These curses we bare in life; the constant punches, these gaping holes… maybe
they’re all just blessings, testaments to our strength, sprouts in new
directions, part of the very plan in the first place...
I was supposed to come back to
the States for a maximum of 45 days. The Peace Corps was “concerned” that I was
“getting sick too much,” and forced me into a hiatus filled with what they
hoped would be medical appointments and “rest.” Though the list of what I
contracted during my 13 months in Uganda seems threatening, the reality is it
wasn’t that bad-and for one reason alone: I, unlike so many others, had the
privilege of treatment.
-Malaria three times. (Bringing my
total count to four).
-Schistosomiasis/Bilharzia. (Snail
eggs that burrow and reproduce, contracted from my bathing water).
-Intestinal worms. (No biggie, most
people get “de-wormed” every three months anyway).
-Brucelosis (A disease primarily
meant for cows).
I was constantly feeling sick, but
that comes with the territory, and I was hesitant to go home in fear that the Peace Corps wouldn’t let me come back. The person in charge of my medical leave looked me
in the eye and assured me that would not be the case.
After 45 days, and with the
additions of a hiatal hernia, esophagitis, and gastritis to add to my fancy
list, the Peace Corps board reviewing my case, like I thought they would, denied me permission to return to Uganda. They did however say that if I was
medically cleared by then, I could have the chance to “reinstate after 3
months.”
I was devastated.
I had left with only a week’s
notice. Needless to say, that was hardly enough time to organize my things, say
goodbye to the people that had grown to be my community and get my projects in
order. My only solace in leaving things the way they were... I would definitely
be back. Leaving my girls was the hardest. They were understanding, but the
guilt on my end was debilitating. Everyone else in their lives had left them,
and here I was, doing the very same thing.
Coming home was an experience heavy
enough on its own. People always warn you about the culture shock you’ll get
when moving or traveling to “third world” countries. No one ever talks about
how much harder the culture shock upon returning home is…
Everything seemed so fast to me. In
the airport, people rushed by without acknowledging each other, fewer smiled,
the toilet was filled with perfectly good drinking water, I spent too much
money, stairs moved, there weren’t cockroaches everywhere, everything was
pristine and crispy… It was hard now not to look at this Western life through
the eyes of the people I had just been living amongst and working with. It was like privilege was barfing
all around me, but no one knew they were sick. The atmosphere felt cold,
rushed, scattered, illusionary…
Of course I took glory in reuniting
with my family, and my friends. Living out there in a fishbowl, it was
comfortable to now be at home, surrounded by the people I love… less alone.
Though with guilt always hiding behind the curtains, I relished in taking
baths, eating out, washing my clothes in a machine, watching mindless TV,
walking around barefoot, driving a car, hanging out with friends... The list
was endless really, as it seemed like each day was filled with once
experienced, but entirely new adventures.
But I had just seen the world, the
reality of suffering and pain, the aftermath of war… This place now seemed like
Candy Land. Everything was exactly as I had left it… but me? I was completely
different. I am still struggling to find out how I fit in.
I fell into a deep depression.
Two weeks after coming home, I
found out my boyfriend had been cheating on me…
My depression worsened, and the
hole I had fallen into felt like it was swallowing me up whole.
I felt stuck in my situation and
didn’t know how to get out. Though in a pain of my own, I decided to focus on
reinstating…
Then, on a cold night, the one following Christmas, my Dad had his heart attack.
I came home from the store after
picking up the medication he needed after having an elective surgery that day,
only to find my mom on the phone to the doctor, and my brother Adam (who was
“randomly” visiting) trying to comfort my Dad. He was uncomfortable and in
pain-which was to be expected after any surgery. It was only when he stopped
responding to us that we knew something else was going on. The paramedics came
and told us he was having a heart attack. Afraid, but hopeful, since we had
experienced his first heart attack five years prior, we followed behind the
ambulance to the Emergency room. Only a few minutes after our arrival, they put
my mom, brother in I in what felt like a small jail cell, and told us just how
serious it was...
It turns out that his right
coronary artery was 100% blocked due to a complication with his surgery. It
seems as though we had arrived just in time. The first visit to the cath lab
was successful, but only an hour later, we go the news that it had happened a
second time, and once again, one of his main two arteries was 100% blocked.
They warned us about the dangers of going in again, and prepared us that they
would not be able to a third time. We stayed up all night counting the seconds
as they passed, each without a repeat episode. To the surprise of the doctors,
and with the help of prayers from family and friends, in addition to his sheer will, my Dad survived that first night. And I've never felt more grateful. But we were not out of the woods
yet. For the next ten days, Dad remained in a medically induced coma and on a ventilator in the
ICU. Seeing him like that was a new kind of hell I had never experienced, and
everything that I had been agonizing over for the past few weeks fell away into
the abyss, as nothing else in the world seemed to matter. The experience
brought my whole family closer together as Paul, Mandy, Alon, Adam, Robin, my Mom and I spent endless hours of the
nights and days living in the ICU. I talked to him, much to the annoyance of
the staff and some family members, for hours on end. I knew he could hear me,
and I needed him to believe he was going to be okay. When he started to
squeeze our hands, we knew that his brain was okay, and after endless tests and
a couple more procedures, learned that his lungs and kidneys were too. It
seemed as though life had given all of us a second-or even third chance. My Dad
woke up on the 2nd of
January, and I have never felt so full of life in my entire life. Still high on
drugs, he was making all of us laugh, and for the first time in a long time, it
felt like everything was going to be okay. We left the hospital on January 8th,
the day of my Mom’s 62nd birthday.
When I think about the alternative outcome, I am brought to my knees with a
gratitude that is immeasurable by words.
Today my Dad is still in cardiac
rehabilitation, but has come farther in a shorter amount of time than anyone
could have ever believed or expected. Since my Mom had to go back to work, I
have become what they call the “primary caregiver." To me, I just feel lucky
and privileged that I get to spend the days with my Dad, most of the time just
me and him, going to doctor’s appointments and rehab, walking, eating, laughing
and learning.
I still don’t know how I’m going to
fit into this society, or what I’m going to do with myself once my Dad is fully
recovered. I don’t know if I should go back to Uganda, get a job here, move to L.A. for a fresh start with my brother, or go
back to school... I’m at a crossroads, a turning point in my life. I’m just now
learning how to break down the walls I’ve wedged myself between, and see that
maybe the path ahead of me is a multitude of paths, not the single one I’ve
already mapped out for myself. I’ve always known what to do next. I’ve always
known who I was and where I was going. Today, I’m not so sure. But maybe that’s
okay. Maybe, today, all I need to do is be here.
And maybe that’s enough.
Update on the Girls:
Though it is definitely more difficult to do from here, I am still involved on a daily basis with the girl’s project. My sister in Uganda, who also cares deeply for Joyce, Sarah, Scovia, Grace, Melissa and Brenda, has taken on the role of being my Ugandan coordinator and counterpart. She takes care of the logistics over there, so I know the girls are in good hands. They also know that no matter where I am, I’m always here for them. They understand why I need to be home right now, and I hope they understand that the decision to come back in the first place was not mine to make, but in the end, seemed to happen-like many things in life, for a reason.
