Stronger than I can ever hope to be...

I sat on a tattered plastic chair in a small circle with three African ladies. My translator sat to my right. To my left was a second translator and across from me was a timid patient. I looked directly at my patient hoping somehow she would feel or sense how much I cared about her and the struggles that had brought her to me. I told her my name and that I was a nurse from the ship. I explained that I had plenty of questions to ask, but that she should feel free to tell me the truth because that is how I could best determine if we could help her. I wanted to stress that my patient’s painful story was safe with me and that my patient didn’t have to feel pressured to answer my questions a certain way. I wanted to help and my help wasn’t dependent on the “right” answers from our talk. I could almost ask all the questions I had without looking at the questionnaire because I had already conducted at least 14 of the same conversations in the two days prior to this conversation. I resisted the urge to hurry through the questions. The time I would spend with each patient was more important than getting my three page health history form filled out. As I listened to each women tell me her story with tears running down her face, I tried to push away the knowledge that ran around in the back of my head; we only had space for 20 VVF patients in the next surgical block. The reality of the situation weighed heavily on my heart. I would talk to and befriend more women than we could surgically treat. I prayed that my heart would seep compassion. I knew my time and listening ear was one of the greatest gifts I could offer many of the women before me, so I took care to stay attentive to each woman and the details she told me. None of the women I spoke to had to share their stories with me. I was a privileged guest to the information they were sharing. I couldn’t comprehend the pain and horror many of these women had experienced. Labor lasting 8 days, no medical help in delivering their children, no money or hospital to drive to. If money was available to get to a hospital and if a c-section was performed, their child had often already died in the obstructive labor process. Then these women would have constant leaking of urine because of the internal tissue death that occurred while the baby was stuck inside their womb. And as if the pain of losing a child, their bladder function, and self-esteem, wasn’t enough, many of the women had also been abandoned by their husbands. I looked at the young woman across from me; she couldn’t have been more than 20. Although it sounded dumb and insignificant, I told my patient I was so sorry for the pain she had gone through. I looked directly at my patient and put my hand gently on her leg. I listened as my translator spoke a combination of Yoruba and French to the translator to my left, then that translator spoke Biri to my patient. The message reached my patient and with a solemn face she gently bowed her head in my direction, acknowledging my comment. I smiled and squeezed her hand. Our conversation went on for about an hour. I asked question after question of my patient. Our friendship building as I acknowledged each of her responses and showed I truly cared about her struggles. I finished the conversation the same way I had finished all the previous conversations. I thanked my patient for her time and told her, I could not promise her a surgery, but that the doctor would see her. I tried to gently explain that the doctor would only be on the ship for 2 weeks, so surgical space was limited. I don’t know if the young girl across from me even comprehended what I said. She just smiled at me. In that moment, I asked if it would be okay if I prayed. She readily agreed. I then wrapped my pale white hand around the dark skinned hand in front of me. We closed our eyes and asked God to let his will prevail in this situation. As I sit here on my bed, I can picture all of the women I have talked with this past week. Their stories are etched on my heart. In my memory, I can see their worn hands and tear streaked faces. I am honored to know them. I have been blessed to spend time with them. They are stronger than I can ever hope to be. I pray that somehow I will have some of their strength tomorrow as the day promises to be intense. Tomorrow the doctor will select his surgical candidates. Twenty of my new friends will rejoice tomorrow, many more will grieve. I am going to bed now trusting God to give me the strength I will need to rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn.