Ultimate Frisbee

Ultimate Frisbee is a fabulous game.

Even better is ultimate Frisbee on the 8^th deck of a large ship in the open air with a jungle gym, swimming pool and massive air vent in the middle of your field and nothing between your Frisbee and the water but a small net.

Ten good friends and a broken Frisbee make for one jolly good time.

We are always searching for something fun to do after community meeting (essentially church) every Thursday night. Often we just eat ice cream and chat. Occasionally we play games like spoons or four-on-a-couch (or four-on-a-sofa for the Brits out there).  Last week my brilliant and hilarious friend Sam united two of his favorite things: socializing with his friends after community meeting and random fun on deck 8.

It is a rather treacherous game for me at the best of times as I’m no great sportswoman, especially with a Frisbee in my hands.  But as with most sports in this community the goal is truly a good time had by all.  Everyone accepts the good-natured abuse and heartfelt, if undeserved, encouragement and praise that go hand-in-hand with it.

I think during this particular game the secret goal of everyone present was to throw the Frisbee into the top of the twisty slide.  Automatic points for coolness factor alone.

Back and forth we went, over jungle gym, around air vent, barely missing the swimming pool.  Until the fateful final play:  the Frisbee gets thrown long, members of both teems in the end zone ready to wrestle it into their possession, it vacillates between the two, it flies into the air again, everyone holds their breath as it is caught by the wind and off, into the air and down to the water it sails. Alas, the game came to a sudden and sad ending.  Ten forlorn Frisbee players lean over the rail, watching our beloved, broken Frisbee float free to the fishing village in the distance as we ponder aloud a way to retrieve it. Eventually we gave it up as lost and moved on to car races.

To all of you living on coastline, if you ever spot a broken Frisbee in the water, it’s Sam’s.

So if you ever wonder if I do anything but work here, I would like to put you at ease.  I have lots of fun. Lots of random, clean, good-old-fashion fun.

Big Ideas

I met Don Stephens! And my shirt was inside out! It was my most Bridget Jones moment in some time. I was at Starbucks having coffee with Ben when Don Stephens walked through the café area. Truth be told, I didn’t actually meet him. He definitely smiled specifically at the two of us and said “hello”.

I must admit, though I usually scoff at the idea of celebrity, I can’t help being somewhat star-struck at Don Stephens live and onboard the AFM.  I’m sure he’s quite a normal guy, with all the quirks and limitations as any other.

God gave him a vision years ago for something world-changing and he had the courage to step into it with everything. The Anastasis sat in a bay in Greece after the purchase of it in 1978. Many thought the Anastasis would never sail. According to doctor Christine Aroney-Sine, the first physician on the Anastasis, the ship was almost laughed out of Greece. Few caught on to the vision in those early days and many thought the project was doomed to fail.

As I look around the ship now it is incredible to think it all began with one couples’ dream to do something in service to God. It’s easy to take for granted this place and the opportunity’s I’m presented with. Just the other day a film crew from iTV, a British television network, was reporting from one of our dress ceremonies in the hospital. The nurses were all taken aback when the presenter looked into the camera and said “reporting now from the Africa Mercy, the world’s largest philanthropic medical ship, stationed currently in West Africa”.  Of course it’s where we live and what we do. Sometimes it still shocks me.

And it makes me think.  Don and Deyon Stephens were simply pursuing in obedience the dream God had given them. What dreams has He given me? I will likely not do anything to the extent of the legacy and publicity of Mercy Ships. Each vision is unique.  What dreams has God given those around me that I don’t even know about? Big ideas that, if pursued in obedience, could change the world.

I found out the other night that the day Don Stephens walked into the Swiss bank to ask for a million dollar loan to pay for the Anastasis he was wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe. Turns out he is a normal guy after all.

Community Life

This community is a funny place. After four months here one would think it would be old news, but often I feel like I’m just now settling in.  There are certainly drawbacks to living in a community of 400 crew, but the benefits, in my opinion, far outweigh them.

I’ve been reflecting on it as I’ve just celebrated my birthday. I honestly didn’t think I would be made to feel so special and loved by this community I’ve lived in so short a time.  My close friends, my African family, decorated my door (the traditional way of greeting someone on the morning of their birthday), sat with me at dinner and even wore the party hats I had received from home, and baked me the most beautiful cake I’ve seen in years. In the evening, after community meeting, they watched as I opened presents and we laughed together as we all shared cake and wind-up-toy races (my bets were always on Achoo, the wind up toy crab).

It’s easy to feel a little lost in the crowd on this ship. Of course there are friends around on any given day, but at times I can wander from dining hall to midships to deck 8 completely anonymous.  Or so I thought.  The other day on my birthday I was greeted by birthday wishes and blessings everywhere I went.  Heartfelt hugs, sincere inquiries as to how my day was, and even a few “How old are you today? Really?! You don’t look it!” I suppose one is to take that as a compliment? My favorite comment of the day was when one of our translators said “I pray God grants you the desires of your heart” but my friend Maggie heard “I pray God makes your grandchildren smart”! I mean, I know I’m old, but I’m hardly thinking about grandchildren.

 At times it’s maddening to live in a steel fish tank. There is nowhere to go to get away from the noise, of people or the workings of the engines.  You can hide in your room, but with a generator next door and a roommate (lovely as she is) above, it is neither private nor silent.  Happy, excited, frustrated, upset, desperate to the point of tears; this community sees me in all my ups and downs.  It would be difficult to keep a façade, so I don’t try.  I am who I am, dealing with my stuff, in this community.  But the beautiful thing is, I have never felt judged for it. So I’m grumpy one day.  People understand, they’ve been there too.  Another day I’m excited and can’t wipe the grin off my face.  Friends want to know why but respect my privacy if I’d rather not share.  I am accepted here, and it is wonderful.

 My favorite is community meeting every Thursday night. The room is filled with people of every age, ethnicity and spanning the doctrinal spectrum.  Yet we all gather to worship together, to attest to what God is doing, to thank Him for His faithfulness and to once again acknowledge as a community that it is not us, but Christ in us, that makes any difference whatsoever in this country.  Looking around at the community of faith on those nights brings tears to my eyes. We are all “damaged” in one way or another, no one person getting it right all the time.  Together, though, God has made a light in the darkness, a testimony not only to the outside world, but to each other as well.

 Living in community is not always fun. It is challenging, and stretching, and at times, like 7am breakfast, I wish the other 399 who live here would go away. But it is a good place to live. It is healthy, and though I can at times only grudgingly admit, it is beautiful. 

Ward Life

Nursing mothers,

20 patients to a ward, not including guests and caregivers,

the spicy, earthy smell of African food,

curtains that hang from the ceiling by magnets,

translating through several translators and a fellow patient to speak to one patient because she comes from a remote Northern region of the country,

giving medication times by pictures of suns and moons

It is truly an adventure nursing on the ward on the Africa Mercy.  You never know what supplies or equipment you’re going to have one day to the next. And you’re not sure it’s going to work if you can find it.  You don’t know if your assignment will consist of four patients with nothing going on or ten patients, each of whom could keep you fairly busy all shift.

I’ve just come off a set of night shifts: 10 hour shifts on Thursday and Friday night, 12 hour shifts Saturday and Sunday night.  Nights are interesting. You spend a lot of time on the ward, but not necessarily a lot of time with patients.  Usually they’re sleeping the majority of the night.  This was not the case with these past shifts.  They were busy, which is fine.  It’s easier to stay awake that way.

“Sista, sista”, I hear from behind the curtain that blocks the light at night.

“Douleur” my patient says, and points to her feet, motioning with her hands an obvious throbbing gesture.

“I’ll get you medicine”, I say in English and crudely sign taking pills, to which she nods with a quiet “Merci”.

Such is communication when translators are nowhere to be found, as is often the case on night shift, or when they are all tied up translating for someone else.  We call it ward sign language.

Part broken French, part English, with a good portion of hand gesture.

The wards in our hospital are a special place.  It’s not a first world hospital.  There’s a two-year-old dying in ward B because we don’t have the medicine he needs to treat his type of cancer, which wouldn’t happen in a first-world hospital. But it’s definitely not an African hospital, where patients lie in the hallway bleeding to death from a broken arm they cannot afford to have fixed.  Our hospital is a strange in between.  We do our best with what we have.  Sometimes it’s not good enough.  But it’s more than nothing.  It’s a place all it’s own. At times comical; at others tragic. Always an experience unlike any other.

Luc's Story

The World feels too heavy with hurt today.

I’ve been five weeks now in a job other than ward nursing and tomorrow is my last day.  It’s been stretching, frustrating and fun, all in its turn, but today, the second to last, was the most difficult by far. 

I’ve been filling in as an admissions nurse by request of Frankie, the nursing supervisor, as they were short staffed.  I took the position reluctantly.  It is a desk job. You interview each patient with a translator, finding out previous health history, diet, last time patient had malaria (it’s not really an if question, always a when) and the like.  You explain to them the rules of the hospital, what to expect and obtain consent for surgery and blood testing. After that vital signs are taken and I draw blood for routine testing.  The translator and I then pray with the patient and off he, or she goes to the ward to take his, or her, chlorhexidine  shower.

A little boy and his mum came in to be admitted for a biopsy.  It looks like Luc has a form of extremely fast growing cancer called Burkitt’s lymphoma. For some biochemical reason beyond me, Burkitt’s is common in children with recurrent malaria.  It grows at a fast rate, tumors often doubling in size in two weeks’ time.  Without aggressive treatment disfigurement is inevitable and death is likely within a year.

Trying to complete little Luc’s admission took all the professional training and will power in me.  Four-year old Luc lay limp in his mother’s arms.  He looked occasionally at his mother, once or twice with trepidation at me, but primarily off in the distance with no fixed object.  A tumor larger than a softball protruded from his small face, making his eye bulge and his mouth difficult to close.  I had to concentrate on my paperwork and look at the boy as infrequently as possible so the tears would not spill down my cheeks as questions flooded me.  His little disfigured nose had been bleeding.  I tried to gently clean him up.  It was the one thing I felt was in my ability to do for him. Every time I turned back to him I demanded answers from God:

How could you, a loving creator, allow this kind of suffering?

Why don’t you do something about it if you really care so much?

What did this precious little boy do to deserve pain and death this way?

Why does the fallen nature of man so often manifest itself in the helpless?

I wanted to cry, and yell at God, and tell his mum it would all be ok. We would help them.  But the truth is there is little we can do. We have one type of chemotherapy and no radiation. If it doesn’t work, or the cancer metastasizes, there is nothing we can do.

I asked another nurse to draw his blood.  Poking this little one and causing even the smallest further discomfort would undo me altogether.  I took the ten minutes break to run to my room and let the pent up tears go for a minute.  I considered not going back at all. I couldn’t face his distant stare and limp cry again.  But something in me told me to do the brave thing.  After all, I hadn’t yet prayed with them, which was, in fact, the one thing I could do for them.

As I prayed for comfort and strength and Gods healing power in their lives, a peace came over me.  Not any sort of answer to all my questions.  I may never know those.  But a profound knowledge that God does see this hurt, this tragedy. Precious little Luc may be one of millions, but he is not forgotten.

They left me to be taken to the ward to see what medical treatment we can offer them. It broke my heart.

But in that moment, I knew without a doubt, that it breaks Jesus’ heart even more than mine.  And that was strangely a comfort.

“But tonight my heart is heavy, and I cannot keep from whispering this prayer ‘are you there?’ … Oh great God, be small enough to hear me now“  

Lyrics to a favorite song by Nicole Nordeman

June 26th, 2009

What a wet, wet, wet day we’re having.  Actually, we’ve had almost more rain than sun since I came ten days ago.  Apparently it’s rainy season.  I dragged myself out of bed for seven am breakfast this morning and was delighted to discover we were in the midst of a torrential downpour, lightning, thunder and all.  Sitting on deck 7, my new favorite place to read, thunder erupted so loud over my head my heart nearly jumped out of my chest.  It was great. Don’t think for a minute that because it’s wet, it’s also cold. The rain does bring with it a cool breeze, though, making it a comfortable, balmy kind of climate.  I’m hoping to acclimatize to the warm before I’m confronted with the truly scorching heat when the rains dry up

            I’ve just come from a dress ceremony in the hospital, the second I’ve been fortunate enough to attend.  Each woman gets a brand new African dress and headdress upon discharge.  To explain, I’ll have to back up a bit.  Many women in Benin give birth in rural villages with a midwife, or maybe only a family member, attending.  Often this is fine, neither the woman nor her baby suffer complications.  Occasionally, however, for whatever reason, the labor is long or the baby is big, things do not go well.  Too often the baby dies.  The mother can also have internal tearing.  If the tear goes un-repaired, it can become infected and eventually cause a hole, or fistula, between vagina and urethra, or vagina and rectum.  The result is a continuous unrestrainable flow of urine or other body fluid.  As one would imagine, it would be somewhat disruptive to be constantly wet and smell of urine.  Many of their husbands leave them or kick them out.  Almost all are unable to continue work.   Some are abandoned by all family and friends. 

            Mercy Ships offers free surgery to ladies with this affliction.  Sometimes the damage is extensive and beyond the surgeons’ ability to repair, even with muscle or skin grafting.  How exciting, though, when, after fourteen days with a foley catheter, the catheter is removed and a woman is dry for the first time in five, maybe ten years!  The expression on their faces literally changes.  They have been restored as people, as women.  And they are beautiful.  I’ve had the honor of getting to know a few of them.  In my few days here, I’ve been at the bedside of one woman whose surgery failed.  I was devastated for and with her.  Yet the next day she was dancing with the other ladies, determined not to let her hope of healing die completely.  After all, maybe she could have a second surgery when the Africa Mercy comes to Togo.  And I’ve rejoiced with a woman whose catheter I removed and remained dry, urinating in a toilet for the first time in thirteen years!

            So the dress ceremony is more than a fancy way of getting discharged from the hospital.  It is a recognition of a life changed.  An induction back into society;  an affirmation that each one of these precious women is known by her Creator who cares about every intimate detail of her life. It is beautiful, and I am filled with gratitude to be a part of it.

14 June, 2009

"I'm so exciting", as Grace, my now five year old niece, used to say.

28 minutes to destination.

To my new life.

I have that feeling, the Christmas feeling.  I don't know what it will be, but it will be good.

A few hours ago my movie ended so I thought I'd take a look out the window.  All I had seen so far was cloud cover.  But hey, why not try again?  I opened the window to a sea of sand. An expanse as far as the eye could see of reddish-yellow earth unlike any I had ever seen anywhere.  And would you believe, I started crying? Do you know me? Of course you believe I started crying. Big, happy, "I can't believe I'm really here" tears. "I'm in Africa and I'm doing something really special" tears.  Like the kind you cry at weddings for happy couples you just know in your heart are meant to be together always.  And I just let them roll down my face.

Fortunately, no one saw.

They might have mistakenly thought I was sad, and homesick. They might even have pitied me.

I'm glad no one noticed.

5 minutes to destination.

Hannah Hoffman, welcome to your new life.