I start to spend more time with D, and sit with him on his computer helping secure his fingers on the keyboard as he types in brail, reading from a book. He learns in one day about the home keys for his fingers to sit on as he types sentences. I have never seen someone adjust so fast. He is beyond intelligent. He is happy. It is only the computer that makes him this happy I notice. He sits on his computer for 8 hours the first day.
I remember I used to think about the five senses, and which one I couldn’t live without. I remember time and time again when this pops up in my head I am so thankful for sight. I wonder if it is better to have seen to not ever see again or to never have seen and to have lost nothing. This question rolls around in my head.
The house is rowdy by 430am on a school day, 5am on a nonschool day. Sleeping in means everyone gets up at 530 on a Sunday. There is prayer right after. I get up for my own prayer. By 5am the house is hustling and bustling as the boys start their morning chores and clean and fight. After I pray I take an hour nap, I sleep through it all. All the yelling, screaming, fighting, cleaning, cooking, etc. I never felt 25 boys in a house plus a staff of 10 who come throughout the day would be normal. We now have a camp rolling in the house with 150 children and volunteers. They have different stations throughout the bungalow. For the week this has become the new normal. I help load drinks into big barrels to chill before lunch. I continue to take pictures. One of the stations teaches nutrition, another one das music, another one dance, another one another day about earthquake survival, another one they make frames. The activitie are wonderful. I wonder If these sorts of activities have been done before in their lives.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Mothers
We go to the hospital again. I am already dazed and jaded by our last visit. We go to get the stitches cleaned. I wait outside the tent, not sure why I even came. I am the last person to treat people. However I have become the house nurse. I have given away many bandages. I wish I brought toy story or Disney themed ones. Even being hurt has its perks where I’m from. Everyone comes to me with cuts and needs bandages. one of the boys comes to me, I do not want to just neglect him. I clean their wounds. He smiles, his smile is from heaven. I always try to capture it on camera, I’m unsuccessful.
No more busted faces after F. We are in the back by the OR. G, one of the staff brings F and I. I see a lady, she has just sit on the bed. She starts screaming. She seems my age. Her hand is beyond swollen. The puncture a hole under her middle finger which started the swelling. The clean it, they push out the swelling. Blood leaks into a bucket below. She continues to scream. Her screaming turns to yelling. Her hands seems to get slowly smaller. She throws it up in the air every now and then waiting five seconds in between cleaning. Her braids are short, one inch for her scalp. She wears sandals. She is alone. I ask where her family is. She screams mamma. They continue to drain the swelling. It gets worse. I’m disturbed. I want to hold her other hand. The male nurse does form time to time. She is strong. She does not move her hand too far away from the nurse. She lets him drip out her pain. I’m sure her mother would be good for her. She continues to scream her name. I wonder why she is alone. They say she is here from the mountains. I ask about her mother. Her mother is dead.
I will never come to the hospital again. It is a community hospital run by doctors without borders. I have never seen babies in Haiti before, nobody brings them out. At the hospital I see woman with tiny babies all wrapped up. The line for seeing a doctor is at least 100 people. I wonder if their babies are dying. Many babies die here. The next time they take F to the hospital they say there was a lady who fell off her roof onto someone else’s and landed in glass. A piece of her arm tore off, she brought it in with her. I wonder what happens to the lady with the swollen hand as she leaves, she is still crying. G buys her a beer. She has come from the mountains. Her arm is bandaged. They pushed all the swelling out from her arm down to her hand. She holds it high about her head. The bandage turns red with blood. She leaves. I wonder how she will work to get food in such pain. Haiti has become all about wondering.
No more busted faces after F. We are in the back by the OR. G, one of the staff brings F and I. I see a lady, she has just sit on the bed. She starts screaming. She seems my age. Her hand is beyond swollen. The puncture a hole under her middle finger which started the swelling. The clean it, they push out the swelling. Blood leaks into a bucket below. She continues to scream. Her screaming turns to yelling. Her hands seems to get slowly smaller. She throws it up in the air every now and then waiting five seconds in between cleaning. Her braids are short, one inch for her scalp. She wears sandals. She is alone. I ask where her family is. She screams mamma. They continue to drain the swelling. It gets worse. I’m disturbed. I want to hold her other hand. The male nurse does form time to time. She is strong. She does not move her hand too far away from the nurse. She lets him drip out her pain. I’m sure her mother would be good for her. She continues to scream her name. I wonder why she is alone. They say she is here from the mountains. I ask about her mother. Her mother is dead.
I will never come to the hospital again. It is a community hospital run by doctors without borders. I have never seen babies in Haiti before, nobody brings them out. At the hospital I see woman with tiny babies all wrapped up. The line for seeing a doctor is at least 100 people. I wonder if their babies are dying. Many babies die here. The next time they take F to the hospital they say there was a lady who fell off her roof onto someone else’s and landed in glass. A piece of her arm tore off, she brought it in with her. I wonder what happens to the lady with the swollen hand as she leaves, she is still crying. G buys her a beer. She has come from the mountains. Her arm is bandaged. They pushed all the swelling out from her arm down to her hand. She holds it high about her head. The bandage turns red with blood. She leaves. I wonder how she will work to get food in such pain. Haiti has become all about wondering.
Summer camp
The first day of camp is today. I am off duty for morning teaching. I am relieved to stay away from the heat. The camp starts with songs on the deck by the pastor and his group from Atlanta and Denver. There are a handful of kids, maybe 125 the first day. They all have badges and tshirts. I wonder if they have ever done any such thing in their lives before. The camp is very American. I wonder if there is even a concept of camps in Haiti. The only camp style life I see is the literal camping one, my neighbors are campers. The little boy on the street lives in a tent with a few other people. The tent is as small as my toilet. He is always happy. He has become my friend, I see him everyday.
The rest of the week I spend like D, who lounges around half the day. I have started sleeping around the house like the house dog would. I sleep on the couch for a few hours in a day. Being on a morning off schedule has thrown me off. I get up from time to time from lounging, take pictures. Walk around, take more pictures. We help in the kitchen. The house is crazy. We are cooking for 200 people this week. I do not tutor any of the staff. I bond with the boys in different ways. I start working with D this week too. During afternoon class for the elder boys during the week, one of them, J, writes me a letter. I ask for a writing prompt, a letter to your headmaster/principal about why you do or don’t dislike school. He answers it multiple paragraphs. He hands it to me, I try to act normal, I edit it. I change a few of his sentences from I wish I was a good person to I am a good person. He continues to write, about his orphaned life and how he wishes he passed away too. God is my consolation he writes. An hour later I cry. I write a letter back to him. He is the same one that I thought would be one of my favorites. Most days he won’t communicate with me, when he does he asks about my life and the people in it. He asks why my smile is beautiful. I give the same answer, isn’t your smile so much more beautiful. Perhaps Haitian people don’t understand how their smile heals the same small internal wounds that have been made here.
The rest of the week I spend like D, who lounges around half the day. I have started sleeping around the house like the house dog would. I sleep on the couch for a few hours in a day. Being on a morning off schedule has thrown me off. I get up from time to time from lounging, take pictures. Walk around, take more pictures. We help in the kitchen. The house is crazy. We are cooking for 200 people this week. I do not tutor any of the staff. I bond with the boys in different ways. I start working with D this week too. During afternoon class for the elder boys during the week, one of them, J, writes me a letter. I ask for a writing prompt, a letter to your headmaster/principal about why you do or don’t dislike school. He answers it multiple paragraphs. He hands it to me, I try to act normal, I edit it. I change a few of his sentences from I wish I was a good person to I am a good person. He continues to write, about his orphaned life and how he wishes he passed away too. God is my consolation he writes. An hour later I cry. I write a letter back to him. He is the same one that I thought would be one of my favorites. Most days he won’t communicate with me, when he does he asks about my life and the people in it. He asks why my smile is beautiful. I give the same answer, isn’t your smile so much more beautiful. Perhaps Haitian people don’t understand how their smile heals the same small internal wounds that have been made here.