A Trip To The Gas Station

Most individuals would not consider a trip to the gas station exciting. In reality, normally, it isn’t that exciting. You drive up to the pump, get out of your car, pump the gas for a few minutes, pay the attendant at the counter, and drive away with a full tank of gas. That is the extent of it; nothing highly entertaining or really exciting about the process. In some states, you aren’t even privileged with the excitement of pumping your own gas; you just sit in your car during the procedure. Sometimes there is a little excitement when you forget to put the cap back on the gas tank and some kind individual jumps up and down waving at you like a freak, trying to get your attention to remind you that you forgot your gas cap. Or, the random time you are on a family trip and in a state where they pump gas for you but your dad doesn’t realize that and you end up watching your dad argue with the attendant that he is fully capable of pumping his own gas and the situation gets awkward so your family ends up leaving without any gas at all. That is entertaining, but not totally exciting. On the contrary, in Africa, everything is an adventure and exciting, even a trip to the gas station!

The Africa Mercy needed to get gas the other day. We filled up three months ago, but it was time to get gas again. So, how to you put gas in a ship that is the length of a football field? Last year in Liberia, a fuel tanker would dock next to us and we would load fuel for a number of hours. This year, we have to travel to the gas station. That means we set sail! Ahoy, mate! My first sail with the Africa Mercy! You are all aware of my fear of water and that I get seasick in hammocks, so how did I handle my first sail? I am proud to announce that I survived it and it went extremely well, partially because the gas station is within view of where we are currently docked and the sail to the gas station only took ten minutes. Our deck and engine room crew prepare for hours before we sail. It is sort of a pity because they have to do the same amount of preparatory work for a ten minute sail as they have to for our ten day sails. We pull up the gangway and no one is allowed to leave or board the ship for the duration of the fueling time. Having to move the ship to fuel also means we have to get creative with admitting and discharging of patients from the hospital. We do not want to lose any surgical time so sometimes we have to admit patients early because we may not be back to dock by the time they are supposed to be admitted. We do not operate when we are sailing, but the moment our fuel tank is full, we sail, and operations start as soon as we are “parked” at our normal dock. If you are a nurse in a hospital, imagine having the following conversation with one of your patients… “Umm, Mr. Smith, can you come to the hospital a day or two before your surgery because the hospital has to get gas. Or Miss White, you cannot go home right now because while you were sleeping the hospital moved and you aren’t allowed out the front door.” Oh, I love the uniqueness of working on a hospital ship.

Any guesses on how big the Africa Mercy gas tank is? I will help you out. We load about 700 tons of fuel when we visit the gas station. At the current cost of fuel that means we spend about $500,000 USD to fill our gas tank! You thought your gas bill was expensive. Anyone want to guess how long it takes to load 700 tons of fuel? Well, for those of you who struggle with patience while waiting for your 12 gallon gas tank to fill, don’t come here, it takes us about 12 hours to fill our gas tanks! Actually, it isn’t too bad because we only have to fill up every 3 months! Our trip to the gas station was successful, our fuel tank is full again and life goes on aboard the ship. If you are finding your daily routine boring and you are ready for a challenge and a change, come to Africa where even a trip to the gas station is an adventure!

A MISSIONARY KODAK MOMENT

Our land rover weaved its way through the city dogging motorcycles, wheelbarrows, push carts, and African mothers carrying an array of items on their heads and small children tied to their backs. We travelled through the busy city of Cotonou and after about 40 minutes of stop and go traffic, we left Cotonou city limits. We took a turn onto a dirt road and started driving out into the countryside/ bush. Buildings got farther apart, less modern, and more rustic. Goats roamed the streets and I saw potbelly pigs digging around in garbage piles on the side of the road. My body thrust back and forth and side to side as we bumped along the crater filled dirt road. My driver and friend from Guinea, laughed and turned toward me and said, “Welcome to the Massage Road!” I let out little squeals when we hit exceptionally big bumps and I caught air, leaving my seat for a number of seconds and then slamming back onto the seat to do it all over again in a matter of seconds. After 20 minutes more of travel and talking our way through the African toll road blockades (men in need of money who randomly pick a day and location to hold a rope across the road and make people pay to pass) we made it to the village of Hevie. Hevie is the location of Mercy Ships “food for life agricultural project” and construction site for this outreach. I had a day off from the ward and decided to use it volunteering at the construction site. My mission for the day: get off the ship, into the countryside with the local people, sweat, and get dirty! At the construction site I met the man who would tell me what projects to work on. He spoke some English but mostly he was great at charades so I could understand what I was really supposed to be doing. I was assigned the job of sanding the cement walls, sweeping them, and then starting the whitewashing process. I thoroughly enjoyed the idea of doing some manual labor. I jumped right into my work standing on the scaffolding to reach the high points of the building and sitting right in the dirt and cement dust to sand and paint the bottom edge of the building. I was minding my own business, smiling, and enjoying the entire experience when I looked up and noted almost all the men from the construction site where staring at me. They quickly looked away and acted as if they were working. Throughout the day all the men came around to where I was working, they would say, “good work” in French and smile at me. They were very friendly, but I am afraid they may have gotten more work done if I wasn’t there. At one point in the day, some of the men came over to me and pointed at all the dirt on my pants. In my French I told them, “it’s okay, no problem!” They didn’t seem to agree; they were so confused why I was okay with getting dirty. So, to stress the point, I put down my putty knife and moved from sitting in the dirt to lying in the dirt. Then I repeated, “it’s okay, no problem.” All of them just smiled, laughed, and walked away. I don’t know if my action was culturally appropriate, but my knees where covered, which is a big deal, while I did it, so as far as I know, I committed no offense.

Lunch time came and we all gathered under a tree and were served and African meal. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to avoid eating the meal. It isn’t kind to refuse a meal when it is offered, but my stomach really struggles with fish and the amount of peppers in the food here is enough to chemically burn my taste buds off. All I wanted was to eat my peanut butter sandwich and drink a gallon of water, but at that moment I realized my friend the driver/my translator and foreman on the site had gone into town for supplies and took my food and water with him! Shoot, I didn’t even have the excuse that I brought my own food. The dreaded moment came… I was offered a plate of food….. I prayed, “Dear Lord, I don’t want to offend these people, but I cannot eat it…” I smiled and said my friend’s name over and over and performed a mime explaining that all the other workers should eat first and I could wait because I had food with my friend. I guess my one act play was enough for them to decide I didn’t want the food because the woman serving food handed my plate to someone else. Relief swept over my body, but I was still parched. I needed water, but felt slightly awkward asking for water especially since I had just refused food. I had learned the word for water, so I said it over and over, while repeating my friend’s name with it. I didn’t want just any water; I wanted my friend’s water, water from the ship, not local water that had a high chance of making me sick. Spoiled white girls are so picky! Again, with my incredible acting skills, I was able to get a jug of water. I sat in the corner under the tree drinking the water like a camel in a desert. Everyone continued to

stare at me, but I just smiled and kept drinking. My friend finally returned with my water and sandwich. It tasted amazing. I also had him explain to the cook that I was grateful for her hospitality, but if I ate the food my mouth would be on fire and I would cry. She laughed and smiled at me… Praise God, a friendship remained!

We went back to work. The layers of dirt continued to pile on my skin and I took pure enjoyment in my dirtiness, loving being with the local people and helping them with their construction project. From the top of the scaffolding I noted a number of beautiful women, carrying water on their heads, emerging from behind the corn fields and lush vegetation. I thought the women were bringing water for the men to wash their hands with and drink. I thought nothing of their action and went back to my painting, but about 20 minutes later I saw the women again and again 20 minutes later. I then realized that the women were carrying the water that we were using to mix our cement. Incredible!

It was time to finish for the day and my friend convinced me to stop working. He said we would head back to the ship after he quickly met with some of the workers. I asked him if it would be okay if I went to look for where the women were getting their water from while he had his meeting. With permission, I wandered down a little path that weaved between corn stalks and thick, green foliage. The trail twisted and turned and split off into a number of directions toward little huts with thatched roofs. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going, but I knew it couldn’t be far. The corn stalks that I was weaving my way through were taller than my head and the plant life growing over the path was scratching my legs. Finally, I saw the corner of a brightly colored dress and with it the women I was in search of drawing water from a well. I approached the women cautiously and smiled saying, “Bonjour,” with a terrible French accent. I stood by quietly watching them draw water out of the 40 foot deep well. These women were incredibly strong; I had no doubt why they were so fit. I motioned to them my desire to help. They let me take my turn pulling the rope and water satchel up. I lugged container after container of water out of the well. The women tried to take the rope from me, but I refused. My hands stung and burned, I was sweating, but still attempting to smile. One of the women pointed to my hands and I believe she was asking if they felt bad. I acted as if I wasn’t bothered at all by the painful process. I just kept thinking I could never be as amazing and strong as an African woman. I would die of thirst after one day out in the bush. I have so much respect for the African women! When my hands felt like they were on fire, I stepped back from the well and left the job to my new friends.

I was still standing at the well when I heard singing in the distance. I looked down the path and saw a troop of four African women marching along amidst the green undergrowth. It was a missionary Kodak moment. Four beautiful women walking, singing, swinging machetes, two with beautiful children tied to their backs, the rest carrying plastic bags. The women stopped when they saw me and I greeted them. I immediately fell in love with their babies and contemplated how I could develop a fast friendship without being able to communicate. I really wanted to hold one of the babies. I went to one of the little babies and covered his cheeks with kisses and he giggled. The women were obviously on a mission, so they went about their business, but I followed them. I racked my brain for all my French vocabulary and I figured out the women were in search of plants for medicine. In the next few minutes we became friends and I got to hold a brown sugar baby. He is seriously one of the cutest I have met during my time in Africa. I have photos to prove it. I had already contemplated returning to the construction site on my next day off, but in that moment I decided I would definitely return and I would deliver copies of photos to my new friends. In French, we determined we would meet in two days at 4:00pm by the well. I smothered my baby friend with kisses, said good-bye, and wandered back through the bush to the well.

I thought I could lug up a few more loads of water to help my “well friends,” but I was wrong. I was half-way through pulling another load up when the skin on my fingers ripped off. It stung and burned; yikes! My new friends saw my pain and wanted to ease it, so they pushed on the open skin and squeezed it. Oh, my goodness; that did not help! I just stepped to the side and nursed my finger while attempting not to act like a sissy! I realized I had been gone for quite some time and that the ladies were getting ready to take their last loads of water back to the construction site, so I followed them. But I got a brilliant idea. I would walk with the ladies, but with an empty bucket on my head. There was no chance I could physically carry a full bucket. I could barely lift a full bucket off the ground, let alone carry it on my head. I put an empty bucket on my head and started to walk carefully and cautiously as if I had a full bucket on my head. I made my way back through the corn field and toward the construction site. A few of the construction men spotted me; they all grinned with huge smiles, obviously pleased with my attempt to carry water on my head. When I got closer and had a full audience, I carefully leaned over and took the bucket off my head and then showed them all that it was empty. Laughter erupted throughout the construction site. When the laughter died down, my friend told me it was time to go. I waved good-bye to all my new pals, climbed into the Mercy Ships land rover and smiled as my body thrust back and forth and side to side as we bumped along the crater filled dirt road. What a great day!

Beautiful...Pretty....Miracle Baby

The African mama walked down the hallway holding a tiny bundle of beautiful, vibrant colored, fabric in her hands. Although the bundle was small, I knew a precious coffee colored baby lay beneath the layers of fabric. I walked toward the pair with a smile on my face. I stopped and greeted the mama with my broken French. I pointed toward the baby in her arms. She slowly pulled aside the fabric blanket, with a cautious spirit, so I could see half of the infant’s face. The baby was tiny, but absolutely beautiful. I leaned over and gently kissed the babe on the forehead. In my pathetic French I said, “Beautiful, pretty” and pointed toward the child. I know the mother understood me, but with forlorn eyes she shook her head disagreeing with my statement. The mother adjusted the baby’s blanket and I caught a glimpse of the left side of the baby’s face. There was a huge, lumpy, nodular, mass protruding from the side of the infant’s face. The mass was almost bigger than the baby’s entire head. Without changing my facial expression, I leaned over, kissed the baby once more, smiled at the mother, and let the pair continue down the hallway. We found out her name was Maomi, she was three months old and weighed a mere five and a half pounds. She was incredibly malnourished and hanging onto life with everything in her. She was a fighter! All we wanted was to fight with her and for her, but reality screamed that she was so malnourished and small that she may never survive an operation. But if we didn’t operate, Maomi would surely die. Mercy Ships prides itself in bringing hope and healing to the forgotten poor, but what do we do for this baby? If death steals Maomi’s life away on the operating table… what then??? When death occurs, it doesn’t alter the fact that God is still on His throne, but it sure is hard to handle… We wished for nothing more than health and a full life for Maomi, but what do we do as mere humans???? Maomi’s tumor was so big and she was so tiny. We weren’t certain, but it appeared the tumor was wrapped around Maomi’s jaw bone and intertwined with her carotid artery; the largest artery in the body. If we opened the tumor, but cut the carotid artery Maomi would quickly bleed to death. What to do??? Maomi needed a miracle. We prayed and asked God for wisdom and if we were to be part of Maomi’s miracle… The decision was made to operate. We asked God for his grace and guidance to be upon Maomi’s life. The surgery was long and stressful, but Maomi pulled through. Through God’s miraculous strength, our incredibly skilled surgeons were able to separate and remove the tumor from around the carotid artery and jaw bone. Maomi spent a number of days in the ICU, but finally made her way to the ward. She struggled learning how to suck again and wasn’t getting enough nutrition or gaining enough weight, so we put a feeding tube in her stomach. Finally, our prayers were answered and baby Maomi started gaining weight. Her previously gaunt looking little cheeks were getting cute and plump. She learned how to take a bottle and the feeding tube wasn’t needed anymore! After a few months it was determined Maomi was strong enough to go home. There is a chance Maomi’s tumor can come back, but we pray against that. Ever few days I see Maomi and her mama returning to the ship for Maomi's weight checks. Maomi appears to be doing well. She really is a fighter! Maomi’s mother no longer hides her beneath layers of fabric. When I greet the duo in the hallway, Mama hugs me and puts her precious daughter into my hands so I can kiss her cute little cheeks. I marvel at the miracle that has happened in Maomi’s life. There is so much I want to say to Maomi’s mother but all I say is, “beautiful, pretty” as I kiss Maomi’s forehead and this time when I look up at Maomi’s mother, she is smiling!

A Walking Blood Bank

The sirens were screaming and wailing as the ambulance screeched to a halt at the emergency room doors. A team of doctors and nurses greeted the paramedics and quickly wheeled the injured patient inside the hospital. The paramedics shouted, “We have an unconscious male, mid-thirties, high-speed MVA, ETOH involved, current BP 60/32, pulse 140, resps 42, 02 Sat 99% on 100% non-rebreather, Temp 36. Right AC line in, fluids wide open! Known injuries sustained to abdomen, right arm, and bilateral lower extremities. Internal bleeding suspected, query spleen laceration.” Without delay, one of the ER doctors said, “Get routine labs, we will need an X-Ray & CT Scan, and call the blood bank! This patient needs blood STAT!” Blood transfusions are a common need after traumatic accidents and injuries. In the United States and Western World, most of our hospitals are fully equipped with blood banks and those of us blessed to live there do not have to worry about blood being available if we ever need a blood transfusion. But, what do you do when your hospital is a floating ship in Africa? The hospital on board the Africa Mercy is absolutely amazing and has an incredible laboratory, but the equipment needed to store blood and run a blood bank is extremely expensive and complex and we do not have the luxury or capability to house such equipment in our small lab. Most of the patients we operate on do not require blood transfusions because their cases do not usually result in extreme blood loss and we take all precautions necessary to avoid the need for transfusions. With that being said, there are still the emergency surgical situations when it is a matter of live and death; one of our patients needs a blood transfusion. What then? Do we call the Red Cross or the local clinics and hospitals for blood? Nope, that is not an option. Conveniently and providentially, many of the crew on this ship are willing to give their all for the patients here and for them to know that God loves them. We have a “walking blood bank” of about 350 crew members! We are the blood bank! God has given many of us many talents and gifts and one of those gifts is health. So, here in Africa, on the ship, we have an option to share our health with our patients and give them our blood. As soon as I came to the ship I signed up to be a blood donor. Up to this point, my blood has not been needed, but just this past week I was sitting in my cabin and got a phone call from the hospital lab; they needed to match my blood type for a patient having surgery. I gladly rushed to the lab for them to perform the proper tests to see if my blood was compatible with our patient anticipating surgery. It was a match, praise God, because out of our “walking blood bank” only two of us had the blood type that this patient needed. If the surgery we are going to perform has the possibility of resulting in a huge blood loss, we match blood types before the operation to guarantee there will be blood available if needed. If no donors are available, sadly, surgery is postponed or cancelled. The same day that my blood was typed and crossed, I worked a night shift. I was reviewing charts in the middle of the night and looking at my patient’s lab work. I was making sure everything was in order for the operations scheduled the next day and there it was in my hands… The lab work in my very hands reported the patient’s blood had successfully been cross matched to a donor with AB+ blood… I paused… I was my patient’s blood donor match! What an awe inspiring, intense moment; I may have the chance to give my own patient, my blood… It is hard to describe all the emotions I felt in that moment. One thing I do know is I have AB+ blood and my very life belongs to God and in His name, I offer all I have.