Friday,
September 23
Sometimes I feel like a liar. Sometimes
I feel like I must be spinning yarns. Then the images, the faces, the
blood, the smiles come back to my mind in high definition and I remember that
the stories are true. But it is easy for the truth to be distorted. I’ve read
articles on the internet and in the newspaper, which paint an overly flattering
picture of our work. They skirt near to making us into saints who have fixed
everything and saved the day. Just reading the articles makes me squirm,
because I know the truth: that we’ve done little more than snatch a handful of
pebbles from the summit of human suffering. So when a New York filmmaker
contacted me early this year saying that he wanted to shoot a documentary about
our story, I felt a bit apprehensive. The fear was that the truth would be spun
into something that seemed to be more but was actually was less.
Chris, Manjula, Eric, and Emily emerged from the
belly of Bagdogra International Airport with their trolleys of camera cases and
accoutrements. Chris is a Steadicam operator from New York City who has
spent the last twenty years on the sets of major motion pictures. Manjula is an
ayurvedic physician who was raised and trained in Kerala (a state in South
India) but later settled on the east coast of the US. Eric and Emily are from
Portland, Oregon, but they grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, and Jasper, Indiana,
respectively. They came along to help on Chris’s project as film production
assistants. Back at Gayaganga, Sister Alphonsa guided the film crew around
Navjeevan Hospital, I darted back and forth meeting patients and talking to our
trainees. Lyang Mary looked like she was doing well, fortified by the blood
transfusions. Biren talked with me about the patients that’d come from his
village, Kolbong. Chandra seemed like he was more satisfied with the classes
since I’d spoken with the instructor. Jyoti was prepping to help out with the
camp in Kaffer. Simon readied the vehicle; I was glad to have him behind the
wheel again. Tshering begged permission to come along for the camp. Anu, dressed
in her white coat, was busy attending to patients.
The Elephant was packed with twelve
cases of camera gear and countless cartons of medicines. Eventually, the group filed into
our bus and we were underway. Along with the film crew there was Dr. Sister
Rhinda (a physician and Daughter of the Cross), Drs. Mr. and Mrs. Sonar (a
couple who had done pioneering medical work in the remote state of Arunachal in
the ‘70s), Simon our ambulance driver (currently undergoing Critical Care
training at Gayaganga), Sister Jyoti (to run the pharmacy), and Jyoti Rai (who
we lived with in Daragaon, now undergoing Home Nursing training). The vehicle
was heavily burdened but we crawled our way up into the hills.
Chris shot some pictures of me from the passenger
seat as I was driving. The misgivings I’d originally had surged up again. The
stories about Pharisees who only performed their religion to be seen, the story
of the widow’s mite, and teachings such as “when you give to the needy, do not
let your left hand know what your right hand is doing”
popped into my head. It felt as if the eyes of the nuns and doctors sitting in
the seats behind me were boring into my skull and examining the purity of my
intentions. Was I just “loving the needy” for my own selfish, ulterior motives:
to be seen, to be respected, to score brownie points with God and secure his
blessings, or to “earn my name” as it is said in Nepali. In fact, why do I
write my monthly newsletters? Love with expectation and agenda is not love at
all. If I’m not truly loving my
neighbor as myself, then I’m using my neighbor for myself. The difference could not be
any more profound. Amanda and I had
talked openly with Chris about these hesitations and also the fact that the
presence of a film crew could spark jealousy and intrigue in our village. We
told him that we were newcomers to the Kaffer region, just beginning our work,
and that many people had been there (some for decades) doing the foundational
work which made our current efforts possible. Over several long phone
conversations Chris earned our trust and he agreed the film would not be about
“us” but, instead, the realities of this region and all the people who are
addressing those issues.
Over the years, Amanda and I have noticed a
trend. The things that we pursue fervently and try to make work, fall apart. The
things which simply happen and spontaneously materialize often produce lots of
fruit. Similarly, God has always provided in interesting ways: America’s
Funniest Home Videos, VG Reed printing a book about us without our request,
insurance checks from car wrecks, etc. This documentary film seemed to share
the same fingerprints, so despite our hesitations we consented. But when the
lens was actually out and vehicle drive-bys were being staged on the road to
Lava, I felt again a prick of conscious. Just as when I’d driven the route the
week before, I also felt a small prick of pain in my leg (this time in my left
calf). Again, due to circumstances, I ignored it.
We arrived late to Kaffer. I’d booked the DGHC
lodge for the doctors and crew over a month in advance. But at the last moment
Bimal Gurung, the political figure head of the Gorkha Janmukti Morcha, decided
to travel to Kaffer with his entire entourage and commandeer the property under
the guise of “evaluating earthquake damage throughout the region.” As we pulled
into the parking lot, I saw that not only had they ousted our guests from their
accommodations they’d also boxed in our ambulances with their jeeps. Our
drivers tried to rouse the drivers to move the vehicles in case of any
emergencies in the night, but they were too drunk to even answer the door. Good
thing I made a back-up plan with Zorgay, a new proprietor in town. As we
carried bags and equipment towards the Hotel Alpine in the dark I pondered the
irony of it: the political elite (coming into town to take much, promise more,
but give nothing) taking priority over a group of doctors coming to give health
and a filmmaker working to bring awareness about the region.
Saturday,
September 24
The Sai Samiti came out to cook kichardi for all the patients who’d come from far away. Binita’s
SHG (Self-Help Group) stepped forward to cook breakfast and dinner for the
doctors and staff. Our Small Christian Community from church erected a tarp to
protect the patients that were waiting from sun and rain. They offered to cook
dinner as well. The Health Club from Asher’s school picked up trash, ferried
supplies, and assisted with the set up. The Shanti Kiran Sangh registered
patients and policed the entrance and exit of the community hall. Binita,
Jyoti, Simon, and Dawa took information and recorded vitals for the doctors. Sister
Johanna and Adesh translated for Dr. Manjula and Dr. Sister Rhinda. It struck
me again how little we can do alone and we were glad to have the community turn
out in force.
Over breakfast we all agreed that
our goal was quality not quantity. I asked the doctors not to be troubled by
the crowds, to take their time, and give full check-ups. The minor cases often get
impatient and leave, but that leaves time to give good treatment to those who
need it most. The crew set up and started filming. I was instantly impressed by
how conscientiously and discreetly they went about their work. My phone was
ringing off the hook. Bus loads of patients needed to be picked up from Git
Dabling, Dabling, Middle Kaffer. The fifteen-seater Elephant earned its name by
carrying a load of thirty-seven patients at one time, just to turn around and
carry another full load. As the crowds began to swell and the lines grew longer
and longer, it was a relief to finally NOT BE the health provider. It was a
relief that our region was finally receiving something better than me. Many
familiar faces appeared in the crowd: those who we’d been treating, those who
we’d been unable to treat, those who we’d taken for operations. Those too weak
to wait in line were guided into our little clinic beside the community hall. A
fifteen-year-old girl with a raging fever and all the signs and symptoms of
shock stumbled into our house. Amanda took her to lie down in the birth room. The
doctors administered IV antibiotics and fluids, but her condition continued in
a moderate decline. As we carried her out of the house on a stretcher, through
the crowds and towards the Rhino, I winced half expecting a camera man to come
dashing after us, making an enormous scene in front of everyone. I expected my
Pharisaical Debut. Chris was busy inside
covering the work of the Gayaganga doctors; I breathed a sigh of relief and
refocused on the patient. This guy was going to tell the
full story.
People came from places as far away
as Rambi, a solid six-hour walk from Kaffer. The earthquake had disrupted
transport and redirected people’s finances away from health. The timing was
perfect. Some patients saw a doctor for the first time. Many more saw for the first time what a check-up from
a doctor should be like. As evening was drawing to a close, a family appeared
on the public ground, the father carrying his daughter. They’d left home at
seven in the morning and caught four different vehicles to arrive at the
Medical Camp. The girl who was just coming into her teens looked delicate and
wasted. She was an epileptic who’d suffered a case of meningitis a few years
before. Since the fever, she’d been in a vegetative state. Large portions of
her brain had been irreversibly affected. As Dr. Sonar evaluated her, I
straddled up beside him and told him of their long journey to reach us. He
looked at me with a pained expression and said to me in English, “There is
nothing we can do for her. There is nothing to be done in this case. We don’t
even have any anti-epileptics in the pharmacy.”
Given the lengths the family had
gone to, neither of us wanted to say it. A hundred and fifty patients had
already come and gone. They’d received medicine. They would, more than
likely, recover from their minor to major illnesses. Those who came from houses
five minute’s walk away returned home with hope of a cure, but this family, the
one who had gone to the greatest pains, the greatest expense, and risked the
greatest hope, would return empty handed. As I broke the news to them their
countenances dropped, again. It was obviously not the first time. The mother,
still clinging on, said, “Please, she’s so weak. She barely eats anything. Look
how her body is wasted. Isn’t there something you can give her to make her
stronger?”
I emerged from the pharmacy with a
bottle of vitamin tonic for them to mix into her porridge. It was like handing
someone a BB gun for trench warfare, but it was something. The evening was
getting dim and misty. Clearly too poor to reserve a jeep, the family had no
hope of a ride home; it had taken them all day just to arrive. The
politicians had cleared out mid-morning, speeding off in their brand-new white
SUVs. The family stood up to walk somewhere, despite having nowhere to
go. Then I noticed that the wasted girl’s hair was brushed. Her nails were
trimmed. Her clothes were clean. She was freshly bathed. I looked at the
clothes of the family, which looked a bit shabbier and well worn. This broken,
withered shell of a girl was loved. Her mother’s eyes were moist for her
daughter again. This family, who had
taken the least from Kaffer that day, left behind greatest gift: a tangible
illustration of unconditional love. The politicians, those who had taken the
most from Kaffer that day, left nothing save empty promises, false hopes, beer
bottles, and tire tracks.
Sunday,
September 25
The Sabbath graced us with a little rest. We
spent time getting to know the film crew and prepping for the week of training
ahead. I sat down and put a hot water bottle on what was now obviously another
abscess, this time on my left calf. My phone rang and Maria was on the line
from Gayaganga.
“Sir, Lyang Mary had her blood transfusions and
was doing better. But then she started getting these really bad fevers. The
donation we brought from the private blood bank was contaminated with malaria.”
“How’s the baby?”
“Fine. But labor still hasn’t started.”
“Ok, keep in touch and let me know if you need
anything.”
Monday,
September 26 through Thursday, September 29
The training was in full swing. Dr. Manjula
taught us how to use plants from our backyards and spices from our kitchens to
cure many of the common ailments. It was impressed upon me again that God has
provided everything we need but that we have to seek the wisdom to use those
things properly. Kagen sat and learned what he could do to manage his diabetes.
Nearby, the Hayden Hall paramedics sat scribbling page after page of notes. Many
of the paramedics were illiterate women. In the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, when
there was barely a road in the region, Kagen and the other Hayden Hall staff
travelled from village to village setting up night schools. They walked most of
the day, taught Adult Literacy classes most of the night, slept in cow sheds,
and woke up to do it all over again. They would do this, for weeks on end,
without rest. Most of the original paramedics were selected from this program. Kagen
was too busy learning himself, with a childlike curiosity, to take pride in his
handiwork coming to fruition around him. The HIMSERVE TBAs (Trained Birth
Attendants) were new to the scene but fervently learning as well. Every time
Dr. Manjula asked the group what plant or disease they’d like to learn about
next, hands shot up all around the room. Seemingly benign household regulars
such as fenugreek, teetey pati, coriander, betel leaf, black pepper, ginger, basil, and cinnamon
transformed into healing agents in their minds, and ours as well. Chris and
Manjula had developed a laminated flip book with pictures of all the plants and
instructions as to their use. Gopal from Hayden Hall volunteered to translate
all the text into Nepali so that we could give each work a copy for community
teachings. Three days of scheduled training spilled over into a fourth, and
still they wanted more. Chris and the
crew would film some of the sessions and then nonchalantly slip out to shoot
some scenics, stage some shots with the ambulance or capture the action teeming
down at the weekly bazaar.
Even though everything was going much better than
expected, as the week wore on an oppressive exhaustion swelled, along with the
infection in my calf. It was much more than a simple abscess and I reluctantly
started some erythromycin. Hot compresses weren’t bringing it to the surface
and I was having a hard time walking. By lunch on Thursday, I was spent. It was
a good thing that it was Amanda’s time to teach. She was giving an afternoon
session on retained placentas. Four women in our region have died of retained
placentas in the last few months, so this seemed the most important topic to
cover. After Phulmit shared her painful experience with Sumila’s death and
received support from the group, I slipped out the door and headed back to
Kaffer with the crew to shoot an interview.
I called Saran to make sure he’d picked up the
maps I’d had printed down in Siliguri.
“Yes, Sir. I didn’t have any problem picking them
up . . . but I might be a little late. A part in the suspension cracked and I’m
having it welded back on. It was about to drop off.”
“Okay, okay . . . Don’t forget to pick up the
HIMSERVE folks on your way back for the meeting tomorrow.”
Friday,
September 30
The final day of activities was set
for the big Unity in Health Services meeting. We’d invited all NGOs, charities,
religious orders, and government service members involved in health promotion
in our region. Our hope was to eliminate division and competition amongst
different groups and create solidarity between multiple parties that in reality
shared the same goal. We unrolled the big ten-by-twelve-foot map of our region
and hung it behind the chair and table set up front for the officials to sit
in. It dawned on me again at what an enormous area we are attempting to cover
and that even if ALL the parties I’d invited came to the meeting, it would be a
daunting task.
Years of fruitless searching for a
good map of our area had left me frustrated. But when I found Google Earth
a few years back, the gears started turning. As we became familiar with our new
region, I slowly added place-markers to all the unmarked villages. South of
Kalimpong there wasn’t even a single name or road plotted on the satellite
images. I zoomed into the areas and recognized schools I’d done health
teachings at, patient’s homes which I’d visited, or landslides which had ripped
a village apart. After a couple years of travel and input, the map was filling
with names. Back on July 1, the first day of the Matri Yaan program, we were
contacted for a maternal transport and I called the ambulance dispatch in
Darjeeling.
“Where are you calling from?”
“Git Dabling”
“How far is that from Darjeeling?”
“We’re on the Kalimpong side.”
“Is that Block One.”
“No, it’s Block Two. Look, the government has a
PHC (Primary Health Center) there and it is the station for one of the
ambulances.”
“Oh, yeah . . . I see the name on the list now. Okay,
alright.”
If the ambulance dispatch wasn’t
familiar with Git Dabling, a major bazaar with a hospital and stationed
ambulance, what was going to happen when villagers called #102 from places like Katarey and Sungurey? I shuddered to think
about the volley of calls and multiple layers of confusion for both ends while
the patient sat there, perpetually delayed. It could potentially mean the
difference between life and death for someone. The map I’d been working on for
personal use sprung into mind. I’ve got
to print one of these for the dispatch at the Red Cross . . . and for the
health department . . . and for the Sisters . . . and Hayden Hall . . .
Over the following weeks,
I zoomed in on the satellite images as close as possible and used my mouse to
trace all the rough roads I now know by heart. It was time consuming but
gratifying work. In the end, I’d produced the first functional and accurate
road map of our area. Lora Smith (our website designer, who has donated all of
her time) painstakingly and seamlessly pieced all of the images together and
created a beautiful high-resolution picture of our region. My brain was buzzing
with all the ways it could be used to coordinate services in our region.
But back at the meeting, less people
had shown up than hoped. The earthquake, a spiritual retreat for the Cluny
Sisters, and a meeting for the ICDS (Integrated Child Development Services) workers
had disturbed our plans. Dr. Lingdo, the Assistant Chief Medical Officer of
Health, arrived fashionably late but the other Block Medical Officers weren’t
in attendance. Hayden Hall and HIMSERVE were well represented but the Sisters and the
government workers were almost completely absent. From the PHC, a stone’s throw
away from the meeting, only the pharmacist showed up. But still, there were
fifty or so of us and that is a good start. Each group had a chance to share
about their work: what they do, why they do it, what challenges they face, and
what help they need. After lunch, I told Sumila’s story again. I spun the yarn
in hopes of knitting the community together for a singular purpose. We picked a
focus for the year as a health community and broke off into groups to set
attainable goals and an action plan. The health workers, from their own ideas
and experiences, came up with the following agenda.
Focus for
the Year: Maternal and Newborn Health
Goals:
1) To meet and form a relationship with all women who marry into
the village before they become pregnant.
2) To recognize all pregnancies early on, so as to teach all mothers about
safe and healthy child birth.
3) To get every
mother to the nearest Government
Sub-Center to receive her three antenatal care check-ups, vitamins, immunizations,
and free Matri Yaan Ambulance vouchers.
4) To educate the entire family on
their role in ensuring the mother has a safe and health pregnancy and birth.
5) To work with the mothers after birth to ensure the newborns
receives its immunizations.
As the meeting broke up and everyone went their
separate ways, I looked at the map again. Only a third of the area I’d mapped
was represented at the meeting. Again, I felt like we were trying to fight
trench warfare with a BB gun. I was tired after ANOTHER long day. My leg was
throbbing and swollen with edema. It takes so much to even get started, and
there is still so much that needs to be done. Amanda was sitting nearby,
she had come through the week as well—carrying a full-term baby. I watched as
the health workers packed up and headed back to the goats that needed feeding
and families they’d left behind. They traced their way back to their villages
across the giant flex-print map in my mind, like yeast scattered across a lump
of dough. It’s a start, a small start. When looking at the overall picture, it
is almost an invisible start. But yeast is like that. It is silent and unseen,
but yet it sets to work and transforms everything around it. It takes time, one
has to be patient.
As Dr. Lingdo, one of our greatest advocates, was
prepping to head back to Kalimpong. I beckoned her over. “I wanted to
give you this. I figured it would help out in your efforts.”A four-by-six
version of the map was laid out on a table. It was shockingly clear. Every
landside, river, rivulet, and hilltop was visible.
“Thank you, Ryan. I was looking at that big map
all day. I think . . . I think this may be the best gift anyone has ever given
me!”
It made me happy to be able to give a good gift
to someone who has worked so hard and overcome so many challenges in her
selfless service to the community. Out in the Elephant several of the
health workers were waiting. Fifteen or more girls, trying to head out for the
holidays, swarmed into the empty seats like a tribe of monkeys, throwing their
bags and bed clothes into the aisle. It was time to head home.
Saturday,
October 1
All week we had a very full home:
the camera crew, the drivers, Devaki and Sushila from HIMSERVE, and of course
our growing family. It was a blessing to get to know Chris and to learn the
motivation behind his project. We found that we had many strange points of
connection. We both lost our fathers at the same age and were the youngest of
three (with an older brother and sister). Manjula always had something
interesting to share. There was no lack of conversation with her; we were
Americans who’d moved to India and she was an Indian who’d moved to America. There
was also an instant connection with Eric and Emily given that they, like us, had
grown up in the “Kentuckiana” area and then moved west as adults.
Elevation and ibuprofen had given me
a bit of relief, but my full blown case of (what was now obviously) cellulitis
was barely tolerable. Dr. Manjula applied a paste of sesame and layer of betel
leaf to draw the infection up to the surface. The final interviews for the
documentary were scheduled for that morning and afternoon, so I limped over to
the hotel where the crew was staying for the final shoots. After dinner and
more conversation, the Elephant pulled up to the DGHC lodge. Saran and Kara
Rowley, a midwife who volunteered to come from America for Amanda’s birth,
stumbled in the door looking rather bleary eyed. Sometimes our house feels like
Grand Central Station: travelers arriving just as others are getting under way.
But I’d rather sleep on a mat of cardboard in Grand Central Station than on a
four-poster California King in the main vault at Fort Knox.
Sunday,
October 2
“Sir, this is Maria again.”
“Oh, I heard that Lyang Mary’s baby
was born yesterday. Was it a boy or a girl?”
“The baby died at three this
morning.”
“Oh . . .”
“Bahini (little sister) has to stay
because she just had a cesarean. But we can’t bury the baby here. We don’t know
what to do. Some family members are coming.”
“Okay, talk it over. If you need any
help just call.”
The moment after I hung up the phone
Chris appeared in the window. “Hey, we’re headed out to Daragaon now. Before we
left we just wanted to give you a little something. I know there will be
someone that needs some help . . . so we thought we’d leave this with you.”
He passed a wad of gandhis (similar
to benjamins) to me. “Actually, Chris . . . that someone has already called. It’s
been great having you. Have a safe trip.”
I dialed the phone as soon as Chris
disappeared from the window. “Maria, I’m sending the ambulance to bring the
body home. Don’t worry about the cost . . . it’s already been covered.
In the afternoon Sandeep arrived to
work out the Matri Yaan reports. As we were finishing up, our maternal
ambulance driver blurted out, “Sir, I was hoping to go on break starting
tomorrow. I’ve been sick for awhile now and Dashain is coming up this week.”
“I told you that if you need a
holiday you need to ask at least a week in advance, so I can rearrange drivers
and cover the vehicles. Purna’s already asked off to go to his in-laws for his
first puja since getting married. I
also told you to tell me if you were sick as soon as you got sick. That we’d cover for you. How long have
you been sick?”
“Quite awhile now. My family said I
should come home and rest a month. The doctor in Kalimpong said I should
rest a year.”
“What? A month? A year? You’re
telling me a day in advance? What’s wrong?”
“I’m peeing blood. This always
happens to me after I’ve been driving a few months.”
“Okay, okay . . . you’ve put me in a
tough place here. Tomorrow . . . you’ve got to drive. Saran won’t be back until
evening from taking the crew to Rimbick. Purna’s not experienced enough to run
on Matri Yaan yet and I can’t drive. Tuesday, I’ll put Saran on your duty and
you are going to Gayaganga. After that you take the rest of the week to rest
and I’ll look at your tests. I’ll manage here somehow”
Looking down at my swollen inflamed leg, I wasn’t
so sure. In fact, I’m never so sure. It was October 1. October was to
be “the month we gear down and rest up for the birth of our own child.”
Yet there I was again, on the brink of what would prove to be another epic week.
Could I even operate the clutch of the ambulance? I was exhausted. Did I even
have anything left to give? Did the family of the epileptic child at the
medical camp have anything left to give? They’d spent it all. They’d risked it
all. They hadn’t even planned for the return journey and yet they gave me a
priceless picture of love. They loved their daughter extravagantly in the midst
of their nothingness.
So, could I?
Yes, so could I.
We aren’t hopelessly fighting trench warfare with BB guns. We’re
sowing seed and dusting yeast in hope that life will spring forth again, that
things will be transformed. I spin my yarns and tell my tales to remind myself
of that. Every month, I have to tell these tales so that I don’t forget. My hope is to knit people together
with them, to remind them. If these, the last and least of these, can do and
give so much, then perhaps we, the privileged, can leave more than tire tracks
and empty bottles when we leave this world. My friend and former pastor Peter
Hiett used to say, “When you have nothing left to give . . . give your
nothingness.” When we invite the god of broken things into that nothingness, he
lays his broken form aside and becomes again The Creator. Just as when the
universe was created, he speaks in to the blackness—the void—and there is an
explosion. I'm not a liar. I just see something where many see nothing.
In Him,
The
Phillips Family in its present form 
No comments:
Post a Comment