Just Imagine

Often while on board I take little moments when I see patients, to stop and really imagine myself as them. I imagine what it is like to live as they do with the condition that they have. When I do this, I am often overwhelmed with compassion for these people. It also reminds me of how strong they are to have gone through what they did, and what an honour it is to even have known them. Please just take a moment and stop and think about what it must be like for these patients and their families…

 

Burn contractures (unable to exend knees)

Lipoma

Cataracts

Bowed legs

 

Goiter

    

Windswept legs

Arm burn contracture

Noma

I wrote a little bit about what I imagine it would be like for a patient with a large tumour on his/her face or a woman with a fistula. Keep in mind that these are not the stories or thoughts of a specific patient, though my interpretation is based off of the conversations and lives of our real patients in the hospital.

A patient with a large facial tumour:

I imagine what it would feel like to have people stare wherever I go. And not in a friendly way, but eyes full of disgust and fear as I walk down the street. They cross to the other side and avoid looking directly into my eyes, as if they could contract what I have. Those who are bold enough to talk to me, call me names or even tell me that I deserve to die. I know it’s hard for my family to be with me. I know I shame them because many believe that I am cursed or have done something to deserve what I got. I don’t remember doing anything that bad, but I believe them because that is all I know. I ask every God for forgiveness, and beg Him to heal me. But it continues to grow, and the tumour slowly starts to narrow my airway. I have to start tilting my head a certain way in order to just breathe normally. I am no longer able to lie flat on my back or walk longer than 10 meters without stopping or re positioning to catch my breath. 

Fear starts to build as I realize that my airway is slowly closing. My daily thoughts are consumed by the reality that I will slowly suffocate to death, and I can’t think of anything but that simple fact. To avoid the constant panic attacks I try to keep busy, but my condition prevents me from doing a lot. Unable to do enough daily work because of the incredible exertion, I become an even bigger burden to my family. Dreams of my siblings are put on hold, as all the money and resources are given for my cause. We visit doctor after doctor, all with the same result; that my tumour is too big and I will die if I receive surgery. Some say they would attempt to try, but I would never be able to afford a fraction of what it would cost. My mom sends me to beg on the streets in hopes of raising some money. I hate it because it draws more negative attention, and I would rather just hide. My teeth are no longer able to chew the food I used to love. Therefore I no longer feel like eating, as it is too much work to prepare and swallow. I only eat just enough liquid foods to survive.  The tumour pulls at my skin and is painful. Often I can’t sleep because of it. The weight of it causes my back and neck to be sore as well. Talking becomes too much work. My tongue is pushed too far upwards by the tumour to make clear sounds. I decide to be quiet rather than repeat myself constantly because people don’t understand what I am saying. I slowly become completely cut off from society. I isolate myself from my family even, as I convince myself they would prefer I just die. That everyone would be happier without me. Yet I am still here. A ghost of what I used to be. Struggling each day to do the very basic human functions; breathe, eat, and sleep. Day after day. Year after year. And it will only get worse. I can’t help but ask myself, why am I here? What have I done to deserve this?

A patient with a fistula:

I can imagine feeling the incredible shame, loss, and pain as my child slowly dies in my womb. Unable to push him out, I failed at the one thing that gives me value in my village: producing a child. The pain and trauma of spending 5 long days in labour without pain relief will stay with me forever.  And I can't even start to process the loss of the baby I have been carrying for 9 months. After finally passing out from the pain, the women of my village had to force the deceased baby out of my vaginal canal, causing more damage then what was already done. Now I have a hole in my bladder, causing a constant stream of urine to run down my leg. I try hard to find things to absorb the urine, as I can’t afford to buy diapers or pads. I make all the fabrics I have smelly and do washing constantly, but we don’t have a lot of water and it can be dangerous to bathe and get water as it is far away. I give up trying so hard and just let the urine flow. I wake up constantly feeling wet. I drink less to prevent more from streaming down, and often get dehydrated and have very low energy because of it. I try to sit in a public place, but people avoid me because of the stench and because there is a pool of urine starting to form below my chair.
 I want to go to church, but there I am also not welcome. I am told I am not fit to be in the house of God. My husband is disgusted with me and abandons me after realizing it is a problem that cannot be fixed. He doesn’t notice I am gone though, because he has 3 other perfectly fine wives. My family rejects me, as they have been told I must have done something to deserve this. I believe them and blame myself, accepting their rebukes and harsh words. This mindset is all I have ever known. I have no husband anymore, no children, my family has abandoned me, I have never been to school, and I have never been outside my village. Too scared to leave, I isolate myself at the edge of the village from the people who raised me but are now rejecting me. I live outside for a few weeks, begging for food, before mustering up the little energy I have left to build a little shelter for myself. No one will help me. I live close by, but I no longer belong to the only community I have ever known. My life feels like it is over, yet I am only 14 years old.

Patient after patient. Story after story, of where so many of them reached a point of hopelessness. But as I have learned, there is always hope. And for many, it came in the form of Mercy Ships. One of our surgeons who has been here for over 30 years, Dr. Gary Parker, gets asked all the time how he deals with the fact that there will always be millions of people who need help. He always responds, "but we can change the life of the individual, one person at a time." And that is it. To change and bring hope to even just one person, makes this whole operation worth it. Not only can I do it on Mercy Ships though. I pray that I can imagine the lives of many who suffer at home too, and have compassion and inspiration to help one life at a time, whatever that may look like. Here are a couple stories from last year that are so inspiring.

Here is Yaya. A Cameroonian woman who underwent surgery on the ship. Her husband after seeing her for the first time exclaimed, " you have become so beautiful!!"



Here is Esther. A Cameroonian woman in her 50s. She suffered with a fistula for over 30 years before being healed on our ship. I think the photo says it all :) 

*This blog does not necessarily reflect or represent the official opinions or ideas of the Mercy Ships Organization.