25 July 05
Perspective. It is something that is hard to get, hard to keep, and is the most important thing to gain when you are bogged down in details.
I have been bogged down with the details. Eat. Write paper. Fill out paperwork. Excavate. Fill out paperwork. Eat; whine about food. Fill out paperwork. Sleep when you can. Get up, eat and whine about the food. Fill out paperwork.
In the day-to-day part of this project, I have had a hard time with perspective. This week helped me with some of that.
Matt has been coming down with something since Thursday. Friday he looked a little peaked, and stayed in. The chills and fever hit about midday. By the time we got home, he was a wreck. I took him into Flores to spend the night at the hotel, so he could go to the private clinic first thing Saturday. He got a phone call from Papatulo's daughter-in-law just before I took him in, asking if we could take her into the clinic in Sta. Elena. Sure. So when we passed by the house, in perfectly typical Guatemalan fashion, she got in, but also the sick cousin (we thought she was sick, but it was just the cousin), Luki's husband and kid. To say nothing of the dog. I dropped them off at the clinic, then took Matt (turns out he has dengue, a nifty little tropical disease transmitted by mosquitoes. And, as Ingrid put it, we have all been sharing needles) to the hotel. On my way back through, I stopped to pick up the Guatemalans.
They were not ready, but said it would only be a little bit more. They were prepared to take a cab back; I said "Don't be silly. 20 minutes? I'll wait."
After waiting outside with the mosquitoes for a while, Sylvia (the little girl) and her dad and I all moved inside to see how it was coming. And bumped into Perspective.
A woman came out of one of the rooms. She was hysterical. I looked to Luki. She told me that the woman's three-year-old son had just died. Intestinal worms.
The woman was comforted by her family and friends. I will not forget her pain, ever. She cried. She fainted, and was revived. She paced and shuffled. She talked to herself, she accepted the consolation of her friends. She pounded her head with her fists, and was gently restrained. She walked over and touched the door where her son's body lay, willing her situation to return to normal. Her husband went quietly across the street to pick out a casket.
And she kept turning around, with eyes as dead as those of her son, to look for help. And for hope. And everyone looked away. What can you do for a woman whose child has died? Only three-year-old Sylvia did not look away. But I imagine that being comforted by a three-year-old over the death of your own three-year-old is small comfort.
I walked away with some perspective that night. Food? I have plenty. I just am not fond of the taste. Job? My job is the best in the world. I am frustrated with it, but that makes it more interesting. People around me? I would choose these guys, if the choice were mine. We don't always all get along, but being in the field is like being married to people who you did not choose – you are with them 24/7, working hard and relying on each other. Money? I wish I had gotten any one of the grants I requested. And the money may still come. But I have wonderful support from Tulane, and I have enough to do what I need. None of this comes without effort. We are all grumpy, exhausted, bordering on being sick, dirty, hot sweaty, frustrated, hungry, and irritated with most everyone in the world at this point.
But I did not watch my child die. I do not have to feel that horrible, body-wrenching pain. I still have light in my eyes. There is hope.
Perspective. It is something that is hard to get, hard to keep, and is the most important thing to gain when you are bogged down in details.
I have been bogged down with the details. Eat. Write paper. Fill out paperwork. Excavate. Fill out paperwork. Eat; whine about food. Fill out paperwork. Sleep when you can. Get up, eat and whine about the food. Fill out paperwork.
In the day-to-day part of this project, I have had a hard time with perspective. This week helped me with some of that.
Matt has been coming down with something since Thursday. Friday he looked a little peaked, and stayed in. The chills and fever hit about midday. By the time we got home, he was a wreck. I took him into Flores to spend the night at the hotel, so he could go to the private clinic first thing Saturday. He got a phone call from Papatulo's daughter-in-law just before I took him in, asking if we could take her into the clinic in Sta. Elena. Sure. So when we passed by the house, in perfectly typical Guatemalan fashion, she got in, but also the sick cousin (we thought she was sick, but it was just the cousin), Luki's husband and kid. To say nothing of the dog. I dropped them off at the clinic, then took Matt (turns out he has dengue, a nifty little tropical disease transmitted by mosquitoes. And, as Ingrid put it, we have all been sharing needles) to the hotel. On my way back through, I stopped to pick up the Guatemalans.
They were not ready, but said it would only be a little bit more. They were prepared to take a cab back; I said "Don't be silly. 20 minutes? I'll wait."
After waiting outside with the mosquitoes for a while, Sylvia (the little girl) and her dad and I all moved inside to see how it was coming. And bumped into Perspective.
A woman came out of one of the rooms. She was hysterical. I looked to Luki. She told me that the woman's three-year-old son had just died. Intestinal worms.
The woman was comforted by her family and friends. I will not forget her pain, ever. She cried. She fainted, and was revived. She paced and shuffled. She talked to herself, she accepted the consolation of her friends. She pounded her head with her fists, and was gently restrained. She walked over and touched the door where her son's body lay, willing her situation to return to normal. Her husband went quietly across the street to pick out a casket.
And she kept turning around, with eyes as dead as those of her son, to look for help. And for hope. And everyone looked away. What can you do for a woman whose child has died? Only three-year-old Sylvia did not look away. But I imagine that being comforted by a three-year-old over the death of your own three-year-old is small comfort.
I walked away with some perspective that night. Food? I have plenty. I just am not fond of the taste. Job? My job is the best in the world. I am frustrated with it, but that makes it more interesting. People around me? I would choose these guys, if the choice were mine. We don't always all get along, but being in the field is like being married to people who you did not choose – you are with them 24/7, working hard and relying on each other. Money? I wish I had gotten any one of the grants I requested. And the money may still come. But I have wonderful support from Tulane, and I have enough to do what I need. None of this comes without effort. We are all grumpy, exhausted, bordering on being sick, dirty, hot sweaty, frustrated, hungry, and irritated with most everyone in the world at this point.
But I did not watch my child die. I do not have to feel that horrible, body-wrenching pain. I still have light in my eyes. There is hope.
No comments:
Post a Comment