It has never been more clear to me that this trip is not a vacation. The other day, Sambun, The White House security guard asked me how long I would be on vacation. It sounded strange to me after a week of working in the children's hospital. Is this a vacation for me? No. It's not. And I'm not sure how exactly it's not, but I'm sure of it. Sitting by Chen's bedside, hoping that he turns to me and smiles does not feel like vacation. It's painful, exhausting, emotionally tiring. But stating complaints seems selfish and pointless. Here is this boy, Chen, (the one I named before as John), laying in bed #3 of the low acuity unit at the hospital clutching his stomach, crying in pain. He has AIDS. His mother died (a common sign for a child who has AIDS in this country), his father wants nothing to do with him because he thinks he cries too much, his aunt and uncle who came to visit bolted without telling anyone after they found out that they would be the ones responsible for him. Chen is five years old, weighs 11 kilos, refuses to eat, doesn't respond, stares up at the ceiling and cries. That is his life. He doesn't want to live, I imagine. If I were him, I would want to be with the one person who I knew cared for me: my mother. Perhaps that's what he wants. And if that is what he wants, one can't help but respect it. Right now, my only job is to rub his little belly when it hurts, brush the sweaty bangs from his face, and hold his hand. I want him to know that he's not alone. Maybe I can't even do that for him. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop sitting at his bedside.
The boy in the bed beside him likes to color with me. He is not terminal and will be going home in a few days. Chen watches us color sometimes. Yesterday we made animals out of modeling clay. The boy in the next bed was much better at it than I was. It's funny, I'm here as an art therapist, but I am a photographer. I can't draw or mold animals or do anything that an artist should be able to do. I think it seems strange to most the staff and patients at the hospital. I'm waiting for clearance to photograph. I know that if I can bring home some of the things I am seeing here, it will engage other people to act as well. Maybe I will be able to generate funds for the hospital, do something good for these kids who have nothing. Some of these children's ailments cannot even be treated here. The laboratories in the hospital are archaeic. They don't have the right tools to even correctly diagnose these kids. But the doctors and nurses are some of the most genuine, kind people I've ever met. And they help me communicate with the children, as most of them speak some english and I am struggling to learn the Khmer language. Sometimes you don't need words, I think. Sometimes, it's enough just to be there. That's what I have to tell myself for now.
So, as I sit here and write on my laptop in the Western section of Siem Reap (where one can have a latte as they navigate the wireless internet), my mind is just three blocks away at the children's hospital where the roads look very different and the children who poopulate the area are not wearing nikes and Michael Jackson t-shirts. No shoes, same shirt, same pants everyday. Everyday in a hospital bed, sweating with sugar ants crawling all over them. Am I on vacation? No. This place must feel very different to someone on vacation. I'm glad I'm where I'm at, doing what I'm doing.
