icecream anyone?

My team of 4 sat together this week to meet and go over some health care teaching we would be doing for a small group of ladies later on in the day. A small neighborhood of women are interested in learning about health care so the four of us discussed how we explain the basic principles of taking vitals to people who have very little education and lack the ability to communicate in English. It wasn’t the easiest task, but one we were excited to be apart of. Raising up health care workers out of ordinary people. That’s what we are after all. And empowering the locals to work after we are gone is what it will take to see true transformation happen in this city. After going through our lesson we decided to take on an equally challenging task for the day: evangelism.  We decided (partially because it was asked of us by our leadership to include it in our schedule this week) to take an hour and head out into the streets to see who we could talk to. As we left the building we live on and walked down the stairs of the big Cathedral in front of our home we saw the smiling face of Neveena. Neveena’s friendly smile and familiar “hellooooo!!!” to the other girls in my group led us all over to meet her. Apparently a few of the other girls from my class had met her sometime last week and she was so excited to meet foreigners that an instant connection was made. It was no different on this day. She smiled from ear to ear and eagerly waved us over to meet her two little boys and her husband.

            “this.. birthday boy… “ she says as she points to a little bugged eye child starring up at us with amusement.  She continues, “this my husband. He laugh at my English. It is no so good,” she points over to her husband who’s wearing the worker uniform of an attendant at the elementary school.  “You. Be my friend. Come to my home. Anytime,” she continues, enthusiastically.

            Me and the other three girls all gave each other the “go ahead” glance knowing we had the same thing in mind. One spoke up, “We have some time right now we could come over to your house but only for one hour” (making sure to emphasize our time constraint otherwise the great hospitality of an Indian would require we stay for breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner, story time, and the birth of their firstborns second child) Her husband glanced over at her, obviously understanding better English and clarified to her in Telegu that we would not have time to watch her grow old today and we have to return home in an hour.  “Ok, ok. One hour,” she says.  She said something to the shopkeeper standing close by and left the two little boys with her and we were off.  Neveena was filled with joy that we were coming over to her home. On the walk over to her house I thought about how this would probably never happen at home. You don’t just meet someone in the street, have them invite you to come over to their home at some point, tell them you can come now, and then just go with them. It leaves no time to clean up your house and pretend like things are always more in order than they ever actually are.

            “I am poor, very poor,” Neveena said on the way over. As to warn us for what we might see.  “That’s ok Neveena, we do not mind. We are just happy to spend time with you,” we all said in agreement and really meant it.  We walked down the busy streets until we came to a little “neighborhood” for lack of a better word. It was quiet and winding with little roads that led us up to a small blue gate she would unlock. She went before us, and like any mom, picked up the kids shoes and mess that lay before her shoving them into any open space she could find. We stepped into the small home where there were holes in the roof and mats laid on the floor right where the front door is. This is where the kids sleep every night-in the same area where the usually disarray of normal living happens. She rolled the mats up and invited us to sit down.  She turned on the fans (whew, what a relief) and we commented on how beautiful her home is. She had a hard time accepting compliments so instead she pointed up to the holes on the ceiling and said that every time it rains, it floods.  “We are poor,” she reminded us again, as if the house for a family of 6 that’s size of my bedroom at home didn’t signify that in the first place. But she wasn’t telling us so we would pity her. She was coming from a place of embarrassment and she felt like she owed us some kind of explanation.

She began to boil water on a small portable stove and insisted on making us tea. She nervously clattered pans together, spilling things and explaining that her excitement of us being in her home was causing her to be a mess. We asked her about her kids and her husband, about her arranged marriage, and about her life. We looked at pictures from her wedding day 9 years ago and saw photos of her children- such a proud mother. Neevena is a pleasure to spend time with. She’s a true “proverbs 31 woman.”

Neveena opened up to us and told us that her husband makes a salary of 4,800 rupees, which is about 96 US dollars a month. Her rent is 2,500 and she has school fees that must be paid in order for her children to receive an education. Her eyes moistened up as she said she has to hide when she drops the girls off at school because she will be in trouble for not paying their fees. She explained, shamefully, how she would love to feed us today. To have us back over for dinner, perhaps? But she has no food. She had to borrow a small bag of rice from her sister in law to be able to feed her family today. 

Everyday in India I am overwhelmed by the poverty. By the great need for money, for health, for homes. Everyday there are people who approach me who are blind, who are crippled, who are carrying naked children and begging for money. How can I help every person? Giving money isn’t going to solve their problems. I am well aware of that. Earlier this week I had a child cling to my leg literally begging me for money and I had to shake him off from me and walk away. There is so much corruption here and giving this child money may be funding that corruption. Or it may be starving him? I’m still not sure. There are thousands of people who’s home is on the street and who look at us as Westerners and expect us to make their circumstances different.  I don’t know our role in this. I struggle to find the answer because I know that what they need is much more than a dollar. I struggle because I know that even if I gave them money the chances of them being so far stuck in poverty mindset would probably inhibit them from moving forward with their life anyways. I struggle because I don’t have much money to give. I don’t have the resources to help everyone I see everyday. I struggle a lot here.

            But here I am, in the home of a hard working mother of four and I listen to the innocence of her heart. She never once asked us for anything beyond our friendship. We sipped our tea together and she was overwhelmed that we, white people, were sitting in her home and looking at pictures of her family and caring for her. Our time was coming to an end, but my heart felt burdened.

I have to do something, I thought. But if I give her money, it will just feed the lie that all white, western people will always be able to help. The truth this, I have very little money right now. I tried to explain to Neveena what we do does not give us a salary and how we must trust in God to provide for our needs. We told her that we work everyday and we do not get paid but God provides for us. We told her that today we left our homes to be able to meet someone and that God set up a divine appointment to meet her. That today, God was sending her some help. The language barrier was a problem but she understood the gist of what we were offering to her.

            “NO!” She exclaimed. “I am not asking from you, I just want you to be my friend.” We assured her that we would friends no matter what. Thoughts came flooding through my mind of how I could help. I can buy groceries? I can pay for her kids to have an education? I can give her money? But really, at this time in my life I as well, lack the resources to be able to provide in this way for her. I explained to her what living by faith means and I asked if we could pray for her. “No, no. no. no,” she exclaimed once again.  “I am poor,” as if the state of her income would deny her the right to have prayer. Tears filled her eyes. She felt so undeserving.

 “Sit down, Neveena. Relax. And let us pray for you… God loves you.” We assured her, ”Let us pray for you.”

So she did, and we prayed and Neveena allowed the tears to well up into her eyes and roll down her cheeks. The pain she had to carry around. The burden of being poor. The fear of not being able to feed her children. The shame of not being able to be the wife her husband needs her to be. The loneliness of being a mom and having no one to talk.  It all began to melt, and just for a moment I think Neveena was able to feel the freedom that Christ provides when He says,

"Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."

We came to a temporary agreement of how we could help her in the day. We could celebrate her sons 4^th birthday. Showing the heart of a true mother, denying herself any pleasure but turning away nothing to better the lives of her children- she agreed. We told her to bring the whole family and meet us at an ice-cream shop up the street from where we first met her.

I guess I get frustrated that money is always expected from Westerners but then I have to wonder why it is expected? Well, we have money. We do. We might not think we do, I certainly don’t feel like I have it-but compared to the conditions that most people spend their entire life in we really live in abundance. So often we hear the cliché that “we are the richest country in the world and most the world lives on one dollar a day.” I think we’ve heard it so much that we stopped caring. But here I am, living it and seeing it. And feeling really pretty helpless about it. It's real.

I don’t really have a happy ending to this story. I know a group of girls are committed to a new friendship with this lovely woman. I know that we will come up with ideas and God will help us help her. I know that. I hope that.

this week in India we...

taught some health care

 gave some health care

some of the beautiful mom's I helped deliver

and of course, delivered some beautiful babies! In fact, we welcomed our 100th baby as a school.

I just wanted to say real quickly that I am truly appreciative of everyone who is reading my blog and being interested in the work I am doing here in India. What I get to be apart of really is amazing but it's not without its challenges. The days are often long and hot and I really miss having a shower and eating food that doesn't include the phrase "rice and curry." I see a lot of injustice and often times I feel pretty helpless. It means a lot to me that people are seeing what I am seeing and they aren't even here. Your passion and support encourages me. I guess what I am really trying to say is, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

there's little things here that my team has been able to find pleasure in- outside of the hospital. We deal with a lot of heaviness and now that we have been in India for over a month we are learning how to make a normal life out of this. I want to be committed, and if I keep thinking this is temporary I can see myself having a hard time accepting it. This week somebody loaned us season 6 of House so 7 of us have been faithfully crowding around a little laptop at night to watch an episode. It's just fun. We usually have Saturdays off and they normally consist of sleeping in and searching desperately for food that's not ....well... Indian. I got a package from my mom this week that had candy corn in it. I opened it on my bed and almost before I could get the package out I had a crowd of Americans around me. Let me tell you- it was like we all opened a package of gold. Thanks Momma! We are all missing what home is like this time of year. We often talk about how much we like to celebrate as Americans.  Halloween, Harvest Festivals, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas and all the parties in between just because. We go all out in our country -and it's  something I've realized the rest of the world just doesn't get as excited for. I have to say, it's probably my favorite thing about our culture. So enjoy the holiday time for me, will ya?

On a completely unrelated side note, I decide to chop off my bangs this week. I was inspired after seeing pictures of my little sister from back at home. A short, sassy fringe is something I have always wanted to try so I thought, why not just give it a go. Half way through my chopping I was reminded that I have a face the size of a peanut and no real way of styling this new sassy fringe. So I just stopped. half way through. Just imagine it. 

Oh, glorious India.

another lesson from the hospital....

this week, in addition to working in the antenatal clinic and labor room, my team was also assigned to work in the admission room and postnatal ward. Whoa, there is just so much to learn. Just when I start to think I might have a hang of what I am doing I get a quick reality check. I am just a student. I.am.just.a.student. And while my desire is to just know everything right away, I know that the reality is that midwifery, and any other profession(especially in health care) takes time. I have a deeper respect for those who have dedicated so much time to understanding medicine and anatomy and how and the human body works. (Can I give a shout out to my dear friend, Crystal right now? -you work hard girlfriend and I am so proud of you. seriously)

It's always a little awkward to "report" to a new ward.  I'm often surprised that I don't have holes in my uniform when I leave the hospital. The stares from the people are so intent that at times I am sure they are shooting laser beams from their eyes at me. I maneuver my way through the crowd and walk down a hall into the "Admissions Room." They block the door for everyone else, but let me and another girl in. Maybe because we have a uniform on, but I am still pretty sure its because we are white.

I see a nurse sitting behind a book the size of a small planet. Her uniform is seriously from 1932.  Starch straight and all. I wish I had a picture to share. 

me: "hello sister. I'm reporting for duty. I have one hour." (after this I feel like I should stand up really straight and salute her) I am waiting for her to tell me what in the world she would like me to do.

her response: "ok, ok."

I lingered hoping there would be more to that sentence, but when I saw that she inserted a 'period' at the end, indicating she had said all there was to say, I quickly realized that if I wanted to get any experience in this room I'd have to do it on my own.

I heard the loud shreaks of woman.  "Is someone in labor?" I thought to myself. 

I turned around to see a desk with two doctors and a line of women. The scream was coming from a  doctor who was apparently quite upset with the women standing near her. I recognized the doc right away. She's a post grad, so she's still pretty new on the scene but you'd never know by the way she barked orders at anyone who passed by her. I decided to go sit at the desk with.

 "May I observe?"

I get one head bobble. that means yes. I proceed to sit down.

I watched this loud doctor yell at every pregnant woman who sat down. I wish I could understand what she was saying. I imagine the pregnant woman must be telling her that they just ran over her cat or lost her favorite pairing earrings cause she's just screaming at them with the most hateful look in her eye- like they have offended her on some very personal level. Obviously, this isn't the case. She's just a grouch. I watched her for a few minutes and her yells turned to pushes and shoves and I felt a small surge of anger boiling up inside of me.

I leaned over to the doctor I was sitting with and whispered, "is she having a bad day?" 

I knew she wasn't. This is just the way she always acts- like these woman are HUGE inconvenience to her life and the only way to deal with it is to make their life miserable.

she must have gotten what I meant because every time Dr Grouch raised her voice she would look over and give me a quick grin. 

Since I wasn't really being of much assistance, I got up to take some blood pressures of the woman sitting in line. I guess I was hoping the Grinch would simmer down but her harsh tones only increased. It was just irritating. These woman weren't doing anything wrong. They were just in the beginning stages of labor. They were in pain and they were in line and the way she treated them actually offended me. It was unjust. I thought about seeing a doctor yelling at a woman in America who was checking into the labor room. It just wouldn't happen. Ya, those waiting room nurses can get a little snappy- but pushing, shoving, screaming? It just wouldn't happen. 

In the moment I imagined myself marching up to her and pointing my finger in her face, raising my voice and saying,

"do you know you'd be out of a job in my country? If you spoke to your patients the way you're speaking to these women you'd lose your license. Nobody would take you in the hospital. You should be ashamed of yourself! These woman deserve respect!" 

and the crowd cheers.....

....and I quickly snap back to my reality... how could I not though with her high pitched screams ringing in my ears? I leaned over to my colleague and shared my frustration with her. I told her I would need to walk away for a sec or else I would probably say something I would later come to regret.  She leaned back over to me and grasciously told me that if I act the same way as her it wont solve anything. Almost before she could finish her sentence though I had devised a new plan in my head. I would kindly wander over to her and just say, "Doctor, you seem really stressed out this morning. What can I do to help you?"

-"ya," I thought, that will do. I'll come off gracious and kind but I'll still get my point across. I mean something must be said, right? She cant just get away with acting this way, right?! So I walked over to her and literally opened my mouth but the words wouldn't come out. Luckily she was too busy scribbling on someones paperwork to see I was hovering over her. I backed away. 

And then I was flooded by revelation. Where's my heart here? Is it wrong to act the way she is? Yes. Without a shadow of a doubt. Do I have a right to speak up and out for these women? Probably so. But what are my motives? I let her anger get passed onto me. At this point I'm not sure I even cared about the pregnant women anymore. I cared more that she knew what she did was wrong. I was coming from a place of irratation and frustration. Isn't that the same place she's coming from? How could someone who acts that angry not actually be that angry? 

Responding to her anger in anger no longer seemed like a solution. 

So a new question arises in my mind. How can I love her? How can I show her gentleness? How can I show her compassion? How can I find out whats really hurting her? Maybe, just maybe, if she is loved and cared about then she will be able to give love and care. 

Now, I can't wait to get back to the hospital. I want to get to know her. I want to love her.  I'll keep you posted.

God is teaching me to not just be a midwife, He's teaching me to be a woman who will stand with arms high and heart abandoned to His love. To look at His people with compassion. To love the unlovable.

I am learning so much in this hospital.

this picture has absolutely nothing to do with my post, but I get to hold these precious little ones everyday and I still can't get over it.

splish splash the hospitals gettin' a bath

One step at a time, right? We can't change everything but by golly we can try. ;)

As our team has tried to figure out ways we can implement changes into the hospital we decide to start where its the messiest. literally. 

the beds. covered and coated with layers of blood and mucous, they were in desperate need of some attention. Recognizing that providing a clean area for the women is just as important as giving them good health care, we have been setting aside some extra time to clean the labor and baby room.

Following are some 'before' and 'after' pics. ( i think the difference will be noticeable enough)

and for the baby room...

before

after

as the madams, sisters, and cleaning ladies look upon us quizzically as we are scrubbing away...

"Why!?"  They ask. 

Because these women deserve it.

Welcome to the hospital

***Warning that some of the pictures follow this post are quite graphic and may be upsetting to see. But they are real and they expose the conditions that hundreds and hundreds of women live through on a daily basis. I guess it’s a “look at your own risk” kind of warning.

I just finished up my third week here in India and my second week of working in the hospital. I have had the opportunity to deliver 2 babies and witness/be apart of 15 other deliveries. To say that “I love it” would be a grand understatement.  While I would love to go into some details about my first deliveries I feel that it is first important to explain the circumstances at the hospital.

I remember the first time I walked in through the doors. ..Crowded. ..Smelly... Ok well that can be the case at any hospital.  It was the uncleanliness that really stood out to me.  The dirt, the grim, the muck that clung to the walls and lingered in the air. Here I am in a hospital and I feel dirty.   Something’s just not right. The crowds of people are piled literally onto the floor. Waiting, sleeping, eating. I still don’t even really know why they are there. Family members I suppose.  It is musty and hot and there is spit on the ground and stains on the walls that look like a mixture of fecal matter and blood. I still don’t really know what those stains are either. As we walked through the gate that would lead us to the labor ward (which is guarded by a “security” man who barks orders at women being admitted and yells to keep concerned family members away) I was overwhelmed by the smell. A smell so potent and strong that it actually still lingered on our uniforms that were handed out to us while we were still in Australia.  Formaldehyde? Placenta? Death?  I am assuming a strong combination of all.  First thing I notice is that there are women sitting on a broken wooded bench, soaking in small piles of blood. I would later come to find out that these moms have just delivered. Many of them sutured from an unnecessary episiotomy and then quickly pushed out of the way so the next mom can use the bed. They are just sitting there. Alone. Without their babies and without any explanations. They are naturally hurting, sore, tired, and in dire need of some water and some rest- but they will go without it all until someone ushers them away to the postnatal ward.

Entering the actual delivery room for the first time is a sight that will most definitely be beyond my ability to articulate.  I remember my stomach churning but needing to stay strong and focused. The women are all together on these cold, hard, metal beds just yelling out for someone to care for them.  They are pushing and screaming and crying and alone.

This is not how I imagined a delivery room.

Privacy? What’s that.  Vaginal exams, babies coming out, placenta being delivered, sutures being repaired. Its all just out in the open.  Any private or embarrassing thing that may occur when you are having a baby is there for all to see.

I approach one of the woman and hold her hand and stroke her hair. It doesn’t take long for me to see that there are cockroaches crawling on the bed with her.  I try to push them away and continue to offer her support.

“docttorrrrrr” she keeps screaming at me. “checccckkkk me. help meeeeeee”

(she speaks just a little English.)

I watched a male doctor approach a woman across the way to check how far dilated she was. His harsh touch and roughness caused me to cringe so it came as no surprise when she yelled out in agony and tightened her legs.  This only fueled the doctors harshness so he smacked her legs several time, forced them to reopen and screamed something to her in Hindi.  Its not even that there is a lack of compassion that bothers me so much- it's that many of the doctors and nurses (madams and sisters as they are called) are actually aggressive towards these women. 

The value of an individual has been diminished and all that remains is a factory line.

One woman up, get the baby out, get the woman out. NEXT!!

I look around and I feel overwhelmed. How can I help? What can I do to make a difference in here?  There is a lot for the eyes to take in- so much that at one point I couldn’t help but cry.  I caught a glance from one of my classmates and noticed she was feeling the same way I was. These women are so beautiful and they deserve to be in a clean, comfortable, safe environment. They deserve to be treated like queens with their moms and husbands by their sides, offering words of affirmation and support. But this is not the case.  I took a deep breath, my moment couldn’t last for long. I wiped away my tears. I had work to do.

I could go on forever here but I guess the length of this blog is reaching its capacity. I will close by saying that although these conditions are terrible I love being there. I love what I get to be apart of. I have learned that the madams and sisters are not to blame for what I see as a poor lack of care. This is the only way they know. This is the way they have been taught- that pregnancy is a problem that needs to be fixed and if they don’t act the way they do than nothing will ever get done. Unfortunately they may be somewhat accurate. But it can change. I look forward to going to this hospital everyday. I know that there is hope in this hospital. I have learned that loving one woman and showing her the care that she deserves-even in the midst of an environment that she doesn’t- makes a difference.  I have learned that we can build relationships with the madams and sisters and we can learn from them. And they can learn from us too. I have learned that cleaning the blood off a bed after a woman gets up is just a small thing that makes a big difference.  I have learned that it is a great privilege that I even get to walk into this hospital and work amongst these people and with these women.  I have learned that God has not forgotten these people. In fact, He loves them dearly. So much that He sent 20 people from all over the world, from all over different walks of life to come and serve them. To pray for them, to hold their hand, and even to catch and welcome the new life that comes into their world.  Again I’ll say, I am so privileged. 

this is the area where people are waiting on the floor

this is the antenatal ward.

hundreds and hundreds of women are seen daily

this is the labor room.

gloves are reused after washing

this is the baby room. where the babies are taken right after birth to be weighed and have their cords cut. the little one on the floor didn't make it. 

This beauty was abandoned at the hospital after birth. Most likely because she is female. She sleeps on the floor in the NICU. She will be taken to an orphanage soon. She is perfect. Anyone interested? ;)

Welcome to India

Honnkkkkkk honk. Beep. Beep. Beep. Honkkkk. 

It’s morning here in India and the streets are already crowded and alive with the hustle and bustle of the 4,010,238 million of people that live in this city. I have been in here in India now for 2 weeks so I have began to form a familiarity with the culture and the city.  The rides in the riqshaws, the traffic, the millions of little motorcycles, the stares from the people, the dirt, the pollution, the crowds, the curry and rice (every single day x3), the spices, the smells, the “hellooooooo madams,” the chai, the squatty toilets, the lack of toilet paper, the bucket showers, the fact that all electricity goes out in the whole city for a couple hours several times a day, the traditional Punjabis we must wear everyday- always adjourned with a scarf even though the sun is shining brutally down on my skin. I have gotten used to the head bobbling and the Indian accent. The fact that there is no air conditioner and my skin and hair and nails often go unattended to.  

And as I awoke this morning on the thin cushion I call my bed and looked around at the pale pink, rust stained walls that I call my room and waddled over to my bathroom to pour cool water from a bucket over my skin to clean off -I just thought- I love my life.  What a privilege it is to be here.  I guess my conditions wouldn’t be ideal to everyone but I can say with great confidence (again and again) that there is no better place in the world to be than in the will of God. Knowing this is where my Father wants me makes it not just easy, but enjoyable to be able to only brush my teeth when there is a clean bottle of water around. These are my circumstances. This is my situation. But there is so much grace when you choose to accept where you’re at and learn to appreciate things in your circumstances.

These people are beautiful and hospitable. They are kind and innovative and hungry to know the love of a Savior.