Turning chaos into calm

When I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer four months ago, I knew my life would be getting a little more hectic in the following months.   I was in the middle of PA school and was set and ready to spend one of my 5 week rotations with Hospitals of Hope in Bolivia.  I felt everything crashing down and I was so scared of how it would affect my future. In the midst of surgeries and dozens of appointments with multiple doctors (GPs, oncologist, surgeon, endocrinology, nuclear medicine and on and on), I knew that I could not let this stop me from life and the great learning opportunities I had in store in Bolivia. I told my doctors that it was more important for me to go than to stay and feel sorry for myself in preparation for my treatment in July. So with their support and tweaking of my treatment plan by my oncologist and endocrinologist, I loaded up a gallon sized bag with all my meds, kissed my husband goodbye, and flew into the unknown.

The first few weeks were a mix of exhaustion and stress as I battled to harness a reasonable medical repertoire in Spanish; spending bursts of time flying through 15-30 physicals in 2-3 hours at schools and orphanages; squeezing into short trufis (taxis), hunched over for an hour to avoid slamming my head on the roof with every little bump; stopping by the lab during lunch to get my blood drawn a few times a week as my calcium and thyroid levels were fluctuating rather abnormally. It was all a bit overwhelming. But then as my place began to solidify and I knew what my day held, it all became rather familiar and comforting. The fright of having to take a trufi into Quiacollo to grab something dissipated. The working through a physical with a 5-year-old boy in Spanish became easier and I needn’t fear that I would miss something from misunderstanding or inability to hear over the yells of his peers in the background. Life there had become regular and routine.

From the beginning I had known that this was meant to be an experience that would change me. My only hope was that I would help some people along the path of my perspective altering journey. But I knew when I arrived that if I wanted to get anything out of this experience; it was my responsibility to search it out.  I had several encounters that made me appreciate my life as it was, cancer and all, but by the end of my time in Cochabamba I realized that it was not one adorable orphan that I spent a day with, or a dying man and his family gathered in a tiny hospital room that made an impact, but all the collective encounters and experiences I had had.  The surprise on a man’s face as I walked along the street, the tallest and whitest person around for miles. The smiles and soft-spoken words of the Quechua mothers as I told them that their son merely had a viral URI and to not worry.  All the people that I only interacted with for a few minutes, but seemed so appreciative of my time and efforts.  I realized that I didn’t want to be some novelty to them; I just wanted to be there in the background, helping them get through colds, rashes, mundane everyday burdens.  I wanted to be just another staple in their life that they could come to for the simplest things.

I would have been proud to have helped someone through much bigger issues, to be a hero. But I was happy to have filled my role as a supporting player, always there in the shadows ready to lend a hand through any difficulties, big or small. Just someone to listen to their troubles and stresses, clean up their scrapes and send them back into the day with a smile. Because when it comes down to it, those are the type of people that have really changed my life for the better.

Jessica is a volunteer who served for five weeks at our hospital in Bolivia. Pleaes pray with us for Jessica during this time and for complete healing from her thyroid cancer.

Monica: Glue & Grace

I met Monica my first month in Bolivia. She was sitting on a blanket in the middle of the Plaza San Sebastian, a park where the roughest of the Cochabamba homeless population live. I brought a sandwich to offer and sat down beside her.

“What’s your name?”
“Monica.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Breanna. Do you live here?”
“Yep.”
“Do you like living here?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”
“Do you ever want to live somewhere else?”
“Yes.”
“There are homes you could live in.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because of this.”

She waved a bottle of glue that she had been holding up to her nose throughout the conversation. Everyone who lives in the plaza has the same plastic bottle, permanently pressed up to their face. Clefa.(glue) To the world, they are simply drug addicts. They sniff. They stab. They rape. Yes, they act like animals. Because society treats them like animals. Growing to know these people, I understand now that they don’t sniff to get high, they sniff to survive. The clefa numbs hunger, cold, pain. It’s an escape from the reality that is living on the streets. We continued to talk, and after a while, she took her foot out from underneath her and showed it to me. “Doctor, something’s wrong with my toe.” Her big toe was huge, black, and smelled rank.  I took her to see a real doctor and assisted in slicing open and draining her toe on a urine soaked park bench.

Since I first met Monica, I’ve seen her almost every week. Every week, we’d talk, she’d show me her festering foot, and we’d do the same procedure. Slice, drain, bandage. Every week, it was the same. Then one day Monica pulled me over to a secluded tree, and pulled off her shoe. Her toe smelled foul, and looked like it was dying. I told her she would have to go to the hospital or lose her toe. After much debating, she finally agreed.

We hopped in a Trufi to begin the hour-long trip to the hospital, passengers staring unashamedly at Monica as she curled up with her glue held up to her nose.

“Monica, can I have the glue for the afternoon? I’ll give it back when we leave the hospital.”
“No.”
“Can I have it for an hour?”
“No.”
“Can I have it for half an hour?”
“No.”
Okay.

Monica continues to sniff. Five minutes later, she pulls the bottle away from her nose and stares at it. Then, she slides open the Trufi window, and without hesitating, throws it onto the road. Immediately, she looks at me, horrified at what she had just done. I burst out laughing. ”You don’t need it. I’m proud of you.” Although I knew that as soon as we returned to the plaza, she would more than likely find a new bottle, it was a good moment.

I haven’t seen Monica since our excursion to the hospital. I don’t know if that was her last sniff of glue, or if she’s somewhere on the streets now, a new bottle in hand. I don’t know if she took her antibiotics, or traded them in for clefa. I don’t know when I will see her next, or if I ever will.

When that bottle of glue hit the pavement, I could have cried, I was so happy. It’s not physically addictive. Monica doesn’t need it. It’s a crutch. Something she knows might make it feel a little better, soften reality a little. Yes, it’s awful. But when it comes down to it, we all have our crutches. Some might not be as tangible as a bottle of glue, but it’s our human nature to turn to anything but the One who made us, to make us feel safe, secure, happy. Monica will probably struggle with glue for the rest of her life. Her battle is worn on her sleeve, visible for everyone to see. But the rest of us are all fighting something too. Some of us are just better at hiding it.

Although it makes me angry when I see toddlers living on the street because of the decisions their parents have made, I can’t judge anyone in the plaza for relying on glue to get through. That’s not my right. Yes, it’s not fair. But our God’s not fair. If God was fair, nobody would make it into his graces. As flawed humans, a holy, fair God couldn’t be with us. But God is just, and God has grace. And because of this grace, we not only receive the privilege of serving God, but also the right to call Him friend. Servant and friend. It makes no sense. But that's grace.  

Breanna is a volunteer that has been serving in Bolivia since February. She continues to have a great impact on lives and poses a humbling reminder of God's grace in all of our lives.