Wednesday began early. We were leaving at 6:30, but I was up long before in anticipation. We all donned scrubs and piled into Mercy Ships' Land Rovers. The caravan made its way through the rutted and rough streets of this new home. The rest of the world was not yet stirring, but as we rode, we prayed over these streets that would bring 7354 people to us, their eyes full of hope and longing. Hope that we could help them, longing to be invited to our hospital.
I was on the "history" team. Patients were pre-screened by nurses at the gate, some being told "yes, you can come in." Others already being told "no, there is nothing we can do." Many of those told no at this stage were children with cerebral palsy that no surgery can fix or adults needing surgeries that we do not do.
At every stage, when someone hears that heartbreaking "no" our escorts had the privilege to walk with them to the prayer room, where they were offered all we had left.
For those who heard "yes, you may proceed," they next went to registration. Then to history. We took their vitals, did a mini-assessment, and asked about any health history. I worked with a translator, who by the end of the day didn't even need me to ask the questions first. He had them memorized and would record them. Which freed my arms up to snuggle each little one whose mamma was tired from holding them for so many hours or to play peek-a-boo with a rambunctious 2-year-old.
After history, some got lab work, some got more testing, and then were sent to see a doctor. These doctors assessed them and, for those that they could, gave a final invitation "Come, come to our ship." The day was long. At 7pm (already dark) there were still hundreds of people in line. We began to give cards to come to other screening days happening here at the ship. As the last patient made their way through each station, we stormed the rooms, returning desks to their original places. Still, after these long hours, this team I was a part of with tired and sandy feet, still smiled and lifted desks up stairs and into rooms.
The next morning, the nurses gathered to debrief and share stories of the day. The emotions were so jumbled. Joy for those who heard "Yes!" For the woman who had waited, suffering 10 years, for our ship to come. All the while thinking she was alone, that no one else suffered the same way. She will come, she will heal, and she will know, she is not alone.
Such deep sorrow for those we cannot help. At so many levels I was conflicted. I have seen desperation before, in Uganda, in Jamaica, in Haiti. Here, I secretly believed, with all that we have here on the ship, that "yes "would be our chorus.
It was not so. The reactions were varied. Few were angry. Most accepted "no" with grace that only someone who has never known hope can do. As someone who comes from a place where no expense or effort is spared in the face of suffering, how dare they simply accept no?! But as another crew member reminded us, this is where we are called to share in the joy and the suffering of these people. We do not have to carry this burden, God has taken it and He will carry it. He already has.
So we will wait. Here in our floating hospital. For Monday, when our patients come. When they come to the water.
"Come to the Water" - Matt Maher
All photos Copyright Mercy Ships 2013. More to come when they are released from our communications department!
No comments:
Post a Comment