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.