Atypical is Typical

So today was more like the Haiti I am accustomed to.  A day spent trying to adhere to a schedule but interrupted at every turn.

Since I'm currently the one in house with a nursing degree, I've been given the responsibility of dealing out medications.  This typically happens at meal times.

No, there is no scanning patient bar-codes here and yes, we do reuse the syringes.  After washing, of course.

After that it was "Angela, what do you think this is on my face?" from one of the other volunteers.  Oh good, a question I can answer.  "I think, actually I'm pretty sure, that's ringworm! Here, have some anti-fungal cream.  That should cure ya."

Then a dressing change for a tunneling wound, while the grown man squirms in his chair and attempts to be stoic (He whines way more when his wife does the dressing change!).  Next, I make an attempt to clean up a little girl's leg from where she had scratched her eczema raw and apply a bandaid to 7 year old's toe.  You try keeping a bandage on one of these kids!

In the afternoon, our friend, Valdo, takes two other volunteers and I for a stroll into town.  Mostly just to get outside the gate and stretch our legs.

We're eating icecream at a local shop when Lori calls and asks if I would be willing to start an IV on a lady in the village, who has breast cancer.  *gulp*  "Uh, sure"  She gives me details concerning the supplies I'd need and states that usually the lady is pretty bad by the time the family calls.  *gulp again*  A motorbike chauffeur is sent to fetch me and I'm on my way to attempt an IV start on black skin and dehydrated veins with supplies that are unfamiliar.  This is where I relearn my 'Haiti prayers'.  "God, I have NO idea what I'm doing and I'm more than a little uncertain of my ability, but you're welcome to use these hands of mine."  

When we arrive, she is hauling her thin, little mattress into the front room so that she can lay under the window.  The only place to hang the IV bag is on the bars crossing the window.  Her husband smiles a welcoming smile and tells me how nice it is to meet me.  She has a gown on, with her right chest uncovered.  Where her breast used to be there is only a large, yellow and brown scabbed area.  She is thin as can be but offers me a weak smile and positions herself where I can reach her arms.  I kneel on the hard floor beside her bed and feel my hands tremble.  "Please, God."  I apply the tourniquet and turn her arm over.  There is only one tiny vein visible in the crook of her elbow.  I've never been so glad to see thick, dark red blood flow through a needle as I was at that moment.  It flushes beautifully and I attach the tubing, hang the bag from the window and adjust the drip rate.  As I wrap protective gauze around the IV site, I think to myself how I still don't have a clue what I'm doing but thankfully, God cares about IV starts and a fragile little Haitian woman in a little Haitian town.  I am astounded at her smile and her bravery in spite of the pain I'm sure she's feeling.  There is no morphine PCA for her, no fentanyl patches, no umpteen pillows to fluff and reposition.  As I leave she offers me a sweet English "Thank you".  I walk out amazed.