Haiti 2014

The following is the thoughts of one team member, and does not reflect the thoughts of any other member of the team. When the word we (as there is no I in team) is used, feelings still refer to this person and not the entire team.

Most people go into something with an idea of how things will go. Often, the flow is exactly as you had predicted. But sometimes, things happen which can cause you to have doubt, to loose faith, and to wonder if it is worth it at all.

I recently returned from my second medical mission trip, and third trip, to Haiti. This country is a combination of beauty and devastation, of modern and ancient, of hope and
despair. And we knew the needs were going to be great going in, with sickness being much pronounced at the present time. And where the last trip seemed to flow together, this one was work from the beginning, and was a struggle throughout. Trying to pull together a team seemed easy at first, but changed as we got closer to departure, with one person backing out a few weeks before, and loosing two members days before leaving. And because of the type of trip we were planning (4 clinic days in 2 different locations) the cost was increased (we pay for everything including medicine, housing, translators, providers, food, water, transportation) and our team struggled to do adequate fundraising. But with generous donations and the support of family and friends, we were on our way. How could we think the struggles were over now, when they were just beginning.
We flew into Port Au Prince, Haiti and met up with the rest of the medical team. Homayon, Roger, and Bridgett from International Medical Aid, and Liz and Mickey from Children's Health Ministries. We became acquainted, and reacquainted with team members, and readied ourselves for the first day of clinic.

The location for the first clinic was Pastor Firmin's church, the location of our clinic the previous year. The mosquito was active this year, and the Chik virus was running wild, causing high fevers and muscle pains in the population. It struck all, but was very hard on the children and elderly. And people came to be treated.
Children with fevers, people with body aches, people who were dehydrated, and a multitude of problems which we dealt with in the best fashion that we could. For 2 days were saw patients, dealt with the heat, and prayed we would be able to help those which were so in need of assistance. And it was here that we met Ode.

On Friday, there was this tiny baby boy who was running a fever. He weighed 3.5 kg (about 7.5 pounds and was 2 months old.) We treated him with medicine, antibiotics, formula, and education to the mother and grandmother. And we told them to bring him back the next day. And they did. And we re-evaluated him. His temperature was up still, and the little tyke didn't feel good, and he had lost several ounces in weight. And we re-educated the grandmother on the use of the Tylenol and antibiotics, and of using the formula. One of the Haitian nurses agreed to see him on Sunday (we weren't having clinic that day) and to let us know how he was doing. She called on Sunday to say that he had a temperature of 105. He was taken to Mickey's house, where we were at the time, and when he arrived he was limp. He was so dry and his temperature was high. We knew that it was serious and that we needed to intervene. So we started an IV on him, used Tylenol and cooling measures, and started towards Port Au Prince where we could find more definitive medical care. Once enroute, the temperature started to drop, and Ode opened his eyes. He started to move around some as the IV fluids entered his body. Mickey found a place that would take him and care for him, and when we passed off this little soul, he was crying and resisting our movements, which pleased us greatly. We ended the day on a high note and were looking forward to the next day of clinic. Little did we realize what the next day would bring.

We traveled to a new location, up in the remote mountains to Pastor Wilma's church, where they had never had a medical clinic before. We knew that people would come, and come they did. More than 225 that first day. Kids with fevers of 104, diarrhea, vomiting. Lots of sickness, lots of need. Lots of patients who had no other means of caring for their families. And you could tell the tone for the day was much different here in this remote setting. At triage, the nurses noticed a very still child being held by the mother. When they got to the desk, they could see that the child was no longer living, and had been gone for a while because she was already becoming stiff. And her temperature was 101. How high could it have been if it was still this high after death? But this was not the only death we would deal with. That night, after returning home, we learned that Ode had died that day.
We knew that he was bad, but it still hurts to loose anyone, let alone a baby. Sitting there, I recounted the actions of the days, and wondered if we did anything wrong. And started to wonder what it all meant. Do we really do any good coming here? We leave our families, go to a part of the world that many have forgotten, risk injury and sickness and for what? To have people die? To have a child die from lack of Tylenol? To have a baby die before it even has a chance to live? And to have this such a common occurrence that the community comes to expect it? Would we be better served staying home or just sending money, instead of traveling to this remote location? And is being there something we do only to make ourselves feel like we have done something, so is it a selfish thing, and if so is that a reason to even do these trips? So many questions, and for this team member, no answers. And the last thing I wanted to do was to return the next day. All I wanted to do was to go home.

But there was a job to do, one I had signed up to do, and to the clinic we went. And people came in droves. Temperatures of 105, massive amounts of diarrhea, vomiting, kids not eating or drinking, people with body aches, and so many other problems, which seems massive at the time. And it was during this time that things become clear. Standing there, watching everyone work. The girls at triage seeing so many people. The translators doing double duty as they ask the questions and than answer

them back to you. The table where they are assessing kids for malnutrition. Where the kids are being measured and weighed, to see how they are growing. The people who are going around tasking where they can. The providers who are in a small, curtain draped cubicle, seeing all these patients. It is at this time that you realize that every one of us is exactly where we are suppose to be. You can't save them all, but you save the ones that you can. You help those that you can, and strive to do the best possible care within your means. And that means you will loose some. But it also means that you will save some, and you will touch the lives of many. The 7-year old girl with the largest smile possible, who has a
very pronounced heart murmur, who now will receive the echo that she needs, and hopefully will go on to live a wonderful life. The baby with a fever and low blood sugar, who received an IV and was doing better. The providers who learned CPR and choking measures, who will be prepared if the need arises. The mother who was told her daughter would walk again, even though the last steps taken were 4 years ago and the bending of her feet tell you otherwise, that you taught range of motion exercise to to help promote circulation. The 25 year old man who, thanks to a handheld device, was referred to a cardiologist for a heart rhythm that was a problem. The child with a 105 temperature who could not walk upon arrival, and with cooling measures from the triage desk, and Tylenol and Motrin, and an IV, was able to walk home with her mother. And the multitude of patients that were seen over 4 days, more than 900, all who would not have been helped if this team had not been there.

So what does it say that your heart was heavy and broken at the loss of this little life. It really becomes clear when you step away and look at it. It is very important to have knowledge and skills, to be able to think and do tasks to help people who have need. But there is a bigger part necessary, one that means more probably than all the other parts....a heart. To see children who die because of lack of Tylenol, or clean water. To see an 18 month old who can't sit unassisted or hold his own head up. To see a 5 year old who drank a substance 3 years ago and now has seizures and the mental capacity of a 2 year old, and you know they will never progress beyond this. To hold a baby for hours, and than later learn they died. If you can do any of these things and not hurt, not cry, not feel despair, not question things, than you are lacking the one part you most desperately need to do medical missions. So when is it time to stop? When you don't cry or hurt. When you become so hardened that this doesn't bother you. When your heart is not involved, it is time to leave and not return.

The need is great in this area of Haiti. The parents have little hope, and the children probably even less. But you can make a difference, one life at a time. You can touch those in need and make a difference. You can save a life. You can't save them all, but you help those you can. And you go back home, and you learn more, and review what was seen and done, and you get prepared for the next trip. And resolve to do the best possible you can for the people of this area. Haiti has my heart, and as long as God allows, this team member will return. And I pray that my heart never hardens to the souls that so need our help.
Sharon

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