Twelve days.
This is how long we have been back on Canadian soil, making Masaka appear at times an apparition in our minds. How can so few days spell so great a distance between one world and the next? Just as the trip from Vancouver to Entebbe, back in early June delivered us so quickly into a new dimension, so too did the trip back. Uganda feels such a world away, now that we are tucked back into the lives that we had left, suspended. The transition however has not been seamless.
The weight and pressure of this world began its heavy descent within minutes of stepping foot in the Vancouver airport. And we marveled at the complexities that life in North America delivers. While our time in Masaka was wrought with challenges (and too often: heartache), long days of hard work and was lacking in the myriad of ‘conveniences’ we know (and subsequently) take for granted here it had something that we have long given up, traded if you will: the blessing of simplicity. There we were tethered to nothing but each other and the Ugandan people, who became for us a treasure.
Our last few days were unremarkable, except for the sorrow that comes in leaving. My final day in hospital was relatively quiet when compared with others, previously documented. But I found on that day, as the door on my time at Masaka hospital began to close, that I was seeing this place through a different lens: unfiltered. It was as if a veil was being lifted. It was the veil that had fallen, many weeks ago: a veil of protection or stoicism. It was what had allowed me the ability, the strength, to work in conditions such as these and remain standing. With the end, my departure, so near in sight, I was suddenly struck through with the stark reality of where I had been all this time; could see clearly the injustices, the abuses, the abhorrent conditions. I found myself wrestling frustration and anger to degrees I had not yet plumbed. And I began to weep.
It was the simple act of carrying a baby from the delivery ward to the O.R. that broke me.
Sweet baby girl, born in a thick flood of meconium. I had not caught this little one, but was there to receive the baby after birth. She was very unresponsive and it was obvious to us that she would need help and so she was quickly taken to our resuscitation table. My supervising midwife was taking the lead as we tried to clear the airway. We plugged in the old suction machine and tried in vain to find a proper sized endotracheal tube. What this would allow us to do is suction out the copious amount of meconium, from baby’s lungs, that we presumed was in there. The tubing we did find was too big, would not be efficient in actually suctioning. But we tried anyway. Some air was making its way into the lungs, but this babe was gasping, she was fighting to survive! Again and again we tried the best we could with what we had, managing to get a small amount out. Eventually, once the babe had ‘stabilized’ (I use this term loosely) I wrapped her and took her down to the O.R. as it was presumed that they should have the proper-sized tubing there. Babies born by C-section, here in Masaka, are often suctioned, to clear the airway.
There we were, this little babe and me. I was racing across the hospital compound to get to the O.R.; a sunny day but the Masaka breeze, which I usually welcomed, was blowing. Her covering was insufficient, a thin little cotton sheet, still wet from birth, all the Mama had at the time and no supplemental coverings to be found (everything that we had brought with us from Canada had been used). I did the best I could to keep her wrapped, holding her ever-close to me, whispering sweet-nothings in her ear and praying. My heart crying out: “Please God, do not let this one go. Bless this little life. Bring her the strength to keep breathing. And please, please, let there be the proper equipment in the O.R.!”
When I arrived I found two O.R. attendants, dressed in plain clothes, just about ready to lock up for the day. They looked at me with eyes hinting of disdain, realising that their job was not yet done. I explained the situation and they were fairly certain that the tubing they had would be too big. It was. They too tried in vain to suction what they could with equipment we knew would not work. Nothing. And there was this baby in my arms still gasping, still fighting in spite of our failures.
I once again tried to wrap this sweet bundle as snuggly as I could, with what I had. We would make the same trip again, breezes blowing through the thinness of the wet cotton, only this time no hope of further remedy would be awaiting us. I would deliver her up into her Mama’s warm arms. I sang and I cried. There was very little else to do. When my own babies were still in arms, I would sing to them. They will still request those lullabies, in their darkest nights. And so the melody came as second nature, through the tears. What else did I have to offer? What else did this hospital have to offer?
A small piece of plastic tubing! That was all we needed. And it was no where to be found, to everyone’s chagrin. The lead midwife, shaking her head, the O.R. attendants apologizing…and in all of their eyes you could see it: the resignation. Their acceptance and apathy was palpable. They abhor the conditions in which they work and yet they have come to accept them.
And in that long walk back, I realised that to some degree, over the course of the last few weeks, I had too. We had done what we could, through teaching and with the medications and supplies that we brought, to bridge as many of the gaps as we could. But to some degree you had to accept here what would be criminal at home. Call it the preservation of sanity. But in that moment, as I held this new little life in my arms, the veil was lifted. The pain & anger & frustration that I had been holding in, holding onto, with such proficiency these last five weeks came rushing like a torrent. I could no longer withstand the grimness by which I was surrounded. In knowing that I was soon to depart, the blinders fell away and my heart fell open.
The truth is, I do not know if this baby girl survived, in the end. I had the unjust ‘luxury’ of leaving. I did deliver her into her Mama’s arms, a mother delighted, although naively unaware that tragedy may yet befall her. I left in a swell of hope, praying that this baby would be fine, thus the luxury of departure: I can always choose to believe that she is.
That was my goodbye: one of prayer & hope.
As for the departure from Eagle’s Wings, one could call it the same: one of prayer & hope. And this goodbye too was flooded with tears.
To thank Nick and the kids for all that they had done, the children from Family Two held a Farewell Celebration; preparing many songs and dances to perform for us. To try and describe in words the jubilance and energy with which these wonderful little people sing and dance, live and love, would be an injustice. Theirs are hearts that seem always overflowing and on this day, they flooded us.
We were all seated on the lawn, in chairs of honour, with the staff and children all facing us. And then they began. They sang in Lugandan and English, songs of thanksgiving. They danced with joy. Within minutes Isa and I were in tears, the rest quickly following. We tried, hopelessly, to regain our composure, but to no avail. What we were witnessing was so heartfelt and genuine, that there was no hope for us. Eventually, the speeches began from the staff to which we were meant to follow with our own. This of course fell to Nick who was the most emotionally-intact of us all. And it was at some point during this soliloquy that the children from Family Two began grasping exactly what was befalling them: they were losing their friends.
Their tears started with Jackie. Her sobs were heart wrenching and in turn had opened a floodgate. Within five minutes all 25 children were awash in tears, which of course did not act as a catalyst for our own emotional recovery! There we were, sobbing, with children wrapped in our arms, also sobbing. The children understand so little English that we were left only to the devices of hugs and kisses. And then it dawned on me: ours was another loss to these young, little souls. For these children had lost parents, relatives, brothers and sisters. That is why they are here at Eagle’s Wings.
Nick & Isa, Canaan & Finn had been this organization’s first volunteers. The love that flowed between Family Two and our own brood was palpable from the first day. I don’t think the children realised, this whole time that they would actually have to say goodbye. No one, not these children or our own, wanted to accept this closure. My heart broke.
And then Tata (Daddy) Aaron came to the rescue. He started dancing and drumming and singing. Slowly, one by one, over the course of 20-minutes or so the children rose to join him in the fun. We played tug-o-war, jumped rope and delighted in an endless stream of lawn games. We were now awash in laughter; sent in a cloud of blessing.
That is what our time in Uganda has spelled: immeasurable blessing. People keep asking us if we are changed by the experience: to which the answer is always, ‘Yes, of course.’ And yet, to attempt to define that change, to spell the transformation in words, seems futile; almost irreverent. For how are we to begin to imagine the ways in which our lives, our very beings, have been altered? I suspect that the true meaning and significance of these five weeks will take a lifetime to comprehend. At unexpected times a memory may alight and have an effect we could not have anticipated. But this is life-lived, is it not? Full of wonders and mysteries; a seed planted in obscurity that grows over time into a thriving, life-giving vine, its tendrils entwining themselves in such a way as to strengthen and sustain us.
Thank you for traversing with us a while, on this wily journey; for your prayers and support. May you too go well, along your road, collecting these miraculous little seeds of life.
~ Selah.
Webale (Thank You). A big thank you from all of the kids for all of the support and supplies that were sent their way.
Our trek home brought us to the Equator.
A Little Fun in Maska-Town
Isa & Finn making fun of a fashionable mannequin whilst out on the town one Saturday afternoon.
This is a view over the rooftops to the valley below, taken from our residence early one morning.
Bill and Ann who started it all.
