Day 3: Heartbreak Day, part 1 (the hospital)

Thursday, June 11, 2015

So here is my journal from the day we did all the things that we knew would rip our hearts out. It was Puerto Plata day: the day we went to the hospital and the dump.

Last year I felt like I sweat drops of blood praying and dreading this day. I guess this day because I had already experienced it, I didn't have quite as much dread, but I still took it very seriously.

"During quiet time today, I read 2 Corinthians 4 and 5 and Psalm 23. My heart just feels so full, I can't even express it. I won't forget."

That was all I journaled about quiet time that day. Rereading both passages now, wow. I know the way I spent my quiet times was generally pretty Spirit led - I would pray and either a verse would come to me or I'd just flip my bible and see where it led me. I am certain I could not have picked better passages to prepare me for the day. I just can't imagine where to begin to describe or select what part(s) to emphasize of those passages. I strongly urge you to just take a minute to read them yourself (links above).

Hospital in Puerto Plata. No photos allowed inside.

We went to the women's ward while the men went to the men's ward. The rooms seemed so dark and everyone looked sad and/or uncomfortable. There were something like 10-12 beds in each room and not much space for visitors, which most had at least one person there looking out for them because if they didn't no one else would it seemed. We entered in our "entourage" and once we were in, I asked if we could sing for them. No one said no, even if their family member was sleeping. We sang "As the deer" and then "En momentos asi," which we had practiced on the Daihatsu on the way, as it's been maybe since 2 years ago we sang it, and I remember patients' family singing with us last time when we sang it. No one sang with us this time, even though we visited so many more rooms and sang it many more times.

Last year we sang, but we had guys in our group too. The sound of the girls singing was so sweet, it was just like angels. I could barely sing, the notes just stuck in my throat as I fought back tears, trying to keep it together as I saw how much beauty and comfort these girls were bringing to this dark place. One lady was so moved she was watching us, listening, tears just streaming down her face. One girl lost it; she had to turn around. Some of the other girls were in tears but still singing. When they were done, I explained we would come to each of them and pray with them if they wanted. As we split up and in small groups approached each bed, it was helpful to have Edely, one of the Dominican teens, and Monica, a Puerto Rican intern, there to help with Spanish, and the others did their best. Some of the girls do a pretty good job in Spanish, enough to get by. The patients and families felt loved at least. We hugged, sometimes kissed, smiled and gently squeezed their hands. One that broke my heart begged us, "Please come back and visit us."

Some seemed not in too bad of shape, but others were pitiful - skin and bones, deformed, very ill and no one tending to them. Jeff shared with me much later about a man he cannot forget. He was 104 and in really bad shape. There was a family member (daughter, he guessed) who was trying to get him to drink a dark liquid, but it was running all over his face. She came to Jeff and desperately was trying to communicate a need to him. He, with the help of one of the Dominican teens whose English was spotty, gathered that she wanted a towel to wipe his face off. Jeff found a nurse or aid and asked for just a paper towel or tissue, but there was none. He felt crushed that this poor man couldn't even get something to wipe off his face - where is the dignity in that?

In Mexico you have to have family members with you in the hospital because the staff can't look out for the patients. This place seems the same. I don't even want to think what happens to people who have no one. I believe they told us last time that anyone can come in if there's an open bed, they just won't treat them if they don't have the money. Staff seemed very scarce. One of the missionaries indicated there was no triage; that is, those in most need didn't necessarily get treated first so for example someone could bleed to death while someone with a broken bone got treated first because they were there first.

I remember last time how I loved praying with the people and felt so encouraged, so held through the experience that I was a bit sorry when it was time to go. This time was just plain hard. It was so hard each time we went to a different ward and had to pull ourselves together. There were a lot of tears in the halls; the emotional toll was heavy. I personally didn't know how much more I could take. When it was time to go, we breathed a sigh of relief.

That's enough for today. I'll journal about the afternoon at the dump tomorrow.