2 weeks notice

Today I am officially giving my two weeks notice. Two weeks from today will be my last day working at the Red Cross Children’s Hospital in Cape Town, South Africa. Wow. Writing that feels very real. I’ve known in my head that the end is coming, but my heart is just starting to realize it so I cry pretty easily these days. I apologize that every blog entry from here on out will probably begin with a very similar statement about the ever-nearing end of this journey. Thanks to all of you who have traveled with me. I know some of you will miss my daily ramblings (others probably can’t wait for them to be over!), but hopefully this is only a pause in my adventures and there will be more to come in my life (whether at home or abroad). I am very excited to head home and see you all. I have missed you very much. But I know I will also leave part of myself here in Africa when I go. It sounds very cliché, but these kids have definitely captured my heart and it is very difficult to face leaving that behind.

(I really can’t see what I’m writing right now because the tears are coming full force now, so give me a minute to regroup…)

Joe and Missy were readmitted to the hospital today. They are the siblings I’ve worked with from the day I got here who have totally won my heart. When Joe got to the unit he saw me at the end of the hall. A big smile spread on his face and he ran to greet and hug me. Before I knew what he was doing, he’d planted a big wet one right on my lips (not something I’ve ever let a kid in the hospital do, but it came out of nowhere and caught me off guard). Missy was much more reserved. She looked extremely cautious when she walked on the floor. There was no grand hello from her. She just walked up to me and stood between my legs. She was connected to me for most of the rest of the day – either when I was holding her or she was just standing near enough to touch me. The hospital is such a scary place for her and she needs a little time to readjust to her surroundings.

Othathali went to surgery again today. She has made such improvements in the few weeks we’ve been working together. She was pretty sleepy for surgery today, so I just had her stay laying on her cot when we rolled into theatre. When the mask started blowing air on her face, she turned her head, buried it in the cot and fell back asleep. Rather than fight with her, the doctors simply covered her head with the blanket and placed the tubing inside with her to create a tent with the anesthesia pumping into it. It took a little longer, but it totally worked and Othathali was able to fall asleep peacefully. Have I mentioned how much I love these doctors?!

I’ve been thinking lately of all the encouraging messages I receive from home. Some tell me things like – you’re exactly the right person to be doing this, or we couldn’t have sent anyone better. But I need to take a moment to clarify that for everyone. There is absolutely nothing special about me when it comes to doing this job. There a million of Child Life Specialists more capable of providing better interventions for these kids and education for the staff. I can think of a number of people from my hospital alone who I have wished were here instead of me to provide the care these kids needs. Anyone could be doing the things that I am doing here. The only thing that separates me, and the others here with me, from the others is that we chose to come. We saw a need that we thought we might be able to assist with and we allowed ourselves to be used. We found a need and placed ourselves in a place to meet it – despite our potential inadequacies. As you’ve read in my blog, the interventions that I’ve been able to provide aren’t amazing. The majority of the time, I’m just here to hold a hand, to speak an encouraging word, to offer a shoulder to cry on, or an opportunity to laugh and forget the stress of this place. But because I have been here, and because the need is so great, those opportunities have turned in to life changing experiences. The awesome thing is – anyone can do this, in any place, at any time. You don’t have to come to Africa. You don’t have to work with burn patients. You just have to be able to step into a situation when see a need and allow yourself to be used to fill it.

Today I was on my way out the door when I remembered a couple of stacking cups I had left in a patient’s bed. Since they aren’t technically a big item, I considered testing my luck and hope they were there in the morning. But for some reason it nagged on me and I decided I needed to get them today. I went back to the bay and found that Joe had been taken to the treatment room to have his clips (staples which hold the graft in place) removed. He had been scheduled to have this done in theatre the next day, so I had no idea that it would be going on. I went to the treatment room and found him screaming in pain and fear. Once again, I didn’t use my 6 years of schooling to fish out an amazing trick to make his pain go away. At that point there was really nothing I could do for his pain. The resources are so limited that often kids are just asked to cope with things far beyond what children should have to cope with. So, I sat down and just grabbed the hand he was holding out to me. He looked at me with longing eyes. I sat next to him, put my arm around him and let him bury his head in my shoulder and just cry and scream. There was nothing magical about my intervention. It didn’t make the pain go away. But having someone willing to step into that moment, gave him enough strength to make it through. After his treatment, Joe and I went back to his room. He was quiet and tearful and just wanted to lie in his bed. I helped him up and told him how proud I was of him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out some Superman stickers I’d stashed there that morning. He took them and a huge smile lit up his face. “Superman,” he said. I smiled back and said, “You are Superman.” He laughed and said, “Joe. Superman.” He put his fist in the air as if he were flying. I realized in that moment there was absolutely nothing special about me. The true heroes in this story are the kids that deal with these traumas every day. They are the ones who will continue to be here long after I have gone. They will continue to face their fears daily and come out victorious. And hopefully, we as Child Life Specialists and medical staff get the opportunity to walk with them along the way. Joe, you are Superman.