An intense day. A long, long day. We worked on or learned
about: masks, listening, talking to parents, using translators, exercises, medical
lectures, meals, grasping it all. There was no time to think of the stock
market or the Christian Coalition, mortgage payments, or dentist schedules. The
only thought of home and Connecticut is Trev. I am missing him and hoping he is
okay.
I train to be a parent educator on an Operation Smile
mission to any one of a number of third world countries. It is a new, tentative,
and experimental position within their surgical teams. My head is spinning with
fresh information. My thoughts whirl. I worry about my confidence. Is there
enough self-assurance within me to stand on my own, to function productively as
part of a team under difficult conditions? The doctor who spoke to us this
evening was a reality check. Hope isn't always the outcome of cleft lip and
palate surgery in primitive environs – hope for a normal life. Sometimes the
best they can expect is a small improvement in function. Sometimes not even
that.
Still, in off times, I grapple with the “reason” question,
specifically the religious explanation. My answers to “why” involve chance, Fate-with-a-capital-F,
mistakes, and the random nature of, well, Nature. I would never engage in a
speculative conversation with a frightened parent over their god’s involvement
in their child’s congenital condition. Listen, yes. Comfort, reassure, and listen,
always. Hypothesize on faith and punishment, never. There is a contingent present
in our gathering holding fast to their religious dictum. I envy the comfort
they derive from it.
Heather, our soft-spoken artist, was so good today, taking a
tied-up bunch of weeds and grasses, asking us to close our eyes as she rattled
them over us. To me she offered a moment of grace - of composure and peace to
clear our minds before we set to work on our mask-making project. There are
rumbles afoot concerning her lack of traditional spirituality. I silently cheer
for her.
Out the window here it is pure beauty. Across a rolling
field of dried grass a hillside rises, covered with upright pines. Beyond this
is a larger hill, then a wedge of monolithic rock jamming up out of the ground,
the colored layers of it thick like a cake and topped with a roof of stalwart
pines. In the distance is what I think of when I think of the West, a vast
mountain range sugared with snow. Right now all is cloaked in darkness. As I
write this I see only a foot or two out into this dark night, not a wink of
light close or far, only the looming pine tree growing close to the cabin
window. Our indoor light is reflected in the puff balls of snow building on all
of its horizontal surfaces.
I am a quiet mover in this bunch of people. I’m not an
interrupter or an answerer. I burst out with a comment or question only a
few times. I function on a lesser scale than in my home domain. At the table
there, in the kitchen, in the smaller exercises we engage in with groups of two
or three, I am better, more confident of my words. I spoke to the entire group this
morning about my personal icon or symbol – the representative token of
ourselves and our lives we were asked to bring. There was a waver in my voice
but I think I got my meaning across. I brought along a cast of Trevor’s pudgy fingers,
taken by his surgical team’s orthodontist. He wanted to show four-year-old Trev
how he was going to make a mold of his mouth so they could wire his jaws
together during a surgery. The day was my birthday and, after carefully
examining it, Trev offered it to me as an impromptu gift. Now, years later, it
is my treasure.
Would I be strong on a mission? Would I be helpful, a useful team member? Would I contribute? I don’t know the
answer. I doubt myself. Is my voice loud enough? Can I think on my feet? Do I
have stamina and the ability to bend according to whatever situation arises? I
am a fighter. I know this and feel this but can I revisit the horrors? Can I
help parents facing those scary times with their children?
I must get myself to bed, to sleep in a roomful of snoring
women. I need to tiptoe in and climb up to the top bunk. I am waiting to be
exhausted and guaranteed sleep. People are drifting off. The noise level
subsides in this central meeting room. The fire in the massive fieldstone
fireplace dwindles. Shadows flicker across the deer and antelope antlers
decorating the walls of the lodge. I need a shower. I need sleep.
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