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/
[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.
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