Closing Thoughts

It’s been over 4 weeks since I have been home from Haiti. A lot can happen in 4 weeks. In 4 weeks I restructured an after-school program and cleared the rubble from a handful of homes, and helped build the shell of a school, and climbed a mountain, and learned Creole, and found a new place to call home in the open arms of Leogane. In the US, a lot can happen in 4 weeks also. I was overtaken with and recovered fully from Dengue Fever, presented with several interesting and very different job opportunities, stuck on an emotional rollercoaster, said goodbye to two of my closest friends who left the city, and watched my brother say “I do.” Time passes quickly, no matter where you are. It’s just amazing how differently time passes.

Yes, I have recovered nicely from Dengue, despite my 4 days in the hospital and infectious disease scare. As to be expected, the first thing I did after feeling better was…you guessed it – run. Of all the things I had been missing while stuck inside resting, trying to beat out the mosquito born sickness, fresh air and running were top of my list. It was like taking in a lungful of oxygen after being suffocated for days. It was like finally being able to move again after too long of lying paralyzed. It was medicine for my body, heart, and soul.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in these four weeks. I’ve written several closing remarks and discarded them all, mainly because I hadn’t realized I wasn’t ready yet to write what needed to be said, that was still being worked on deep inside me. Two weeks out with Dengue Fever gives one a lot of time to think. My thoughts went everywhere. For most of those two weeks, I must admit, they were rather negative. Not towards my sickness, I still find it rather comical that that was the big “thing” I came home with, but more towards life, my life, and how I felt back in the meat of my existence. Being cooped up in a sunless apartment without fresh air can do that to you.

But once I was able to walk outside, everything began to change. The moment the sun kissed my cheek my heart of ice started to melt. The more I walked around outside the more I shed the negativity and found a new perspective I hadn’t expected and hadn’t had for quite some time. When you can’t do anything for two weeks, you realize how blessed you are when you can. I had a heightened sensitivity for how lucky I was to be healthy and mobile…and alive. It wasn’t just the sickness, but the two weeks of milling over every part of my life that brought me a certain clarity – one I had not anticipated. As if everything was going to be just fine. It would all work out. It always does. Believe me, dear reader, it always does. And I let go of so much stress and anxiety. I left go of so much baggage – and just let myself be- for someone who is used to always “doing,” it’s hard to allow yourself to “be.” It took Dengue Fever to give me that outlook and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Thinking back, I can’t help but wonder if a new perspective is what I was supposed to learn on my trip. Working far too many hours at jobs I didn’t like to be able to follow my dreams and then getting so bogged down at work that I wasn’t able to do what it is I came to NYC to do started to take a toll on me. A lot of things were wearing me down. And the fresh, clear viewpoint I was supposed to gain in Haiti got lost somewhere over the water between Port Au Prince and New York City. So sickness knocked me out for a couple weeks during which time I had nothing better to do than re-evaluate everything. Sometimes it takes a little more to get my attention. But this time I listened. I knew there was a reason for everything that was happening and I wasn’t missing out on it again, who knows what the next extreme would be! It may take a bit, but sooner or later I always come around.

…

It would have been easy to fall into the self-pity and “why” trap following my return. The last thing I needed was to take more time off work and watch as the unpaid bills pile grew larger and larger. And after a month of service it didn’t seem “fair” to get so sick. But I learned a long time ago that life isn’t fair – if I ever doubted that my mother was sure to remind me. I don’t know how many times I heard “no good deed goes unpunished” during my spout of Dengue. I laughed; it’s such a funny and seemingly true phrase. But all I kept thinking was how fortunate I was that I didn’t get a 103-degree fever in the 106-degree temperature in Leogane. I thanked my lucky stars that I came back from a disease-ridden 3rd world country with a viral illness and not malaria. There were so many reasons to be grateful. Was it a disappointment? Yes. But did I get the better side of the coin? Absolutely.

The week of recovery following the hospital I contemplated that peculiar phrase over and over. No good deed goes unpunished. And then came the day I went to the billing office in Jacobi Medical Center. One office visit to the Parasitological Lab with over 20 tests run and loads of tubes of blood drawn, one night in the ER where I received both a CT scan and a spinal tap, 3 nights and 4 days in the hospital, and plenty more tests and blood drawn – with no insurance. The man behind the desk apologized for the amount and handed me a bill for 170 dollars. I nearly fell out of my chair. Based on my earnings they were able to scale the bill down from thousands and thousands of dollars to 170 for EVERYTHING! Also, having looked at the original bill, I was aware that the generous and kind doctors who had taken care of me had left off several things. Not only was the bill unbelievably low, it also covered me for the next 6 months. If I need to come to the hospital or ER at all between now and January I can go to Jacobi free of charge. Incredible.

I walked back to the bus station, partially in shock, yet ecstatic over the news. And it hit me. Like someone turning the light on or finally pulling the shades. Bad things happen. That’s a part of life. No matter how much good you do, no matter how many people you help, no matter how generous you are – bad things still happen. Everyone suffers at some point. We all hurt, and break and cry, and fall apart. Nothing can stop that. But I believe that the more “positive” you put into the world, the more you get back. I wasn’t being punished for helping. It wasn’t some sort of reverse karma. One way or another I was getting sick. But because of the past month, I was cut a break on my illness. I was cut a break on the bill. I was cut a break on so many things. Does that make sense? Are you getting what I’m getting at? We can’t stop bad things from occurring, but we can lessen the blow – I believe – by the works we do. Maybe, just maybe, sometimes all the good we do can ease the pain when it comes knocking.

So do good, dear readers. Give more than is comfortable, care more than is safe, believe more than is wise, and at all times, with all people, allow yourself to love. Maybe that is actually the “big thing” I was waiting for. Find joy in everything. In the midst of the storm there is still much to be thankful for. There is always something to be thankful for. Take each day as it comes because each day has so much to offer if we open ourselves to the unexpected.

Yes, find joy in everything… that is something I learned first hand from the people of Leogane.

Day 20: Run

At the field hospital behind our base there is a volunteer who started a running club for the local children. Everyday at 430pm they meet to run for about 45 minutes – 1 hour. In bright green shirts that read “Leogane Track Club” on the front and “Vini Kouri” (come run) on the back, they run for 5-10 minutes, then walk for 5-10 minutes through the fields of Leogane. I have been itching to run with them since I heard about the program a couple of weeks ago. I have yet to run since arriving in Haiti. Though there is much to occupy my mind, and less to stress me out, I have been feeling that familiar itch in my legs to get up and just go.

After a long day of work and a tiring but fulfilling afternoon at the orphanage, I dropped my backpack and bolted out of the base to catch the tail end of the group. 20-30 neon green shirts lit the way like a beacon in the night. What a sight it was to see. Imagine the scene: dirt “roads” full of rubble and rocks you have to dodge in order not to fall, houses half destroyed or made of sticks, Haitians standing and sitting and grouping everywhere like bystanders at a marathon, and then along comes a group of runners composed of 5 blans surrounded by 30 Haitian children in matching shirts. The people of Leogane are not used to runners darting down the streets, especially in the middle of the hot season in the blazing sun. Everyone stared. We ran.

I stayed to the back next to a girl running barefoot and a boy in ripped Crocs. Only two of the older girls actually had running shoes, and I wondered if the group leader had provided them. The rest ran on the rough terrain in shoes that should have been tossed months ago. But the kids ran anyway. And of course they ran without complaining. Some held onto my shirt, some tried to link onto my arms and hold my hands. So much extra baggage made running even more difficult, especially after 3 weeks of not running, but I didn't have the heart to tell any of them "no."

Slowly my group fell behind. One of the girls tripped on the rocks and scraped her knee, causing the last of the team to slip out of view as I scooped her up into my arms to dry her tears. We decided to walk for a bit, my small group of 6. It didn’t take long to realize I had no idea where I was and the rest of the runners were too far ahead to catch up with. We kept walking, figuring we’d find our way sooner or later. We turned right down a little path between fields of sugar cane and corn and discussed the names of animals in Creole and English. They laughed at my accent and asked to know more. I smiled, feeling like I was in a dream.

After a bit we ran into a small group of Haitians. Straight from a scene from a movie – perhaps follow that bird - they stared at us with minimal confusion and then motioned us forward; waving their hands and pointing. We didn’t have to ask for directions, one white woman with a group of neon green was pretty obvious – they knew who we were with. For the next half hour, every little bit we’d hit a bend or fork in the road and momentarily question which way to head. But without fail there was always someone standing off in the fields or pulling a cow pointing us in the same direction of our predecessors. Cheering us on. Showing the way.

It’s amazing how identical rubble houses look. A half dozen times I thought I knew where we were only to find that we turned the opposite direction than I had expected, and I was more confused than before. It was starting to get late and I had to be at the nightly meeting by 7pm, so we picked up the pace to run again. Just as we started up I heard “Angie!” ring through the air. Angie is not a very common name in Haiti, so I assumed it was directed at me. There standing on the front porch with a smile from ear to ear and waving with enthusiasm was the woman who lives across from the orphanage where we work each week. She allows us to use the back of her house to lock up the 4 tables we keep for the children. I told her my name once and she has called me by it ever since. Of all the beautiful moments I have experienced in Haiti, this by far took the cake. There I was running in HAITI through the incredible countryside with children who were part of track club, far from the base, and a local Haitian woman not only recognized me but also called out to me by name. It brought a tear to my eye right there and I swelled with excitement. I waved back just as enthusiastically, jumping with each step I ran forward. For the first time I really felt a part of Leogane, of Haiti. In that moment I did not feel like a volunteer; I felt like a neighbor - like a local. And I beamed with pride at being a part of their community.

I now knew my surroundings and we were able to navigate our way back to the market next to the base rather quickly. The children took a short cut through an IDP tent camp I had never seen before and would’ve gotten lost in immediately if they hadn’t took it upon themselves to form a sort of protective bubble around me. Then one by one they fell off as we passed through the market where their tents were sporadically placed. One girl stayed with me, still holding my hand, refusing to leave until I walked through the gates of the base. We waved goodbye and I headed to the meeting 15 minutes late. A small price to pay for an evening I would never forget.

This, dear readers, is the beauty in running. My cabin-fever, my gradual fall back into taking on too many responsibilities at once, and all my thoughts over the upcoming weeks and months disappeared with each step I ran. I could hear my mom’s voice: “I told you you’d feel better after you ran.” I always do.

Day 1: The Long Run (6/19)

Everyone handles situations differently. Just the same as we all grieve in our own special ways. I handle most situations and emotions by running. I use that words loosely because “running” has come to have many definitions throughout the years. When I went through random sprouts of sadness (particularly this past year) my mom always ended each of my sobbing phone calls with, “why don’t you run - you always feel better after you run.” So true.

There are many different kinds of runs. I categorize mine into four. Two of which are most common, at least as of recently.

1.) I run when I’m confused, unsure, or feeling lost. These runs are long and steady. They are a search for something. Constantly looking forward, in an earnest hunt for an answer. If I keep running long enough, I will eventually find it – at least so I believe.
2.) Runs to clear my head. Those runs always turn out to be practically sprints. Running away from an invisible problem that is forever on my heels, one step shy of running me down. But if I run fast enough, it’s as if I will be able to outrun it. Those runs are very short.

Today I ran again, this time it was 4.5 hours in a plane, 3 hours waiting in the stifling heat at the entrance to Port au Prince, followed by a 2.5 hour drive in a truck that creaked over every bump in the road from PAP to Leogane. Like all my long runs this one, too, was in search of many answers.

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I have been milling over in my head how to describe the drive from PAP to Leogane. And my final conclusion is: there are no words. Nothing I could ever write, no lengthy descriptions or beautifully terrifying adjectives could ever paint a good enough picture of what I saw and experienced on that drive. The sheer amount of people crowding in the so-called streets which were over-filled with make-shift tents and vendors selling everything from tires to papayas. Faces weaving in out of cars trying to sell water, bread, popsicles - anything. Every time the truck slowed even a few miles, little boys begging for money and food bombarded the half raised window - the only protection against reaching arms. At some turns there were so many people in the streets only one lane for cars existed and shirt sleeves flapped across my face. Everywhere I looked there was destruction – mounds of rubble, mile after mile of garbage – and yet it was evident that so much of that existed pre-earthquake. But, you better believe the quake left her filthy prints everywhere, despite the chaos that may have existed before her breath.

I went to Haiti for many reasons (that, I’m certain, is better saved for another day), one of which was to get away. With each pile of broken down buildings we passed, each longing face we left behind, each mile that brought us deeper into the country, my life in New York slipped further into the distance. It all seemed so silly now, so inconsequential, so selfish. All the responsibilities, the problems, the stress, the heartbreaks…they all just melted in the blistering sun, leaving behind a blank slate ready to start over - to be wide open to all the love and suffering this country has to provide.