Giving Thanks and Getting Seoul

It wasn't really Thanksgiving. I mean, we are in Cambodia, after all. I felt a little silly for celebrating Thanksgiving here when, at the same time, I'm taking advantage of celebrating the Khmer holidays as well. But, I did say I was going to start celebrating every thing...every reason. So here I am - in Cambodia - and happy to say that four of the volunteers (myself included) went out for a fancy meal at Chambey's on November 24th. We all sat around and told what we were thankful for...(just kidding. We didn't do that). Why do we need to SAY what we are thankful for? Isn't it obvious? Two and a half months ago, it wasn't so obvious to me. Today, yes, I know better what is important in life...in my life. Working at the hospital...there's no need to tell the others who are working there with me, what I am thankful for. We are all thankful for the same things and we know it. Words are unnecessary, they are overrated (sometimes).
I'm sitting here, almost one week after our Southeast Asian Thanksgiving celebration, looking out onto the street, watching the sun set over Siem Reap and I can't believe I only have thirteen more days here. My body is beginning to recoil from the grip of this place, but it feels a little strange...even the thought of leaving. Part of me knows I may never return. And part of me has been checking out a little early. I mean, I've been working a lot with the kids lately. We've been doing really fun things...photo projects and painting. But I see myself leaning back a little, not wanting to be as attached to the kids as I have been for the last two months. I think it's kind of a pointless effort. And it's not really even an effort, because...well, I was watching Sinaath (the art therapist at the hospital) read a book to a young girl that I had been sitting with earlier in the day. I moved over toward the bed and sat next to the girl. She was sprawled out on her side and obviously in pain. I couldn't see her face because she was watching Sinaath read as well. I kept looking over at the girl's mother and she returned a smile every time I glanced her way. Eventually, the girl turned far enough for me to see her face. She had been smiling the whole time she was listening to Sinaath's story. I mean, it's a moment like that that just breaks your heart and completely heals you at the same time. This girl is, justafiably, in so much physical pain, but all she needed was for someone to pick up a book and read to her. It's moments like those that I had never experienced before coming here. Part of me wonders if I will ever have moments like those again after I get on that airplane from Siem Reap to Seoul. And then, I think, you know, those moments are everywhere all the time. Maybe I just never paid attention to them before.

The Eyes Have It

I was told on Thursday afternoon that the hospital needed me to photograph a surgery for them that would be taking place the next morning. It was an eye surgery. I thought, "Oh god, I don't know if I can photograph this." I'm one of those people that can't watch my friends put their contacts in. Oh, man. But I wanted to have the experience of seeing an eye surgery, so the next morning, I went for the 10:30am surgery in the OT. I saw the young girl sitting outside the OT doors, waiting to be prepped and operated on. She didn't look scared. She just sat there. The doctors came out from behind the doors and circled around her, asking her questions, then moving her up onto the gurney. I put on some scrubs and walked into the room. The girl had already been sedated. The doctor was putting on his white latex gloves when he looked over at me standing in the corner with my camera around my neck. He looked at me and said, "You also have a strabisma," (loosley translated, he was referring to my lazy eye). "Yeah." "Well, why haven't you had surgery yet?" "Oh, I did when I was 5, but it didn't work." "Why didn't you try again?" "Well, other eye doctors told me the surgery wasn't covered under insurance because it was purely cosmetic." "No, it's reconstructive surgery. I do adult strabismas all the time and I get insurance coverage for all of my patients. It's just semantics, the way you write up the paperwork." "Oh." "Where are you from in the states? I know a lot of good eye doctors who do adult strabismas and I can refer you to one in your area." "I'm from San Francisco." To which the doctor handed me a card and replied, "Here's my number in San Francisco. Call me in Jan. and you can have the surgery by March."
I stepped back into the corner and the surgery on the little girl began. I watched the doctor cut into the girl's eyelid. I watched the blood pour from her eye. I photographed for what felt like forever (but maybe was about 15 minutes, in reality) and I began to sweat. All of a sudden, my camera got heavy. Really heavy. I pulled the camera down from my eye and turned my head. The room kept spinning around me. I was about to pass out. I moved my feet toward another observer in the room who was doing nothing to operate on the girl. He saw me, grabbed my shoulders, turned me around and walked me out of the room. He was really nice. He sat me down and I found out he was a friend of the eye doctors. They were in the rotary club together back in San Francisco. His name was Eric and he works at Wells-Fargo back home. He took me to check-up on the kids they had already taken to recovery from other surgeries earlier that morning. I just stayed sitting. I was still a little out of it. Eventually, they wheeled in the girl that I had seen during surgery. Needless to say, I didn't see the eye doctor again before he was to leave that afternoon to go to Bangladesh. I found out that the team of doctors that worked with him at the hospital were going to pick him up from his hotel and take him to the airport, I jumped in the backseat of the Land Cruiser and rode along to the hotel. When we got there, the doc was standing outside with his luggage. I got out of the car and walked up to him. He smiled and asked if I was ok, because he had seen me get ushered out of the OT room. He hugged me and told me he would see me in San Francisco. This doc was so genuine. A really cool guy and I'm stoked that I've finally gotten some questions answered about the possibility of having surgery.

Hoo-ray for Ma-lay(sia) and Team Pangkor

When the sun comes up in Kuala Lumpur and brushes the faces of the Petronas Towers, you know you are seeing something that no one really deserves to see, but there you are, looking right at it. There is no place like Malaysia...no place I've ever been, anyway. One night in KL then a taxi ride to Pangkortown and a ferry on to Palau Pangkor (the island). And there I am. There I am with three friends and white sands and warm sun. We dropped our bags and ran for the shore. A perfect day (even Lou Reed would've been satisfied) on the seas of the equator. The water was warm, even hot in parts. We rented kayaks and headed for the coves and hidden beaches. We swam all day and into the dark and dream-filled night. Bottles of wine and one of tequila (just for me), lots of laughter, light-hearted and soulful conversations with good friends, plenty of time to think and plenty of time not to. Pangkor Island was good to me. It gave me a break from the heat of Siem Reap. It renewed my visa (and reset my mind). The silence, the noise, the sunset, the rain, the exploding sky, it was all there on Pangkor Island.

The Waiting Game

Watching a mother watch her child die is something I never thought I would ever have to do. And, for some reason, the possibility of having to do that eluded me completely when I was back in the States trying to think ahead about what might be difficult about working at a children's hospital. Funny, huh? I mean, I guess it's pretty obvious. But I was thinking more about how it would be to have to see a child admitted into the hospital and then come for work the next day to find out that they had passed away.
But to become friends with a parent, and spend time with him/her for more than a month while their child goes through peaks and valleys of being sick, gaining and losing weight, in and out of the ICU, off and on the defribulator: it's a very different thing. You begin to wonder how much can happen before the parent breaks. And the strength of these people is astounding. But I guess that is the thing about a parent and their child. A parent can withstand anything when it comes to doing what they need to in order to help their child survive (whether in the Western world or here).
It is finally really getting to me. I am constantly thinking about what is happening...about whether or not I will come in to the hospital the next morning to find a bed empty. It breaks my heart, but in a strange way, because it's not really my broken heart to be had. And I turn and watch these parents, and, if my whole body could be heartbroken for them it would be. Selfishness aside, I'm lost for how to feel, for what to offer. I rub the mothers' backs, I say what I can (my speech is so limited in times like those), I search for a way to connect, to do what I can...otherwise, why am I here? Why are any of us here? And what can you do for a parent who speaks a different language than you and is struggling to hold himself/herself together for the fight of their child's life? What do you say?
I take pictures. It's becoming more and more difficult to get the camera out. But I get it out. And when I hand a print to a mother or father of their child, they don't tear up at the sight of their baby on a hospital bed with tubes coming out of him/her. Instead, they smile. They put their hands together and bow towards me, offering their thanks. It means something to them. And that means something to me.

personal reflections #3

Sometimes I feel like I'm shouting, but no sound is coming out. Sometimes I feel like the world is standing in the shadows, even with so much light around. Like I'm sinking for trying to swim. And all this crying, it's just going to dry us all out. So what do we do? How do we make a positive impact on the world when the world is so big and we are so small? Sometimes life feels like this. And, sometimes-really most times, it's the smallest of us, who moves the mountain. And by "small," I mean, the child sitting in a bed who is nine months old but weighs about 11 pounds.
Where am I going wrong? I think of all the things I would like to see change and now I'm wondering why I never did anything to try to make that change happen. Sometimes, I think we underestimate ourselves....the things we can teach, ...more importantly, the things we can learn, if we are open to it.

Dah Goes Home

The doctors decided that Dah had been at the hospital long enough (she's been taking care of her younger brother who is malnourished and has AIDS...there are no parents...no mother and the father is in the last stages of TB/AIDS and is dying at the Referral Hospital in town). I went in this afternoon to sit in on rounds and check on a few patients who have been at the hospital for as long as I have been in Cambodia. One of the children, who's mother I absolutely adore (the mother with the biggest smile ever!), was moved from the In-Patient Department (stabalized children stay there) to the ICU (intensive care). His pneumonia has advanced and they have him on a defribulator. The mother looked defeated. It was really heartbreaking to see her that way. No more smiles. Just sitting there by his bed looking tired and worried. I hugged her and she gave a small smile. Then, eventually, we made it around to the LAU (where Dah and her younger brother, NY, had been staying in bed #6). I looked to bed #6 and there were two strange bodies in the bed. A mother and her grown child. I was instantly panicked. What had happened? I just spent two hours with Dah the day before. I asked the LAU nurse if they had gone home. "Yes," he said. They discovered that the sister (Dah) could administer the HIV medications perfectly and so they sent them home and she would continue to care for Ny. My heart sank. How could she have left? How could I have not been there to say goodbye? I still have pictures to give to her. Where is her home? Will I ever see her again? Or will I spend the rest of my life wondering what has happened to her and her brother? She was my best friend at the hospital. She was a great friend. So I will ask the homecare team to take me along if they ever go to do a "follow-up" visit on her brother. I want, at least, to say goodbye.

Indiana Jones and Kaoru's Crusade

What do you get when you take four volunteers and give them some motos and a day off from work? I'll tell you....you get four "barang" driving two hours out of the city to find the long lost temple of Bung Melea (a.k.a. "the Indiana Jones" temple). Kaoru (my partner in crime), Lena, Isaiah (my san francisco buddy), and myself motoed out to the ruins in the jungle together. However, Kaoru, who drives a scooter back home in tokyo to work everyday, decided to drive her own moto. So, with Lena on the back of Kaoru's ride, and Isaiah and I on the back of our own experienced drivers' motos, we took off in seaerch of adventure. Two hours through the Cambodian countryside is an experience in and of itself. There's nothing like the color green that exists out here in the rice paddies. For me, it never gets old...seeing that bright, vibrant green that I've only ever seen in the most skilled of paintings. Looking back from my moto, I could see Isaiah waving and Kaoru and Lena about a mile or so back with the biggest grins on. When we finally reached the ticket booth, all of our butts were sore. Although, I think Kaoru was on such a high about having driven a moto in Cambodia, that she couldn't really feel anything anyway.
Five dollars and a VERY short moto ride later, we were standing at the entrance to a monstrous pile of boulders and stones that have rested there for centuries. By first look at the temple, it definetely looked like a place that Indy would be roaming inside of looking for buried treasures. We walked in, the four of us and a guide that we acquired (without realizing it), up the first few boarded steps into the temple. Soon after the first few easy steps upward, we began climbing over boulders that were so large, I had a difficult time getting my 5'4" body up over them (what can I say? I have short legs). Kaoru was pretty overcome by fear when she realized how high up we were going. It was not a climb for those terrified of heights (as Kaoru is). But she kept climbing, and with a little help, she made it up and over. It seemed to me that she was accomplishing quite a bit and that she, in fact, is much more brave than she lets on. It's things like that that inspire me....seeing someone, a friend, overcome a fear, or, even more, stare it in the face and just keep going. Because make no mistake, Kaoru is still afraid of heights...just as much as she was before she made the climb. BUT, she made the climb. And she will do it again and again is it means seeing something beautiful on the other side, or experiencing something new.
That's just it. We are all too afraid of the things we don't know. Some people are afraid and they do them anyway...maybe because they're brave, but I think it's mostly because they're a little bit crazy. And some people don't even think twice about ever going through with the change. But change is important. Maybe, the most important thing. I think of all of the concerns I had before coming out to Cambodia, and now I look at myself in the mirror and know I will never be the same. And it was because I took a chance. And if I keep taking chances, maybe I'll keep changing, keep evolving, keep surprising myself at the things I'm capable of. And when I am learning, that is when I become a better teacher. And that's really what it's all about...right? yeah.

1,000 Lingas and The Waterfall

I had been hearing about K'bal Spean since the day that I arrived in Siem Reap. It was supposed to be this wonderful hike through the jungle which culminated in a view of a beautiful waterfall and an amazing riverbed of 1,000 lingas (carvings in the actual riverbed of hindu dieties and symbols). And let me tell you, I'd been putting off going for absolutely no reason really. Last weekend. when my friend Aldrin was in town, we decided it was time to take the two hour trek out of Siem Reap, into the rural countryside, to hike through the jungle and see this "amazing site." And to be completely honest...it was possibly, the most unbelievable thing I've ever seen. It was breathtaking.....unreal. Underneath the clear, rushing water flowing down from the mountain's peak, were hundreds of carvings in the bed of the river. It was fascinating. After photographing the carvings, we walked further down stream to where we could hear the rush of the waterfall. We rounded the corner and saw a small waterfall dumping water onto more carvings in the riverbed below. We enjoyed the view for a few moments, taking pictures (I was wishing I had my journal or a book, because this was the perfect place to find a seat and just be quiet).
I looked up and Aldrin had found his way to the other side of the river. When I inquired as to how he got across, he pointed to his feet and smiled. I rolled up my pants and started to walk through the water (which was covered with hovering mosquitos of massive proportions). The water was cold and the initial shock was so intense that I didn't realize that one of my sandals had fallen off of my foot and been carried down the river by the strong current. I screamed! I thought to myself, "Oh great. I'm in the middle of the friggin' jungle, and I'm going to have to hike back through with only one sandaled foot." I began running downstream after my sandal. My pant legs came loose and fell down into the freezing water. I yelled at Aldrin who was laughing pretty hysterically by this time, and he came running from the other bank. Thankfully, the sandal eventually wedged itself in between a rock and a hard place (literally) and Aldrin was able, from his end, to reach around and grab it.
I think he felt pretty good about being the one who rescued my sandal. I nicknamed him "Romeo" for the day and he didn't mind that either.
So, after our mini adventure, we headed back through the jungle (both wearing PAIRS of sandals) and were back on the road toward Siem Reap. The next day, Aldrin boarded a plane and headed for Laos to continue on his journey before returning to Seoul to teach. It was good to see him and great to have a friend from home out here with me. Somehow, though, I don't think he'll have as interesting of an adventure as we had with the "Great Sandal Caper"....ok, he might...it's a possibility. But, all the same, it was a pretty great day.

The Water Festival

There is a night during the 10-day water festival, when the Cambodian people light candles and place them in the center of a flower to float them down the river. It's an offering to the Gods as thanks for the fact that the flow of the river's water changes direction (stops dumping into the ocean and begins depositing into the Tonle Sap Lake, which provides a freshwater resevior for the people of Cambodia). It was an amazing sight to behold the night that the lights took over the river. I thought I was in Paris, for a moment (even though I've never been to Paris or seen the twinkling lights of that city). But it felt romantic for some reason, the same way I imagine that Paris might.
That night was the culmination of a week long celebration complete with live music, rockin' festival foods for 25 cents, and river boat races. We even got the opportunity to take a child from the hospital (one who has been there for weeks now and is confined to a wheelchair because both his legs are in casts) to see the men and women practice for the boat races. He was ecstatic about it. He talked about how he wanted to race the boats when he was older. He smiled the entire time he watched from the river bank (something I didn't think this particular boy was capable of...everyday you can hear him crying from the other side of the hospital). The doctors and nurses, of course, told us to keep him out there as long as possible....for both their and his own sanity, I'm sure.
The boat races were pretty amazing. It wasn't the actual races that were amazing so much, but the sheer number of people gathered at the riverside....it was staggering. I loved the chaos and the laughter and the festivity of it all. Nothing like that has happened here since my arrival and I got the feeling that it was a once a year kind of blowout celebration for the Cambodian people.
It was the night of the candles on the river that my friend, Aldrin, flew into town. He is an English teacher in Seoul, South Korea. He came for a few days and his welcome to Siem Reap was thousands of candles floating on the river. Needless to say, I felt like a pretty good hostess at that point. After all, it was one of the most breathtaking things I'd ever seen...so it couldn't have been too shabby.
The week of celebration, the hundreds of smiles in the streets, it all got me thinking...how wonderful it would be to truly celebrate in such a whole-hearted way...I mean, to celebrate, in such a huge way, the gift of water...it's amazing to think about all the things we take for granted. The people here in Siem Reap and all over the country are each, individually, genuinely so thankful and aware of the fact that they will have water for another season, another year. And all we have to do is turn on the faucet. Nobody even thinks about it. I never did. Not until last weekend. I want to celebrate those kind of things. I want my celebrations to mean as much to me as the Khmer people's celebrations mean to them. And I start today.

Ph'Kai

I've thought about it and talked about it and danced in circles around it...but doing it, being a part of something so big, sitting on the floor of an old man's home along the Siem Reap River as he speaks in laughter about small things..that teaches you something. Not trying to impart wisdom, impress, show off everything that he has or make you feel insignificant; he has nothing. Really. He has a green hammock hanging in the corner, sagging lowly at the weight of the small child (his grandchild) sleeping inside the mesh, another small child, a girl, hiding behind his feet, occasionally peaking around his arm to see the strange "barang" sitting inches away, some pots hanging on the wall of the kitchen (the only other "room" in the place) which also happens to overlook the river below, a small gas stove to cook on, and a few other things lying around (perhaps some items they use as utensils or plates). That was what this man had. And he had some oranges and bananas (his livelihood). I know about the oranges because he looked at me and smiled as he handed me two of them. It was an offering, a gift. He was giving me two oranges that he could have sold or given to his grandchildren to eat. But I could not say "no". How awful and rude it would have been of me to not accept such a generous gift. I don't think I've ever appreciated something so much in my life. I pulled out the only thing I had to offer in return - some stickers that I had brought from the States to give to the children at the hospital. I handed a page of stars to the one child that was awake (as the other remained quite comatose in his hammock). The girl smiled and I was surprised that she came to me and took them from my hand as I half expected her to make her grandfather act as a go-between. I didn't know if she had seen stickers before and didn't want to assume she had at the risk of her not fully enjoying the best feature of a sticker - it sticks. So I pulled one off of the page and stuck it on the back of her hand. "Ph'kai!" she exclaimed, which means "star" in Khmer. The conversation was a strange mixture of Khmer and English because the grandfather seemed to know just about as much of the English language as I know of the Khmer. I said, "thank you" and he invited me to come back to his home by the water the next time I was in Cambodia. I walked out and kept my feet moving parallel to the river bank. I looked over and saw two young men fishing. They smiled and said "Hello" in English and so I felt compelled to say it back in Khmer: "Suas'dey". And then I asked if they were fishing (which was obvious, but, frankly, I was excited to use the word "fishing" because I knew what it was in Khmer). They immediately invited me over and asked if I wanted to learn to fish. Of course I want to learn to fish! We stood there talking for a while about the Water Festival and the boat races that would take place in the city later that day. I watched as he stood there with a long branch and some twine hanging from the end of it....he wasn't catching anything. He told me it was difficult to catch fish when the river's waterline was so low (funny that he said that during the weekend of the "water" festival). We eventually said goodbye and parted ways. I walked across the small bridge and a moto driver appeared. He took me back into the downtown area of the city for 3000 riel (seventy-five cents).
All of this took place within two hours early in the morning. The day had barely begun by the time my short journey had ended. Cambodia is like that...the days are long, the heat is intense (absolutely a factor in the length of the day), and the experiences are, without a doubt, unforgettably captivating. Each moment that matters is one that is given to you. You don't have to steal a second of it. Someone just hands it to you. Like the stars in the sky, that's what those kind of moments in Cambodia are like for me. They're everywhere, not one of them can be ignored or denied of its beauty, and you haven't done anything to deserve to be in their presence. But you're really damn glad that you are.