It Was Too Big to Write

Writing is my therapy, but until now, I couldn't really do it.  I've made personal appeals to politicians in carefully constructed letters, shared information with loved ones via email, and set up my blog to prepare for sharing our new family life once our kids come home.  But, I hadn't been able to write about "it" -- the quake -- not really.  It had been too big, and while the intensity of it pushed out into regular headaches, I needed time.  I owed to my students a solid finish to the academic year, and then there were the sign-ups and kick-offs for all of Hunter and Baylor's summer camps, programs, and lessons.  Always with a project (or two or five) underway, I've got no shortage of things to do, but with a looser structure to our days I've retreated to my home office for hours at the computer -- watching January news footage on Youtube and checking out recommended blogs.  And crying.  Breathing.  Healing.  As my nerves lie bare in this process, I am admittedly intolerant of excessive noise and am presently quite horrid at multi-tasking.  I don't know how many times I 've said to my children this past week, "I'm.  Doing.  Only.  One.  Thing.  At.  A.  Time." 

I need to slow down to let it out.

I wonder where are the elegant, youthful Haitian waiters from the Hotel Karibe where Chad, Hunter, Baylor, and I visited with Josianna and Wendy in August, and then my mom and I with the kids, again, in December.  Calm and pleasant, one fellow smiled widely in great appreciation when I nudged Josianna, "Di 'Merci'."  (Say "Thank you.")  Are they alive?  Or injured?  Do they have gainful employment?  Food?  We'd heard that January 12th destroyed the Karibe -- the nest in which we nurtured the children we were prepared to have join our family; our safe haven in a foreign land about which we learned much, yet still knew too little.  It had seemed untouchable -- the metalwork through which the tropical air flowed in the lobby, the wave-patterned, wooden wall panels near the elevators, and giant mirrors nearby in which Josianna and Wendy stole glances of themselves with giggly eyes and self-conscious smiles.

Humble homes by numbers uncountable were crushed, and I blush sheepishly, knowing that fine hotels symbolize to many Haitians the gross imbalance of wealth in their country.  How can some dine on fine French cuisine and sleep in air conditioned rooms beneath eiderdown comforters while over 80% of the population toils in poverty  .  .  .  so very many good and talented people starving and dying?  I am sheltered and weak.  Spoiled and silly. 

Despite my sociological studies of Haitian culture and my indignation and concern about the heavy load that burdens the Haitian people, the seemingly trivial news of the Karibe stuck to me like a bur.  It was personal.  Looking for beach towels in a cabinet at home earlier this week, I came across a little turquoise and green bikini and size 5 swim trunks.  Josianna and Wendy's pool attire.  To say it gave me pause would be an understatement; I tucked them into my large keepsake trunk.  The Karibe is where I swam for four days with those babies.

I know I have to give myself permission to feel all of this, but I also have a deep, personal need to take small bites of the unimaginable horror of the quake across the mountainous island nation and mourn the enormous collective loss.  After weeks of 'round the clock CNN, you'd think I'd seen just about all one could have viewed of the trembling and of the aftermath, but when already nauseous, shaken, and numb, I couldn't absorb it all.  At some point the brain just can't take any more.  It just won't.  So, now, I go back to those days to take another look; rather than deep down where it tried its best to kill my soul, I want it out in front of me where I can register with my conscious mind, where I can look at it, turn it over and look at it some more.

A blog entitled "Haiti is Such a Strong Word" has really knocked my socks off and touched me deeply.  An American physician's assistant working in a field hospital in Port-au-Prince, "Barbie B." is as "on the ground in Haiti" as one can get, and her writing is downright moving.  In her post "City of the Sun" she is affectionately honest about the reality of providing medical assistance in Cite Soleil, arguably the most impoverished and dangerous slum in the world.  She mentions as a matter of context that the humanitarian parole program for adoption-bound, provably orphaned children made available a now-empty orphanage as a field hospital.  In "5 Weeks Out," however, the P.A. describes her therapy work with a newly orphaned little boy who sings mournfully to himself, "Mama, Papa dead  .  .  ."  Oh, how my heart pains for this child, and to realize he is only one story of so, so many.  And in her "Looking Up" she describes the kids who hug her tightly, and it flashes me instantly to December 20th when I arrived at BRESMA to pick up the kids for our visit.  Wendy's little muscled body clenched snugly around mine; there was a seriousness on his face, and he wasn't letting go.  Now, he is with his first Mama, and his Papa, and we pray that he won't ever have to let go.  Sweet child.  Sweet children.  Oh, thank you, God, that they have their parents, and a "Manmi" and "Papi" who wish them well from America as a bonus.

It was the entry "The Depths" that brought me to my knees.  The blogger shares a first-hand account of her journey with a female patient back to the woman's crumbled home, under which were crushed three of her children.  If you feel even the least bit inclined, I urge you to read her account for yourself; it is indescribable intensity, spirituality, pain, and humanity.   (barbieboots.blogspot.com)

And I realize that I need to cry my own tears, but how lucky am I?  How damned lucky am I that all of my children are alive.  Uninjured.  Healthy.  Whole.  I've written numerous times about the resilience of the Haitian people -- their ability to survive and to carry on, but this mother took me to a whole new level of understanding.  Even then, only the degree of comprehension that can be attained from the outside; God willing may I never gain full wisdom on this topic.

"Love," her first post, describes a field of patients joining in a robust song of blessing one evening -- a blessing upon the medical staff.  The injured lie in shock, grief, and pain -- tissues torn and bones crushed, but as a group of people, they would not be broken.  In their time of greatest physical vulnerability, they muster spiritual strength and share it with those who came to their land with the intention of being the healers.  The whole camp is in song. 

In a sea of physical agony and national devastation, how does a person carry on?  Child after child, mother after mother, uncle after uncle?  Hunger.  Amputation.  Death.  Hands held out for food, and cries beckoning for help. 

The medical missionary quotes Mother Theresa:  "If you cannot help everyone, help one."  The small is important alongside the big.  In fact, it may be the only thing that can matter.

And I wonder about the one Haitian-American woman my mom and I met at the Embassy in December.  She wanted to adopt her 14-year-old nephew, and had flown down to Haiti to sort out some paperwork in person.  We talked during our lengthy wait in our row of plastic chairs.  Was she back in the States when the quake hit?  Where was her nephew?  Are they joyfully united?  Or  .  .  . ?

I question why I was worthy of Wendy's last hug to our family.  Chad couldn't travel over the holidays; he looked after Hunter and Baylor while I represented the whole of us in Haiti.  I am saddened that he didn't get to see the kids, again, as we had intended for March.  I am selfishly anxious for another update on Josianna and Wendy, but also respect their parents' perspective; I don't know if we will be welcome as unofficial extended family to the four of them or if we would be a reminder of their time of chosen separation and difficult decisions.

I try to convince myself that all of the bigger perspectives should make my dealing with the uncertainty and extended wait for Beatha and Jameson seem perfectly manageable and low-stress.  But it doesn't.  Because we're still in the middle of that very real and present worry, and it's still too big.

God, forgive me my selfishness and short-sightedness, the human limitations of my mind, and the weakness of my heart. 

Watch over Josianna, Wendy, and their parents, Josue and Tadeline. 

Comfort Beatha and Jameson, instilling in their hearts and minds a confident wisdom that the Mama and Papa they met in Pittsburgh five months ago still love them and work daily to bring them home. 

Hold in your hand the Mamas who visit the graves of rubble that swallowed their children and the babies who survived what their parents did not. 

May we all do what is right for the Haitian people, do these things for the right reasons, and do so in the right way.

With humility, that's what I've got for now.  Amen.

(The photograph of the woman standing amid the rubble of her home is property of the blog "Haiti Is Such a Strong Word."  The Haiti heart image and the candle picture have been borrowed from the inter net.)