Finally, the rain. After four months of scorching, dry-season sun, we arrived home from a perfect weekend – camping on the beach in Robertsport – just as the grey cloud over Monrovia broke open. We stood on the balcony, watching the torrential downpour, the wind bending the trees, the flashes of lightening. I imagined the thunderous racket it must be making against the corrugated tin huts, and the people laughing inside, seeking shelter.
And suddenly, it was all so beautiful to me. The landscape of rich green brush and raging ocean. The red sky.
In my last month in Liberia, I came to understand why Eric, and perhaps God, wanted me to come here. As I finally surrendered to the sweltering heat, stopped trying to avoid all the germs, learned to be vigilant but not afraid, accepted the situation for how it was, not how I thought it should be, my focus shifted from the discomforts and the tragedies to the rewards.
It is so easy to be helpful here. To bring about happiness. While in the ocean one day, I noticed a teenage boy watching me from the shore. He hung around for at least 30 minutes, kicking around a half-inflated soccer ball, and shouting out encouragingly whenever I caught a good wave with the boogie board. Before Eric and I left, we asked if he wanted to try the board. He shook his head and lowered his eyes, explaining that, like most Liberians, he couldn’t swim. “I’ll go in with you,” I offered. His face lit up and he grabbed the board, running in to the water and lying down where it was only knee deep. He laughed joyfully as waves zipped him to the shore, again and again. I remember the ecstasy in his face.
When the night is dark enough, even a small candle makes a brilliant light. (This line, from a book I read in seventh grade, has stayed with me always.)
Our last day in Liberia, Dr. J. organized a goodbye ceremony for me in the hospital chapel. I arrived just as morning service was ending, and grabbed a seat on the edge of a pew. My colleagues’ voices lifted in rich gospel melody around me, reverberating off the cement walls of the small room. I closed my eyes and was surprised to feel the tears well up in them, as I considered the richness of spirit that I would soon be leaving behind. Somewhere along the way I had come to adore these people, this hospital, this country. I felt grateful to have had the opportunity to get my hands dirty with them (both figuratively, and literally, given the frequent lack of soap and running water in the hospital). They would continue to truck away in this mess, long after I left. Dr. J presented me with a gift, and kind words of gratitude for my service there. Throughout the day, doctors, nurses, pharmacists, lab technicians, came over to say goodbye. Some even brought me gifts.
Before I left, I checked on Fortune, a four-year-old boy who had stopped breathing the day before, after being given too much Valium to stop a seizure he was having secondary to malaria. I was relieved to find him sitting up in bed with his father, looking like a new boy. Vanessa, an ICU nurse from the U.S. who volunteers once a week at JWH, had been observing me the day it happened. She had noticed the nurses making a commotion around his bed, and when we went to investigate, we found him lethargic and sputtering occasional, wispy breaths. I had sent her running for a pediatric bag and mask so we could do artificial breathing. She had tried the ER, the delivery room, the OR, everywhere she could think of, without success, until she finally found one in the dental clinic. We breathed for him until the effect of the drug wore off, and watched him closely for the next few precarious hours. Sitting on the bench with Vanessa afterwards, listening as she vented her frustration over nearly losing Fortune because of a lack of supplies and trained staff, I remembered how I felt when I lost my first diabetic patient because there was no insulin in the hospital. Anger is a great motivator. Just the morning before, I had attended my final meeting with the Diabetes Society of Liberia. They are now incorporated, have textbooks, and a plan. We said heartfelt goodbyes and they committed, amidst laughter, to not stop until they achieved their goal, coined by Eric, of “Taking the Die out of Diabetes”! I smiled inwardly as the infuriated Vanessa went on about needing to do resuscitation training for the nurses, and create a crash cart. You go, Girl.
*****
Two days earlier, we’d sent out text messages to our friends suggesting that they swing by the Boulevard Café on our last night in town. We were touched at how many showed up. We laughed as they filled up the courtyard – did we even have this many friends in Toronto? Wonderful people from all different countries – smart, kind, brave and fun – it had truly been a privilege to get to know them. Dolo’s girlfriend, Dorita, came all the way from Ganta (a 6 hour drive!), and they presented Eric and me with beautiful African outfits.
Halfway through the evening, our party was interrupted by the sounds of mayhem outside the courtyard. Another episode of mob justice: someone had been caught stealing a laptop from a car and was being attacked by the crowd. There in that moment, as the sounds of our friends enjoying themselves on a balmy night mingled with the ruckus of the angry mob outside, as we did our best to maintain normalcy and vigilance at the same time, was the paradox, the beauty and the beast that is Liberia.
She is magnificent, with her endless coastline and fiery sunsets, but you cannot walk on her beaches after dark. She is full of children, but has lost her innocence. She is in a time of stability, working on her growth and development, but the UN talk of leaving in a year, and everyone knows that there are enough arms hidden under the forest floor to equip an army.
There is no doubt – she is complicated. But as a wise man once told me: the best women always are.