For my 6th birthday my mother made me a piano shaped cake and used milk and white chocolate for the piano keys. Once the horde had dispersed with cake in hand there were no minor keys left for me. I recall a feeling of utter injustice and even a little party tantrum.
Twenty years later I find myself in a hospital ship ward with Marie who knows neither her age nor her birth date. I’m guessing she’s five cakeless birthdays ahead of me. Mercy Ships has an ‘Adopt a Patient’ programme where volunteers are encouraged to visit hospital patients whose families are too far away, have passed on or no longer acknowledge them.
I’m wondering what is getting lost in translation. Marie speaks a language from the neighbouring Niger. I have two translators between us. English to French to the mystery language to French to English. She is sitting up in her bed, head downcast and I pretend to not notice the catheter she has tried to hide with her pretty traditional skirt. When I ask her what her life was like when she was a young girl she tells me through our broken-down-telephone that she used to be beautiful.
Fifteen years before she gave birth to a still born and since then she’s suffered permanent incontinence from a labour-induced tear in the bladder. She lives alone and says she wishes most that she had a child. While she genuinely wants to experience motherhood it seems that in these parts child bearing is perhaps a woman’s sole source of significance.
I begin to feel like a bit of a “nice white lady” who can't possibly understand what it must be like to be her. Horrifying visions of that very annoying character in Beyond Borders come to mind. I’m praying with her via our broken-down-telephone and begin to cross wires with the patient in the next bed who is loudly interjecting the attempted communication to the One person who would know, understand and bring comfort. One of the translators opens his eyes and starts to argue with the crossed wire. In my head I’m thinking that I know what I’m saying is true but it is coming from someone who has (relatively) thrown more tantrums over minor keys than experienced them.
Today Marie’s eyes are swollen red because all the ladies who arrived with her from the North (and the only ones her understand her language) are going home. They’ve just had a Dress Ceremony where they celebrated their healing and were given beautiful new dresses to symbolize a restoration of dignity. Some cases do take longer than others.
I know Marie will have her day though right now that seems hard for her to believe. But watch this space.
Twenty years later I find myself in a hospital ship ward with Marie who knows neither her age nor her birth date. I’m guessing she’s five cakeless birthdays ahead of me. Mercy Ships has an ‘Adopt a Patient’ programme where volunteers are encouraged to visit hospital patients whose families are too far away, have passed on or no longer acknowledge them.
I’m wondering what is getting lost in translation. Marie speaks a language from the neighbouring Niger. I have two translators between us. English to French to the mystery language to French to English. She is sitting up in her bed, head downcast and I pretend to not notice the catheter she has tried to hide with her pretty traditional skirt. When I ask her what her life was like when she was a young girl she tells me through our broken-down-telephone that she used to be beautiful.
Fifteen years before she gave birth to a still born and since then she’s suffered permanent incontinence from a labour-induced tear in the bladder. She lives alone and says she wishes most that she had a child. While she genuinely wants to experience motherhood it seems that in these parts child bearing is perhaps a woman’s sole source of significance.
I begin to feel like a bit of a “nice white lady” who can't possibly understand what it must be like to be her. Horrifying visions of that very annoying character in Beyond Borders come to mind. I’m praying with her via our broken-down-telephone and begin to cross wires with the patient in the next bed who is loudly interjecting the attempted communication to the One person who would know, understand and bring comfort. One of the translators opens his eyes and starts to argue with the crossed wire. In my head I’m thinking that I know what I’m saying is true but it is coming from someone who has (relatively) thrown more tantrums over minor keys than experienced them.
Today Marie’s eyes are swollen red because all the ladies who arrived with her from the North (and the only ones her understand her language) are going home. They’ve just had a Dress Ceremony where they celebrated their healing and were given beautiful new dresses to symbolize a restoration of dignity. Some cases do take longer than others.
I know Marie will have her day though right now that seems hard for her to believe. But watch this space.
(Please note that in order to respect this patient's privacy I have changed her name and not included any photographs of her).
Please Pray:
Please Pray:
That this lady will have a successful surgery and be able to go home soon.
That she will experience comfort and strength from a loving God
That she will have a child but that she will know her worth beyond that
Below are some pictures from so far:
View from the Africa Mercy arriving in the Port / Fishing boats and the Africa Mercy
A long line on Screening Day / Ladies at work
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