Learning to Fly.

Part 2 to Getting The Plane Off The Ground

Learning

Where the story left off a few days ago I had just left my family at the airport and was making my way back to Tanzania. I had carried all the things I thought I would need to continue my life in Tanzania with me in my 2 bags. I had a pair of sheep sheets, a laptop computer, a bag full of prescription medicine that I could take next time I became very ill, a bag of Hersey’s chocolate miniatures, a small bottle of sesame oil, a pillow with lots of feathers in it, a framed picture of Abdu’l-Baha and 2 cans of beef barley Campbell’s soup. The surgery had gone really well but I still had problems walking and looked a bit like a duck when I had to move quickly.  It took me just over three days to get from Alaska to Dar Es Salaam,Tanzania. All my clothes and precious cargo had been lost and it took another few days for them to show up.

September 11th Attacks

September 11th

Once I arrived in Iringa region I had 3 days to relax before I was set to start university. I was so excited to be a university student and prepared and re-prepared all my books and stationary. Early morning September 12th the students came knocking on my door explaining to me that America was burning.  I didn’t have a TV, radio, Internet or a newspaper so I quickly ran to the main library where there was a television, we all stood huddled together as we watched the September 11th events. The Attacks had a big impact on the area around where I lived, which largely consisted of two polarized Religious communities. To make a long story short the University I was supposed to attend became paranoid as to why an American would want to come study at a village university in the middle of nowhere, Iringa, Tanzania. I was quickly named ‘FBI’ (a name which many to this day still call me). It took a few weeks before a check could be run on me proving that I was indeed a mere student who wished to study in a village in Tanzania.

Lonely and Sad

Feeling Lonely

I struggled with making friends. I tried everything, but I seemed unsuccessful at closely bonding with anyone. I think part of the issue was that I didn’t speak Swahili and many of my lovely classmates did not speak much English. The language that everything took place in was Swahili and I was unable to join those conversations. The first few people who tried to befriend me where men, a fair number of years older than me. Within a short period of time I realized that I was not able to be ‘friends’ with them in the way that they thought I should be friendly. A few of the girls questioned why I was there at all and noted that it would be better if I just went home. I didn’t have any friends or anyone to turn to and the closest Baha’is lived 3 villages away. And then I got sick. Very sick.

One in a Thousand

Do you remember when the Doctor said that there was a one in a thousand chance that I would get sick again and that if I were in Tanzania I was likely to die? Well, the clever girl I am thought, “that is 999 chances that I will be

One in a Thousand

perfectly healthy!” Well, I was the one out of the thousand that got sick. I started loosing blood again and my stomach started cramping and then loosing control of itself. It was horrible and I didn’t know who to tell. I couldn’t tell my family because they would worry and want to know what my plan was, and I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have any friends to confide my problems to at university and the Baha’is were 2 buses away from where I lived. I finally called my Baha’i friends and told them. That day I was sent to Dar Es Salaam for medical examinations.

The journey from hell

Long Bus Ride

The doctor had me carry with me a medicine that I should take in the event that I was the one in a thousand. He told me that I should just make sure that I was not direct sunlight after I took it. I remembered his instructions clearly and boarded the bus that would take roughly 9 hours to Dar Es Salaam. One hour later the bus broke in the middle of the plains where there were no large trees in sight. We had to wait a very long time for another bus to come. Everyone was fighting for a seat on the bus but I didn’t have any energy to fight or the words to tell anyone what was wrong with me. By the time that they noticed that I was very ill, I had been in the sunlight for a very long time and was even worse than before. All the seats were gone so I was put on the engine which had a whole under it… and for 8 more hours I watched the road pass underneath my feet wondering what fate I was awaiting.

You must leave the country!

Needing Medical Treatment

I went to 4 hospitals getting examined, they all told me the same thing, “forget studying here, you must return to America and seek medical treatment”. Finally, the 5th hospital told me that they knew of a Hungarian doctor in Nairobi who could do the surgery if I could make my way there. I was so excited! I could stay in my post pioneering if I had surgery in Kenya. As I made travel arrangements I became aware that I had forgotten my passport in my village. It would take at least another 36 hours before It could be rushed to me… and that would be too late (i was quickly deteriorating). I went to the American embassy where I broke down in tears of desperation wondering why I was fighting to stay in a place were I was not wanted.

The embassy encouraged me to call my parents… they all said, “come home, we have med-jet (an insurance medical relief airplane) ready to take you home… come home and get well!” My mother uttered her famous one line to me, “Clare if you die because of stupidity, you don’t get to be a martyr!“, she also told me that if I came home now that I must be prepared to stay until the Doctor told me that I was well enough to leave. What she had intended to do was to prepare me for the reality that I needed to stay in America and get well, but what I understood was, if I don’t have the surgery at home then I don’t need to return to America. I thanked her for all the good advice and called my father to let him know that I was staying in East Africa and going to have surgery. He was sound asleep and to this day does not remember the phone call. He said, “That is great! Good idea!”  I should have known that he was not awake but maybe it was easier for me to deal with this way. I called my mother again to give her the final verdict, that I was going to stay in Africa and have my surgery there and remain in my post. I could hear the pain in her voice and the sadness in her breath.

The next morning she woke up with a very heavy heart. On her way to work she saw an accident where someone had flipped their car and the passengers were dead. She realized that even if I were to come home and live in Alaska I could also die on my way to school. She found peace in knowing that even if I were to die on the operating table at least I had died for something that I thought was worth dying for. She later told me that she realized that life was fatal, one way or another.

Dancing with death

In the hospital

The American embassy gave me an emergency visa and sent me to Kenya. I arrived at the hospital and was lead to my room. I suddenly became aware of the implications of my choice to stay. The room was bare and minimally clean. There was no TV or radio or entertainment system. The nurse said that I would be in the hospital for a minimum of four days and my heart sunk. I had mid-terms coming up and I was terrified that I would flunk out of my program and have to leave my post because of failing after having endured surgery to stay. I met the doctor later that afternoon, i don’t remember too much about him but I remember his hands, they were the biggest hands that I had ever seen and all I could think was how he was going to fit those hands inside of me to fix me… was it possible?

A group of young doctors, just a few years older than me, were lead into my room and all took turns peaking at me under the sheets to get a good idea of what was going to be done the next day… I felt so alone. I did not know a single person in the entire country… I suddenly was so scared and I had no one to confide in. So in the midst of my pain and contractions I turned my eyes to my studies and read as much as my poor tired brain would take in. The nurse came in during the evening and gave me something that made me sleep.

A sleep that does not rest

Sleeping

Early in the morning they came for me and brought me into a theatre. They put some white stuff into my arm and told me to count backwards, I remember getting to 8 and then not remembering… yet i didn’t forget either. I was there… awake but frozen. It was like my mind and body were numb but I could feel my own emotions. At one point I woke up a bit more because my body was jumping. I could hear voices around me, “we are loosing her. What is happening?”. Blackness. I started a series of thoughts… “So, this is what it is like to die. I thought it would be painful.” then all the sudden my blackness had a flash of light and I thought about my father… and I could not go. I thought about all the love he had given me from childhood… I thought about his pain at having his only daughter desert him to Africa against his wishes, and I couldn’t die. Not then. So i started fighting. I thought if only they could know that I was awake everything would be okay. I remembered a movie called Lorenzo’s Oil where the mother tells the child, “tell the brain to tell the neck to tell the shoulder to tell the hand to tell the finger to move”. I concentrated all the energy that I had on this one little movement and I am sure that it saved my life. Apparently the oxygen tube had been put into my stomach instead of into my chest and when they removed it, they saved my life.

I went back to sleep after that and I don’t remember anything until I woke-up again during surgery, this time I opened my eyes. I saw my lower half of my body on some metal device way up in the air. I almost got sick and then the doctor next to me said, “oh, she is awake. That isn’t supposed to happen” and I was put back to sleep. I woke up again in my room many people watching me. I suddenly had to pee badly. I told them, but the nurse refused to give me a bed pan, she said it was just the pressure of the surgery and that I didn’t need to go really… but I did! So after some not so kind persuasion she agreed to give me the bed pan. I was hoisted in some awkward and unpleasant position with a room full of people watching me trying to pee! Then all of the sudden I heard a ‘tinkle tinkle’ and I smiled at the people with pride, as if saying, “see i did have to pee”. However as they pulled he pan away it was only full of blood. I started to feel faint and they put me to sleep once more. I was starting to get tired of being put to sleep all the time only to wake up later and have to deal with the situation again.

Later when I woke up the doctor came to check on me and to look for some bandages that went missing during the surgery. They poked around at me but still couldn’t find them (not a thing you want to hear). By this time my father had woken up and had heard that his daughter was having surgery in East Africa and was not impressed. He finally got though to the hospital but I was too tired to talk, after hearing just a few words of his I couldn’t converse anymore and went back to sleep. When I woke up next it was bathing time… the hospital had the rule that patients must not bathe themselves just as they have come out of surgery. The only nurse in my wing was a man and i was not letting him see me naked. It wasn’t a pretty argument but I won… but then i had problems getting out of the bathtub later.

Getting Better

I was pretty drugged up for the first day or two… but all I could think about was ensuring that I didn’t loose my place in the University. I studied so hard… i found it so hard to turn  the pages so I would just look at one page for long periods of time.

Get Well Soon!

On the second day I had a visitor, someone who worked at the Baha’i National office came to visit me and she brought me flowers. She had never met me before but she came to visit me… almost every day. I was so happy. I felt like If I died at least someone would know that I was gone and that seemed okay to me.

After a period of time I was released with strict instructions to take care of my health. I went back to Dar Es Salaam and took the 9 hour bus the same day. The bus broke down on the way home again and we didn’t get to stop to buy food or water, so I didn’t get to take the medicine I was supposed to. By the time I got back to my region I was ill once more. I spent my last $5 us paying for a taxi back to my room. When I arrived I found that my roommates had all gone out for the evening and would not be back till the morning. I then found out that my stitches had come open again. I sat down on the floor outside my room and wept. I normally wouldn’t sit down out there because snakes and scorpions are frequent visitors on those grounds (having killed 3 in one day myself!). I wept because I suddenly became aware that I had thought I was doing this all for love of service and love for Baha’u'llah but how could it end like this? I was so sure that even if I wanted to go home now it was too late, I wouldn’t survive the journey. I cried because i was lonely and felt ill and I cried because I had failed as being a pioneer.

And then there was light

Someone opened their door and came out and brought me into their room. They fed me and put me to bed in their own bed… all the while telling me stories that I can’t remember but soothed my heart. I woke up  in my own bed with a room full of people. Someone said, “I heard you were crying yesterday”, I made an embarrassed shoulder shrug, ‘yeah’. He then said, “i heard your tears were not red.” I said, ” why would they be red? tears are clear.” He then added, “I thought you would cry tears of blood… maybe all white people do?” I said, “no, my tears are just like yours… they are just tears”. One of my roommates said, “we heard that you chose to have surgery here so that you could stay with us…why?”. I said that I didn’t know why, but I thought it was the best thing.

Happy Endings!

From that moment on my life changed. I had friends, good friends, great friends! I believe that it was such a big gift… but it didn’t feel that way at the time. But because there was so much prejudice and racism in that area residue from colonialism… it took me being completely broken down and helpless to need them, and when I needed them they had something to contribute to me. I know now that they always had an important contribution to make but it was only after I was completely dependent on them that I learned to love… that I learned to love what sometimes I didn’t even like. They taught me Swahili, they taught me to cook, they taught me how to dance and they brought me into a life far more vibrant than the life I had chosen for myself.

I know it broke the hearts of my parents and my family… to have a daughter her dances with death like most dance with men is not easy. I guess what I’m saying is that I’m sorry for all the pain this journey causes the ones that I love, I can’t change the journey that I am taking but hopefully I can learn to explain why I am traveling the way that I do.