Let me tell you a little something about being sick in Haiti...

I’m going to start a series of blog posts, for anytime I lack progress to report or pictures to share. It’s called “let me tell you a little something about….”. I like to picture myself saying this in the corner of a room, index finger motioning to come sidle up to me and hear some secret or receive some important and sneaky information. I’ll tell you all sorts of things about the ins and outs of life in Haiti.  I have grand plans to report on the market situation, transportation, what an ordeal it is just to do simple things like planting a garden. But for now, I have the privilege of telling you about the past few days of my life. I’m so glad that the hurricane rains have ceased, and along with it, my 3 miserable days of malaria has come to a close. So.. without further ado,

Let me tell you a little something about being sick in Haiti…

Being sick in Haiti is not like being sick at home. My situation is especially unique, because I reside, not in a family residence, but in a retreat center that is currently a hot spot for visitors in the community to come watch tv, listen to the radio, charge their phones, or just see what crazy activity the two blan (literally “white” in Creole- but loosely applied to all foreigners no matter their skin color) are up to. So there is regular stream of folks coming through our doors, and much to my dismay, this didn’t change in the days of my illness.

For the first day, I was able to spend a lot of the day in bed, snuggled under the comforter- both because the rain brought with it a refreshing low temperature, and because I was riddled with horrible chills- with my trusty, and blessedly silent, cat, Missouri. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, and so I spent hours in my dark room resting as one should.

By supper time, I emerged from my room, mistakenly thinking that I had just overcome a tiny stomach bug. I gladly indulged in a piece of bread that one faithful friend had ventured out in the rain to buy, and a bottle of 7up that was carried by my barefoot 10 year old friend Gon. Everyone was so glad I was seemingly better, as was I, and I happily munched away.

After that, things went downhill. Or rather up the esophagus. I was now at the point where, if I had to be sick, I didn’t want to be sick in a dark, damp house- rain dripping through the roof- surrounded by an all-male cast of Haitian housemates (and of course Jon, who spent most of my sickness time watching movies with the local kids who stopped by to visit-which was ok because it kept them quiet and out of my room.) It pained me to see the concerned look of Pastor Maxo, a dear sweet man who I know cares about my well-being so very much, looking over me, wishing he could help in some way. Along with my horrible gastrointestinal madness, I was suddenly struck with a sense of guilt for bringing the mood of the place down. I wanted so badly to get better. But that wasn’t in the cards for me just yet.

I arose the second day, full of optimism that I had passed what I foolishly still thought was a stomach bug. At this point, the theory arose among my various spectators- that the illness was brought on by an evil batch of sweet potatoes I had ingested the day before. I pointed out that although food might make one vomit, it would probably not send them into a feverish tizzy.  They considered this for a moment, and then shook their heads at me- “No Annie, we’re pretty sure it was the sweet potatoes”.  Ok.

Throughout the day, I was offered a variety of foods and beverages. All I wanted was familiar tea, 7-up, and chicken soup. But mind you, we were in the midst of hurricane rains, and motorcycle was the only transportation option. So we were left with what little we had around the house. Throughout the experience, I was offered a vast array of home remedies and fixes.  These included, but are not limited to: oral rehydration salts they use for cholera patients (this one actually made good sense), a bottle of non-alcoholic beer (I drank part of it wanting to make the giver feel useful- bad idea), two separate teas that burned my through as they went down, and a can of V8 vegetable juice (which, after seeing it was only half finished, my friend Nikol shrugged her shoulders with an experimental “why not?” look on her face and dumped the rest into the soup she had just made me).  When said soup was set on my lap, it looked as though the work of turning it into vomit had already been done for me. I should have just dumped it straight into my bucket when nobody was looking to save the gymnastics my stomach would have to do to get it there. Everything they offered, I wanted so badly to accept with great joy, but I just didn’t have the energy to pretend and my well-wishers were feeling increasingly helpless, only adding to my guilt.

As my fever rose in the afternoon (characteristic of malaria) I was starting to be convinced that is indeed what I had. I was in constant communication with a fellow MCCer a nurse named Linda, in Port Au Prince (bless her soul). At her advice, I had already begun to treat myself for malaria the night before as a precaution, despite the refusal of my friends to give up their sweet potato theory. One person said, “no, you don’t have malaria. If you have malaria, you go to the hospital”, as if the act of going to the hospital magically changes the diagnosis. Going to the hospital was not really a preferable option because of the consistent rain and lack of car to get me there. The idea of freezing in the rain, sandwiched between two people on a motorcycle was not super appealing to me. And so, I persevered ahead into the unknown world of trying to care for myself, dealing with a tropical illness while trying to delicately navigate the cross cultural experience of accepting good intentions, no matter how unappealing they may seem in the moment.

Among one of the stranger things that happened was the regular knocks on my door, waking me from my rare moments of blissful slumber. They’d start quiet. Maybe if I just ignore them, they will go away. The knocks got louder. “Oui?” I’d yelling my dried out gravely voice. A door would open, a head pop in, and they’d say “Annie, are you sleeping?” to which, it was obvious the answer was “no”, but I’d respond with a polite “yes”. They would then nod, happy with this interaction, and promply shut the door. It’s just occurring to me now that they might have been checking just to make sure I was still alive. Either way, this practice didn’t stop when people were out of the house. I received several phone calls, waking me up, just to have to tell the caller that yes indeed, I was sleeping. “Good. I thought so”, and they’d hang up. I just don’t understand the logic here, but if it made them happy, so be it.

I am normally not that great about making sensible medical decisions for myself. In my grade school years, I would insist on going to school unless my mom would order me to stay home. I equated sickness with guilt for some bizarre reason, and so imagine my dilemma when I was faced with an array of options for my path to recovery. I felt pulled in too many directions with too many opinions to choose from. It was a wonder I didn’t have a nervous breakdown through it all. But I was too tired to even think about being anxious.

The third day, I was in heaven when Jon was able to go to town during a break in the rain and get me mint tea, club crackers, and ramen noodles from a “fancy” little market in town. I didn’t have jello cups, Netflix, or my mom, but shoot- I was over the moon happy with that mint tea.

And now, today, I am happy to say I’m sitting up, eating a bowl of plain rice, and I plan on walking around outside later. I did not have a particularly good night of sleep, so at 5 o clock this morning when my dear friend Emanuel turned the radio on to listen to a Sunday morning fire and brimstone sounding sermon, I opened the door and explained I needed rest so could he please turn it down. He came in a few minutes later, and with head bowed, as if he had reflected on it and come to an undeniable conclusion, he said he was going to take me to the hospital on his own tab. I almost laughed because if at any point in this adventure, now was not the time I needed to be going to the hospital. I then got myself out of bed and started cooking myself the rice, just so I could put a smile on my face and say “See! I’m going to eat!” This made him delighted.

Through it all, I really have to say this community really rallied together and cared for me as one of their own. I appreciate each one of my visitors, even if at the time I did not want to be looked at, talk about the weather, or eat what they had to offer. One particularly high moment came just after I had finished talking to my mom on the phone, sobbing, wishing she was here. A quartet of my young adult church friends stopped by to visit. Seeing my tears, they told me not to cry because it would make them so sad. I saw tears starting to form in their eyes, and I wanted so badly to not add to their sadness, so I bucked up and held in my emotion. It was a true moment of the community wanting to share the burden of one who was too weak to carry it alone. They offered to sing and pray for me, and I can say that I tangibly felt the sadness and weariness leave my mind. I didn’t cry once after that.

The entire children’s choir came to serenade me and pray as well. This morning, a few of the children were around the house, and were so pleased to see that their prayers had been answered. “Annie! You see? Yesterday we prayed for you and now you are better!” And I truly believe that the prayers of these people and many more back home contributed to my recovery.

Would it have been easier to have my American colleagues come with a car and take me back to Port Au Prince or to the hospital? Yes. It most certainly would have been.  But then I wouldn’t have had this opportunity to see once again, how blessed I am by my surrounding community here in Haiti. And just think, if it hadn’t happened, I would have had such an interesting entry to post in my blog! So for all these reasons, I am ok that it happened as it did. I’d prefer to never have it happen again, but I know I am in good hands if does.

And that’s the little something I have to say about being sick in Haiti.