The outreach is coming to a close for the m/v Africa Mercy. The ship is set to sail on Sunday and return to the Canary Islands for routine maintenance. I can't believe how fast this year has gone. I was there just after the ship arrived in Monrovia. I was there to see the medical screening day and I was there for the loss of two children during the first couple of weeks.
Ali updated her blog she has been going through a difficult bout of bronchitis. I can relate after coughing for 9-weeks myself. Here is what she has to say about the end of outreach.
-------------------
I'm sorry for the long silence. Truth is, I'm in a weird place right now. I've been sicker than I really realized over the past few weeks, and I'm just now coming out of the fog enough to realize how much has passed me by. Maybe it'll be better once I'm well and not so worn out, but I'm overwhelmed by the sense that things are just unfinished here.
I mean, they're not really unfinished. There's nothing left to do; the wards are closed. The last patients went home on Friday, Eddie and Kwelywoh to the MSF hospital for further care. Dr. Gary reported to me today that Kwelywoh's CSF drain is working well and that the swelling between his eyes is gone; he might not need any further surgery. Back on the ship, the hospital is silent and mostly dark, wards piled with mattresses and bed frames and supply carts all lashed together and tied down to bolts in the floor, ready for the sail.
But I missed all that. I wasn't there to kiss Eddie's little face before he headed out the door, and I wasn't there to feel the gentle weight of Kwelywoh's body as he leaned up against my legs, beaming up at me in one last search for stickers. I couldn't even help with the cleaning and packing up, since the thought of dust and chemical fumes was enough to send my lungs into a full-scale revolt against the rest of my body.
There were parties, celebrations for all the translators and disciplers and the myriad other dayworkers who have served alongside us during this outreach. The ship was full of friends, dressed in their finest, and I couldn't find the energy to greet them all, or to say my farewells. They've all left now, gone back to their homes for the last time and I didn't get a chance to tell them I loved them.
I'm sad and I'm frustrated and it kind of feels like I got cheated. I've been here since the beginning. I made it through screening day, I helped open up the wards and welcomed the very first patients. I cared for three of the little boys who went to Jesus over the past months. I have seen so many patients come back for multiple surgeries, greeting me like an old friend as they're re-admitted.
And now, now that it's all over and done with, I feel like I missed the end, and that's not good. I'm not sure how to leave this country when it feels like my chance to say goodbye passed me somewhere last week while I slept through yet another day. I hate feeling like this, but I'm not sure I have the chance to change it; we sail before Sunday.
I just wish it didn't all seem so unfinished.
---------------------------------
Ali with some children when we were at the Hotel Ducor.
I can relate to what she says. I was there for the beginning, but not there for the end. I have continue to live my life since returning from Liberia. For the most part I have been able to focus on what is going on here in Scottsdale. There are moments that flash in through my thoughts about things I saw, people I met and the people still there. While the ship was still in port in Monrovia, I had a connection to the country. I was still able to hear of the life changing stories and see photos. Now they are preparing to sail and my connection is lost.
I ask you to please lift Ali, and all the crew, up in prayer. Some will be leaving the ship for good, others will be going to see family and then returning for the next outreach. But regardless of where the Lord is leading them, there is an adjustment time ahead of them and they could very much use our prayers.
Thanks.
No comments:
Post a Comment