welcome to the world…

What a journey it’s been! I cannot believe how incredible it is to look at our little Redding and know she is finally here. Being a part of the process that is child-bearing- the creation, growing and delivering of a little life is the most amazing thing that God has allowed me to be a part of. Truly, there are no words to describe it. We were fortunate to have a smooth pregnancy but even then, there are always the worries that come along with it that plague the pregnant lady’s mind: I haven’t felt her move for a while- is she still alive? OMG, I just broke a CFL lightbulb and swept it up – did I just poison her with mercury? I painted the wall in the living room and it wasn’t well ventilated- is she going to have 6 toes now??  Were those tuna rolls I just ate a big no-no?? To have her here, safe and in our arms is a priceless feeling.

As I had shared, little Redding was breech and so we knew we’d be having a scheduled C-section. There were unknowns with that as well- was there a medical reason? Are her hips going to be okay?  Once I came to terms with this (not the most graceful process) we started talking with our doctor on how we could make the experience special.

It was a bit surreal driving to the hospital that day, knowing that she would be coming into the world. Not going through the laboring process takes a lot of uncertainty out of the picture, but major surgery brings another set of unknowns. By that morning I was pretty uncomfortable and having some contractions, and I wasn’t feeling her move a lot. I was feeling antsy and wanting her to just be here, as I know she was packed in there in a most uncomfortable position.

Once we got to the hospital and got checked in, they double checked her position to make sure she was still breech. After 10 weeks, I knew she hadn’t moved even though I heard those miraculous stories of babies turning right before their surgeries. There she was, bum down, head up and packed in tight like a sardine.

We had asked our doctor  if I could hold her skin to skin for immediate bonding after she came out assuming she was okay, before they took her and weighed her and did all the other newborn procedures. We felt like this was such an important element in the natural birth we were planning for, and this not common at all with C-sections to be able to do this. She was so great, and said she wanted to make this happen for us. We also planned to have music playing when she came out to associate a song with her birth, and for me to be able to see her being lifted out by dropping the curtain momentarily. At our last doc visit she said she’d have to get the OR team on board for this and that morning, she came bouncing in and said, “We have the BEST team today. Everyone is totally on board, and we are going to make this experience really special for you. I’ll meet you in the OR soon!” I instantly felt God’s hand over the entire thing, and Justin and I got our little shower cap and booties on and waited for the nurse to come back in to start my IV.

Nurse Miss-a-Lot seemed to lack a little confidence, or maybe she was a bit distracted, but I could tell it wasn’t going to be good. She tried to start my IV and blew my vein and blood dripped all over the floor. I formed a huge hematoma under it immediately and winced in pain. Seriously? I looked away, and Justin stood by and frustratingly watched (my husband is an excellent IV starter) and it took everything within him not to grab it from her. She absently said “sorry..so sorry” and went out to call in the big guns to come in and start it. Once we got that going, a lovely NP by the name of Christy came in to talk with us, and said she’d be leading the neonatal team and reviewed the things that would happen. She had an incredibly calming presence and while she was talking to me, she kept looking over at my monitor from the side of her eyes. Justin looked over at it as well, and I could tell something was going on. The baby’s heart rate had dropped from 140 to 50, and wasn’t coming back up. “Okay sweetheart, one moment, Im going to get the nurse.” All of a sudden, three nurses and my doctor appeared, and they started moving me around and put oxygen on me. “Okay, lets get ready to roll..” my doctor said. “It’s okay, she’s just having an episode… she isnt going to make it that easy for us today!” I began to genuinely freak out, panicking that she was in serious distress. Suddenly her heart rate bounced back up, and one the nurses said, “Roseann, you just had 4 contractions back to back- did you feel them? You are starting labor… i think the baby was pinching its cord somewhere and wasnt getting oxygen. It’s okay now.”  I kept asking Justin every two seconds, “Is her heart rate up? is she doing okay?”

From then on things moved in fast motion and I was propped up to get my spinal. I was most freaked out about this leading up to the surgery, but after bloody vein blow-out and heart rate freak-out this was nothing. I was shaking beforehand pretty bad, because it was so cold and because I was just so nervous about her heart rate dropping again. Justin put on our song (Alleluia, Sing! by David Crowder) and everyone got into position. Lovely Christy came over and said, “I love your music. We never get to hear Christian music in the OR- it’s like a worship service for your baby’s birth!” I knew there was something special about her. “Two minutes to baby time!” my doctor yelled out and Justin was jumping up and taking photos of me and then the baby coming out. Once they could see her, they found that her cord was very short and wrapped around her arm, making it impossible for her to turn. Ten weeks of trying and now it made sense! Oh sweet one, I’m sorry I didn’t know. I then felt a serious amount of pulling and yanking and my doctor yelled over to me: “Oh Roseann, she is so cute! Rosebud lips! Lots of hair! Chubby cheeks! She wins the cutest baby award today!” And then I heard it- the first cry…and I knew it was going to be okay. My heart swelled. They placed her on my chest and all I could do was smile uncontrollably, and thank God, over and over again. At that moment, the chorus of our song came on:

Like a song rising up
In your heart filling up
Like a heart’s not enough
For this love, for this love
To sing of love, to sing of love
To sing of love, love, love

Alleluia, majesty
Alleluia, King of Kings
Alleluia, angels sing

Alleluia, sing!

I couldnt have asked for more with Justin at my side..

I will never forget these first moments. I will never forget the incredible amount of love I felt for this tiny someone I had just met. I will never forget the overwhelming sense of thanksgiving and joy that welled up in my heart as I felt God’s provision and care over how perfectly formed Redd was.

A while ago I found this quote from a woman who had a cesarian birth with her first child, and I think it reflects perfectly how I will remember my birth experience with Redding:

“I look at my incision as a well-earned battle scar, in a fight I fought for my child. [It’s] more of a battle scratch now, and I wish that it was bigger to reflect how important it is. It is a visible, tangible sign that we belong to each other.”

Yes, we belong together. I love you sweet Redding.

goodbye

Ugh.

Saying goodbye is the WORST thing ever. It’s like stabbing your heart multiple times, then pouring sea salt and Tabasco in it with a squeeze of lemon juice. Then you mix it all together and repeat. Each goodbye was a bit harder than the last.

A place to call home

Sunday produced a joy in me that will remain long after my plane departs in the early days of next week.

It was a long-awaited homecoming for a simple family who share an intricate love, who have come to mean something significant to me in a way that I still can’t quite articulate.

There are times in life when someone, or a group of someones, come into your life and make a home in your heart. Then they stay for a long, long time.

handiworkings

This week has not disappointed with its share of ups and downs. Twice this week, we drove by dead bodies on the road in front of our base. For hours their bodies laid off the side of the road, maimed, bloody. Left as if it were an animal or a cast away bag of trash. They are likely pedestrians that got hit, or motorcyclists involved in an accident. In one case, we heard that the man’s motorcycle was taken while his body was left lying next to it, disregarded. In Haiti, the police will not move dead bodies. There is limited ambulance service. Often they are left until a community or church comes to identify them- which can take days at times. So they are left for dead, literally,  for the world to drive by and see. I wondered how many hundreds of people drove by and have that impression now in their minds.

I wonder more how many care.

Today, we stopped and put a blanket over one dead man’s body. I tried not to look at his face, but my eyes found their way there. Ive been thinking about that image tonight. It was a helpless feeling today. As our vehicle rolled by, we did all we could do- offered a little dignity by covering his body and said a prayer in our hearts as we drove away.

three weeks

In my mind the end of July seemed so far away, even up until last month. There were some moments I wished it would come quickly. Other times I wished time would stand still. But today as we were driving back from Cite Soleil, it hit me. Just over three weeks until we leave.

I am not ready. But it is the right time.

Last week we flew out of Haiti for some meetings at headquarters. I can’t quite explain it, but every time I see this tiny place from the window of an airplane I am overcome. Below me I know is unharvested potential and beauty, and I can see it so clearly, vividly, from that vantage point. The rural village roads rise up to meet the mountains, the waters, a piercing blue. In a strange way, the chaos and the uncertainty and the utter randomness of it all at ground-level have become something like a home to me. I will leave a piece of me here that will always remain, and will always be here when I return, right where I left it.

How do I even begin to reflect on my time in Haiti? It has brought me some of my greatest joys, deepest moments of frustration; it has filled late nights with words and emotions that I couldn’t type out quickly enough. Other times, it left me utterly speechless. I have vacillated from happiness to pain, sometimes within moments of each other.  I’ve watched people die, others brought back to life. I’ve prayed into the long recesses of the night with people who were fighting cholera. I’ve had humble hands pray over me. I’ve waded with little ones through mud in shelter communities after hurricane Tomas. I have stood on the grave site of the earthquake victims on their anniversary and listened to families relive their brokenness. I’ve shaken my head repeated times, wondering from the depths of me, “What is to become of you, dear friend, dear place?”

From the long months of my year here, I carefully tuck each moment into the folds of my heart and hold them forever close.

There are some things I have a sense of closure on. Maybe more a sense of release. One is Esaie’s orphanage, who I have written about before. A kind soul, giving heart, housing 15 forgotten children after the earthquake in a meager space. We pushed and prayed, and this week we got word from headquarters that they have set aside money to build a brand new orphanage for him this year. We will be telling him on Tuesday. This brings my heart a certain fullness that I can’t seem to find words for. It’s when the right thing happens to the right person at the perfect time. And sometimes you get to be a part of it. Thank you, God.

But there are other things I am not sure I  will ever have closure on, because luxuries like closure do not lend themselves to places like Haiti. Things like the horrors of IDP camps where people I’ve come to love are living daily alongside rape and squalor and filth. Things like overrun hospitals and minimal access to healthcare, and preventable and senseless deaths in the back of pick-up trucks. Things like rubble and raw sewage that infiltrate  city streets and slums. Things like the frailty of a young family, who has captured my heart, that I am unsure what more I can do for before I leave. These thoughts plague me late into the night and early morning– that I should’ve, could’ve would’ve done more… if only I had more time.  If only I had more resources. If only….

This is the thing about Haiti, it gets under you and doesn’t let go. I’ve thought long and hard about Peterson’s family, and I’ve prayed with anguish over what more can be done. The reality is that nothing is cut and dry here. I’ve thought about renting them a home and paying for it in advance before I leave, but that leaves them without their community and support system if they leave the camp. And why shouldn’t I give the others a home that I’ve come to know and love? Their families are just as deserving. Maybe I can raise money to tear down the camp community. Then maybe I can get funders to build a beautiful community living space with individual homes and ample space for children to be children. A place for parents to be proud of, and to start their lives over in. Is this too outlandish? Maybe. But who owns that land? Is it rented? Could we really do something that big in one of the most dangerous places in the world?

I dont have all of the answers like I had hoped to before leaving. But I am committed to seeing what is possible and I cannot let it go.  God spoke directly to my heart today and told me that just because I am LEAVING does not mean I have to stop LOVING. My dream of finding a long-term solution to get these families out of the slum does not need to be extinguished just because my time here is closing out.  My hopes for better education, greater access to employment, and so many of the similar dreams others share for Haiti do not need to be abandoned. I have lost some of my idealism along the way, but gained a wealth of tempered optimism in what can be here.  It was unveiled through the encounters of the courageous and long-suffering men and women I met in the face of death and disease, loss and emptiness. People that should have given up long ago but haven’t, and have dug deep to find a thread of something within calling out to persevere. It is the resilience of these people that I will carry with me as I leave. This is the face of Haiti to me.

So I will keep praying, and loving, and seeking answers.. and know, in my heart of hearts, that I will return. For now, we must refresh, regroup, and decompress. There is importance in this.

I know some of you are wondering what is next. We are the middle of working this out, and we hope to share more details soon once things are concrete, and once God reveals this. But we aren’t rushing the “next”. We need some time.

Many of you have loved us, supported us, prayed for us, sent us care packages, brought us goodies, wrote encouraging emails at just the right time, listened to us through bad connections on Skype, took us to dinner when we visited home, donated, came to Haiti because you read about our experiences, and on and on. We could not, would not, have gotten through this year without you. This journey is just as much yours as it is ours. From the greatest lengths that human love is capable, we thank you.

More soon. Love, eternal-

R and J

Below are some photos from today at our base with three of the families from our beloved IDP camp… three strong and brave women whose courage I can only hope to emulate.

turtle diaries and the déjà vu samosa

What can I say? I think Curacao has just about everything we love in a vacation getaway. It may just be one of my favorite places. But we might need a vacation from our vacation. We are wiped. From hiking the tallest mountain on the island, to chasing mindlessly after turtles in the water, to snorkeling until our heads were bruised from our masks… it’s been busy.

cur-a-wow

We are on our long-awaited R and R. I am sure it must seem like we gallivant around and go from island to island, but our mandated breaks are 8 weeks a part and when you are living in a place like Haiti, 8 weeks can seem like an eternity. Especially when you are working at least 6 long days a week, running cholera clinics, breathing in polluted air, eating processed food, seeing poverty daily, dealing with armed robberies in our vehicles (did we mention we had two of those last week??) and getting bitten on the bum by mosquitoes every time you go to the bathroom in your outdoor toilet. (true story). Not that we are complaining, I am just justifying why our  blog appears to have frequent reports from  new tropical locales here and there. 🙂

beach dreamin’ and the blues

As you can imagine, it’s been a week.

Some of you may have seen that cholera has spiked this past week. Which exponentially means more hours, more work, more of everything. When the numbers almost quadrupled overnight last week, my heart fell. I didn’t think we had the reserves in us- both emotionally and physically- for another full scale response. I told Justin that night that I wasn’t ready to be a “cholera widow” and never see him like last time. But this time is a bit different in the way that we’ve trained our Haitian staff to be able to work at night so our international staff doesn’t have to, and also because we have done this before so we know exactly how to run this machine.