Wednesday, January 20, 2010: "Jimani to PAP to FP"

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.