Wednesday, January 20, 2010: “Jimani to Port au Prince to Fond Parisienne”
We removed our bags from the bus. Kimball had made plans for us to stay at Christ pour tous clinic in Fond Parisienne, which she and Elizabeth had worked at once before with Maryann Dus. We all knew and loved Maryann, who died last year of lung cancer, and spoke of her frequently during this trip.
We ran into Shannon Mulholland, who was with her team, and met Stephanie Weber, who works for American Refugee Committee out of their DC office.
We also met Judy Foster and her sister Joyce, who had come to Jimani with patients from Judy’s project in Southern Haiti. They were nurses and were pitching in full-force. Judy asked if we could help transport patients from the Port au Prince back to Good Samaritan. The Belgians were wrapping up their field hospital on Delmas 33, at the National Laboratory, and had pre- and post-op patients who had to be transferred. When she discovered I could drive stick and had driven in Haiti before, an evil smile came across her face. I was now the driver of one of the four trucks: a Daihatsu flat-bed. Judy agreed to drop us off at Christ pour tous before crossing the border back to Jimani.
The drive into Delmas 33 was uneventful if you consider that the Daihatsu had nothing left to its clutch and the miserable conditions of the road along Mal Passe enlivened the churning and pain I had begun to experience as a result of the saucy pork dish I had eaten the night before at the Dominican rest stop.
After Croix-de-Bouquets, the damage from the earthquake became increasingly evident. By the time we reached Delmas 33, the smell of decomposing bodies was in the air. Unless you know the smell, it’s impossible to describe. I knew it because of my visits with terminal patients whose bodies have already begun to turn. In the open air, it’s not constant. It’s like a perfume that drifts across the nostrils in the breeze. Awkwardly and sadly, Elizabeth and I took turns identifying the wafts of death entering the cab of the truck. Kimball sat silent.
It was most pungent at the top of the hill, where the police station had once stood. Certainly many people had died there, and dozens of workers searched the rubble with the assistance of a small backhoe.
The drive in took two and a half hours. Just as we arrived at the gate to the hospital, the truck died in dramatic fashion. The fuel filter was shot, and this would add several hours to our time there. A quasi-mechanic went off in search of a new filter. We went to work. I assisted a young doc named Lisa as she triaged patients. A young woman who was pregnant had legs that were bursting with fluids. She was first in. There was a fetal heartbeat. A middle-aged man had maggots crawling in what was left of his leg. He was next. A patient crying out to die from a massive, indescribable wound was given ketamine, and the debridement commenced.
I went around to the next tent to help with what I thought was a commotion of some sort. It was a team of journalists filming an amputation. I realized the docs were using a hacksaw to slowly cut through the tibia and fibula. I spotted Kimball and waved her over. I didn’t take many clinical pictures during the trip, but I did photograph this. I didn’t think anyone would ever believe me.
Polene and Robinson, Despagne’s wife and eldest child, walked from their home at Delmas 60 to meet Kimball. It was good to see them again, in spite of the horror that had befallen the country.
The sun was blistering. I was starting to get dehydrated. And, I was thankful both for the toilets in the lab and the lack of cracks in the building. I was even more grateful for the cute Belgian nurse who gave me a dozen or so packets of rehydrating salts to take with me. Over the course of the next few days, those rehydrating salts saved me from being really, really ill.
We finally left at three o’clock, hoping to arrive at Christ pour tous in time for dinner. The traffic had other plans for us. And, with the results of last night’s spicy pork, I thought I would die. We sat in Tabarre for hours. By the time we arrived in Fond Parisienne, almost seven hours had passed. It was very dark and chaotic. Stephanie and Maria and her family were there waiting for us. I don’t remember if I saw them that night or not. I don’t even remember going to bed.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010: "Midnight to 0600"
Wednesday, January 20, 2010: “Midnight to 0600”
Our midnight arrival and work at Jimani was chaotic and immediate. The Puerto Rican team went to work immediately cleaning and doing their best to sterilize the surgical and procedure rooms. Blood and feces and medical waste blanketed the tile floor. Toilets were overflowing in to the foyer. The hospital was averaging 60-80 operations a day, mostly amputations; a pace that would continue for the balance of January. Indeed, from January 13th through January 20th, 537 operations took place at Good Samaritan. Mostly amputations…
For those who survived the earthquake, the injuries were garish and gruesome. Only the twisted minds of Hollywood could conjure such a scene. And the ensuing infections were even more catastrophic. By the end of this day, I could identify sepsis by sight when the “daytime docs” thought patients were just over-reacting.
The patients arrived at the hospital by the grace of God alone—by helicopter; Tap-Tap and motorcycle; by make-shift ambulances of every conceivable design; and, some it seems dragged themselves inch by unbearable inch along the still trembling ground.
Initially, the staffing was chaotic and top-heavy in favor of surgical teams, especially in the first day or two of the arrival of the Puerto Rican team. This meant that operations took place with no consideration of post-op care. Patients were cut and sent out into the unknown. Immeasurable credit is due to those nurses who were on the ground at Good Samaritan in those early days, especially. Their stamina was heroic. And, I love them for it.
When I arrived at Jimani, there was no oxygen, which meant that anesthesia machines could not be used. Patients were given ketamine, among other drugs, and medicine for pain. And, then the cutting and sawing began. Already suffering from tremendous blood loss, they lost more blood on the table; and there was no way to tranfuse.
Post-op conditions were horrendous. Few of the nurses were oriented to Recovery and Med-Surg care. Even fewer were accustomed to nursing “by the seat of your scrubs,” as Sharon Thomas calls it. And, no one could have been prepared for this—me especially. This wasn’t your average Communion visit to “the Reg.” This wasn’t a television medical drama. And, it sure as Hell wasn’t a weekday afternoon hanging out at the 2nd-North nurses’ station waiting for my Mom to finish her shift.
Within an hour of my arrival at Jimani, the last dose of morphine had been administered, even though a sea of patients required it. Imagine the scene: no oxygen, no blood, little to no IV fluids, and no morphine—and, hundreds of post-op patients with one or more amputations and massive infections, recovering everywhere…and anywhere.
I started translating and ministering to patients immediately. It was a scene I never could have imagined.
Within an hour and a half of arriving, I was helping Sharon Thomas fill out the tag on a body bag.
All we knew of Venette was that her entire family had died in the earthquake. She was alone in this world, and incredibly ill. Her left leg had been amputated. She had lost untold amounts of blood when she was injured and again during surgery. The amputation took place two days after she arrived at Jimani, and a week after the earthquake. For two days after she was triaged, she had laid in the hallway waiting for help. There were just too many patients. She was now septic, and dying.
I stood on the right side of Venette’s bed and held her hands as she frantically reached out for life, clawing at my gloves. I worried she would tear through them and tried to keep her fingernails away from the thin latex. She could no longer speak, but knew she was slipping away. Her eyes communicated everything she wanted to say. Her IV would not stay in and its fluids emptied all over the bed. She bled from the site and Dr. Mana tried in vain to reinsert the line. Cindy Siegel did her best to help Venette fight a critical temperature, but it was in vain: her fever broke and she quickly began losing her body temperature.
I spoke to Venette in kreyol. At first, I tried to reassure her, and then to console her. It was a sad, pathetic scene. She never would have died this way in the States. Dr. Mana seemed frantic and refused to accept that Venette would die. I looked across the bed at this ER doc who was accustomed to having so many life-saving tools at her disposal and told her it was okay: she had done everything she could do. Tears filled her eyes.
Venette remained conscious almost to the very end. Sharon Thomas confirmed a systole. The body took one last unfortunate gasp despite the absence of a heartbeat. And Venette, whose life’s story was never known to us but whose death we will not forget, was gone. I tried to close her eyes, said a silent prayer and made the Sign of the Cross on her forehead. It was 1:30a.m. I had been there 90 minutes.
The other patients, who were horrified by the scene and saddened by yet another intolerable loss of life, began to weep. A husband—whose young wife’s fate was in question—ran out of the room. Kimball consoled him across the hall in a room which would be full of patients by day’s light.
I can’t remember who helped me place her in the body bag, once one had been located; maybe the tall nurse called “pH.” It didn’t seem sad or surreal, just necessary. Since I was on the side with zipper, I closed the bag.
Sharon Thomas filled out the tag on the body bag. I suggested she write “Inconnue” on the tag, which is French for “unknown.” As I write this, it dawns on me that we didn’t know her name until that point. From the corner of the room, the shocked husband who had returned to the side of his dying wife spoke up: “Venette. Her name is Venette.” In the course of a week, Haitian families had been dramatically realigned, and new friendships formed. Venette had found support in these strangers. Millions of Haitians would do the same at tent cities and hospitals and refugee camps, throughout the country.
Sharon wrote “Venette” above “inconnue”, the time of death and the date, careful to follow the French order of writing the day first, month second.
Dr. Mana was in the hallway, overcome by all that had happened. I embraced her and told her again that she had given Venette the dignity she deserved, and had done all she could have medically given the circumstances. We spoke for a few minutes. She thanked me and moved on to the next patient.
It was some time before enough hands were free to remove Venette from the room; several hours in fact. Four or five of us carried the body bag from the room, through the halls and out to the side of the building where the simple, lightweight coffins were stacked. We placed her in the coffin. Her right leg had settled outside the coffin. I looked up and the others had walked away. I placed her leg inside the coffin, tucked the body bag in around her and placed the lid on. I made sure some of the body bag was showing so that others would recognize this coffin was different from the others.
I was told later that morning that Venette would be “cremated” in the day’s burning of trash and medical waste, which included the dozens of amputated limbs; because the Dominicans weren’t offering burial services. I don’t know if this was true of the Dominicans. Diplomatic crisis aside, they never seemed unkind. I suppose this anonymous cremation was necessary and maybe preferable to what was taking place in the mass graves along Route 1 in Titanyen.
The rest of those early morning hours were a blur. The Puerto Rican team was pounding out surgeries, and we were left to deal with the chaos. Doctors and nurses needed information from patients. Patients had questions for doctors. I told parents their children would lose limbs. I told a wife her husband was dying on the operating table a few feet away on the other side of the door. Critically patients were everywhere, and required care. That was all that mattered.
Kimball and I went back to the bus at six o’clock or so to sleep for a bit. Within a half hour, the bus shook with the return of the PR team. It was the smell that woke me: Haitian bleach, body fluids and death—the smells that would define this trip to Haiti.
Our midnight arrival and work at Jimani was chaotic and immediate. The Puerto Rican team went to work immediately cleaning and doing their best to sterilize the surgical and procedure rooms. Blood and feces and medical waste blanketed the tile floor. Toilets were overflowing in to the foyer. The hospital was averaging 60-80 operations a day, mostly amputations; a pace that would continue for the balance of January. Indeed, from January 13th through January 20th, 537 operations took place at Good Samaritan. Mostly amputations…
For those who survived the earthquake, the injuries were garish and gruesome. Only the twisted minds of Hollywood could conjure such a scene. And the ensuing infections were even more catastrophic. By the end of this day, I could identify sepsis by sight when the “daytime docs” thought patients were just over-reacting.
The patients arrived at the hospital by the grace of God alone—by helicopter; Tap-Tap and motorcycle; by make-shift ambulances of every conceivable design; and, some it seems dragged themselves inch by unbearable inch along the still trembling ground.
Initially, the staffing was chaotic and top-heavy in favor of surgical teams, especially in the first day or two of the arrival of the Puerto Rican team. This meant that operations took place with no consideration of post-op care. Patients were cut and sent out into the unknown. Immeasurable credit is due to those nurses who were on the ground at Good Samaritan in those early days, especially. Their stamina was heroic. And, I love them for it.
When I arrived at Jimani, there was no oxygen, which meant that anesthesia machines could not be used. Patients were given ketamine, among other drugs, and medicine for pain. And, then the cutting and sawing began. Already suffering from tremendous blood loss, they lost more blood on the table; and there was no way to tranfuse.
Post-op conditions were horrendous. Few of the nurses were oriented to Recovery and Med-Surg care. Even fewer were accustomed to nursing “by the seat of your scrubs,” as Sharon Thomas calls it. And, no one could have been prepared for this—me especially. This wasn’t your average Communion visit to “the Reg.” This wasn’t a television medical drama. And, it sure as Hell wasn’t a weekday afternoon hanging out at the 2nd-North nurses’ station waiting for my Mom to finish her shift.
Within an hour of my arrival at Jimani, the last dose of morphine had been administered, even though a sea of patients required it. Imagine the scene: no oxygen, no blood, little to no IV fluids, and no morphine—and, hundreds of post-op patients with one or more amputations and massive infections, recovering everywhere…and anywhere.
I started translating and ministering to patients immediately. It was a scene I never could have imagined.
Within an hour and a half of arriving, I was helping Sharon Thomas fill out the tag on a body bag.
All we knew of Venette was that her entire family had died in the earthquake. She was alone in this world, and incredibly ill. Her left leg had been amputated. She had lost untold amounts of blood when she was injured and again during surgery. The amputation took place two days after she arrived at Jimani, and a week after the earthquake. For two days after she was triaged, she had laid in the hallway waiting for help. There were just too many patients. She was now septic, and dying.
I stood on the right side of Venette’s bed and held her hands as she frantically reached out for life, clawing at my gloves. I worried she would tear through them and tried to keep her fingernails away from the thin latex. She could no longer speak, but knew she was slipping away. Her eyes communicated everything she wanted to say. Her IV would not stay in and its fluids emptied all over the bed. She bled from the site and Dr. Mana tried in vain to reinsert the line. Cindy Siegel did her best to help Venette fight a critical temperature, but it was in vain: her fever broke and she quickly began losing her body temperature.
I spoke to Venette in kreyol. At first, I tried to reassure her, and then to console her. It was a sad, pathetic scene. She never would have died this way in the States. Dr. Mana seemed frantic and refused to accept that Venette would die. I looked across the bed at this ER doc who was accustomed to having so many life-saving tools at her disposal and told her it was okay: she had done everything she could do. Tears filled her eyes.
Venette remained conscious almost to the very end. Sharon Thomas confirmed a systole. The body took one last unfortunate gasp despite the absence of a heartbeat. And Venette, whose life’s story was never known to us but whose death we will not forget, was gone. I tried to close her eyes, said a silent prayer and made the Sign of the Cross on her forehead. It was 1:30a.m. I had been there 90 minutes.
The other patients, who were horrified by the scene and saddened by yet another intolerable loss of life, began to weep. A husband—whose young wife’s fate was in question—ran out of the room. Kimball consoled him across the hall in a room which would be full of patients by day’s light.
I can’t remember who helped me place her in the body bag, once one had been located; maybe the tall nurse called “pH.” It didn’t seem sad or surreal, just necessary. Since I was on the side with zipper, I closed the bag.
Sharon Thomas filled out the tag on the body bag. I suggested she write “Inconnue” on the tag, which is French for “unknown.” As I write this, it dawns on me that we didn’t know her name until that point. From the corner of the room, the shocked husband who had returned to the side of his dying wife spoke up: “Venette. Her name is Venette.” In the course of a week, Haitian families had been dramatically realigned, and new friendships formed. Venette had found support in these strangers. Millions of Haitians would do the same at tent cities and hospitals and refugee camps, throughout the country.
Sharon wrote “Venette” above “inconnue”, the time of death and the date, careful to follow the French order of writing the day first, month second.
Dr. Mana was in the hallway, overcome by all that had happened. I embraced her and told her again that she had given Venette the dignity she deserved, and had done all she could have medically given the circumstances. We spoke for a few minutes. She thanked me and moved on to the next patient.
It was some time before enough hands were free to remove Venette from the room; several hours in fact. Four or five of us carried the body bag from the room, through the halls and out to the side of the building where the simple, lightweight coffins were stacked. We placed her in the coffin. Her right leg had settled outside the coffin. I looked up and the others had walked away. I placed her leg inside the coffin, tucked the body bag in around her and placed the lid on. I made sure some of the body bag was showing so that others would recognize this coffin was different from the others.
I was told later that morning that Venette would be “cremated” in the day’s burning of trash and medical waste, which included the dozens of amputated limbs; because the Dominicans weren’t offering burial services. I don’t know if this was true of the Dominicans. Diplomatic crisis aside, they never seemed unkind. I suppose this anonymous cremation was necessary and maybe preferable to what was taking place in the mass graves along Route 1 in Titanyen.
The rest of those early morning hours were a blur. The Puerto Rican team was pounding out surgeries, and we were left to deal with the chaos. Doctors and nurses needed information from patients. Patients had questions for doctors. I told parents their children would lose limbs. I told a wife her husband was dying on the operating table a few feet away on the other side of the door. Critically patients were everywhere, and required care. That was all that mattered.
Kimball and I went back to the bus at six o’clock or so to sleep for a bit. Within a half hour, the bus shook with the return of the PR team. It was the smell that woke me: Haitian bleach, body fluids and death—the smells that would define this trip to Haiti.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010: SDQ to Good Samaritan Hospital in Jimani
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
After a delicious breakfast at the Mercure (which included incredible fruit and fruit-juices; and some of the finest bacon in the history of man’s fascination with pork), we hired a taxi and purchased supplies at the nearby markets. It was at the same time a nickel tour of the fascinating history and buildings in Santo Domingo. I would definitely like to spend a few days there on a subsequent trip to see and learn more. The markets were not unlike those in Port au Prince and other Haitian cities. We visited a half-dozen or so to purchase everything we thought we might need.
We made our way back to the airport to link up with the rest of the immediate team: Sharon Craig, from California, and Cindy Seigel, from Naragansett, Rhode Island; both nurse mid-wives. Through friends of Cindy, we were afforded transportation on luxury coaches arranged by a Dominican non-profit, Sur futuro. The idea of traveling to Haiti on a luxury coach was foreign and a significant irony, but after fourteen years I’ve learned not to question reliable transportation when traveling to and in Haiti. And the fact that the five-hour drive took closer to nine-hours made the odd reality of the comfortable seat all the more welcome!
At the airport, “Stacie Novitsky” introduced herself to us. In hindsight, her story seemed all the more implausible: a photojournalist who missed her UN flight as an embedded reporter for Polaris, who was now sought to link up with friends in the NYFD Search & Rescue Team already in Port, etc. Regardless, we welcomed her, offered her transportation; and, I offered her my belt and $100 since she was short on cash and forgot the belt on which should have hung her expensive cameras, etc. I felt sorry for this mother of three who was struggling to succeed in her vocation. Upon arriving in Jimani, Stacy hooked up with the Puerto Rican S&R Team, who deposited her in Port. She friended us all on Facebook, un-friended us a few days after we returned to the States; and, was never heard from again. While I was sick in bed recovering from the trip, I googled her and discovered her real name is Stacy Librandi, and while she is a capable photographer, she is a con-artist who has been run out of the wedding industry in New York City! Oh, well…we did the right thing at the time.
We traveled on the first of four coaches, each of which was protected by a heavily armed Dominican Marine; all of which were escorted by armed Marine vehicles. The balance of ours and one other was comprised of a 90-member surgical team from Puerto Rico. The trip was uneventful, but long—due to the extraordinary number of vehicles making their way to Haiti. We stopped at the Dominican equivalent of a Thruway rest-stop and ate some delicious Dominican fare. (Sadly, Elizabeth and I blame a shared dish of saucy pork on a bout of traveler’s diarrhea which hit us the next day!)
We continued on our way, and arrived at Good Samaritan hospital in Jimani at midnight.
After a delicious breakfast at the Mercure (which included incredible fruit and fruit-juices; and some of the finest bacon in the history of man’s fascination with pork), we hired a taxi and purchased supplies at the nearby markets. It was at the same time a nickel tour of the fascinating history and buildings in Santo Domingo. I would definitely like to spend a few days there on a subsequent trip to see and learn more. The markets were not unlike those in Port au Prince and other Haitian cities. We visited a half-dozen or so to purchase everything we thought we might need.
We made our way back to the airport to link up with the rest of the immediate team: Sharon Craig, from California, and Cindy Seigel, from Naragansett, Rhode Island; both nurse mid-wives. Through friends of Cindy, we were afforded transportation on luxury coaches arranged by a Dominican non-profit, Sur futuro. The idea of traveling to Haiti on a luxury coach was foreign and a significant irony, but after fourteen years I’ve learned not to question reliable transportation when traveling to and in Haiti. And the fact that the five-hour drive took closer to nine-hours made the odd reality of the comfortable seat all the more welcome!
At the airport, “Stacie Novitsky” introduced herself to us. In hindsight, her story seemed all the more implausible: a photojournalist who missed her UN flight as an embedded reporter for Polaris, who was now sought to link up with friends in the NYFD Search & Rescue Team already in Port, etc. Regardless, we welcomed her, offered her transportation; and, I offered her my belt and $100 since she was short on cash and forgot the belt on which should have hung her expensive cameras, etc. I felt sorry for this mother of three who was struggling to succeed in her vocation. Upon arriving in Jimani, Stacy hooked up with the Puerto Rican S&R Team, who deposited her in Port. She friended us all on Facebook, un-friended us a few days after we returned to the States; and, was never heard from again. While I was sick in bed recovering from the trip, I googled her and discovered her real name is Stacy Librandi, and while she is a capable photographer, she is a con-artist who has been run out of the wedding industry in New York City! Oh, well…we did the right thing at the time.
We traveled on the first of four coaches, each of which was protected by a heavily armed Dominican Marine; all of which were escorted by armed Marine vehicles. The balance of ours and one other was comprised of a 90-member surgical team from Puerto Rico. The trip was uneventful, but long—due to the extraordinary number of vehicles making their way to Haiti. We stopped at the Dominican equivalent of a Thruway rest-stop and ate some delicious Dominican fare. (Sadly, Elizabeth and I blame a shared dish of saucy pork on a bout of traveler’s diarrhea which hit us the next day!)
We continued on our way, and arrived at Good Samaritan hospital in Jimani at midnight.
Monday, January 18, 2010: JFK to SDQ
Monday, January 18, 2010
I met Kimball upon her arrival from Burlington. [Kimball Butler is the Executive Director of the Vermont Haiti Project, and a Labor & Delivery nurse at Fletcher Allen Medical Center in Burlington. She was integral in launching the nurses union’s Vermont Relief Teams.] We had breakfast in the JetBlue terminal, caught up and exchanged some new bits of information. We attempted to use her new iPhone, which was initially a cumbersome little contraption, but proved eminently useful during the trip.
I was concerned the baseball caps I brought along would not adequately protect my head from the sun—and remembering my post-Haiti sun-related illness of July 2009—sacrificed $40 to buy a safari-style hat from Ex Officio.
We boarded our plane, bound for Santo Domingo, and discovered we had been moved to the very last row of seats—which meant our seats would not recline. It was no prize. Fate would step in and pacify us a bit by gifting us with a seat-mate that was nothing less than a hyperactive ball of fire from the American Refugee Committee: Shannon Mulholland, who in her spare time imports coffee from Africa. Although I nodded off a few times due to the exhaustion and stress of the previous days, Shannon gave us a thorough crash-course in global disaster response; and especially, the cluster process. Little did we know that Shannon would become a respected friend and invaluable resource on the ground in Haiti.
Upon our arrival in Santo Domingo, we were slightly delayed in deplaning due to the departure of Rene Préval by private plane. A military honor guard, complete with a small brass band flanked the red carpet. It was quite emotional, to be honest. And, we were rewarded in the terminal with a glass of Dominican rum on ice—not so much of a prize when one is used to 5-star Barbancourt!
The DR waived the customary ten dollar entrance fee for tourists since we were in transit to Haiti. They were mostly interested in offering this waiver to medical personnel, so Kimball and I devised that I was really a cardio-thoracic surgeon who had forgotten his license. This became a running joke. Thankfully I was never called to that service!
After meeting Elizabeth [Borger], who flew in from Florida, we made our way (via taxi—$30US) into the colonial section of Santo Domingo to locate an evening’s lodging. After several unsuccessful inquiries, we decided on the Mercure, which was a little more than we had hoped to spend, but was recommended by Shannon Mulholland as the quasi-official stop-over for many NGOs from around the world who were transiting into into Haiti. It turned out to be just that, and we made many useful connections there.
Kimball, Elizabeth and I met up with Shannon for dinner in the hotel’s half-fresco restaurant. I ordered one of my favorite dishes, Conch-kreyol. Although it was a disappointment (not tender!), it was nice to be back on the island eating a kreyol dish!
After dinner, I was able to get on the hotel’s one computer to check e-mail and update my Facebook status. Veniel had posted pictures of the recovery of victims at Wall’s, and I nearly passed out while viewing them. It was overwhelming to see a place that had been a “home away from home” for so many years reduced to rubble; and, to be confronted face-to-face with the sad reality of the lives that had been lost there. It seems ironic that those pictures would make me faint, when I never lost my composure in the midst of the massive injuries I came face-to-face with in the ensuing weeks.
I met Kimball upon her arrival from Burlington. [Kimball Butler is the Executive Director of the Vermont Haiti Project, and a Labor & Delivery nurse at Fletcher Allen Medical Center in Burlington. She was integral in launching the nurses union’s Vermont Relief Teams.] We had breakfast in the JetBlue terminal, caught up and exchanged some new bits of information. We attempted to use her new iPhone, which was initially a cumbersome little contraption, but proved eminently useful during the trip.
I was concerned the baseball caps I brought along would not adequately protect my head from the sun—and remembering my post-Haiti sun-related illness of July 2009—sacrificed $40 to buy a safari-style hat from Ex Officio.
We boarded our plane, bound for Santo Domingo, and discovered we had been moved to the very last row of seats—which meant our seats would not recline. It was no prize. Fate would step in and pacify us a bit by gifting us with a seat-mate that was nothing less than a hyperactive ball of fire from the American Refugee Committee: Shannon Mulholland, who in her spare time imports coffee from Africa. Although I nodded off a few times due to the exhaustion and stress of the previous days, Shannon gave us a thorough crash-course in global disaster response; and especially, the cluster process. Little did we know that Shannon would become a respected friend and invaluable resource on the ground in Haiti.
Upon our arrival in Santo Domingo, we were slightly delayed in deplaning due to the departure of Rene Préval by private plane. A military honor guard, complete with a small brass band flanked the red carpet. It was quite emotional, to be honest. And, we were rewarded in the terminal with a glass of Dominican rum on ice—not so much of a prize when one is used to 5-star Barbancourt!
The DR waived the customary ten dollar entrance fee for tourists since we were in transit to Haiti. They were mostly interested in offering this waiver to medical personnel, so Kimball and I devised that I was really a cardio-thoracic surgeon who had forgotten his license. This became a running joke. Thankfully I was never called to that service!
After meeting Elizabeth [Borger], who flew in from Florida, we made our way (via taxi—$30US) into the colonial section of Santo Domingo to locate an evening’s lodging. After several unsuccessful inquiries, we decided on the Mercure, which was a little more than we had hoped to spend, but was recommended by Shannon Mulholland as the quasi-official stop-over for many NGOs from around the world who were transiting into into Haiti. It turned out to be just that, and we made many useful connections there.
Kimball, Elizabeth and I met up with Shannon for dinner in the hotel’s half-fresco restaurant. I ordered one of my favorite dishes, Conch-kreyol. Although it was a disappointment (not tender!), it was nice to be back on the island eating a kreyol dish!
After dinner, I was able to get on the hotel’s one computer to check e-mail and update my Facebook status. Veniel had posted pictures of the recovery of victims at Wall’s, and I nearly passed out while viewing them. It was overwhelming to see a place that had been a “home away from home” for so many years reduced to rubble; and, to be confronted face-to-face with the sad reality of the lives that had been lost there. It seems ironic that those pictures would make me faint, when I never lost my composure in the midst of the massive injuries I came face-to-face with in the ensuing weeks.
Sunday, January 17, 2010: North Adams to JFK
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Today was frenetic. The day did not go as planned, but I am not sure how it could have. Kimball’s call that we were leaving on Monday rather than Tuesday threw my preparations for traveling to Haiti into hyper-drive. The boilers were down in the parish center this morning. Al had them up and running fairly quickly, but by 9:00 it was still only 55 degrees in some of the classrooms—too cold for little kids to sit through an hour’s class, even with coats on. That meant also canceling the evening session since there’s generally a fair amount of confusion when we try to hold one session but not the other; and with the prediction of four to six inches of late-day snowfall, it just made sense. Either way, it was a blessing for me since I had before taking the late train to NYC.
Jennifer drove me to the Amtrak station in Rensselaer to catch my train. We had a sandwich at the café and she headed home since the snow was already falling heavily. For once, Amtrak was on time. I made a few phone calls and read the Times. Having taken this route before, I easily made the connections to the LIRR and out to Jamaica to switch to the AirTran. I arrived at JFK, and set up camp in Terminal 3.
Today was frenetic. The day did not go as planned, but I am not sure how it could have. Kimball’s call that we were leaving on Monday rather than Tuesday threw my preparations for traveling to Haiti into hyper-drive. The boilers were down in the parish center this morning. Al had them up and running fairly quickly, but by 9:00 it was still only 55 degrees in some of the classrooms—too cold for little kids to sit through an hour’s class, even with coats on. That meant also canceling the evening session since there’s generally a fair amount of confusion when we try to hold one session but not the other; and with the prediction of four to six inches of late-day snowfall, it just made sense. Either way, it was a blessing for me since I had before taking the late train to NYC.
Jennifer drove me to the Amtrak station in Rensselaer to catch my train. We had a sandwich at the café and she headed home since the snow was already falling heavily. For once, Amtrak was on time. I made a few phone calls and read the Times. Having taken this route before, I easily made the connections to the LIRR and out to Jamaica to switch to the AirTran. I arrived at JFK, and set up camp in Terminal 3.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Post-Haiti Syndrome: A Blog Resurrected
June 24, 2008Every time I return from Haiti, I suffer what has no reason NOT to be in the DSM-IV (or are we up to V+ now?): Post-Haiti Syndrome. And, although I was in Haiti only a very short time this trip, this round of Post-Haiti Syndrome happens to be particularly acute for many, many reasons.
Post-Haiti Syndrome (PHS) is a depression caused by the inability to make the pieces of one's "real life" fit together tightly against the backdrop of what one has learned from Haiti. This is not an intellectual "what one has learned from Haiti." Such superficial knowledge is not what I am getting at. What I am speaking of is the "what one has learned from Haiti" deep, deep in one's Soul: where one's essence bridges out into Eternity, enjoins us to our Creator and unites us with our brothers and sisters in Spirit. And, perhaps if you're lucky you'll find a soulmate or a small band of souls who know this Haiti, too.
PHS is akin to a Dark Night of the Soul, in a sense.
PHS is a yearning in one's viscera to have and to do more when our time and resources and energy and our "real life" say: "no." It's not a harsh no; it's just a "life no." We're human. We're limited. We can not have everything. We can not do everything. The poor will always be with us. The struggles and tensions and paradoxes of the heart and the mind and the soul will always be a human reality. Life is and will be what it has always been.
But, when you want so badly what you can not have and want so badly to do what you can not do, even though you know it's life-giving to you and to those in need, and you know that what you want will heal your weary soul, you can not help but feel a weariness that stalls you, even though the desire to do and have empowers. Struggle. Tension. Paradox.
I feel sometimes in the midst of PHS a bit like the sailor of yore who encountered the mythological Lorelei on his river's journey: the allure of this beautiful maiden bids us come afield of our safe passage. Yet, between us and the maiden are the rocks of life that say: "no."
This analogy is neither complete nor sound, for in my story the Lorelei is a healthy goal, a truly beautiful maiden, not the trickster of the fable. And, the Lorelei may very well be the missing piece of the puzzle of my soul that brings me unimaginable peace in this earthly journey. And, the rocks are not murderous; just the stuff of life, some of which is eminently beautiful.
But yet, the rocks, the reality continues to say: "no." Even if my Lorelei is the most immeasurably beautiful maiden.
How does one surmount this tension? Does the journey of life provide another path further downstream? Will I live long enough to accomplish all I desire?
I suppose I should take heart that my life's journey keeps blessing me in returning to Haiti; that in good, sound theology, I carry my Lorelei so deep within me. And, that alone should give me strength. But, yet...my human thought process says: this PHS is something real.
And, so...until I mitigate the PHS, and look forward to my next trip to Haiti, with hopes of productivity and progress, I'll go on replaying The Pogues haunting rendition of Heine's poem, even if the lyrics don't say exactly what I mean to say here. Go ahead. Dust off the CD. This song is worth listening to until you can bear it no longer:
If I should float upon this stream
And see you in my madman's dream
I'd sink into your troubled eyes
And none would know 'cept Lorelei
River, river have mercy
Take me down to the sea
For if I perish on these rocks
My love no more I'll see
But if my ship, which sails tomorrow
Should crash against these rocks,
My sorrows I will drown before I die
It's you I'll see, not Lorelei...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
