Treating Patients in Port au Prince

by Megan Cavanaugh

February 10th

Woke up to the Baptist preacher at 5 am again- fire and evil and sin he yells. Off on our bumpy trip to back to the school we see about 45 patients from 9-1pm. One of my first patients is a thin young man, he comes in drenched in sweat, holding his head, he moans quielty in pain when he takes the seat. I barely have to ask him what is wrong. He is the face of malaria here. He tells me he has had a fever on and off for the last three days and now his head hurts terribly, he feels weak, can barely stand and he even vomited his water he walked so far to get this morning. His temperature is temperature is 107, his heart rate 120, his respiration 24, his blood pressure low. His lungs are clear, his heart strong, but FAST. I give him 1,000 mgs of Tylenol and 600 mg of Chlorquine. I explain with Papito that this should help with his fever and headache quickly but that the malaria takes longer to recover from. I tell him he is SO dehydrated and I am worried for him. He rests in the shade while I see more patients - a broken foot from a woman who was inside her house when the quake struck, a painful perforated ear drum with discharge- she says her ear "popped" during the noise of the quake.

We treat with all the right mediations and supplies because of our friends and family and people who donate make that a possibility. I check on the man with malaria. His temperature is down to 100.6 in just 45 minutes. He tells me his head still hurts. We give him oral rehydration packets and explain he can take more Tylenol tonight but that he needs to DRINK clean water. We explain how to take the rest of the malaria medication and he has friends help him home. I pray he will be all right, and I worry about him the rest of the day.

I'm not trying to be dramatic, I really think we saved his life simply by being here with the right medications. I'm here and I get the gratification of witnessing that but it takes about a hundred peaople back at home to make that happen. People who donate, help with fundraisers, collect and pack medication bags, coordinate flights and finances, drive us around the tricky streets of PAP, pick us up from the airport and make sure we are safe and fed while we are here. We have such an amazing network of support. We work till 1 pm and the only people left are those with problems we don't have the correct medications for. Discouraging, but I promise to return and have a women's health day.

I think we did good today I say to Papito and he smiles and tells me: You and I are going to kill malaria! And we laugh both understanding that we made a small dent today but we are taking on an endemic disease.

We go by our tap tap down town to Port au Prince. Many have tried to explain the destruction and devestation and failed. I will fail too, so I won't even try. I got close trying to take pictures and a strange Haitian man on a bicycle comes to me "no, no, no!" he yells at me. I step back, unsure if I have offended him and Abner wisks me away explaining the man is concerned for my safety- I have been standing underneath a huge sheet of concrete that is hanging precariously by a few wires. During the next tremor it will surely fall.

Devestation, destruction, the living conditions in the newly erected tent city around the collapsed national palace are unimaginable. But I have often thought this when I see parts of the slum of Cite Soleil. The smell of rotting produce composting in the gutter along with sewage and what else I can not imagine. It is a horrible smell, and people are LIVING here. I will go home and they will LIVE here. No bathrooms, no privacy, no comfortable place to lie down when you are sick or tired. They LIVE here.

We walk over to the statue of the slave that was freed, a beautiful sculpture that shows the strength and history of Haiti. Tents are all around it, close as they can be. We stare. A tiny little girl, her hair woven in tight brades, about the age of 6 is peering at me. She has a pink sundress on and no shoes, in the middle of all this sewage and squalor she like hundreds of thousands of children here have no shoes. She approaches me and grabs my hand, squeezing tightly, a million watt smiles stares up at me, her eyes and her smile so bright against the dark, smooth skin. I smile at her, genuine and touched that she has taken my hand. Haitian children frequently do this, they love to hold your hand, and its one of the thousands of reasons I have become a haitiphile, in love with it all.

But then she did something I've never had a child do before- she kissed the tips of my fingers. I don't know why she did it but I melted. I automatically take her chin in my hand and I tell her in Kreyol that she is beautiful. If its possible I get an even bigger smile in return.

I want to tell her so much more- to tell her that she is smart, and resilient, brave and kind and that she has a good future because of all that. That God does love her, and that he only loves and forgives, never punishes. I hope that she does have someone in her life who tells her all that, tells her everyday. Because she needs that, and she deserves that, after all she has survived and the fact that she is living in inhumane conditions and likely always wondering if she will eat today- she can still smile and take a stranger by the hand and show love. It's time for us to go back to Walls so I wave goodbye. She let's go of my hand and actually, for real, skips away down the grimy street off into the tent city.

Children everywhere amaze me. I wonder if that little girl knows what an awesome memory she just gave me, how bright and hopeful, and how blessed I feel to have met her. I don't know exactly how, but some tiny peice of me softens and changes because of it. Just human kindess.

Plannings, meetings, organizing the artwork we have had a friend, Jaqcui Labrom gather for us so we can sell it at a fundraiser. Coordinating a food shipment with Joan back in the US so the children of Abner's school can still eat, until some small part of a normal life returns in a few weeks. We talk about shipping costs, containers and ports underneath our outdoor living room by the light of the lantern. We repack and reorganize medication bags.

I call my friend Rachael in the US who is got her grad degree in art thearpy and is an emotionally wise soul. I tell her I have brought drawing paper and colored pencils for the children and I want to give them a therapeutic activitiy to help heal from the quake- or at least encourage a dialogue. Seeing a three store building split in half and turned on its side- I can not imagine how frightening that was, especially as a child. Your whole world actually falling down around you. Rachael advises me and Abner. Adner and I talk about how he will do the activity at his school and he tells me he will talk with them about HOPE and it will tie in nicely with our theme of creaing a wall to of pictures to metaphorically show how we can all together rebuild Haiti. The children will draw pictures of what they dream of when they think of rebuilding their school, homes, lives. Sherman has provided Abner with a published manual on how to talk about traumatic incidents with people, and Abner is going to have a meeting with the parents of school students so they can feel safe to discuss a subject that they are still frightened to talk about.

Time for bed, people singing, more people protesting somewhere far way, just light chanting. It's dying down now. Just the usual hum hum of the generator, my friends chatting in Kreyol, and the crickets trying to dround out the dogs barking.

Bon nuit