Shaking Things Up

What's it been like re-entering life in the US? I'm still not sure. In Jamaica I longed for everyday access to a computer, my reference books, old friends, walks in the woods, soaks in the hot tub under starlit skies. I longed for the freedom to move about freely and safely, to see familiar landscapes, and wear seatbelts!
Well, it's been a month since my return. So how come I feel unbearably restless at times, unable to sit still long enough to read a good book? And even the internet with its quick access to info seems vapid and superfluous. Perhaps its a bit of campaign withdrawal. Or maybe its adjusting to having to think about every small purchase I make and having the will power to say:" No, you don't need that, you don't have any extra money right now." It's made me realize how much time I spent searching stuff on LL Bean, Coldwater Creek and Amazon, com. Funny, I never really thought of myself as the materialistic type. I have what I need already. Excuse me, Kare--- you know you'd like a camera with a longer zoom capability. Wishing is OK, just don't get carried away.
I think I'm in a good place and happy for the most part. Returning to the Birth Center has been incredibly positive, challenging and rewarding. Juggling a myriad of tasks and patients can be stressful at times, yet I love the constant motion, the people interactions, digging deep into the recesses of my brain to retrieve bits of knowledge, being forced to make lightening quick clinical decisons. Yup, it's still there thankfully. For the first time in a long time,I'm feeling compelled to hone my skills, take new risks, try on new roles at work. Perhaps the little hiatus was needed.
I knew when I left for the Peace Corps that I needed lots of stimulation and varied activities to keep me stimulated and growing as a person. I was bored with my life. Now that I'm home, I'm aware that I have to, once again, make choices about how I spend my time. It's like shopping in a mega grocery store and having stuff swirling around me vying for my attention. It's disorienting and I feel like, oh please, don't make me choose. I don't want to read all the boxes and cans and compare. So I'm on the other end of the spectrum: too many choices and too few hours. It's something I've always wrestled with on a daily basis. Oh, yah and it'll be a lifelong dilemma. It's the curse and the blessing of being a creative person, someone who has an insatiable need to give of myself, yet a need to retreat into solitude and quiet. Holy, Moly it's a bitch at times! It's like having several taxi drivers shouting destinations at me and trying to sort out what they are saying and where I am going, all the while trying to stay safe.
Writing has been incredibly difficult, the words and emotions are stuck in my gut and I desperately want to let them out. I move on to other tasks hoping that my voice will return. So, I'll summon up patience and let it all percolate hoping that I'm able to make some sense of it all later on. It's not unlike waiting for wine to ferment. OK, I won't pop the cork until the time is right. But how will I know?
Geesh, it's difficult to watch Matt sort through the job search and find his way. I know it's his own struggle, yet I want to be a good listener and support him. I'm tempted to point him back in the direction of nursing, OK, so I mentioned it in passing. It's a bit like watching someone play pin the tail on the donkey from the sidelines. Oh, you're so close, oops, now you're headed away from the target. Matt's an amazing man with so many strengths and skills to draw upon. He'll figure it out. And I will too! Now, how was I going to spend my time today? Aaaagh!

Induction looms ahead

It's been some time since I've written.  Have arrived at a cozy hotel where we fledgling Peace Corps trainees are in the last leg of our training.  We arrived at the hotel nestled in amongst the lush vegetation on the grounds of the Mayfair Hotel.  The mountains rim the area where I'm seated and dark storm clouds hover overhead.  The skies have opened up once with torrential rains, welcome after sweltering days in Portmore.I'm getting to know the staff at the clinic and feel like I can contribute on many levels. They smile and say hello when I arrive each day. I spent the other day helping a home health nurse run child developmental/immunization clinics.  The children were dressed neatly and their hair was adorned with braids and barrettes.  The ages ranged from 3 months to 6 years. All the children were quick to smile, except for a 4 year old boy who had to be dragged in by his dad.  He was convinced that he was getting a shot, so I had to keep reaasuring him that I was just going to ask his Dad some questions.  He finally relaxed and answered my questions about Elmo on his shorts.It's interesting how the taxi drivers milling about calling out their destinations and vying for business don't intimidate me anymore.  I ask them pointedly how much for the fare and refuse if it's too high.  It's a constant balancing act trying to ferret out a sincere person from one that is about to ask me for money.  I'm going to try a new approach and say no, then ask them if they have any money for me!Last week I visited Castleton gardens to view a Small Projects Association project that was completed by a PCV.  The botanical gardens were located in the mountains north of us.  It was so serene once we arrived at the site and were guided around the project by the director.  It was green everywhere, a far cry from our urban setting.  There was a river that runs through the 32 acre gardens and I couldn't wait to remove my sandals and plunge my feet in the cool water. Assorted sized pebbles and boulders lined the bottome.  It reminded me of the Kancamangus area in NH, on a smaller scale where I've sat happily amongst the rushing water and stones.  Saw a large tree with gorgeous blossoms called a cannonball tree.  A Rastafarian tour guide plucked one from the tree and gave me one.  I have several close up photos that I'll publish later.The small zinc covered shacks and mini market stalls scattered all over the streets in town seem so normal now.  Fruit vendors on the street, guys sellling machetes to cars stalled in traffic, guys running on the bus while your waiting at intersections with bags of flavored coolaid mixture, bags of snacks who run up the aisles hawking their wares and who dash off once the lights change!  Another scene while I waited for the bus: a guy riding a bicycle juggling a plastic, open jug of gasoline on his handle bars, with a weed wacker balanced on his shoulder.  I could just imagine the KABOOM sound as he collided with an oncoming taxi driver.  Then another guy had a pair of lace women's panties on his head, nonchalantly seated on a bench.  It was all we could do not to laugh, we had to look the other way as we tried to guess if it was a size 6, 7 or 8 panty.  So much for macho Jamaican men image!All in all, anyone you pass on the street will take the time to say: Good Morning as you pass by.  It's amazing how Jamaicans never say good bye. They use words like later, soon come, walk good instead.  Their philosophy is that there is always the possiblity of seeing each other again, so no need to say good bye.All for now,Love and peace,Kareaomthing to reflect on: Peace Corps in Patwa is spelled Piss Kuor--- does make one wonder! 

Finding my way

I'm seated at a computer at a library across the street from the clinic where I work. I spent the morning with a primary care physician observing her provide free care to local people. She didn't have an otoscope to check for ear infections. No sheets to change on the table between patients. The patients were able to get free medication when she wrote them a prescription. The patients wait for hours seated on cement benches that are rounded and have no back support on them.

Yesterday I worked with a midwife doing prenatal exams. She used an antiquated wooden tube to listed to the fetal heart rate. I finally got the hang of it and was able to participate in providing care. Women had to bring their own towel to place on the exam table as there isn't enough paper to cover the exam table between patients. I actually will be doing health teaching in the schools come September.

My supavisa( supervisor) Miss Talbot is a seasoned public health inspector. She has a loud bark, but a soft heart. She asked me to give a talk to food handlers who needed to pass an annual exam. All she told me was that I was to talk on sanitation and hygiene. Not exactly much to go on! I ended up using transparencies and their projector ( well worn)to do my presentation. The room has an old fan for cooling purposes, so not only did I have to struggle to hold the transparencies while I presented, I had to talk to 30 people wedged into a small unbearably hot room and speak above the whir of a fan. My supavisa told me that I did a great job. Must have been the fact that I started out with a few Patwa phrases. They laughed at the Whitey trying to sound Jamaica.

Return to the Teacher's college on Sunday for more training. Can't wait to hear the stories from the other volunteers. Some are situated in the mountains with no stores in their towns. I've gotten down the bus system and route taxis. I have to take two buses to get to work. Should be wild when school starts as the kids take the public bus to school!

Hanging in there and in fact am enjoying sharing this experience with Matt. He's unbelievable relaxed and mellow. Actually, you could rise to the top of the corporate ladder here just by showing up for work. The standards are non-existant.
Love to you all,
Kare

When lightening strikes

Tuesday afternoon I wandered up to our cozy gazebo for a nap, knowing that my days at home were numbered. ( four more days to be exact) It was an idyllic, sunny summer afternoon. I dozed off and on. The sound of a torrential downpour caused me to surface. Matt returned from running errands and ran up to join me. A loud crack of thunder directly behind us caused us to jump and Matt commented: "Wow, that was a little too close for comfort. " We debated about making a run for the house when seconds later a lightening bolt struck the metal railing on our deck, 12 feet away from where we were seated in the enclosed, screened gazebo. The wooden post covers were instantly pulverized and splintered pieces lay scattered all over the yard. A jagged piece of wood was impaled in the gazebo door, narrowly missing the screened area. One of the metal railings was blown on its side by the impact and another one was twisted off its wooden supports.



It was definitely an oh, my god moment. My first thought was, did this really happen? Yup, the shards of wood were concrete proof. We later discovered that our phones, my computer, our router, and our garage door motor were fried too. We'd been spared what could have been a life changing moment for sure. As in, we could have been dead! It certainly begged the question: was this a sign, and what does it mean? Matt and I both subscribe to the live life to the fullest philosophy. So a little scare like this is not about to deter us from moving on with our plans. If anything, we are more committed than ever to get out there and take risks. When lightening strikes.............

Home is where the heart is

"How can you leave your house for two years?", people ask incredulously, when they learn that I'm about to depart for Jamaica? I slowly smile and explain that I've been fortunate to reside in my current home for the past 27 years. I"m simply choosing to veer off in a new direction temporarily. I want to sample a simpler life with minimal possessions. I want to give back to people who have been less fortunate. I know that I have an obligation and the desire to compose my own life. I am driven to pursue a sense of purpose, as well as new channels for personal growth.
When my daughter moved to Oregon after college, she expressed feelings of homesickness in her new environs. I e-mailed her a passage that I'd read in an issue of Oprah's magazine. Oprah had shared a new, personal insight concerning her concept of home: she had suddenly realized that feeling at home was not about the house, but rather about her sense of being within its confines. So, in essence, your sense of home stems from wherever you are at the moment.
My own perceptions about my home are mirrored in a quote by Mark Twain.

" Our house had a heart, and a soul, and eyes to see with; and approvals, and solicitude's, and deep sympathies: it was of us, and we were in its confidence, and lived in its grace and in the peace of its own benediction..... We could not enter it unmoved."

My house has gently morphed into a graceful extension of myself and my family over the years. It's changed size, dimensions and personality during the various financial seasons of my life. Since I'm a person with an innate need for creative self-expression, I'd sooner go without food than pass up a nifty old piece of furniture, an art print, the opportunity to stencil a wall. I once lived in my new house for months with gray, unpainted sheet rock walls. I couldn't quite bring myself to starve my 15 month old daughter. Let's see, buy food or buy paint. You guessed it, food won that ethical dilemma.
More importantly, it was within the confines of my cozy, post and beam house that I learned how to be a wife and mother, to fine tune my priorities, to reset my values and to tackle new skills and projects. It has witnessed my personal triumphs and losses. My home has held me and nurtured me during times of ever fluctuating emotions: from intense anger, disappointment, and sadness to supreme moments of elation, joy and happiness.
Will I miss my home while I'm away for two years? Yup, I definitely will. The heart and the soul of a home is about the people who reside there and who enter it. I'm taking along my sense of self, so wherever I reside will feel like home, to some extent.
As soon as time allows, I'll open the front door of my new abode with a warm smile and welcome in the new people in my life. Then, and only then will it feel like home. I'll make new memories. I'll learn how to be a Peace Corps volunteer. I'll develop new skills and how to live in a different culture with their own set of values.
Yes, I'm certain that household memories from my past will hitchhike along and help to sustain me in my new home and country. And besides I know that friends and family will be there in spirit. That's all I need.

Slowly Sinking In

When I left the Birth Center a few years ago, I was emotionally drained. I had taken on a new role as a clinical coordinator and after a year of trying to appease the masses, I knew in my heart that it was time to leave. The job had become all consuming: a constant stream of telephone calls during the night, multiple resignations and lack of support from my administrator had worn me down. In effect, I'd lost my soul. I had taken a new position in management, but eventually realized that it was the art of nursing and caring for people that was my passion. I loved working in tandem with an expectant couple, encouraging and guiding them through the birthing process, then celebrating their joy at the time of the birth. Each birth was magical, life affirming and special. I viewed my role as empowering women to nurture their family, as well as themselves.

I was ultimately drawn back to the Birth Center after a two year hiatus. I re-connected with old friends, formed new relationships with enthusiastic, young nurses and re-honed my skills. I learned to master the OB Tracevue computerized documentation system, along with juggling patient care. It proved to be the ultimate challenge: focusing on entering data into the computer, clicking here and there, while trying to establish a rapport with the patient and family. A bit of a stretch for my ADD tendency. During the transition back to the Birth Center I can recall a few momentous encounters with patients and their families.

One situation in particular involved a couple, Amy and Ken who were in the throes of losing their 19 week old son, Adam. An ultrasound had revealed that Adam had multiple anomalies. Ultimately, the die was cast when Amy's membranes ruptured and labor ensued. Adam was delivered and I gently wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to his parents. Amy held the baby tightly to her and vocalized how much she had wanted this child. Ken stood quietly by her side, with one hand on the baby and the other on Amy. They asked pertinent questions that I carefully answered. Some questions I was at a loss to answer. Why did this happen? A few misaligned chromosomes is hardly a satisfying answer. I took photographs of the family, then stepped out of the room to allow them some privacy.

The next day I was assigned to care for Amy and Ken: my task was to prepare them for their discharge to home. When Ken stepped out of the room to run some errands, Amy confided in me that it was Ken's birthday and that she wanted to honor his day, in spite of their loss. She wanted to celebrate a new year in the life of her partner and friend. Amy's mother smuggled in a birthday cake and I rounded up a few nurses to wait in the room for Ken's return. He saw me enter her room hurriedly just as he rounded the corner. He later shared with me that his first thought was that Amy had suffered a complication related to the birth. When he opened the door he was startled by a room full of nurses shouting: " Happy Birthday, Ken!", followed by a rendition of the infamouse song, Happy Birthday. Ken was overwhelmed and quietly pleased, knowing that his wife had risen above her grief to support him on his day.

It's time for me to move on again, to leave behind my passion, my community, my calling. I am happy to report that Amy and Ken were waiting for me two years later when I arrived at work one morning. This time they were able to share the happy news of the birth of a daughter. I immediately recognized the name and rushed to room 202, knocked on their door, and asked for permission to enter. "It's Karen", Amy shouted when she saw me. Amy was in her bed and Ken was seated in a chair. I rushed to the bed and hugged Amy, telling her that I was so happy for them. And between them was their beautiful baby daughter asleep in her bassinet. I leaned over and smiled at their precious child. Life had come full circle. I told them that I would be leaving the Birth Center in a month and of my plans to enter the Peace Corps with my husband. I was so grateful to be able to finally see them holding the child they so dearly wanted. I feel the loss of leaving the Birth Center behind, yet again; not un-like the grief that Amy and Ken felt when they lost their son, Adam. I am ever hopeful that my new calling will give birth to a productive, new chapter in my life. After all, isn't feeling hope and giving the gift of hope, really what life is all about!

Diving Into The Unknown

I'm about to dive head first into the unknown. Diving has never been my forte, so to speak. More times than not, I've had to be coaxed into the raging surf, as well as, the placid lake. I remember distinctly one summer evening when I mentioned casually to my husband who was seated by the pool reading the newspaper: " My goal this summer is to learn how to dive." I was busily marking off milestones for my fortieth year " Do you want to try tonight?",he asked. Ah, well OK, I said with a hint of hesitation. ( Dammit, don't you hate it when people take your casual comments literally) I stood resolutely, perched on the edge of the pool, arms outstretched over my head, head bent and fell into the pool. I disturbed the water's glistening surface with a splash, then bobbed to the surface sputtering. Just in time to hear the thundering applause of my diving coach/husband. "Alright, lady", was his response as he enveloped my dripping body with his arms.
As I enter my 57th year, I'm at it again, diving into the unknown:
except this time I'm leaping into a new culture, a new country, and a new job. I'm headed to Jamaica to serve as a midlifer Peace Corps volunteer. Yes, I'm bringing along my diving coach too.

I've been an avid journal keeper for the last 30 years. OK, I'll admit that some years have been more prolific than others. It's not always possible to jot things down while one is totally immersed in the moment, busily engaged in living life. I have been known to take painstaking notes while traveling the world with my husband and children. Yup, that was me at the Mayan ruins on the Yucutan peninsula, notebook in hand scribbling notes while the rest of my family waved to me from the top of a steep staircase. I was so preoccupied with jotting down the facts gleaned from our tour guide's talk that I didn't notice the adolescent Mexican boy standing in front of me. He plaintively asked if I wanted to buy a cheaply carved likeness of a Mayan god. Not only did I buy the useless trinket, I gave him my pen. As I handed the pen to his outstretched hand, unsurprisingly empty after deftly pocketing my money, I said in my sternest voice:"I'll give you the pen if you promise me to work hard in school" It's the little details that are forgotten when memories resurface.

With that in mind, I decided to create a private blog, a diary. A repository of sorts where I can capture stellar moments, reflect on life and no doubt, vent at times. I'm about to leave behind my closest walking friends, my confidants when I depart for Jamaica. Not only is walking the perfect venue for sharing your own day to day frustrations, triumphs and failures, it makes one a better listener too. I love hearing other people's stories, their thought processes while they grapple with minor and major decisions.