When I think of the four words I think I can say that each has increased, some more than others.
I think of the sick 4 month old we saw in October. I pleaded the family to go immediately to the hospital one hour away. One week later we found out they never went. We, as a team, visited the family at home three times over the last month. I thought about taking medicines to the home and giving it to the family.
But I decided otherwise. Dr. Rettig’s words echo: “These families know their child is sick. If they wanted to they would have come in earlier, but they chose not to. There are so many sick children and limited resources, we must focus our resources on those with the families invested in caring for them.” I have accepted my limitations in helping this child. Everyday I pass by the mother’s food stall and greet her. I can only hope she brings her child to the clinic, but there is nothing I can do by force. I also accepted that I am “fat” here and that, may actually be a compliment. Within my first week of arriving an older woman slapped me on the ass and said: “I like you. You are fat. I consider you to be like my youngest daughter.” I still don’t understand how to put those three sentences together, but I like to think they mean something positive.
“Obruni coco mache” (white red person) is yelled, no, sung by children near and far everytime I pass through the village to go somewhere. I have become tolerant of my label and that I in someone else’s eyes am seen as “the white person.” On most days I not only tolerate but welcome 7 children yelling in chorus “obruni coco mache,”
“Obruni. Obruni. Obruni. Obruni. How are you?,”
“Obruni coco. Obruniobruniobruniobruni Where are you going?”
I think of myself as the Miley Sirus or Mickey Mouse of Buamadumase. I too would be excited every time Micky Mouse walked through my neighborhood if I was four years old.
I am sure that I have become flexible figuratively and literally, as I have been doing yoga a couple times a week. But I certainly am not as bendy as I used to be (again figuratively and literally). Somethings feel like they are pushing my limits until that thing is taken away or, in some cases, added on. The water tank seemed far away until the rainy season ended and now I have to go further away to the pump to fetch my water. I miss the tank full of water. On the other hand, I thought sitting four in the back seat and three in the front of a taxi was a lot. But the other day, while we were waiting for the taxi to fill up, I heard the “baa” of a sheep. Sheep are as common as people in the village, but this one seemed awfully close. I looked, but to no avail could I find her. Finally the car filled and we rolled out, the “baa” followed us. Alas, I realized she was with us all along…sitting in the trunk.
As for patience, I have two words: slow internet.
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