How do I tell this story? Where to begin?

They took Ruth back into the OR to change her dressing, get a better idea of what they could do. I went in too, explained what was going on until she was out. They had to do it under anesthesia because it would be so painful. Ten months ago she had an epileptic seizure onto a wood burning stove with a large pot of boiling beans. Since then she had had 4 skin grafts- 3 taken from her legs, 1 from a cadaver. Now she was out. and a team of American plastic and reconstructive surgeons began to unwrap her bandages. When the reached her festering flesh there were a series of comments on the overwhelming yet sweet smell of bacteria that was causing a very serious infection. As they began to scrub with sterilized brushes and pulled of the dead skin graft, the mood turned sober. Never had they seen something like this- exposed bone, rotting flesh. It became clear that the surgery planned for next week would not happen, that amputation was instead a possibility. Amputation. The doctor in charge of the mission, Dr. Geraghty, said, “Well I thought I could be a hero with this one.” As they smoothed over slabs of silvedine I thought, here I’ve brought this 23 year old mother to the capital for reconstructive surgery and she may go home with no left arm or right hand. Double Amputee. What have I done? How am I going to tell her?

They bandaged her back up and took her to recovery. I went to tell her dad what happened. I said it was worse than expected- exposed, infected bone in the arm and hand- now the plan was to try and save her limbs. The doctors at this medical mission did not have the equipment or capability to do the complicated surgery, but - there was a but, a ray of hope - Dr. Geraghty would call some Dominican surgeon friends with the capability to do the surgery and if they were willing, he would pay for it. He would start making the calls early the next morning.

Ruth woke up - cracking jokes - ready to dance. I asked her Merengue or Bachata and she said either one. Later I would give her the news. She took it well, in stride. I’d explain one more time to her mom over the phone who lives in France, working, sending money back to her.

Dr. Geraghty did call the next day, and his friend, Dr. Hernandez, sent us to his best resident, Dr. Aviles for an unscheduled consult. When we arrived she was in surgery and so we waited outside the OR room. Hours later we finally tracked her down. She saw Ruth, took her dressing off, took pictures, and wrote about 4 pages of pre-op tests she would need to get done. So the answer was yes. And while it was a relief, a step forward, it also felt like sinking further into the medical/surgical/recovery pit, deeper into the struggle. But the night is darkest before the dawn, right?

While I’m back in Imbert, Ruth is still getting tests done in the capital and will meet again with Dr. Hernandez and Dr. Aviles on Thursday to schedule surgery and get a game plan of what exactly they will do.

The whole week still weighs on me. Every moment with Ruth I couldn’t help but think that she was only receiving help/attention because of a generous white doctor and an idealistic Peace Corps Volunteer. I escorted her everywhere, worked out the issue with the check in US dollars, made sure the tests happened in a timely fashion, got the medical supplies, etc. She was lucky to be by my side, and I hated it, resented my compassion as it revealed more intimately how healthcare for Ruth was a consequence of chance and circumstance.

After working out a plan for Ruth, I headed back to the public hospital where the medical mission was hosted, and I began again to translate for Dr. Geraghty for walk-up consults. This was my main job besides Ruth’s personal healthcare advocate. People would come with their problems and Dr. Geraghty would determine whether his team of doctors would be able to help.

A man showed up with a white gauze taped over his right eye and nose. He waited patiently for a couple of hours for Dr. Geraghty to get out of surgery. Finally I welcomed him in, sat him down and Masiano began to explain what happened. Two years ago he had been shot in the face while working. He received 2 surgeries and spent a year and 8 months in the hospital. He still needed more surgeries, but the doctors at the hospital kept saying come back next week. Dr. Geraghty asked to remove the bandage. Masiano had no nose, just a skin flap with two tubes hanging out so he could breathe. He had no right eye, just skin pulled and stitched over the socket. When he exhaled air came out of his eye socket. He also still had pieces of the bullet in his face.

Dr. Geraghty looked at me and said there was nothing they could do. That it required complicated reconstructive surgery that they again didn’t have the equipment to do. But this time their were no friends to call. No one on the island could do this type of complicated surgery. The DR didn’t have the technology or the training. Doctors here had done all they could. I told Masiano. I watched him move from hope to despair. He told me how difficult his life was. And he wasn’t complaining, he was genuinely expressing his pain. He told me everything he had on had been given to him. His family didn’t live here. He had no money. His family lived in Haiti. At this comment, another Peace Corps Volunteer, Malia, began to speak to him in Creole. Then he looked at me and said, “My life is so hard. Sometimes I ask God to end it.”

I remember saying, “Don’t say that”. And Malia said “God is with you, God knows”. He nodded and smiled with tears in his eyes. I asked for his name and said I would pray for him. He thanked me and had one last request. He showed me a 500 Indian bank note and wondered if we could change it. I took it, walked over to Patty, Dr. Geraghty’s sister-in-law who scheduled the surgeries. She was gathering up all the pesos she could find. She said, I’m going to give him all my money. She handed me 1,990 pesos. I walked over to Masiano, told him Patty could use the Indian money, that it was worth 1,990. She would buy it from him. And he left, with ammunition in his face, 1,990 pesos in his pocket, and blessings.

It was a hard week. There were redeeming moments, smiles on kids faces, jokes with doctors, but they were few in comparison to how much human struggle we saw. It would have been easy to walk away fearful, afraid of suffering, certain of how little we have to face big problems. But I am a person of faith, and despite how overwhelming it all is, and, boy, is it, I choose, avidly, with deep earnestness, to believe that we have enough, always have, always will, and that Ruth and Masiano will live abundantly.