settled.
Preparing for the trip is beginning to feel surreal. Even as the date approaches I feel as though time is not moving, as though I am in a dream where I am nearly paralyzed and trying so hard to move forward but cannot. I have begun to study HIV in the morning before work or on the weekends, and already I feel that slow fury growing inside of me. I look at pictures of children with wasted limbs or toddlers with open sores in their mouths or faces covered with warty lesions, and I am afraid. Angry and afraid. I go to work and play with clear-eyed cherubs and make sympathetic sounds about rashes I cannot see and imagine how soon I will be faced with dying children and have to say "I'm sorry" and "I can't" to their broken-hearted mothers.
Every moment of my day I am aware of all that is about to change, and I have to force myself to live in the moment, to notice the beauty of the impending spring and see the joy in my children's faces. I do not understand why I have been so lucky, and I feel a superstitious dread at even mentioning my gratitude for the gift that is my life. It is so easy to forget that people are suffering needlessly. It is so easy to become complacent or even to start to believe that the challenges that I face (high gas prices, dirty dishes in the sink, squabbling siblings) are worthy of complaint. The average Malawian earns 80 cents per day. Per day. The standard HIV medication combinations that children need to survive in the developing world do not exist. Why? Because children in the rich countries (like ours) do not use them, so there is no profitable market, so the drug companies have not produced them.
Soon I will be unable to forget the disparity, the inequity that, for whatever reason, exists in our world. Soon I will try, to the best of my ability, to give thanks for all that I have been given by serving those who have nothing. If I may quote Spiderman, "To whom much is given, much is expected." I pray that I have strength of heart and courage. I pray that I can help make childrens' lives better and bring peace to the families of those whom I cannot help. I pray that my children are not afraid, and that they remain safe and strong. And I pray, most of all, that there are not a lot of snakes or gross bugs.
We have found a nanny! Her name is Laura, and she is the daughter of a good friend of mine from the ED. She is a college graduate, with a degree in Commuinty Health Education (which I am hoping will somehow translate to effective childcare skills), who is interested in living and working in Africa. She is bright and enthusiastic, although she has not yet met my children, and for some reason she believes that living with my nutty family in a foreign country for approximately $2/hour is a great opportunity. In fact, I have had to ask her to please stop saying "You don't even have to pay me", lest the prospect of free labor becomes overwhelming, and I have to take her up on it.
I have decided on the international school for the older two. After looking at it more closely, it seems to have some hippy tendencies, and I am starting to feel a little more hopeful that it will be similar enough to what the kids are used to that it won't be a devestating change. Plus, it has a pool.
I will have Laura stay home with Malawi, as she would only have a 5 hour day for her $10,000/year, and she is not even in Kindergarden yet. I am hoping that we can rent a house in the neighborhood of the school, so that Laura can walk them there and back. Their school day, unfortunately, begins at 7:15...in the morning. Considering that we already cannot get everyone to school by 8:15 without several large glasses of Diet Coke and multiple melt downs, this has me concerned, but I will deal with it as it comes up.
Dave has been unofficially offered a (paying!) job, which is exciting, but it has not yet been finalized, so I am waiting anxiously for that minor detail to be settled.
Preparing for the trip is beginning to feel surreal. Even as the date approaches I feel as though time is not moving, as though I am in a dream where I am nearly paralyzed and trying so hard to move forward but cannot. I have begun to study HIV in the morning before work or on the weekends, and already I feel that slow fury growing inside of me. I look at pictures of children with wasted limbs or toddlers with open sores in their mouths or faces covered with warty lesions, and I am afraid. Angry and afraid. I go to work and play with clear-eyed cherubs and make sympathetic sounds about rashes I cannot see and imagine how soon I will be faced with dying children and have to say "I'm sorry" and "I can't" to their broken-hearted mothers.
Every moment of my day I am aware of all that is about to change, and I have to force myself to live in the moment, to notice the beauty of the impending spring and see the joy in my children's faces. I do not understand why I have been so lucky, and I feel a superstitious dread at even mentioning my gratitude for the gift that is my life. It is so easy to forget that people are suffering needlessly. It is so easy to become complacent or even to start to believe that the challenges that I face (high gas prices, dirty dishes in the sink, squabbling siblings) are worthy of complaint. The average Malawian earns 80 cents per day. Per day. The standard HIV medication combinations that children need to survive in the developing world do not exist. Why? Because children in the rich countries (like ours) do not use them, so there is no profitable market, so the drug companies have not produced them.
Soon I will be unable to forget the disparity, the inequity that, for whatever reason, exists in our world. Soon I will try, to the best of my ability, to give thanks for all that I have been given by serving those who have nothing. If I may quote Spiderman, "To whom much is given, much is expected." I pray that I have strength of heart and courage. I pray that I can help make childrens' lives better and bring peace to the families of those whom I cannot help. I pray that my children are not afraid, and that they remain safe and strong. And I pray, most of all, that there are not a lot of snakes or gross bugs.
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