"Here is your timer."
"Thank you."
"And, here is your pump."
"Why, thank you."
I took the washing machine parts from Bryan's hand and placed them on the narrow hallway railing. It's not every day I get excited about washing machine parts but this was certainly an exception.
Ever since we moved into the missions house in Luganville, Vanuatu, we have been without our own washing machine. The Maytag Performa top loading washer would fill with water and agitate the items to be washed but would neither drain nor spin—two functions which make a washing machine a convenience. I had a local guy over who works on these kinds of things and he gave me a solution which didn't make much sense to me at the time. I called an Aussie repairman in Port Vila who advised that it might be either the timer or the pump, but most likely the timer.
I e-mailed our boss, Bryan—who's washer and house we are using—and asked him if he could purchase and bring over these parts from the States when he visited.
Well, I installed said parts and selected the cycle I wanted. Water began to fill the tub. I could hear the timer ticking away as it moved closer to the spin cycle. A click. Nothing. No more ticking, clicking, whirring, or any other sort of "ing". Bummer. I looked over at the wall and realized an error I had made. Here in Vanuatu each electrical outlet has an individual switche that must be turned on to allow power to flow freely. I giggled. "Sweet," I thought, "that's easy to fix." I flipped the switch down and could now see the red dot indicating the "on" position. Nothing. Razzin' Frazzin', no good....calm. Peace and caaaaaalm.
Attempting to keep perspective I reminded myself that we still had a washing machine thanks to an incredible set of missionaries—the Widups. From bug bombs to Cap'n Crunch they have everything. Every time they come home from furlough in the U.S., they pack a shipping container full of goodies.
Today, I went downstairs to re-connect all the lines to our borrowed unit. Reaching towards a pair of rusty slip-joint pliers, I stopped.
"Lord Jesus, if there is any way you can fix this washer, would you, please?"
I flipped the outlet on and tried again. Nothing. An article on the internet stated that from time to time items can get caught between the tub and basket. I lifted the lid to see about removing the tub. I was prompted by the Holy Spirit to look more closely at the lid's safety switch. I thought this was a good idea since I did not want to have the tub suddenly start whirring around, grab ahold of my chest hair—which I can practically braid right now due to me not bringing my Wahl clippers— and fling me against one of the concrete walls of the laundry room. In an attempt to figure out how to ensure the safety switch was indeed engaged I saw that it was completely inoperative. Now, understand, I do not consider myself very good at troubleshooting. As an aircraft mechanic I really despised when a broken thing-a-ma-jig would be dropped on my tool box with the instruction to, "fix it". It's that whole concrete orders thing again (see entry about Daniel's birth). I like things like, "remove these screws," or, "attach this antenna." To try and figure out where an item is malfunctioning gives me the cold sweats.
I decided to remove the incoming and outgoing wire from the switch and attempt to test the system by simply connecting the wires. I selected the spin cycle and grabbed one wire in each hand. Holding my breath and leaning back a bit, I brought the exposed ends of the wires together. Instantly the washer lurched to life! The whirling dervish increased in speed and intensity—then I stopped dancing to make sure the washer wasn't on fire.
Everything checked out.
I'm telling you, the Holy Spirit was leading me step by step. My prayer was answered in such a cool way that not only builds my faith but was very relational. No handwriting on the wall or parting of the sea. Just a small still voice leading me step by step—as a friend.
Our God is a personal God who loves his people and cares about them. I'm so grateful that He not only cares about the eternal destiny of our souls but the seemingly mundane everyday things that concern us daily.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Two Wongs Don't Make a Right
"Well, to find the best price on milk, you'll want to go to either Wong Sing or Wong Sze Sing."
"And where are those stores located?"
"Go into town and you'll want to pass the new Nu Look..."
"New New Look?"
"Yep. The new Nu Look...anyway, if you see the Wong Store then you've already passed Wong Sing but are really close to Wong Sze Sing, which is across the street and down a bit. If you just want to get some things all in the same location you should try LCC, LCM, or ESAH. Got it?"
My blank stare, unblinking eyes, and mouth hanging open apparently did not clue our new friends into the fact I had no stinkin' idea what they were talking about. I was now no closer to finding groceries than I was 5 minutes ago. I wondered, "Are they just putting me on?, watching to see if the missionary will cry, pull his newly grown whiskers out, and run screaming into the nearby ocean?"
I thanked the seasoned veteran missionaries for their "directions" and headed into town.
The road leading from our missions house is paved and, in fact, very well maintained. The 7 minute drive into town is beautiful with cobalt sea on the left and thick jungle on the right. The jungle here has as many shades of green as Arizona has shades of brown. Along the road there are a few houses perched on sloping terrain which look across the mile of ocean toward the neighboring island of Aore (Ow-ray).
After a pseudo roundabout, which is not properly observed by most drivers, the foliage gives way to one and two-story concrete buildings. Sidewalks were constructed at some point but now look more like opportunities for ankle sprains and broken limbs. In fact, there are holes of such magnitude it looks not like simple neglect but something one might see in a country battered by war.
Shops, stores, and government offices line the street on both sides. Exteriors of the buildings are severely weathered from intense tropical sun and frequent wind and rain. Many signs have been painted by hand and are, in many cases, close to unreadable which certainly didn't help us in our search.
"Mer, there's Wong Sing. Is that where we're supposed to go?"
"I don't think so. I thought they said, 'Wong Sing Sing'"
"Oh...we just passed the Wong Store. I don't think I want anything from there. No matter what they've got it's WONG."
I snickered. An easy joke? Yes. A bit childish and immature? Certainly. Funny? Everytime! There are no t.v. stations, no movie theatres, and no radio signals here so we take our yucks where we can get 'em.
We pulled over and parallel parked in front of a store which looked shady at best. Merissa and I exchanged a glance which conveyed the whole, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto." feeling we were both experiencing.
There is a Far Side cartoon which depicts a child, book in hand, pushing on a door to a building marked, "Midvale School for the Gifted". Above the handle a sign clearly reads, "Pull". I was having one of those moments. I pulled and pulled even as I read a sign telling me to push. In my mind the sign must have been wrong since in the States businesses are required to have doors which open outward. Squinting and pressing my face up to the glass, I tried to see if the business was indeed open when another patron skirted around me and went inside.
Most of the fluorescent lights were not lit and for good cause. Merchandise was crammed into every nook and cranny. Food items had "expires on" dates from when hair bands still ruled rock and roll. Dust covered most of the glass cases except where oily fingerprints revealed where the un-motivated merchant had leaned to rest. We poked around a bit and left feeling more than dejected. Was this really where we were to find our food and supplies for the next two years?! Climbing back into the car no one said much. Fortunately, the exterior of the next shop we stopped at looked very well maintained.
I instructed the kids to get out on the passenger side of the truck so as to not get smooshed by one of the numerous taxis speeding by. To my dismay, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk another truck popped up over the curb and parked on the sidewalk not 5 feet from us.
Entering the store we were immediately impressed and relieved! All lights were illuminated, there was room for more than one person between rows of highly organzied items, and they had real honest to goodness scanners. They even had small shopping carts!
"I think we can actually do this, honey," I whispered to Merissa.
Our family has now been in Vanuatu for almost 6 weeks. We have yet to starve and are actually a lot more comfortable than we could have hoped. Merissa and I are having a great time getting to know our little town and its many shops. We even know the difference between all the Wongs...but two Wongs still don't make a right.
"And where are those stores located?"
"Go into town and you'll want to pass the new Nu Look..."
"New New Look?"
"Yep. The new Nu Look...anyway, if you see the Wong Store then you've already passed Wong Sing but are really close to Wong Sze Sing, which is across the street and down a bit. If you just want to get some things all in the same location you should try LCC, LCM, or ESAH. Got it?"
My blank stare, unblinking eyes, and mouth hanging open apparently did not clue our new friends into the fact I had no stinkin' idea what they were talking about. I was now no closer to finding groceries than I was 5 minutes ago. I wondered, "Are they just putting me on?, watching to see if the missionary will cry, pull his newly grown whiskers out, and run screaming into the nearby ocean?"
I thanked the seasoned veteran missionaries for their "directions" and headed into town.
The road leading from our missions house is paved and, in fact, very well maintained. The 7 minute drive into town is beautiful with cobalt sea on the left and thick jungle on the right. The jungle here has as many shades of green as Arizona has shades of brown. Along the road there are a few houses perched on sloping terrain which look across the mile of ocean toward the neighboring island of Aore (Ow-ray).
After a pseudo roundabout, which is not properly observed by most drivers, the foliage gives way to one and two-story concrete buildings. Sidewalks were constructed at some point but now look more like opportunities for ankle sprains and broken limbs. In fact, there are holes of such magnitude it looks not like simple neglect but something one might see in a country battered by war.
Shops, stores, and government offices line the street on both sides. Exteriors of the buildings are severely weathered from intense tropical sun and frequent wind and rain. Many signs have been painted by hand and are, in many cases, close to unreadable which certainly didn't help us in our search.
"Mer, there's Wong Sing. Is that where we're supposed to go?"
"I don't think so. I thought they said, 'Wong Sing Sing'"
"Oh...we just passed the Wong Store. I don't think I want anything from there. No matter what they've got it's WONG."
I snickered. An easy joke? Yes. A bit childish and immature? Certainly. Funny? Everytime! There are no t.v. stations, no movie theatres, and no radio signals here so we take our yucks where we can get 'em.
We pulled over and parallel parked in front of a store which looked shady at best. Merissa and I exchanged a glance which conveyed the whole, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto." feeling we were both experiencing.
There is a Far Side cartoon which depicts a child, book in hand, pushing on a door to a building marked, "Midvale School for the Gifted". Above the handle a sign clearly reads, "Pull". I was having one of those moments. I pulled and pulled even as I read a sign telling me to push. In my mind the sign must have been wrong since in the States businesses are required to have doors which open outward. Squinting and pressing my face up to the glass, I tried to see if the business was indeed open when another patron skirted around me and went inside.
Most of the fluorescent lights were not lit and for good cause. Merchandise was crammed into every nook and cranny. Food items had "expires on" dates from when hair bands still ruled rock and roll. Dust covered most of the glass cases except where oily fingerprints revealed where the un-motivated merchant had leaned to rest. We poked around a bit and left feeling more than dejected. Was this really where we were to find our food and supplies for the next two years?! Climbing back into the car no one said much. Fortunately, the exterior of the next shop we stopped at looked very well maintained.
I instructed the kids to get out on the passenger side of the truck so as to not get smooshed by one of the numerous taxis speeding by. To my dismay, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk another truck popped up over the curb and parked on the sidewalk not 5 feet from us.
Entering the store we were immediately impressed and relieved! All lights were illuminated, there was room for more than one person between rows of highly organzied items, and they had real honest to goodness scanners. They even had small shopping carts!
"I think we can actually do this, honey," I whispered to Merissa.
Our family has now been in Vanuatu for almost 6 weeks. We have yet to starve and are actually a lot more comfortable than we could have hoped. Merissa and I are having a great time getting to know our little town and its many shops. We even know the difference between all the Wongs...but two Wongs still don't make a right.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Falau: Jeremy's Tale
"Karen, this is Jeremy. I need Bob here, now."
"Oh, my. Why?"
"Pastor Falau has had some sort of accident and is completely unresponsive."
"OK. Bob's on his way"
William Falau lives on the first floor of our two story missions house. He has been charged by our mentoring missionary, Bryan Webb, to keep an eye on our family while we get settled into our new lives. In addition to being our guide to all things ni-Van, Falau is our language tutor for Bislama, the native language in Vanuatu.
Because Pastor Falau, a ni-Van, does not own a vehicle, he either walks or takes a taxi to destinations of his choosing. Pastor Falau has a wife and 11 year-old daughter who stay in town during the week to go to work and school, respectively. Since taxi fare is too cost prohibitive for him to go back and forth to where we are living, he stays below us and his family visits on weekends. This is, apparently, not a huge issue in this culture. I was talking to another missionary the other day who has lived here for 8 years. He stated that many ni-Van men will leave their families for months at a time to work on other islands and seem to think nothing of it. We have enjoyed having Falau and his family around since we can ask them all sorts of questions about the town and life in Vanuatu. Ethan and Ella have a great time playing with his lovely daughter, Erica.
In an attempt to get to know them all a little better, we invited Falau, his wife, and daughter over for a meal one Saturday night.
“Are you sure?” Falau asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. We’d love to have you over.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Falau. I am inviting you. It will be no trouble at all. Please come. Is there anything you like? Anything we can fix? Are you allergic to anything?,” I inquired.
“No. No. No. Anything will be fine. Really. Are you sure it will be no problem?” He asked again while looking toward the floor and characteristically shaking both hands back and forth with palms facing outward.
“Pastor Falau. Look at me…we want you to have dinner with us.” I thought I would take a different tack. Ever since we arrived he has told me, “You the boss.” I usually shake my head and mutter something about not being the boss as it makes me uncomfortable—but saw an opportunity to ensure his attendance at dinner. “As your BOSS, I’m ordering you to come to dinner,” I joked.
“OK. OK. OK. Em nao. We’ll be there.”
“OK. Ale. Lukim yu.” I replied testing out a Bislama phrase meaning, “see you later”
Usually a real book/ writer/ editor would put an “*” by a phrase like “hem nao” and make a footnote but, well, this is my razzin’-frazzin’ blog so I’ll just put an explanation here even though it messes up the flow of an otherwise expertly crafted story. “Em nao“, “Em ia nao“, or “Hemi nao” all mean the same thing in Bislama. It’s kind of like saying, “alright”. It is sometimes pronounced with an “h” sound before the “em” so the resulting phrase sounds like, “hem now”.
The rest of the week passed and Saturday came without much fanfare. Ethan and Ella had spent much of the morning down below talking with Pastor Falau and playing his keyboard. The kids—pikinini (peek-ee-nee-nee) in Bislama—loved that some of the pre-programmed tunes included “Jingle Bells” and “Greensleeves”. We also heard them singing along while he played worship songs they all knew.
Merissa and I enjoyed ourselves in the kitchen as we prepared some cheeseburgers, sautéed bell peppers and onion, chopped up steak, and baked brownies.
Oh, another quick aside: there is no good chocolate in Santo. They grow and export cacao but there is no refinery here that processes and makes chocolate. This means that a candy bars are imported and cost around $5.50 or 500vt. How awesome would it be to harvest some and make my own! Hmmmm….
The kids and I went down to his living space to let him know dinner would be served in about 10 min. We were surprised to find that his family had not yet arrived. He invited us in and the kids wanted to show me the wonderful things the keyboard could do. Pastor Falau and I chatted as the kids giggled and made up bizarre medleys out of completely unrelated songs.
I plunked down in a mustard colored plush chair by the door. As Falau started to take a seat opposite me on a worn futon, his right foot turned in slightly and made a small sweeping motion backward. It struck me as a bit odd but I did not say anything since nothing else seemed out of place.
Our family had gone to Santo’s second annual rodeo that morning and heard a lot of speeches given by different ni-Vans about how much they appreciated thus-and-so. Since it was all in Bislama we didn’t get much out of the orations but did have a couple of questions about words we heard repeatedly.
“Pastor Falau,” I asked, “what does ‘yufala’ refer to? We heard it a lot during the speeches today.”
“Huh.” He began to reply, “Uh, it, uh means…hmm. Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m having trouble thinking of it, right now. Huh…”
This, too, struck me as a bit bizarre. This word was used dozens of times during the opening ceremonies of the rodeo and Falau is well versed in French, English, and Bislama.
“Pastor, are you feeling OK?”
He chuckled an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah. Just a bit tired I think.”
He stood to his feet to check on something the kids were doing on the keyboard then returned to his place on the futon. Once again, his right foot swept back as he sat, but this time with a little more force.
I cocked one eyebrow and looked at him with concern.
“I strait. I strait” (pronounced: “ee straight”, meaning: “I’m good”) Pastor Falau said while shaking his head.
“OK. Should we try to call your wife and see if they need a ride or how far away they are?”
“Sure. But my phone does not have any more credits.”
This has been something for us to get used to, as well. Cell phones here run on SIM cards and require the user to fill up credits in order to place calls or send texts. There are numerous roadside stands where additional credits can be purchased and almost all the stores carry similar cards for both carriers—TVL and Digicel. Credits are purchased in the form of a small card similar to a buisiness card in size and shape. There is a code on the back under a silver stripe that is scratched off to reveal a code which is called in to redeem points. Using these cards, I don’t miss the Arizona Lotto as much.
“I’ll go grab my phone and we can call her.”
Coming back down stairs I dialed her number as Falau recited it and I heard the automated response, “I’m sorry. You do not have enough credits to place this call.”
“Grrr. I’ll go grab Merissa’s phone and be right back down.”
I ran back upstairs and had the kids come with me so they could get washed up for dinner.
I poked around the kitchen checking for Mer’s phone. Ella was sitting in one of the recliners in our living room and Ethan was hanging out with Ma and Sweet Baby D in our bedroom when we heard a thud and a high-pitched childlike cry. It was the type of thud that makes your heart stop because it is so characteristic of a head hitting a solid surface.
“Merissa?! Everyone OK?!,” I called out urgently.
“Yes…How ‘bout out there? Can you see Ella?”
“Yup, she’s right here. Daniel and Ethan are good?”
“Yes. What do you think that was?”
“Yeah…weird...I don't know.” The sense of immediacy subsided since the family was accounted for. “I’m gonna go let Falau call his wife on your phone. Be right back up.”
As I walked out our front door I was met by a stange dog I had not yet seen around. As I exited, he scampered off and I completely dismissed the noise we heard until I looked to my right.
The front door to Falau’s living area was open slightly and I could see his two feet through the opening. They were turned in toward each other and twitching slightly. By their position I could tell he was facedown on the tile.
Going instantly to his side I looked down to see a bit of blood by his mouth and heard agonal respirations. Because of the position of his head and neck I decided to roll him on his side in order to reposition his airway. My mind was racing! All sorts of things were happening at once. I was trying to reconcile what was happening while providing some sort of care but with no idea what emergency response looks like here in Vanuatu.
“Merissa! What is the emergency number?!” I yelled upstairs while trying to find the correct pre-programmed contact in Mer’s cell phone.
“Dad?! What’s happening! I’m coming down!” Panic saturated Ethan’s voice.
“Ethan and Ella, I need you to stay upstairs.”
“Daddy?! Why?”
“Ethan, just trust me right now. Merissa, I need you downstairs and bring a flashlight.”
A flashlight. That’s all I could get. No backboard. No C-collar. No duct-tape to stabilize anything. No cold pack or ice for the growing goose egg above Falau’s right eye. I started to feel very alone and slightly panicked. It is one thing to respond, as part of a fire crew, to a gnarly emergency. There's a certain emotional distance that can be maintained and, I think, needs to be maintained to keep the scene under control. The fact that I personally knew this man, that help was not on its way, and that I was beginning to feel horribly inept began to weigh heavily upon me. So, I prayed. I prayed because it was all I felt I could do. Nothing fancy or flashy but very heartfelt. God's peace came over me immediately and I was able to take things one step at a time.
I quickly checked for any obvious deformities along his back and neck before rolling him onto his side. His breathing seemed to be getting worse. Checking his right wrist for a distal pulse upped the pucker factor since I could not immediately discern one. I rolled him all the way onto his back fearing that I would have to start CPR. His breathing became more regular once he was on his back with his head properly aligned. I checked his carotid pulse while simultaneously putting one hand on his chest. I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving when I felt his heart just a pump pump a-pumping away. I gave Falau a good hard sternal rub and called his name out loudly. There was no response.
Stepping outside, I dialed the contact listed as “ambulance”. To my surprise and dismay it was answered by an automated system that, from what I could tell, was telling me to call during normal hours. I immediately hung up and rang Karen an Bob, our new friends from Australia.
"Karen, this is Jeremy. I need Bob here, now."
"Oh, my. Why?"
"Pastor Falau has had some sort of accident and is completely unresponsive."
"OK. Bob's on his way"
Woah...deja vu. It feels like I've written this before...
My initial thought in having Merissa come down was to have her hold his neck and head until I realized we were going to have to transport him in the back of the truck. The roads to the hospital are full of potholes and other obstacles which were going to make stabilization almost impossible. She was now at my side with a small flashlight. I checked his pupils which reacted equally indicating he most likely did not have a stroke. I asked Mer if she thought she could carry his legs while I grabbed his upper body. She didn't even hesitate.
"I'll do whatever you need me to do."
I instructed her on how to position herself so we could transport him to the truck.
"On the count of three we'll lift. One, two, three." She lifted up and we headed out the door and down our concrete path toward the truck. Nearing the gate, Bob pulled up and hopped out to help. We lifted Falau into the bed of the truck and started for the hospital leaving Mer behind with Ethan, Ella, and Daniel.
The emergency room doors were locked. Locked. Thankfully Falau was starting to come around and was actually talking. He didn't know the day, time, my name, or his wife's name but at least he was talking. Now, in the States we would ask certain questions to determine a person's awareness. I had to chuckle as most of the questions coming to mind would do me no good here.
"How many quarters in a dollar?" Nope...can't do that one.
"Who is the President?" I wouldn't know if the answer was correct or incorrect.
Arrggh.
I asked Bob if he knew whether or not Falau had any seizure history. He said he thought he remembered something like that but was not sure.
Someone finally came to the double doors we were waiting at and let us in.
I instantly realized we (our family) do not want to get sick here. With just a quick glance I saw dried blood and what I assume was feces on the floor. There was a dingy bar of soap next to a stainless steel sink which looked like it had not been cleaned in months. In the sink was a small tray containing a couple sets of forcepts and some other instruments in a pool of coagulated blood and water. Absolutely nothing looked clean and surfaces were cluttered with equipment and paperwork. In one corner I saw their defibrillator peeking out from a stack of files.
"Hey, Joe! You, uh, seen da dafibrillator? This here guy is goin' inta cardiac arrest." (I'm not sure why this guy is from Brooklyn...just go with it.)
"Yea. It should be over there somewhere filed under "D" in the defibrillator section. Ha ha!"
I was shocked. Truly and completely shocked. I prayed more.
"Father, heal Falau. I don't know if this is a place that will benefit his health. Come, now, Holy Spirit."
Some ni-Van in flip flops, a worn out pair of shorts and a Hawaiian style shirt asked Falau a couple of questions in Bislama and ordered an X-ray. As Pastor Falau was wheeled away I walked Bob to his car, which a friend had driven over for him, and thanked him for coming so quickly.
By the time I headed back in, Falau had returned and was noticeably better. Thank the Lord.
The flip-flop nurse guy said the results would be out shortly and then the doctor would talk to Falau and determine whether or not he would stay the night. He then pulled me aside.
"He has a history of this. When he does not eat it makes it worse. He needs to be checked on to make sure he is eating 3 times a day," he said in pretty good English.
Turning to Falau, I said, "Falau. When did you eat last?"
"Two days ago."
"Two days?! Why?"
He lowered his head and stared at the floor. I felt like a jerk for ever thinking I knew what being hungry was.
"Pastor Falau, do you have a seizure history?"
A nod.
"I saw you do this funny little thing with your foot, earlier. Is that an indicator you are about to have a seizure?"
Another nod. "I usually just go lay down when I know one is coming on."
"So, why didn't you lay down this time?" I asked even though I already knew the answer.
"Because you were there."
He didn't want to let me down. He smashed his head and was walking toward death's door because he didn't want to let me down. Not a great feeling.
The tattered privacy curtains were drawn back to reveal two Chinese men.
"哎。谁是病人？" one said.
Blank stares from Falau, Flip-flop and me.
"哎。谁是病人？" The taller one spoke more forcefully and was very animated. Both Chinese guys were super fidgety, too. Watching them, I felt like I needed to ask if they needed to use the restroom then come back.
"Patient." the taller one pointed to me.
I pointed to the man with a giant lump over his eye seated on the HOSPITAL BED!
Flip-flop tried to explain in Bislama what Falau had experienced.
"Oh. Yes." Tall said. "He shivah. He cold from flu. Dat why he shivah." Turning to Falau. "You need blanket."
I couldn't believe what was unfolding in front of me! Chinese "doctors" in Vanuatu who could speak neither Bislama nor English!! And they were trying to diagnose a patient!!!
More confusion between Flip-flop and Tall. I sighed. I hated to do it but I had to. I pantomimed a seizure. This man's diagnosis and treatment had come down to a game of charades.
"Ohhhhh! Yes! Yes! Seee sure!"
"哎。谁是" Tall spoke to his partner who left momentarily then came back with a pouch of Valium.
"You take Valium to relax muscles. You shake cause muscles tight."
Falau and Flip-flop looked at me to interpret. I had to laugh! The whole scene was completely absurd!
Once the "doctors" left I turned to Falau. "Do NOT take those. Promise me you will not take those. I don't know much about drugs but I do not want you to take those pills."
"OK. I don't like medications anyway."
A ni-Van man in slacks and a polo walked in and talked calmly to Falau. He took the Valium away and told Falau he would get him the proper meds. Whew.
"This man has been a doctor here a long time. The Chinese have only come in the last month and things are not very good at the hospital right now," Falau explained.
He was released after getting different meds and we headed home.
We had a really frank talk the next day about letting us know when he needs things and that I will never be offended if he turns me down for any reason.
Praise the Father that we were home that night, that Ethan and Ella were no longer in the apartment when he went down, that his daughter was not home to witness the seizure, and I had reason to be going down to his apartment.
I am grateful to report that Pastor Falau is doing very well and that the Lord is one who heals.
"Oh, my. Why?"
"Pastor Falau has had some sort of accident and is completely unresponsive."
"OK. Bob's on his way"
William Falau lives on the first floor of our two story missions house. He has been charged by our mentoring missionary, Bryan Webb, to keep an eye on our family while we get settled into our new lives. In addition to being our guide to all things ni-Van, Falau is our language tutor for Bislama, the native language in Vanuatu.
Because Pastor Falau, a ni-Van, does not own a vehicle, he either walks or takes a taxi to destinations of his choosing. Pastor Falau has a wife and 11 year-old daughter who stay in town during the week to go to work and school, respectively. Since taxi fare is too cost prohibitive for him to go back and forth to where we are living, he stays below us and his family visits on weekends. This is, apparently, not a huge issue in this culture. I was talking to another missionary the other day who has lived here for 8 years. He stated that many ni-Van men will leave their families for months at a time to work on other islands and seem to think nothing of it. We have enjoyed having Falau and his family around since we can ask them all sorts of questions about the town and life in Vanuatu. Ethan and Ella have a great time playing with his lovely daughter, Erica.
In an attempt to get to know them all a little better, we invited Falau, his wife, and daughter over for a meal one Saturday night.
“Are you sure?” Falau asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. We’d love to have you over.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Falau. I am inviting you. It will be no trouble at all. Please come. Is there anything you like? Anything we can fix? Are you allergic to anything?,” I inquired.
“No. No. No. Anything will be fine. Really. Are you sure it will be no problem?” He asked again while looking toward the floor and characteristically shaking both hands back and forth with palms facing outward.
“Pastor Falau. Look at me…we want you to have dinner with us.” I thought I would take a different tack. Ever since we arrived he has told me, “You the boss.” I usually shake my head and mutter something about not being the boss as it makes me uncomfortable—but saw an opportunity to ensure his attendance at dinner. “As your BOSS, I’m ordering you to come to dinner,” I joked.
“OK. OK. OK. Em nao. We’ll be there.”
“OK. Ale. Lukim yu.” I replied testing out a Bislama phrase meaning, “see you later”
Usually a real book/ writer/ editor would put an “*” by a phrase like “hem nao” and make a footnote but, well, this is my razzin’-frazzin’ blog so I’ll just put an explanation here even though it messes up the flow of an otherwise expertly crafted story. “Em nao“, “Em ia nao“, or “Hemi nao” all mean the same thing in Bislama. It’s kind of like saying, “alright”. It is sometimes pronounced with an “h” sound before the “em” so the resulting phrase sounds like, “hem now”.
The rest of the week passed and Saturday came without much fanfare. Ethan and Ella had spent much of the morning down below talking with Pastor Falau and playing his keyboard. The kids—pikinini (peek-ee-nee-nee) in Bislama—loved that some of the pre-programmed tunes included “Jingle Bells” and “Greensleeves”. We also heard them singing along while he played worship songs they all knew.
Merissa and I enjoyed ourselves in the kitchen as we prepared some cheeseburgers, sautéed bell peppers and onion, chopped up steak, and baked brownies.
Oh, another quick aside: there is no good chocolate in Santo. They grow and export cacao but there is no refinery here that processes and makes chocolate. This means that a candy bars are imported and cost around $5.50 or 500vt. How awesome would it be to harvest some and make my own! Hmmmm….
The kids and I went down to his living space to let him know dinner would be served in about 10 min. We were surprised to find that his family had not yet arrived. He invited us in and the kids wanted to show me the wonderful things the keyboard could do. Pastor Falau and I chatted as the kids giggled and made up bizarre medleys out of completely unrelated songs.
I plunked down in a mustard colored plush chair by the door. As Falau started to take a seat opposite me on a worn futon, his right foot turned in slightly and made a small sweeping motion backward. It struck me as a bit odd but I did not say anything since nothing else seemed out of place.
Our family had gone to Santo’s second annual rodeo that morning and heard a lot of speeches given by different ni-Vans about how much they appreciated thus-and-so. Since it was all in Bislama we didn’t get much out of the orations but did have a couple of questions about words we heard repeatedly.
“Pastor Falau,” I asked, “what does ‘yufala’ refer to? We heard it a lot during the speeches today.”
“Huh.” He began to reply, “Uh, it, uh means…hmm. Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m having trouble thinking of it, right now. Huh…”
This, too, struck me as a bit bizarre. This word was used dozens of times during the opening ceremonies of the rodeo and Falau is well versed in French, English, and Bislama.
“Pastor, are you feeling OK?”
He chuckled an embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah. Just a bit tired I think.”
He stood to his feet to check on something the kids were doing on the keyboard then returned to his place on the futon. Once again, his right foot swept back as he sat, but this time with a little more force.
I cocked one eyebrow and looked at him with concern.
“I strait. I strait” (pronounced: “ee straight”, meaning: “I’m good”) Pastor Falau said while shaking his head.
“OK. Should we try to call your wife and see if they need a ride or how far away they are?”
“Sure. But my phone does not have any more credits.”
This has been something for us to get used to, as well. Cell phones here run on SIM cards and require the user to fill up credits in order to place calls or send texts. There are numerous roadside stands where additional credits can be purchased and almost all the stores carry similar cards for both carriers—TVL and Digicel. Credits are purchased in the form of a small card similar to a buisiness card in size and shape. There is a code on the back under a silver stripe that is scratched off to reveal a code which is called in to redeem points. Using these cards, I don’t miss the Arizona Lotto as much.
“I’ll go grab my phone and we can call her.”
Coming back down stairs I dialed her number as Falau recited it and I heard the automated response, “I’m sorry. You do not have enough credits to place this call.”
“Grrr. I’ll go grab Merissa’s phone and be right back down.”
I ran back upstairs and had the kids come with me so they could get washed up for dinner.
I poked around the kitchen checking for Mer’s phone. Ella was sitting in one of the recliners in our living room and Ethan was hanging out with Ma and Sweet Baby D in our bedroom when we heard a thud and a high-pitched childlike cry. It was the type of thud that makes your heart stop because it is so characteristic of a head hitting a solid surface.
“Merissa?! Everyone OK?!,” I called out urgently.
“Yes…How ‘bout out there? Can you see Ella?”
“Yup, she’s right here. Daniel and Ethan are good?”
“Yes. What do you think that was?”
“Yeah…weird...I don't know.” The sense of immediacy subsided since the family was accounted for. “I’m gonna go let Falau call his wife on your phone. Be right back up.”
As I walked out our front door I was met by a stange dog I had not yet seen around. As I exited, he scampered off and I completely dismissed the noise we heard until I looked to my right.
The front door to Falau’s living area was open slightly and I could see his two feet through the opening. They were turned in toward each other and twitching slightly. By their position I could tell he was facedown on the tile.
Going instantly to his side I looked down to see a bit of blood by his mouth and heard agonal respirations. Because of the position of his head and neck I decided to roll him on his side in order to reposition his airway. My mind was racing! All sorts of things were happening at once. I was trying to reconcile what was happening while providing some sort of care but with no idea what emergency response looks like here in Vanuatu.
“Merissa! What is the emergency number?!” I yelled upstairs while trying to find the correct pre-programmed contact in Mer’s cell phone.
“Dad?! What’s happening! I’m coming down!” Panic saturated Ethan’s voice.
“Ethan and Ella, I need you to stay upstairs.”
“Daddy?! Why?”
“Ethan, just trust me right now. Merissa, I need you downstairs and bring a flashlight.”
A flashlight. That’s all I could get. No backboard. No C-collar. No duct-tape to stabilize anything. No cold pack or ice for the growing goose egg above Falau’s right eye. I started to feel very alone and slightly panicked. It is one thing to respond, as part of a fire crew, to a gnarly emergency. There's a certain emotional distance that can be maintained and, I think, needs to be maintained to keep the scene under control. The fact that I personally knew this man, that help was not on its way, and that I was beginning to feel horribly inept began to weigh heavily upon me. So, I prayed. I prayed because it was all I felt I could do. Nothing fancy or flashy but very heartfelt. God's peace came over me immediately and I was able to take things one step at a time.
I quickly checked for any obvious deformities along his back and neck before rolling him onto his side. His breathing seemed to be getting worse. Checking his right wrist for a distal pulse upped the pucker factor since I could not immediately discern one. I rolled him all the way onto his back fearing that I would have to start CPR. His breathing became more regular once he was on his back with his head properly aligned. I checked his carotid pulse while simultaneously putting one hand on his chest. I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving when I felt his heart just a pump pump a-pumping away. I gave Falau a good hard sternal rub and called his name out loudly. There was no response.
Stepping outside, I dialed the contact listed as “ambulance”. To my surprise and dismay it was answered by an automated system that, from what I could tell, was telling me to call during normal hours. I immediately hung up and rang Karen an Bob, our new friends from Australia.
"Karen, this is Jeremy. I need Bob here, now."
"Oh, my. Why?"
"Pastor Falau has had some sort of accident and is completely unresponsive."
"OK. Bob's on his way"
Woah...deja vu. It feels like I've written this before...
My initial thought in having Merissa come down was to have her hold his neck and head until I realized we were going to have to transport him in the back of the truck. The roads to the hospital are full of potholes and other obstacles which were going to make stabilization almost impossible. She was now at my side with a small flashlight. I checked his pupils which reacted equally indicating he most likely did not have a stroke. I asked Mer if she thought she could carry his legs while I grabbed his upper body. She didn't even hesitate.
"I'll do whatever you need me to do."
I instructed her on how to position herself so we could transport him to the truck.
"On the count of three we'll lift. One, two, three." She lifted up and we headed out the door and down our concrete path toward the truck. Nearing the gate, Bob pulled up and hopped out to help. We lifted Falau into the bed of the truck and started for the hospital leaving Mer behind with Ethan, Ella, and Daniel.
The emergency room doors were locked. Locked. Thankfully Falau was starting to come around and was actually talking. He didn't know the day, time, my name, or his wife's name but at least he was talking. Now, in the States we would ask certain questions to determine a person's awareness. I had to chuckle as most of the questions coming to mind would do me no good here.
"How many quarters in a dollar?" Nope...can't do that one.
"Who is the President?" I wouldn't know if the answer was correct or incorrect.
Arrggh.
I asked Bob if he knew whether or not Falau had any seizure history. He said he thought he remembered something like that but was not sure.
Someone finally came to the double doors we were waiting at and let us in.
I instantly realized we (our family) do not want to get sick here. With just a quick glance I saw dried blood and what I assume was feces on the floor. There was a dingy bar of soap next to a stainless steel sink which looked like it had not been cleaned in months. In the sink was a small tray containing a couple sets of forcepts and some other instruments in a pool of coagulated blood and water. Absolutely nothing looked clean and surfaces were cluttered with equipment and paperwork. In one corner I saw their defibrillator peeking out from a stack of files.
"Hey, Joe! You, uh, seen da dafibrillator? This here guy is goin' inta cardiac arrest." (I'm not sure why this guy is from Brooklyn...just go with it.)
"Yea. It should be over there somewhere filed under "D" in the defibrillator section. Ha ha!"
I was shocked. Truly and completely shocked. I prayed more.
"Father, heal Falau. I don't know if this is a place that will benefit his health. Come, now, Holy Spirit."
Some ni-Van in flip flops, a worn out pair of shorts and a Hawaiian style shirt asked Falau a couple of questions in Bislama and ordered an X-ray. As Pastor Falau was wheeled away I walked Bob to his car, which a friend had driven over for him, and thanked him for coming so quickly.
By the time I headed back in, Falau had returned and was noticeably better. Thank the Lord.
The flip-flop nurse guy said the results would be out shortly and then the doctor would talk to Falau and determine whether or not he would stay the night. He then pulled me aside.
"He has a history of this. When he does not eat it makes it worse. He needs to be checked on to make sure he is eating 3 times a day," he said in pretty good English.
Turning to Falau, I said, "Falau. When did you eat last?"
"Two days ago."
"Two days?! Why?"
He lowered his head and stared at the floor. I felt like a jerk for ever thinking I knew what being hungry was.
"Pastor Falau, do you have a seizure history?"
A nod.
"I saw you do this funny little thing with your foot, earlier. Is that an indicator you are about to have a seizure?"
Another nod. "I usually just go lay down when I know one is coming on."
"So, why didn't you lay down this time?" I asked even though I already knew the answer.
"Because you were there."
He didn't want to let me down. He smashed his head and was walking toward death's door because he didn't want to let me down. Not a great feeling.
The tattered privacy curtains were drawn back to reveal two Chinese men.
"哎。谁是病人？" one said.
Blank stares from Falau, Flip-flop and me.
"哎。谁是病人？" The taller one spoke more forcefully and was very animated. Both Chinese guys were super fidgety, too. Watching them, I felt like I needed to ask if they needed to use the restroom then come back.
"Patient." the taller one pointed to me.
I pointed to the man with a giant lump over his eye seated on the HOSPITAL BED!
Flip-flop tried to explain in Bislama what Falau had experienced.
"Oh. Yes." Tall said. "He shivah. He cold from flu. Dat why he shivah." Turning to Falau. "You need blanket."
I couldn't believe what was unfolding in front of me! Chinese "doctors" in Vanuatu who could speak neither Bislama nor English!! And they were trying to diagnose a patient!!!
More confusion between Flip-flop and Tall. I sighed. I hated to do it but I had to. I pantomimed a seizure. This man's diagnosis and treatment had come down to a game of charades.
"Ohhhhh! Yes! Yes! Seee sure!"
"哎。谁是" Tall spoke to his partner who left momentarily then came back with a pouch of Valium.
"You take Valium to relax muscles. You shake cause muscles tight."
Falau and Flip-flop looked at me to interpret. I had to laugh! The whole scene was completely absurd!
Once the "doctors" left I turned to Falau. "Do NOT take those. Promise me you will not take those. I don't know much about drugs but I do not want you to take those pills."
"OK. I don't like medications anyway."
A ni-Van man in slacks and a polo walked in and talked calmly to Falau. He took the Valium away and told Falau he would get him the proper meds. Whew.
"This man has been a doctor here a long time. The Chinese have only come in the last month and things are not very good at the hospital right now," Falau explained.
He was released after getting different meds and we headed home.
We had a really frank talk the next day about letting us know when he needs things and that I will never be offended if he turns me down for any reason.
Praise the Father that we were home that night, that Ethan and Ella were no longer in the apartment when he went down, that his daughter was not home to witness the seizure, and I had reason to be going down to his apartment.
I am grateful to report that Pastor Falau is doing very well and that the Lord is one who heals.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)