The Climb

            No, this post isn’t going to be about a cheesy Hillary Duff song.  More like a bonus level of Mario Kart that is only unleashed only by double lapping Wario on the Chocolate Mountain. Or perhaps like Freaky Friday-ing with a stud motorcross athlete on a quicksand pile of rubble, sans helmet and neon leather jumpsuit.

            As alluded to yesterday, I promised to follow-up with the 23 day old baby who had been eating cookies and shitting bricks. Not funny, she was actually pretty sick looking. And the conversation with the parents revealed a lack of education that begged for a community visit. If this mother doesn’t understand newborn nutrition, she likely isn’t alone. Guilene and I plan to travel early in the morning. She has never been to this town, and I sure as heck don’t have a clue where I am going. I pack up a backpack of children’s and prenatal vitamins and a couple protein bars and Gatorade packets. In hindsight wish I would have packed bubble wrap and vacillated gauze. Or a helicopter.

            The trip starts smooth, the usual moto ride into town, dropped at the riverbank to walk across because the bridge collapsed. Hop on a taptap for a good 30 minute drive. Piece of cake. Then another motorcycle. At this point we meet up with my interpreter Smith who agreed to come along. I am not, ahem, sufficiently  “equipped” to do the proper breastfeeding education with body language alone. This moto takes us back down a dirt road with large loose stones. These drivers are impressive, sharing the road with mules, horses, and sometimes two other motos alongside. I prefer to sit on the back of our threesome, so I have any easy exit. You also get more air in the back, which makes the ride a little more exciting.

            As a preface, I took a moto expedition last week up a nearby mountain to talk with some women, and the ride home was horrifying.

As a preface, a couple weeks ago we took a nearby mountain by foot.  This proved a wise choice as those of us hiking watched two of our friends flip off the back of a moto trying to take on a steep climb; one whose spine was saved by her backpack, and the other who suffered a severe calf burn.  The following week I repeated the expedition on moto to go talk with some women (business and family planning). The ride back home was horrifying.  The feeling of “freefall” is not something you necessarily want to experience while attached to a motorcycle painting the edge of steep drop offs.  Freefall is an amazing feeling when, say, plunging into a Jamaican cove or off the back of a boat with a scuba tank. Must say my body is still a bit cautious from the most recent feeling of freefall in rollerblades down Dr. Freund’s hill. The wound on my knee is currently opened and being whipped we fly by weeds and thorns, reminding me of the bad decision. We are entering the mountainous ravines. I ask where we are going. The drive points up, where I see nothing but mountains beyond mountains”. Ok. “How much longer?” “One hour”. Alright, hold on kids. Let’s do this.

            Things are going, so-so. The steep drops are short-lived, and the hiking path is just generous enough for the narrow wheels of the bike. Things get worse quickly. The steep ravines expand beyond view of a flattening point. I really have no road vocabulary to describe the path – Level B is the worst we have at home. This is like level B with large, loose stones loosely piled on top of each other and steep cuts within the dirt road from the recent rushing waters of Hurricane Sandy. Combine this terrain with the steep climbs and drops, and you have one heck of a widow maker.  One slip of the back tire on a loose stone, and my calf is sandwiched between a muffler and gravel.  The further we drive; I am realizing the closest thing to a hospital is probably trapped trembling in my muddy shoes.  This was so stupid of me. The revving motor and tires peeling out below me in the rubble pushes my threshold. “Mache!” I say. I’d rather stop and walk than jostle on the back of this moto with a back wheel swaying back and forth to the rhythm of my funeral procession. Which is stuck in my head at the time. He says it is better for him to have more weight on the bike for downhills. I say it is better to not have dead weight for the way home. He agrees, and at the bottom of the cliff we resume positions on the bike. This trend ensues, we ride until the terrain is too nuts, and Guillene and I hop of to hike up or slide down the mountainous hills. Two hours of this later, we arrive to a slew of families. Asking around for our patient, we hike another 20 minutes straight up, and there sits the baby daddy we’ve been looking for.

            I still don’t see the baby, and begin to worry. I get up from the conversation centered on the moto driver’s plights (including him reminding me to pay him well for taking “hell road”).  I peek into the mud hut of a home, and see the mother on the bed holding the baby. She sees me and hands her to me.  Mom looks bashful, and almost ashamed to see me. I feel bad, I was probably too stern with her and should have been a little more gentle with the counseling. The baby looks the same. Doesn’t squirm or make a peep when in my arms, just stares past me. Her belly is swollen sounds like an inflated bongo. I asked mom when she last fed her. “Yesterday afternoon, when I was with you at clinic.” “How often do you feed her in one day?” “Twice.” I am frustrated. We come out into the sunlight to join the small circle of friends and family. Lecturing her clearly didn’t stick yesterday; let’s try another method. I ask the older woman, “What should new babies be eating?”  “Breast milk for the first 6 months” she astutely replies. I’m impressed, yet angry. “Do you share this information with new mothers? How did you learn that?”  “She didn’t ask the elders. She wanted to feed the baby her way.” Life advice people – ask your elders.  (sorry mom and dad)  More counseling ensues, with the elder peer pressure on my side. She wasn’t happy with me when I said the feeding schedule might require waking up in the middle of the night.  Upon request, she began breastfeeding the baby. The baby took like a champ. We sat and watched for about 15 minutes, and I was reassured that 1) mother could produce and 2) baby could suck. Was the 3 hours horrendous journey worth it for those 15 minutes of monitored suckling? I hope yes, but the whole ride back I had myself convinced the answer was no.

            The ride home went a little faster, but still involved hopping off the moto to “mache” when the inclines and terrain were too much. Nearly three hours of intense Haitian sun later, I had never been so relieved to see the paved road. The ride back I stopped focusing my energy on whining in my head and realized – she just made this trek with a 23-day-old baby. She walked for hours and hours just to come see us, to come get lectured, and to not have her baby “healed”.  I hoped that at least by going out there it instilled faith in her and her community that we care. Sure, it wasn’t too exciting – no lifesaving mission or emergency intervention where I can see a positive outcome. But that’s just selfish. What God packed into each breast lobule is 100% goodness, nature’s finest remedy.  What is my job if not to match resources and needs? I am beginning to embrace the simplicity and huge impact of basic education.  

24 day old baby girl with a belly full of air. Baby guts are lined with cells that love human milk and aren't able to digest much more...thus gas and mush build up to make a huge belly.

Checkin out the goods. Honestly, handing out the pack of vitamins was probably more for my benefit than theirs. Sucked to drive all the way there without "giving" something. Sorry kid, they taste pretty nasty. 

This is my attempt to create a fashion blog and bring back the overalls.
 When did they become uncool? Kipp, help me out here...