The Orphanage

This past week, I did a very cliché thing—I painted bedrooms at an orphanage.

A couple weeks ago, one of my friends, Brittany, worked with the local authorities to remove a child from his home because he was being abused and not properly fed.  So she did what she had to do—she rescued him and placed him in an all-boys orphanage that is supported by donations from a church in the States.  The orphanage is hardly luxurious, but at least this child, a short nine-year-old with a brilliant smile, is safe.  He can now grow up to learn different values, that people deserve love and abuse is not normal.  And he is being fed and educated and looked after.

While Brittany was there, the administrator talked to her about painting the bedrooms.  They were painted a bleak yellow that is the standard color of all the public schools and a slime green.  So we decided to brighten the rooms with calming colors and murals about values and protecting the environment.

I had never been at an orphanage before, but I think my visit there will be one of the most memorable.  I couldn’t help but think that these boys have lost their parents to death or abandonment.  For most of us, this is not something we could ever imagine.  Most of us have families who care for us, but these boys are alone in the world.  At least they have each other.  We were amazed by their intelligence, their eagerness to participate, their quickness to answer our questions; in our normal Peace Corps lives, we have a hard time eliciting answers or motivating the youth, but these boys were sharp.  The loved the attention, and they were so sweet. 

We weren’t sure if we would finish painting the rooms, but each one of us took charge and went to work, and I am so proud of what we produced.  As another volunteer Amanda mused, we each have our own unique talents to contribute so we should have our own consulting firm, helping developing nations.  I agree.  I feel so privileged to have met so many amazing Peace Corps volunteers, so many amazing PEOPLE.

Perhaps this is a shameless plug for Peace Corps, but honestly, I’m glad I did this whole thing.   Just weeks left now, and everyday I’m nostalgic.  I’m afraid to let go of it all, to let go of this life-changing experience.

But at least I can smile and remember those great volunteers I know, those eager boys at the orphanage, those grateful patients at the medical mission, and those empowered young women at the girls summer camp.  They will be my inspiration, my motivation to continue serving others.

*I realize that these pictures aren't representative of the entire team and the effort it took to complete this project... but my internet is slooooow right now, and I'm way overdue for lunch, so I'll have to add more pics another time.

One of the bedrooms - BEFORE 

Painting values into the mangoes.  

Painting little hands!

Sarah sings to the boys.

One of the murals. 

Katie painting an important message

Painting the Peace Corps emblem

Yay, Sarah loves me!

Being Present

Being present has become more relevant to me as my days in the DR are numbered.  I can already feel the stress and pressures of American society tugging on me as I’m mired in grad school decisions, financial considerations, and questions of the future.  But I have to keep reminding myself, “Stay here.  You are here now, so relish every last moment.“

I look forward to the exciting life I have ahead of me—reconnecting with old friends and family, starting graduate studies with a new “worldly” perspective, searching for my life partner, eating good food, looking good and wearing fashionable clothes, going to museums and concerts and professional panels.

But I’m going to miss a lot here—the food, the warmth of the people, all my amazing Peace Corps friends, bachata, la pasión, Spanish all the time, the beautiful untouched beaches, smoke from a fogón, climbing mountains, horses and chickens, swimming in the ocean, making up stuff, reading and drinking tea in the afternoon, enjoying the sunset, and taking it easy everyday.  I’m not looking forward to a stressful, hectic life.

This experience has been transformative for me.  I’m more open-minded, less scared of looking foolish, used to failing then trying again, and more realistic.  I want to maintain the idealism I had when I started service, but I now know that things don’t change overnight; they don’t even change over two years, but you have to be persistent and not let anything get the best of you.  You must be strong but kind.  You must be present and appreciate what you DO have.  You must enjoy your life and breathe and laugh.  Peace Corps has indeed changed my life, and I’m so glad I did it.

I imagine I’ll be stuck between two worlds when I return to the States.  It’ll take some time getting used to the rigidity, the notion of timeliness, the over-stimulation of American culture.  I’m glad to go back, but it’ll be awkward--again.  But I’m an expert at embracing the awkward. 

Stephanie and I enjoying the beach -- while we still can.

This is real and not a postcard. 

We went to the beach on horseback.  This is Camaron, or "Shrimp."  We had to ride (slowly) for an hour through the campo and it was gorgeous.

For Grandaddy

One of the harsh realities of serving in Peace Corps is that you're disconnected from the world p'alla ("over there" in the U.S.).  Life goes on without you in the States, and sometimes, what happens "over there" is life-changing.  My grandfather died on Monday before I had a chance to really say goodbye.  Therefore, this post is dedicated to his memory.  He was a generous man who demonstrated service for others in his daily life.

Grandaddy was all heart.  His heart just radiated from his being.  You just couldn’t escape it – that gentle smile, those caring eyes.  You felt at home when you were with him.  He was an upstanding man, proud of his family and his roots, and kind, so incredibly kind.

He wasn’t happy unless you were happy.  You didn’t take care of him; oh no, he took care of you.  That’s how he wanted it.  And he made you feel loved, truly loved, as he would tear up when you would depart on the next fight.  And here, as I sit writing this, I’m doing the same thing –crying because you have departed from this world, Grandaddy.

It’s going to be hard to return to North Carolina knowing that you won’t be there to pick me up at RDU as you had so many times before.  The idea of “home” has changed for me now that you’re not there.  You see, you were part of home for me, but now there’s a piece missing.

I can’t possibly say everything, the words escape me now, so elusive they are in my time of need, but perhaps in the simplest terms possible, Grandaddy, I love you, I always have and always will.  I’m so proud to be your granddaughter.  And I miss you.  I will always miss you, Grandaddio.

And if he was reading this now, he would say, "Oh, Lanna, don't make any fuss over me!"  Well, I am, Grandaddy.  I want the world to know how proud of you I am.

Being a Nurse

I spent last week translating for and working with American plastic surgeons, and it was amazing.

Perhaps the best part about the whole experience is that I felt like I was actually helping people.

The purpose of this medical mission was to correct cleft lips and palates (many children are born here with this genetic defect in which their lips or palates aren’t fully fused, inhibiting speech, eating and breathing, not to mention affecting their appearance) as well as to reattach nerves, tendons, and skin on patients with machete wounds or burns so their joints may once again have complete functionality. 

I’ve never been a part of a medical team before, so of course, there was a learning curve.  I had to learn how to maintain a sterile environment in the operating room by wearing appropriate protective materials and refraining from touching surgeons, their equipment, and the patients.  They spoke a language I didn’t understand, but my job was to communicate their ideas to the patients and to make the patients feel more comfortable.  Surrounded by English-speaking, surgically dressed doctors, the patients were uneasy.

It felt great to take care of people.  I stood with children and comforted them as they went to sleep via anesthesia.  I was there when patients were waking up after surgery.  I did what I could to make them feel better.

Yet there were some people we couldn’t help, and we had to turn them away, regrettably. 

Through this medical mission, I also experienced the health care system here.  While we treated our patients as they would have been treated in the U.S., we had to witness the treatment of patients in other rooms.

Before this mission, I had never entered a public hospital.  I remember my first impression of the public hospital in my town.  On my first day in site, one of my community members drove me around town and we went to the parking lot of our town hospital.  The premises looked eerie –there were no cars in the parking lot and no one coming in or out of the hospital.  Certainly this was not like an American hospital.  I asked my friend about the hospital’s appearance, and she said, “Oh no, no one ever wants to come here.  There are never any adequate supplies or personnel.  People come here to die.”  That really struck me; people don’t go to our hospital to get well, but they go there to give up.

Therefore, if you want proper care, you must go to a private clinic, which offer services that the average person can’t afford.  When people have a severe accident, they are forced to go to a public hospital.

So flash forward to last week, and the first time I had entered a public hospital, a TRAUMA public hospital at that.  The conditions at this hospital were depressing.  The last of its kind in Santo Domingo, this hospital was always busy with emergencies, with few resources and overworked doctors and nurses.  And I saw some things I never expected to see.

Though the work we did last week was draining, I considered it very fulfilling and life changing.  The Friday after the week’s surgeries was designated as a clinic day in which we changed the bandages and examined the patients to see how they were healing.  The bus pulled up to the hospital that morning, and there was a crowd of smiling, happy patients, waiting outside.  I lit up as I recognized a man, and I waved at him (later on, he gave me a chocolate bar to thank me for helping him.).  Everyone was so grateful for what we did, and I just felt so good inside.  I was really humbled.

I had connected with people.