I woke up this morning afraid of going back to the US. I lay in bed trying desperately to remember how to dose an insulin drip for DKA. That made me think of hyperkalemia, something with calcium chloride to stabilize the cardiac cell membranes; it’s been so long since I’ve been able to measure a potassium level! How will I ever remember American medicine? What if I can’t find a job? What if my job sucks and it’s all insurance companies and pharmacy faxes and chart reviews and midnight answering service calls?
Then I felt afraid of leaving the clinic. Bezu is so vacuum-happy these days and he uses the vacuum inappropriately sometimes; what if no one is watching and he hurts a mom or a newborn baby? What about the newly-diagnosed diabetic child whose insulin dose must be carefully adjusted? Will the nurses really do good inpatient rounds if we’re not here? As if the clinic will fall to pieces when we leave. It existed before us and will exist after. But I carried the responsibility of it so close to my heart for so long now. How do I just let it go? The nurses, the patients, how can I trust them and let it go?
Our good-bye party was last Thursday after work. Beer and sambosas, the giving of traditional gifts, and the repetition of the traditional good-bye speeches that we’ve heard many times as American volunteers leave. There were no tears or sentimental praises, just eating and drinking together and then disappearing into town like it was any old work day. It struck me then that it really was any old work day to the Ethiopian staff here. American volunteers come and go like seasons – you get used to one and it is soon replaced by another. Some are pleasant and some are not, but no one can predict, and no one can control it. Ethiopia is a life-changing event for me, but I am in no way a life-changing event for Ethiopia. I am a changing season.
I am disappointed in myself in many ways. In retrospect, I wish I had been braver, I wish I’d managed to keep my sense of humour in the face of adversity, I wish I’d focused more on the positive things and less on the difficulties and the deaths. I wish I hadn’t held back pieces of myself. I wish I had prayed more and relied on God’s strength instead of my own. But what’s done is done. I regret my weakness but I don’t regret at all my time here. All these experiences, these people and places, all the surprising diagnoses, the near misses and lives saved, every death, every fiery sunset, they are all seeds that will keep growing in my soul after I leave. I’m not sad to go. A little scared, maybe, to leave what has become familiar. But as I leave Africa, I know that Africa won’t ever leave me. And I don’t want it to. Our year in Ethiopia is a hard-earned treasure that I will hold close to my heart – the joys and the struggles, the successes and disappointments – knowing that in the end, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Then I felt afraid of leaving the clinic. Bezu is so vacuum-happy these days and he uses the vacuum inappropriately sometimes; what if no one is watching and he hurts a mom or a newborn baby? What about the newly-diagnosed diabetic child whose insulin dose must be carefully adjusted? Will the nurses really do good inpatient rounds if we’re not here? As if the clinic will fall to pieces when we leave. It existed before us and will exist after. But I carried the responsibility of it so close to my heart for so long now. How do I just let it go? The nurses, the patients, how can I trust them and let it go?
Our good-bye party was last Thursday after work. Beer and sambosas, the giving of traditional gifts, and the repetition of the traditional good-bye speeches that we’ve heard many times as American volunteers leave. There were no tears or sentimental praises, just eating and drinking together and then disappearing into town like it was any old work day. It struck me then that it really was any old work day to the Ethiopian staff here. American volunteers come and go like seasons – you get used to one and it is soon replaced by another. Some are pleasant and some are not, but no one can predict, and no one can control it. Ethiopia is a life-changing event for me, but I am in no way a life-changing event for Ethiopia. I am a changing season.
I am disappointed in myself in many ways. In retrospect, I wish I had been braver, I wish I’d managed to keep my sense of humour in the face of adversity, I wish I’d focused more on the positive things and less on the difficulties and the deaths. I wish I hadn’t held back pieces of myself. I wish I had prayed more and relied on God’s strength instead of my own. But what’s done is done. I regret my weakness but I don’t regret at all my time here. All these experiences, these people and places, all the surprising diagnoses, the near misses and lives saved, every death, every fiery sunset, they are all seeds that will keep growing in my soul after I leave. I’m not sad to go. A little scared, maybe, to leave what has become familiar. But as I leave Africa, I know that Africa won’t ever leave me. And I don’t want it to. Our year in Ethiopia is a hard-earned treasure that I will hold close to my heart – the joys and the struggles, the successes and disappointments – knowing that in the end, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
1 comment:
Thank you Dr. Jessie
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