your life in 3 words.

If you were to pick 3 words for which you want your life to embody, what would they be?

Mine - compassion, joy, cognizant

Hair Personified

(a fast-write from today's class)

Patricia is one of those women you cannot identify by her hair. Some days it’s copper ringlets; other days sleek, flowing to the shoulder ebony; then a fro of fuzz, cropped-close like a poodle recently to the barber. Her ever-changing hair wardrobe I could only liken to the shoe closet of some American women. Her hair, an extension of her personality – vibrant, and at times, unpredictable.

Due to my pediatric clientele’s desire for decorating my carpet office floor with play dough, I met Patricia early in my days working at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Patricia often surfaced just as I was finishing up for the day, her timing seemingly impeccable. My trash bins she would empty, my decorated floor she would look upon, smile, laugh and shake her head knowingly. It was her accent barely discernible in her laugh that alluded to a background beyond the cleaning duties she held at the hospital. A native of Ghana, Patricia came to Cincinnati by way of her husband, a Ghanaian man living in the States. Friends and family were dispersed throughout the country, but here in Cincinnati, was where she was raising her immediate family.

Having a slight infatuation with Africa - the people, the natural, raw beauty of the landscape, the culture, the way of life and colorful dress – Patricia and I got on well. Quite well. She was observant to the hints of African incorporated into my daily life – the fabric of my computer bag, the dangles from my ears, the swatch of cloth in my hair, or the rare African-printed skirt. For Christmas, she betrothed me with a necklace from Ghana – a myriad of earth-toned beads culminating into an African-continent-shaped stone. A stunning cherished remnant from the Dark Continent, well loved and worn.

In March 2010, having known me 6 months, Patricia remarked one evening, “I would like you to be my sister-in-law.” Thinking that she was being generous with her words, I merely laughed in response.

Then in June 2010, during a therapy session, I heard a knock on my office door. Believing it was the child’s father coming in, I opened the door. But standing before me was not the child’s father, but rather Patricia – early to work that day. As my patient, a 6-year-old boy with severe ADHD and his father watched on camera from the observation room, Patricia explained her presence – with little regard for the audience that was witnessing this conversation unfold.

Patricia: “Maria, Maria! Remember how I said I wanted you to be my sister-in-law? Well, I spoke with my brother who lives in Ghana. He is very excited to marry you. However, I thought it best if he send pictures so you can see how beautiful he is. He wanted me to give you...”

Nodding towards my patient with the door still half-open, I interrupted, “Thank you, Patricia, that was very thoughtful of you. However, I am in with a patient. Let’s catch up later.”

She handed me a large, poster-size envelope postmarked from Ghana.

Shocked, I wrapped up the session as calmly and coherently as possible. The child, ever inquisitive and clever in distracting me from speech therapy, inquired about the person at the door. I briefly explained that she was “one of my friends”, a term I often used to refer to other patients. The father, thankfully tactful or forgetful, did not ask further regarding the intriguing conversation he had likely overheard.

The next day remembering the contents of the Ghana-postmarked envelope, I opened it and curiously retrieved what had traversed an ocean and many weeks to get to me. Enclosed were 2 photos. One, a life-size picture of an African man’s head, perhaps even blown-up to be larger-than-the actual size of his head. The other, another blown-up picture this one depicting an African man clad in traditional-African garb. He looked as if he had taken a bed sheet, wrapped it around his body toga-style, and secured it to his frame with one simple knot. He stood against a car, weathered, with simple open sandals adorning his feet. He looked to be a man – stoic and regal.

Ironically, his identifying feature was his hair. Unlike his sister, this man had hair that was static through the fashion trends and changing seasons. His hair all black, save for a patch above his head – this patch of hair was a sharp contrasting pigment of white. An identifying feature that had earned him the nickname “Snow.”

So what’s next for the couple – one with “snow” colored skin, the other with “snow” colored hair?

The consulted Magic 8-ball reads, “Ask Again Later.” ;)

the finish line

“When will I be able to run again?” I asked.

(Laugh). “If you’re standing in the middle of the road and there’s a car coming, then you can run,” responded my physical therapist.

--

My foray into running began as a little girl growing up in cornfield-clad Maria Stein, Ohio. Running down the road, pursuing my cousin’s car as it disappeared into the distance, my legs moving in sync with my waving hand. My cousins, the daughters of my mother’s twin sister, often visited in the summer. At some point it became tradition that as their wheels went down the road, my feet followed suit. Often barefoot along the road, hot with bubbling asphalt, the air stagnant with summer heat, I chased dreams and cars.

Then in middle school my cousin and my twin sister joined cross-country. Wanting to choose a path different than my twin, I became a cheerleader. Being hailed a “rah-rah” by my older sister did not sit well with me nor did practicing gymnastics unsupervised in the family backyard sit well with my sprained body, so by high school, I joined the cross country ranks. I became one of the few familiar with the 5k metric equivalent for 3.1 miles. One of the few who liked to “run for fun.” One of the few who saved up to buy not CDs or new clothes for school but rather a new pair of New Balance running shoes. As a scrawny teenager weighing in just under 100 pounds, standing at almost 5’2, my short legs and bony appendages, never garnered me athletic accolades. My twin sister, 6 inches taller, had the legs for running. She could actually sprint. I chose instead to go the distance.

College came along and I continued to lace up my running shoes. The purple stripes on my favorite pair of shoes faded into shades of grey, the navy and yellow N insignia for New Balance wore off and fell away, duct tape bandaged talking holes, and the shoe treads underneath became smooth, but I kept running. I sprained my knee ice-skating, but kept running, downgrading a trained-for marathon to a half-marathon 4 weeks later. I dislocated my right kneecap playing ice hockey but still walked the hilly streets of San Francisco 3 weeks later, racking up nearly 20 miles in one day whilst loosely abiding by physical therapy recommendations. I acquired a stress fracture in my left foot, wore an orthopedic boot for a month, removed it the day before undergraduate graduation, wore heels down the aisle and then spent 2 months traipsing around Europe a good portion on running feet. Through the aches and pains, swollen joints and ice packs, I played intramural soccer, took up rugby, spent days hiking, and kept right on running.

Then August 9th, 2009 I crossed the finish line.

I had been home but 3 weeks from Africa just in time for a close friend’s wedding in Columbus, Ohio. To the church ceremony and the reception thereafter I went. Shook it all about with the Hokey-Pokey, stepped in tune to the Electric Slide, and got down with the Chicken Dance. Kept the fun going at a bar afterwards with my cousin, dancing with her flatmate and friends until, as some say, “I literally broke dance.”

Bewildered as to why suddenly my bottom was on the floor and everyone else was dancing on two feet, my hand traveled to my left knee. What I felt was even more perplexing. My kneecap had gravitated out of its socket and was resting on the left side of where my knee should have been. Gripped with pain and impending shock, I could not get up. I could not walk. Two men whose names I did not know transported me to safety. One making way for me in the drunken crowd and the other, a rather slight fellow, carrying me. A cab was called and I was whisked away with my cousin to the emergency room of the Ohio State University Hospital.

There in a patient room I sat alone save for a team of medical students and doctors peering at my wayward knee and me. The state of my knee and the state of my dress (fit for a wedding) provided a puzzling picture. The doctors wanted to call in an anesthesiologist to put me under while they pushed the knee back into its socket. Unfortunately, quite sober, I was computing dollar signs in my head for the expense and suggested a local anesthetic instead. The doctor reported it wouldn’t give me the pain relief I sought.

So alas I asked, “Can’t you just push it back in?” Incredulous looks exchanged. Everyone thought I’d taken a crazy pill. Especially when they realized I was being serious. “How long would it take? How long would the pain last?” I inquired. “It would be extremely painful but the pain wouldn’t last long,” one reported. “Well then, let’s get on with it,” I stated.

One well-meaning (but foolish) individual offered to hold my hand during it. I warned him that I would likely break it. Instead, I gripped the wheelchair’s arms; knuckles white, and followed the Lamaze instructions of a sage doctor. “Breathe in through your nose and whistle out your mouth.” And this I did as an audience watched my kneecap being pushed back into its rightful place.

Aware of my pain medication sensitivity (and cognizant of the astronomical inflation of medication in hospitals), I relented to only taking one Motrin after the ordeal. As I had crutches and a leg brace at my parent’s place from my last knee dislocation 3 years prior, I refused to acquire another set. Instead, I left the hospital, my left knee well wrapped in ace bandage, hopping on my good right foot. Without crutches and poor upper body strength, I managed to navigate a flight of stairs and a pair of friendly cats to the refuge of my cousin’s bed where I slept for a couple hours before driving myself the 2 hours home to my parent’s place. Not wanting to worry them, I waited until they had gone through their typical Sunday morning ritual before calling them, letting them know that my crutches would need to be found in the next couple hours, dusted off, and placed where I could reach them upon opening my car door. And per request, hours later, I found them and my father waiting for me as I pulled into my parent’s driveway. My father knowingly shaking his head.

To be continued...

30 Hours in Mumbai

26/11. 9/11 but in India. On the 26^th day of November, 2008, Pakistani-based Muslim terrorists lay siege to Mumbai, India’s financial capital. Ten coordinated shooting and bombing attacks, killing 173, wounding 308. Well-equipped gunmen singled-out individuals with American and British passports. To be killed or taken hostage. Not a good day to be at Leopold Café, a popular restaurant for foreigners. Not a good day to be an American in Mumbai.

--

For 2 days, I had travelled by bus from Maputo, Mozambique to Johannesburg, South Africa to catch a flight to India for my friend Sangeetha’s wedding. I had met Sangeetha as a student at Miami University where we had both pursued graduate degrees in speech-language pathology. I was now working in Mozambique; she was planning to find work in her native country of India. But first, she was to marry an Indian doctor from Calicut, India. An arranged marriage that she had welcomed.

No stranger to flying, I had minimal anxiety regarding the impending flight that would take me from Johannesburg to Dubai to Calicut. Even as I watched a crew of Emirate airline attendants attempt to process my e-reservation, my anxiety level registered at 0. Their conversation in a foreign tongue did not faze me. It was when the looks on their faces began to appear frantic and when I heard a brave soul utter to me, “Do not worry, ma’am, we’ll get it sorted” that I realized this was going to be no quick check-in. Then I was pulled aside and calmly told that for whatever reason, my individual ticket had been cancelled. There were no empty seats on the flight. I had no ticket to India.

I was told that I could go to a travel agent but one outside the airport or go online to book a flight. Either way there would be a 2-3 day delay. “Was my flight urgent?” they asked. Odd question, no one travels for 2 days from one foreign country to the next to wait days in that foreign place before departing on a flight to another very foreign place. In addition, I had convinced an American friend to come to our mutual friend’s wedding. She had never left the States. Quite hesitant initially, she finally conceded when I told her I would be waiting for her at the airport and would not leave her side for the duration of the journey. Interpreted urgent or otherwise, I did not have days to get to Calicut, India. I had hours. Tick tock tick tock.

The Emirate airline advice I disregarded. Instead, I walked from one airline desk to the next inquiring, “Do you have flights to India? How soon can you get me there?” I had gone through nearly the whole alphabetical line of airlines (Alitalia, Ethiopia, Kenyan, Qatar) until South African Airways put my fears to rest. They could get me to Calicut through Mumbai. A 15-hour layover both ways. I would miss my American friend’s arrival but I would make it in time for my Indian friend’s wedding. I had one hour to get word to my friends, go through security, and board the plane bound for India. Within 8 hours, I would be in Mumbai. I had little time to prepare. Tick tock tick tock.

The Mumbai international airport is not one of comfort. Due to its proximity to the Pakistani border and the strained relations between the neighbors, police were everywhere. Their eyes everywhere. I left. Upon entering the night heat, I was met by an onslaught of Indian businessmen looking to make a deal. I bartered with a taxi driver, but paid too much. Wound up at a hotel, where again my fair skin and American passport, made me pay too much.

The next morning, still a couple hours into my first Mumbai 15-hour layover, I embraced the chaos of the city. With a hotel staff member, I went in search of a SIM card for my phone so domestic calls (within India) could be made. My friends thus far knew little regarding my whereabouts, only what they could glean from the frantic email I had sent before my hasty departure.

Getting a SIM card in India, I quickly realized was no minute task. Closely following the hotel staff member, my passport in tow per his request, we weaved from one shantytown to the next. Inquiries placed, copies of my passport made, money exchanged. We walked on. After hours of curious perusal by onlookers, I acquired a SIM card. My first foray into Mumbai’s streets, a few blisters to sport and once white shirt now quite dusted, but not much worse for the wear.

I traveled onward to Calicut, meeting up with my friends, having a week of great fun and further intrigues: sitting in the second row for my friend’s marriage ceremony sharing space with the other 1500 guests invited, shopping for saris, tasting dried coconut by the street side, giving free “English” lessons to inquisitive villagers, seeing the countryside by train, exploring the backwater region by boat (as if in Venice), and trying to interpret the characteristic Indian “head bob”, in which Indians actually communicate by way of bobbing their heads.

Then it was back to Mumbai for my second and final 15-hour layover. This time, though, I had a personal tour guide – my friend Sheila. We first met in Maputo, Mozambique where we had arrived within weeks of each other, became friends, and then her hometown of Mumbai beckoned her back to India. With a phone and her number, we got in touch. We had a good half-day to catch up and to see the city – tourist sites and all.

It was now March 2009. Nearly 4 months since the Mumbai attacks or 26/11 as the Indians referred to it as. The targeted sites, many tourist spots, were part of the tour. We passed the Taj Hotel by rickshaw, where 167 perished. We walked past Leopold Café where 10 had been murdered. Bullet holes still blotted the front.

Being here felt so surreal, so eerie. It wasn’t a feeling I welcomed. I walked on picking up my pace. Then from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed an Indian gentlemen sprinting across 5 lanes of traffic. His eyes set on me. My heart stopped. My feet stopped. What the….

“Ma’am! Ma’am! Stop! Stop!” I couldn’t move. One lane of traffic separated him from me. “Ma’am, ma’am! Please stop!”

Now a couple feet.

Tick tock tick tock.

“Ma’am, will you be in my Bollywood movie?” What?!

“We could make a good deal. You be in my Bollywood movie? Yes, yes?” I was speechless.

“We make big money.” Blank look. Mouth agape. Speechless.

My images of the Mumbai attack – fear, trails of blood, panic, ricocheting bullets, horror – diminishing into a montage of shaking hips, stiletto-dancing women. Absurd. Unlikely.

As my ability to form sentences seemed impaired, my friend intervened.

“No, no, she doesn’t want to be in your Bollywood movie.” No. No. No. Indians are well known for their persuasive skills and persistence and the clashing of these two Indians was no exception. My heart was still pounding.

Bollywood dreams dashed, we managed to escape into a bakery with a distracting array of chocolates and sweet confections. My friend quickly forgot the incident. I did not.

I sat on the plane that night, homesick for a land I had not seen in many months, and one I would not see for many more. I was homesick for a place where upon entry I would pass through the line for “nationals” not for “foreigners.” I was homesick for a place where my nationality and fair skin garnered few second glances.

I was homesick for a place where I could just be.

Getting directions from dogs

I get lost in parking lots. Not just the I-walked-out-of-the-store-and-now-can’t-find-my car lost, but the I’m-in-my-car-driving-laps-around-the parking-lot-because-I-can’t-find-my-way-out lost. Whenever I go someplace new (or well, okay, to be truly honest, familiar places as well), I factor in an extra 30 minutes to account for all the one-way streets I’ll likely drive the wrong way down before serendipitously finding myself on the right one. My maps are “outdated.” My compasses forever “misguided.” And a GPS always next on the to-purchase-NOW list.

However. Born and raised country girl, there is one place I never get lost. Outside. In the woods. My own 2 feet walking down Mother Nature’s highway.

In the woods, I always find my way. Well, 99% of the time.

---

A year before World Cup fever hit South Africa, I decided to explore the country myself. I had 4 weeks to get from Maputo, Mozambique to Cape Town, South Africa. With no car, public buses and my 2 feet were my primary modes of transport. My mission was to hike with the sun’s calendar. As the sun ascended and descended in the sky, I hiked, carrying on my back a small parcel storing water, granola bars, cell phone, and a rain jacket. I ambled along the ocean coastline waters, scaled the mountains, trampled through the grasslands, and trekked beneath the canopies of virgin forest.

One journey brought me to a former horse farm. Given the winter season, I was the only guest that day. Upon inquiry, a woman of great-grandmotherly age gave me a faded map marking the trails in the local region. The map, very primitive in appearance, hadn’t been used reportedly in nearly 10 years. Nonetheless, I took a look at the clear sky, the picturesque landscape of rolling hills blanketed with grazing horses, and headed down a path to the treetops beckoning me in the distance.

When in hike, I quickly lose myself in thought, surfacing only for nature curiosities like a beaver dam or a bubbling creek that needs transversing. Any concept of time passage quickly lost. Hours, miles, and landscapes had elapsed when I came to a clearing in the woods. First I noticed a flock of sheep in the distance being gathered in, then a small furry critter scurrying for refuge beneath a stunning fuchsia color of a flower, and lastly, above, the foreboding dark clouds that had rolled in, without pause, filling the sky.

I calmly turned around following my footsteps back into the woods. First, came a cold drizzle. I trekked on. Then the wind picked up. The trees howled. I trekked on. Then blocks of hail began to fall. I tightened the hood on my rain jacket and trekked on. The sky grew darker. The forest blackened. I trekked on. The earth beneath me began to suck at my shoes. I lifted my feet higher and trekked on.

Then I realized I was lost.

The trek stopped. I pulled out my map. It was of little use. All previous landmarks were being washed away; it was too dark to make out north from south or east from west. So I turned retracing my previous steps looking for familiarity. None.

Calm was becoming fear. Where was I? What to do? Where to next? What if…?

Then I saw two dogs. Wild dogs. They saw me. Thinking (hoping) that the dogs would possess superior directional skills than my own at this moment, I walked toward them. I followed them into a clearing, but not recognizing the area, I left the dogs and returned to the woods. The dogs followed me. But they kept nudging me back to the clearing. Alas, I relinquished my lead and followed them. Out in the open, I was subjected to the wind, the cold, and the harsh rain. More than once, I thought I had lost them. But they always waited, their eyes searching for mine, until I caught up.

Alas, we came upon a camping area, deserted for the season. The dogs led me to a small building, one that seemed fit for collecting park fees and doling out hiking maps. I entered the dry space, searched for an identifying name for the location and found one among the brochures and maps strewn about the floor. Using my cell phone, I contacted the couple I was staying with, provided my whereabouts, and waited for their pickup. As I surveyed the campgrounds, I quickly noted that my company had since left. The dogs were gone from sight.

---

Back at the home, the storm continued to rage on, through the night and into the many hours of morning. I slept little. Neither the rare hot shower nor the warm home-cooked meal could warm me up. The mere thought of being still stranded out there in the elements, in a storm that I later learned blew off rooftops and took down power poles, kept me shivering. Out the window, I kept looking. The dogs never returned.

---

However, I returned. I returned to the woods, continuing my quest, exploring the world on foot. However, added to the parcel that comes with me, often comes a dog. A dog for that 1% of the time that I get lost.

Lude’s Knot of Protection

June 2010
I looked down at my wrist. The faded bracelet, a red string that had been strung around my wrist 4 times and secured tightly with a knot, had come undone. It was slowly unraveling. With one flick of my wrist, it would be off - gone. And with it, gone, the ubiquitous memory of a person I had encountered 2 years ago, in a life far different than the one I was walking in today.


May 2008
It was a hot summer day in northern India. The monsoon season would soon be upon us. A brief but stalwart rain had begun the morning. The mosquitoes would soon be flocking to our pale skin.

We sat along the wall holding numbers ranging from 1 through 10, all waiting our turn to see the doctor. Each of us waiting patiently yet anxiously to hear our “diagnosis” to receive our “prescription.” The door opened. A short-statured woman, with black hair, weathered skin, and wise, calm eyes, filled the narrow doorway. She requested patient 1. The 9 of us searched the hands of familiar faces. Not one of us held the requested number. Then the lone stranger, a Tibetan monk cloaked in a maroon robe, unveiled, with a devious smile, the sought after number. He chuckled gregariously as he followed the Tibetan medicine practitioner into her office.

Hours later, I stood in the streets of Dharamsala, India, curiously studying the face of a community living in exile. A community grown from a 24-year-old spiritual leader’s escape from his native home in the Tibetan plateau of China to this place of refuge in the foothills of the Himalayas. In the 50 years since, some 80,000 Tibetan refugees had since followed suit.

Despite his familiar face, it was not the visage of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, though that caught the eye of my friend Lindsay that day. Rather, it was the face of a recent acquaintance – the monk from the Tibetan medicine clinic.

Though initially conspiring to take a photo from a distance, we opted in the end to trade in the paparazzi-style attention we’d been receiving in recent days for an attempt at conversation. Beyond the initial Tibetan greeting of “tashi delek,” we didn’t have a clue as to how to proceed.


As if words mattered.


Over the course of the next couple days, Lindsay and I taught our new friend Lude how to blow bubbles. He taught us the Tibetan alphabet. We showed him how to use a digital camera. He made us tea. We showed him pictures of our family. He shared coveted pictures of the Dalai Lama. And we laughed much and often.

During one of our most memorable visits, after a meal of tea (“chai”), peeled potatoes (“aloo”), and bananas, he gave each of us a gift. Around our right wrists, he wrapped a red string 4 times. He tied a knot. As we learned, this “protection and blessing cord” was symbolic of remaining within the protection of his compassionate embrace even after departing from his physical presence. It was in effect to give us strength and protection.

Not long after, our small group of Miami University students who had journeyed to India for a month to learn about the Tibetan culture, returned home to the States. Within weeks, I moved to Mozambique, Africa where I had a job beckoning me. Lindsay returned to Oxford, Ohio to work for the summer and stay on for her final year of undergraduate education.

Despite the distance, language barriers and the circumstances of where we lived, we all managed to keep in touch. Then in August 2009, we received our final correspondence from Lude. Despite the danger of his decision, he was returning to his native Tibet. In his final email, Lude expressed (through a friend who translated his words), “I will call you and write to you after I reached back in Tibet and hope you will also keep in touch with me like before. I will pray for your happiness and success for all of your family members wherever I go. I am also hope that we will rejoin in Tibet.”


June 2010
As the protection cord unraveled, I reflected upon the friend who had bequeathed me with such a gift. A warm, genuine, spirited soul but one whose eyes were marred with sadness for a place he called home. Tibet. A place that was once a sanctuary for Tibetans, now a plateau scarce with natives, scarred by cultural genocide. To return, not a fate many choose.

10 months later. Lude’s silence was telling.

My gut reaction was to retie the knot. I paused. For 2 years, I had worn the amulet. For 2 years, it had been a source and reminder of strength. A reminder that someone out there was praying for me, believing in me and in my protection. I had worn it through my year living in Africa and my return, through knee surgery and its recovery, through finding love and losing it, through ups and downs and a myriad of emotions in between.

Lude had held my hand, given me strength when I needed it but now…. Now, I realized –
I could stand on my own.

With one flick, my wrist was freed. And in some small way, so was I.

Passion + Action =

Maria finally signing up for a writing class.

For years my friend Mindi has been encouraging me to really run with my writing. My twin sister is forever supporting and getting excited about most anything I do (I imagine her hand-clapping and giddily jumping on the other end of the phone down there in Austin, Texas). So alas, I listened. Embraced my generally proactive self, and signed up to join a summer workshop with Women Writing for a Change. Never mind that I was behind schedule 1 week syllabus-wise, last night, the 15 member crew welcomed me with open arms and big smiles. Despite all the nerves and self-doubt going into it, I really enjoyed myself. I can't wait to take on the pen and paper for next Tuesday's class.

So hopefully the blog silence of the past year remains just that - the past.


My writing voice shall be quieted no more!

Sharing Smiles in the Congo :)

I must admit sometimes I feel a little like a spy…partly because I get emails that say “we need you on a mission to the Congo…you can expect a packet of information soon… you will depart in a week.” Followed by a request to overnight a secured package containing my passport, immunization records, and, of course, money to a seemingly obscure location in Washington, D.C. Then hours before my plane is to depart, my passport with a Congolese visa enclosed arrives to my waiting hand and then I’m quickly whisked off to the airport carrying but one bag with my essentials for a couple weeks stay in the heart of Africa. To think that Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? was my favorite computer game as a child seems only too fitting.

The update: I was in Kinshasa, DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) for a couple weeks with Operation Smile. Their 2nd mission to the Congo and mine as well. Despite sleeping on questionable bedding, taking cold showers, putting in 12+ hour days at the hospital (one that had no running water), eating the local delicacy of Mopani worms (crunchy outside, soft inside…kind of like a chocolate-covered ice cream bar but considerably less yummy), it was an absolutely incredible medical mission. Incredible. Incredible in part to the amazing team that assembled from 9 countries for the mission, but incredible mostly because of the Congolese people. Amazing, genuine, kind people.

As the mission schedule is usually set up, the first 2 days are strictly screening, then an education day, followed by 4.5 days of surgery, then post-op care. During the first day of screening after getting my screening station set up, I left in search of water only to be confronted by over 200 people gathered on the lawn, steps, floors of the hospital grounds. All waiting their turn to find out if they or their family member would be granted the free surgery to repair their cleft lip, cleft palate, cleft nose, or a slew of other facial deformities. As I wove my way through the mass of people, I began to hear “Maria, Maria” followed by an echo and more and more echos until finally I remembered that “Maria” is not a very common name in the Congo, and realized that, in fact, this echo of my name was actually directed at me. And then they began to sing “bebe e naya be ti o…”, a children’s song in the local tongue of Ligala - the same song I had learned a year ago and had gone around singing to anyone who was in need of laugh (because I can’t carry a tune, let alone in a language I don’t know). So despite knowing me but for a couple days 12 months ago, many of the returning patients and local volunteers remembered not only my face but my name and my sub-standard singing skills. As the week progressed, three times I was approached by mothers holding little babes only to learn that the mother had chosen to name the baby Maria in remembrance of me. And in a month’s time, there will be a 4th arriving (really hoping for the kid’s sake, it’s a girl). I was shocked. Touched. It was, it is completely humbling to realize that though your time with someone may seem minimal to you, to someone else that time with them can leave a lasting memory. A year ago, I just had no idea.

The statistics show that 156 people received the face and life-changing surgery, but from those couple of days, far more lives were humbled, touched, and changed.

Anyway, I could go on… but I will leave you with a video that was made from our trip. It’s just over 4 minutes, but the message is powerful. If you have a history of tearing up during commercials, get some tissues. Enjoy!

To the video - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1BD8glsLxk

[Side note – you’ll notice in the video an older gentleman. He was 84 yrs old, outlived the region’s life expectancy by 40 years, and at 84 got the surgery he’d been waiting a life for (as he phrased it). He was under local anesthetic (so awake), on the operating table for an hour, and after receiving his final stitch, he raised his hands, looked to the sky to thank whatever god he believed in and then shook his surgeon’s hand. A memory that will surely outlive his life.]

From the voice of the Congolese to you, what I said to all my patients, “Oza kitoko.” You are beautiful.