If all had gone as planned this week, I would be in Haiti tonight with a wonderful group of doctors, health professionals, linguists, construction workers, and engineers. But in a natural disaster the size and scope of Haiti, nothing goes according to plan.
It all started a week ago when a doctor and return LDS missionary who built the Healing Hands for Haiti Clinic sent out a call for volunteers with specific skills. I'm an EMT Intermediate, I speak some French, and I've lived and done public health work in a developing nation in the Caribbean. I had always dreamed of being able to go to Haiti one day, and though the circumstances were dire, or perhaps because of that, I rushed to answer the call. After two and half days and 850 applicants, I got word that I was selected to be in the first 150 to leave for the ravaged nation.
I raced to gather supplies and get the final inoculation I needed. My parents were supportive, excited, and a little scared, and so was I. I knew the conditions would be extreme and the work difficult but I knew I could do it. The thing that worried me most was not the injured patients, dead bodies, or aftershocks. Those I had been trained to deal with. I worried most about the camping aspect. I'm not a camper. I like my bed and my shower but I was willing to put them aside for this amazing opportunity. I felt prepared, anxious, but ready.
And then Wednesday night, hours before departure, a mandatory meeting was held that would change everything, at least once every ten minuets. We were told they had to cut the number of us who could go because of weight issues. The plane had to be able to take off, get to Haiti, have enough fuel to circle for 4 hours, land, take off again, and return to Florida with 80 or so orphans. My heart fell. We began the process of triaging amongst ourselves who should go. In the middle of this, we received word that our camp at the NGO compound at the airport had no water. In order to accomplish our mission, we had to be self-sustaining. Now water needed to be on the plane.
People headed to the warehouses to try and cut back on the medical and construction supplies we had been ready to load in hopes of getting water on board and keeping as many of us as possible on the plane. The UN and USAID have a desperate need for fluent Creole and French speakers. Among those in our group, there were 70. I fell into another dozen or so who could speak it well enough to do some good. I made the first cut. We reprioritized according to conditions on the ground. Doctors and nurses, medical support, engineers and construction. At ten that night, we had yet to make the final cuts. We didn't know what the final weight of the plane would be and so we were asked to go home and really search for the answer to whether or not we should volunteer to stay behind.
My first thought had always been that if it were between me and the supplies, it was the supplies that were going. They can do more good than I can at this point. But others encouraged me to remain and I began to feel my soul being torn apart with the decision that was before me. Returning home in tears, uncertain and anxious, I spoke with my parents. My father gave me a blessing. (Those of you who know me know that while church attendance is a struggle for me, my relationship with my Heavenly Father is a strong and personal. I needed to have faith that the blessing would give me answers, or at least calm my mind enough to stop it from spinning in circles.)
Reassured and much more calm, I took the next hour to think. I sat for a while, I even got up and began my final preparations. I felt more and more confident that I would be able to handle the difficult conditions but the surety that I was meant to go wavered. I wondered if my desire and even need to be of help to these people was causing the anxiety I felt. Just as my father had told me earlier that there was no one pivotal moment that would propel my life on it's course to some great Hollywood happiness, I realized that the mission's success did not turn on me being there. I had been assured that if I had patience, whether it was now or later, I would be able to go and serve and be of help.
I typed the most anxious email I had sent in my life. I told the logistics coordinator that if they felt they needed me, and the water and food to sustain me, more than the space and weight for supplies that would be critical, I would see them in a matter of hours. But if there were equally or more qualified people who they were struggling with cutting, then I would give up my chance and my seat.
The next 5 minuets were filled with uncertainty, hope, sadness, and every emotion in between. When the response was a heart-felt thank you for staying behind, I knew the decision was made.
Since then, the adrenaline and mental stamina that had been building since I first heard of this chance has yet to leave my system. I remain anxious. Even though I know I have made the right choice, a large part of me is dissapointed and angry. Angry at not being able to go and angry with myself for being angry. I'm exhausted but can't sleep. I read or turn on HGTV until my body gives up and slips into rest. I wake earlier than usual and can't nap. My body is still in disaster prep mode. I've been told it will take time for it to subside, that my sleep and my emotions will continue to be a roller coaster for a little while, but in time, I'll be fine.
In time. Patience. If I can hold onto patience the way the people of Haiti hold on to hope . . .
The second or the fiftieth wave of assistance is as important as the first, all for different reasons. My pride threatens to make me miserable at times, and then I remember the clearest word I heard that agonizing night and return to patience.
Pride and patience. I'm rooting for patience.
Please visit the Utah Hospital Task Force at healinghandsforhaiti.org
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