surrounded by suffering

Some jumbled thoughts on living my days here surrounded by suffering:

Throughout much of my time in Kenya, I feel as if suffering surrounds me. Throughout all of my time in the hospital, I feel as if suffering surrounds me.

That’s not to say that suffering is all that surrounds me. There is also such good, such joy, such miraculous small moments, such family, such significance, such life. But there is suffering. And sometimes it feels impossible to live your days through it.

When I first came to Kenya, I was overwhelmed. I felt helpless. I felt guilty. I questioned why I had so much when others had so little, why such pain could exist, why, why, why. And it got in the way.

That’s not to say that these questions are no longer interlaced in all that I do. Much of my days, in personal reflection and in academic study, is spent considering these “why” puzzles. But I don’t let them get in the way anymore.

I would walk into the pediatric surgery wards and become paralyzed by the surrounding suffering. I would see children, three to a bed, moaning in agony, and I would just stand there, questioning.

And then I held a child who I knew would soon die and felt his breathing just as I felt my own and I stopped letting my questioning get in the way of my living.

Last Thursday, I walked into the burn unit with Phillister, a child life worker, and was surrounded by screams. My previous writing has discussed my experiences in the burn unit. It wasn’t until last Thursday that I realized I had only been experiencing the “mild” burn unit for those with only 20% or less of their body scalded, torn open by fire, raw. Last Thursday, I walked into ward 9, a place I head yet to set foot: the full burn unit for women and children with burns covering their bodies, with screams and suffering surrounding us all in that small room.

6 beds. 2 women. 9 children. 1 small room. 0 pain killers. Burns to the bone, burns covering the body, burns on the faces, burns on babies, burns turned black skin white, burns crusty covered in blood, burns on purpose, burns by accident, burns. So many screams. Such suffering surrounding me.

I moved toward Lynne, a five year old who has lived in this burn unit for 6 months. I stood in front of her, saw her burns covering her arms, legs, front and back, saw the tears in her eyes and the whimpering in her throat, and for 30 seconds, there with my medical gloves on and one squeaky toy bear for distraction, I was paralyzed by questioning. Why?

Why are so many burned? Why are there no pain killers? Why are their only 6 beds for 11 women and children? Why are these the conditions of the best hospital in the country? Why is there only one child life worker to help calm, distract, and comfort 9 children? Why do they change dressings in the same room, in the same bed, as all the other patients, such that children must watch and listen and wait for their turn to scream in agony? Why does such pain exist? Why does this child experience more suffering every single day at five years than I have in all of my 21?

Each Sunday, I read meditations on mindfulness by Thich Nacht Hanh. My first Sunday here, these words appeared before me:

We are related to each other.
By taking care of you,
I take care of myself.
By taking care of myself,
I take care of you.
Happiness and safety are not
individual matters.

With these words in my head, with my Kenya mantra “walk not with fear, but with compassion,” I looked at Lynne and I saw her. I saw her as a human, just as I am. I saw her as a child. I saw us as related to each other.

And I knelt down in front of her, my eyes level with hers, and started making funny faces, started squeaking the little toy bear any time her eyes and ears drifted to the screaming child next to her, held her hand and whispered “pole” when her mother began to remove her old dressings to begin the painful procedure and Lynne started pleading “hapana, mama, hapana, hapana”, no, mama, no no.

And so that’s how I live my days here surrounded by suffering. I look into eyes and I say: you are human and I am human and we are related to each other. And I may have so many “why” questions, and I may feel inadequate, and this suffering may overwhelm my heart, but right now I’m going to stay. In this moment, I’m going to puff out my cheeks, cross my eyes, make a monkey face.

I will never have answers to “why?”

But when I am standing in front of the child pleading no, I can be paralyzed or I can ask myself one answerable question: who am I going to be in this moment?

And when my answer is: I’m going to be a human being, raw and inadequate and believing that happiness and safety are not individual matters. I’m going to be related to you. I’m going to stay. That’s how I live my days here surrounded by suffering.