working hard

Today I was asked if I did anything good with the day or if I ‘just worked’.

I work hard here. “Weekends” aren’t a readily available term in my vocabulary. Friday night is not indicative of any certain activity, behavior, or lack of thoughtfulness.

I work hard. I work every day. Saturday and Sunday are not defined any differently than any other day of the week; they are days when children are in the hospital, when children desire comfort and presence and giggling just as any other.

I rest when I get to go home to space and quiet and choice each afternoon instead of being placed in a cage in the always lit, always screaming, always harsh hospital wards. I rest when I take a hot shower, when I read a poem, when I put pen to paper, when I hear from friends and family. I rest when I walk, feeling the air flutter my eyelashes and watching the sun soak the trees in orange as it sinks.

My day begins at 6:45. My alarm (a quiet, peaceful one) goes off and I spend the next 5 to 10 minutes gazing up at my mosquito net, delighting in the coziness of my blanket against chilly Eldoret mornings, taking breaths and preparing to be the person I want to be this day. I begin in silence; I eat my toast (peanut butter with sliced bananas), I drink my coffee (strong and slowly), I read my poetry, I write my words, I consider, I savor the quiet. I work, writing notes from the previous day, transcribing interviews, asking question after question.

At 9:00, I fill my water bottle, sling my purse, open the door onto the morning sunlight, greet the guard (Amos), pass through the gate, down the road, left, right, cross the potholes (don’t slide in the mud), straight (don’t get hit by a car or a matatu or a piki piki or a boda boda or a person or a cow), past the woman selling morning mandazi and chai, left at the “farewell home/mortuary”, around the corner past the coffins and crowds preparing for mourning, through the gate, through another, into the hospital, down the outdoor hallway, left at the security point (no one checks), past the women on the right men on the left soaking sunlight on small grass patches, into the wards, right to the children’s side, smell the distinct Moi Hospital smell, hear the screaming, watch the children racing wheelchairs, see the white coats, into Sally Test.

By 9:30 I’m there. From 9:30 to 1, I pick up babies, play games, fit puzzle pieces, search for the correct lego size and color, lead by hand, barely decipher Swahili babbled to me, clap and say “hey-hey good job” when child after child says “teacha, ona ona!, teacher, look, look!” with pride in their work, dry tears, smile and make giggle, dance, swing swings, hold.

1 to 2 is lunch and the time I’m supposed to walk home, eat, and return (really by 2:30 because we’re on Kenyan time here). But instead 1 to 2 is when I choose instead to sit while Moses slowly eats the rice his body is once again learning to take in for nutrition, for strength, for healing, when I sit among and learn from others, when I laugh and feel a part of this community of caregivers, givers of care.

2 (2:30) to 4:30 is story time, craft time, always blocks and puzzles and games time, always time to pick up babies, to comfort, to smile, to walk slowly, to be patient and full of compassion, to put aside the pain and suffering you are seeing all around you and feeling clutch at your hear to instead see, deeply, the child in front of you, to hold, to play, to delight in the smallest of things.

4:30 is the worst time. Ring the bell, time to return to the wards. Wheel the children back to surgery, back to burn unit, back to oncology, back to beds shared and loud nights and fear and uncertainty. Pick up the five abandoned children, one by one, take them to their caged beds where they stay (not sleeping if you ask them in the morning) until the next day, say “lala salama, sleep peacefully” (a difficult command to follow), say “you’ll come back to tomorrow, I’ll come back tomorrow, we’ll see each other tomorrow”, say “sawa? Okay?” and watch them nod with fear in their eyes and sad on their mouths. Walk away.

Walk home by 5 or 6, take a hot shower to paint a clear, embodied distinction between the hospital and the here, read poems, work, write words, decompress, say ‘hello’ and share sadness and smile through screens to people far away whose love and laughter and Friends quotes remind you there are people holding you, too. Sleep at 10, maybe 11, maybe 12.

Wake up and start again with silence, with intention, with courage and with the hope there will be sunlight and smiles and serenity. Work hard throughout.

I work hard here.

And to me, it is so good.

I love this work. My days mean something. I am fulfilled. I am alive. My presence is that of good. I am good. My goodness is bound of up in that of others.

I want to work hard. This is not a burden to me, this is a gift. And I am grateful for it every time I am able to wake up early, walk into the hospital, be among these children.

I can’t control much. I can’t control the pain experienced. I can’t control if children live or if they die. I can’t control if they go back to abuse or go toward greater peace and greater life.

But I can control who I am for them. And sometimes that may mean showing up only five days a week and using my “weekend” to ensure I am at my highest energy level when I am with them. And sometimes that means I work every single day because what’s needed from me is my presence, my follow through, my showing up. And right now, that’s what is needed from me.

I can’t control what happens to Moses when I leave the hospital in 8 days. But I can control who I am for him while I am in his life.

And right now, who I am is someone who shows up, who is present, who says “I’m coming back tomorrow, we’ll see each other then” and means it, who gives all of my love to this little boy in the moment that exists, even if it may physically hurt me to think of what the next might hold for him.

So when I’m asked if I did anything good with the day or if I ‘just worked,’ I react strongly, I pause, my chest hits a lurch, my brain feels like a twist-tie, trying to wrap around a response.

Today I worked hard and it was good.