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Published: April 5th 2011
Thursday, March 17
I wake up just before daybreak. I imagine that I am a child again, waking to the mournful sound of a Vancouver foghorn. I fall back into a restless sleep, and this time imagine that I am living in a small town in northern Israel, listening to the Arab junk dealers coming down the lane. "Alterzachen!" they call out in Yiddish, which is pretty funny, if you stop to think about it. Loosely translated, this means "old things", and it makes me smile to think of Arabs calling out in Yiddish to an Israeli population. Stuff like that never makes the evening news.
Third time around, I remember that I am in Guatemala, and I haul myself out bed to see what the racket is all about. The women that work in the kitchen tell me that a truck with a loudspeaker on top delivers petrol to all the households, early each morning. I'm guessing that it fuels the burners, since the cook now stands rooted to her spot in front of the stove. Sometimes, she serves pancakes or fried plantain. Today, she ladles out oatmeal from a steaming cauldron.
Our days take on a predictable rhythm. We leave the lodge soon after breakfast, fed but still groggy, giant clusters of purple bougainvillea spilling over the Casa Damasco walls. Right away, I get to accompany a patient from the post-operative ward to the albuergo, an area set up into two dormitories, one for the men and another for the women. I feel a palpable sense of relief every time I do it, a lessening of visceral pain, even though my patient may still be in some discomfort. A strangulated hernia has been repaired, and now a farmer can get back to work. A priest had his troublesome gallbladder removed, and finally he is free of pain. A grandmother gets a hysterectomy and is relieved of a uterus that has been trailing down between her legs for 17 years. At the risk of being indelicate, let's just say the offending organ looked scuffed and battered as a weathered purse.
The lightness in my own step is enhanced by a group that gathers, as if on cue, to welcome each patient "home". Families sit alongside the ramp, sunning themselves like somnolent lizards one moment, then springing into action to greet our small procession with smiles and pats. It's a bit like running the last lap in a big race: kudos all round.
In the albuergo, the patient gets settled by another gaggle of women, falling over each other to arrange blankets and pillows with sisterly affection. I have done nothing at all (and I mean it -- nothing) but I always get a meaningful look or a squeeze on the arm as I lean down to tell each person goodbye. "Espero que tu recuperes pronto," I say, in truly terrible Spanish, trusting that the sentiment will get better treatment in Achi or Qeqchi, or any of the other 22 Mayan languages.
I hope that you get better soon.
It feels terrific to be saying this, considering all they've been through. And it feels terrific to be part of this experience, even though it goes roughly the same way every time. They get to put on their colourful clothing, and that brings them back to life. And they seem pretty happy, sitting in a wheelchair, clutching their Canadian gift bags and a vial containing a collection of their own gallstones. Finally, there's that look of gratitude as I ease off their plastic slippers, move them to the mattress, and tuck them into bed. It's one of the few occasions in life where things seem to go right every time.
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Judy Fern
non-member comment
Keep 'em coming!
Liz, this is great. It seems like it was so long ago but you brought it all back. Thanks, and don't stop. I love it! L, J