This blog was written by Kacie Davis, nurse at the Nehemiah Vision Ministries clinic for the past year.
Francois and Maumie:
Francois is a 70-some year old man whose presence never goes unnoticed. The first time he walked into our clinic, my eyes went from his black round bowl hat, down his royal blue button up, to the LoisVitton shoulder-bag that I couldn’t tell you was real or not. A second look quickly revealed his supra-pubic catheter tube exiting the zipper of his black pants, and entering none other than the Louis Vitton(sp?). And to this day, he enters the clinic in the same fashion. Every time, I think to myself: You can’t make this shit up.
Since his first visit, Francois has shown an array of personalities despite his lack of costume change. Some days he comes and is a patient, reminiscent man; on other days we discuss an odd time-line he pulls out of his Bible, or every photo in his wallet while trying to finish his physical. . I remember the Saturday he showed up to a closed clinic in December, and his mumbling story confirmed what I thought I observed from the bulge in his black pants- his testicular hernia was bigger. I wish I were exaggerating when I told you that for 5 months now, he has been walking around with a testicular hernia the size of my head. His catheter was attached to a zip-lock bag, closed with a twist-tie; he was urinating from both the catheter and his penis.
I see Maumie walk in late, clumsily looking for a place to sit. She is alone… two of her seven children survived, and she comes to church every Sunday alone. She walks from far, and doesn’t carry water with her. When she comes to the clinic, she is usually the last one to be seen because she doesn’t show up until the early afternoon. So while we close up I walk her out, where she walks to a spicket just about ankle high. She hikes up her dress, squats down and starts cupping water in her hands to drink. I’ve caught on to this routine, and if I walk with her to turn the water on for her she thanks me as if I’ve installed running water in her house or something. As she finds an empty space on the wooden bench in church, she begins clapping off-rhythm and joins in the worship. I know if I could see her face, her eyes would look big behind her glasses, and she’d be smiling.
Rose, Gabriel, Marie, Lukner:
Becoming increasingly familiar with the twists and turns, the makeshift fences or seldom a painted house which distinguish one route from another, house calls are becoming more frequent. Rarely is my first stop not to Rose’s house for a quick bottle of ensure and bath time, and then onto see patients.
As today proceeded seemingly normal, I took notice of the details that make it anything but routine. As I am triaging patients, it is brought to my attention that one patient outside is experiencing exceptional suffering, and maybe he should be let inside? I go outside to take a look. The skinny, scruffy man with a teal rosary hanging around his neck between the missing buttons of his shirt is using every muscle in his chest to breath at a rate of 35 respirations per minute. I think he merits a bed inside, and a breathing treatment. And I watch him working for each breath, wishing the albuterol would get to working already.
Gabriel has smoked his whole life, and his lung infection has acutely exacerbated his condition. His lungs encaged by ribs I can count one by one, and yet he has exceptional muscle definition. These few qualities tell me about a life I begin to imagine he has led; one of resilience, hard work, suffering. And yet he has manners, shows incomparable patience during suffering.
Another elderly gentleman, 75 years old, is led in by his wife, Marie. I recognize Marie, because she is a bold woman, proud of her family and always watching out for people in Chambrun. There is something about her that makes you glad you are on her good side, though I have never seen the repercussions of what its like to cross her. Her husband is experiencing stomach pain, “tranchman” or “colic,” and vomiting. His blood pressure is high, and yet he is clearly dehydrated because his leathery skin that seems to barely stretch to cover his slim abdomen, is tenting (when you pinch an inch, his skin stands much like a tent instead of rebounding back as your skin would do).
Both men are added to the afternoon list of house calls in Chambrun. Along with Lukner, an amputee who did not come for a follow up appointment last week, which would have allowed Aubree to give him the large tub of protein powder she picked up in the States. As I begin walking down the dusty road, I see Lukner’s wife on the back of a moto and yell to her that I’ll be visiting.
Passing by Rose’s house, I am immediately stunned. She is standing by herself. And she takes up to five steps at a time.
A bath and bottle later, I leave her on her momma’s lap sitting on the foot of Gabriel’s bed, the first patient of the afternoon. I swear he could have just put out a cigarette before I came in, but his breathing is less labored, and he reports that the “pump” I have him helped him earlier when he started experiencing shortness of breath. He seemed pleased, and much more comfortable than this morning. So I gave him cefazolin shot and began walking to Lukner’s house. As I round a bend in the route, I surprise two woman stand staring at a donkey’s rear-end, and they nonchalantly smile and look up as I pass. After I can hear them asking if he’s constipated…
Lukner is laying on a tarp under the tree in his yard, with his baby grandson by his side asleep. He is in high spirits, and says he is planning on coming to the clinic tomorrow. The protein powder is a huge hit, and his wife is very pleased. She walks me to Marie’s house, as today will be my first visit.
We walk through the rusty tin-sheet front gate, and she picks up a rock. I notice the many dogs in the yard, and know she’s done this before…
I spot Marie, her uncovered large breasts both hanging over the fire in a small pot in which she seems to be burning rubber tire pieces… and her husband is laying on a mat, with two pillows under his head. She greets me and quickly tells me he has begun vomiting again. I ask if she has given him his meds… No, he hasn’t vomited since this morning when I gave him the last dose. So the teaching begins again. We go through all the medications, especially the antiemetics. She is confident, and I don’t know if it’s her nature, or if she truly processed the regimen.
I guess I know where he lives, and I’ll be back soon. So we’ll try again tomorrow if need be.
Heaven knows, sometimes I think it’s overwhelming but I don’t know if I could ever get my fill of this. Walking around in the dirt, delivering comfort and care to such loving people, pulling up IM injections inside mud huts with 15 people crowded in a tiny dark room watching, and always having a child’s hand to hold.
Francois is a 70-some year old man whose presence never goes unnoticed. The first time he walked into our clinic, my eyes went from his black round bowl hat, down his royal blue button up, to the LoisVitton shoulder-bag that I couldn’t tell you was real or not. A second look quickly revealed his supra-pubic catheter tube exiting the zipper of his black pants, and entering none other than the Louis Vitton(sp?). And to this day, he enters the clinic in the same fashion. Every time, I think to myself: You can’t make this shit up.
Since his first visit, Francois has shown an array of personalities despite his lack of costume change. Some days he comes and is a patient, reminiscent man; on other days we discuss an odd time-line he pulls out of his Bible, or every photo in his wallet while trying to finish his physical. . I remember the Saturday he showed up to a closed clinic in December, and his mumbling story confirmed what I thought I observed from the bulge in his black pants- his testicular hernia was bigger. I wish I were exaggerating when I told you that for 5 months now, he has been walking around with a testicular hernia the size of my head. His catheter was attached to a zip-lock bag, closed with a twist-tie; he was urinating from both the catheter and his penis.
Francois never leaves without putting his sunglasses on, if he ever took them off in the first place, giving us a blessing and tipping his hat.
Sitting in church this past Sunday was unbearable. Up until the past month, I’ve seemed to hold everything together relatively well. Relatively, because my definition of tame and under-control arises from my sometimes melodramatic and always chaotic, yet deeply-loving household. Perhaps it is because I am nearing the end of my year that each pair of round beautiful babies’ eyes seem more beautifully haunting, or the tinea capitus seems to multiply, and the unattended wounds are suddenly being left uncovered. The mother who comes weekly to campus, just begging anyone and everyone for food for her and her baby, for a number to see the doctor even though it’s 9 o’clock and all the numbers were handed out at 6 o’clock am. Patients were turned away, asked to come back tomorrow… how could I give her a card when others had arrived 3 hours earlier? She’s been told this. She spots me, smiles and waves. I left after thirty minutes of trying to hold back tears or a breakdown, as my eyes wander the crowd of thin Haitians, holding their babies and gyrating their hips with their eyes closed worshiping Jesus. And I feel helpless, frustrated… pissed frankly, and sad. At the same time there is a man sitting to our right asking, actually pathetically begging, for medicine because he fell and hit his leg the other day. There is an unrelenting need. I feel like I’ve had enough.
I see Maumie walk in late, clumsily looking for a place to sit. She is alone… two of her seven children survived, and she comes to church every Sunday alone. She walks from far, and doesn’t carry water with her. When she comes to the clinic, she is usually the last one to be seen because she doesn’t show up until the early afternoon. So while we close up I walk her out, where she walks to a spicket just about ankle high. She hikes up her dress, squats down and starts cupping water in her hands to drink. I’ve caught on to this routine, and if I walk with her to turn the water on for her she thanks me as if I’ve installed running water in her house or something. As she finds an empty space on the wooden bench in church, she begins clapping off-rhythm and joins in the worship. I know if I could see her face, her eyes would look big behind her glasses, and she’d be smiling.
Rose, Gabriel, Marie, Lukner:
Becoming increasingly familiar with the twists and turns, the makeshift fences or seldom a painted house which distinguish one route from another, house calls are becoming more frequent. Rarely is my first stop not to Rose’s house for a quick bottle of ensure and bath time, and then onto see patients.
As today proceeded seemingly normal, I took notice of the details that make it anything but routine. As I am triaging patients, it is brought to my attention that one patient outside is experiencing exceptional suffering, and maybe he should be let inside? I go outside to take a look. The skinny, scruffy man with a teal rosary hanging around his neck between the missing buttons of his shirt is using every muscle in his chest to breath at a rate of 35 respirations per minute. I think he merits a bed inside, and a breathing treatment. And I watch him working for each breath, wishing the albuterol would get to working already.
Gabriel has smoked his whole life, and his lung infection has acutely exacerbated his condition. His lungs encaged by ribs I can count one by one, and yet he has exceptional muscle definition. These few qualities tell me about a life I begin to imagine he has led; one of resilience, hard work, suffering. And yet he has manners, shows incomparable patience during suffering.
Another elderly gentleman, 75 years old, is led in by his wife, Marie. I recognize Marie, because she is a bold woman, proud of her family and always watching out for people in Chambrun. There is something about her that makes you glad you are on her good side, though I have never seen the repercussions of what its like to cross her. Her husband is experiencing stomach pain, “tranchman” or “colic,” and vomiting. His blood pressure is high, and yet he is clearly dehydrated because his leathery skin that seems to barely stretch to cover his slim abdomen, is tenting (when you pinch an inch, his skin stands much like a tent instead of rebounding back as your skin would do).
Both men are added to the afternoon list of house calls in Chambrun. Along with Lukner, an amputee who did not come for a follow up appointment last week, which would have allowed Aubree to give him the large tub of protein powder she picked up in the States. As I begin walking down the dusty road, I see Lukner’s wife on the back of a moto and yell to her that I’ll be visiting.
Passing by Rose’s house, I am immediately stunned. She is standing by herself. And she takes up to five steps at a time.
A bath and bottle later, I leave her on her momma’s lap sitting on the foot of Gabriel’s bed, the first patient of the afternoon. I swear he could have just put out a cigarette before I came in, but his breathing is less labored, and he reports that the “pump” I have him helped him earlier when he started experiencing shortness of breath. He seemed pleased, and much more comfortable than this morning. So I gave him cefazolin shot and began walking to Lukner’s house. As I round a bend in the route, I surprise two woman stand staring at a donkey’s rear-end, and they nonchalantly smile and look up as I pass. After I can hear them asking if he’s constipated…Lukner is laying on a tarp under the tree in his yard, with his baby grandson by his side asleep. He is in high spirits, and says he is planning on coming to the clinic tomorrow. The protein powder is a huge hit, and his wife is very pleased. She walks me to Marie’s house, as today will be my first visit.
We walk through the rusty tin-sheet front gate, and she picks up a rock. I notice the many dogs in the yard, and know she’s done this before…
I spot Marie, her uncovered large breasts both hanging over the fire in a small pot in which she seems to be burning rubber tire pieces… and her husband is laying on a mat, with two pillows under his head. She greets me and quickly tells me he has begun vomiting again. I ask if she has given him his meds… No, he hasn’t vomited since this morning when I gave him the last dose. So the teaching begins again. We go through all the medications, especially the antiemetics. She is confident, and I don’t know if it’s her nature, or if she truly processed the regimen.
I guess I know where he lives, and I’ll be back soon. So we’ll try again tomorrow if need be.
Heaven knows, sometimes I think it’s overwhelming but I don’t know if I could ever get my fill of this. Walking around in the dirt, delivering comfort and care to such loving people, pulling up IM injections inside mud huts with 15 people crowded in a tiny dark room watching, and always having a child’s hand to hold.
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