These are some of the kids I worked with, walked with, laughed with, danced with,and blew bubbles with.  They were the reason I crawled out of my sleeping bag every morning at 5:30am, and I will never forget them.

Ketia relaxing before therapy.

The boys rockin’ to 50Cent outside the pediatric wing.

Gerald, our faithful helper.  We gave him an honorary physical therapist assistant degree.

Otaline, who stole Gina’s name tag the first day.  We renamed her “Gina PT”.

And Kimberlie, singing us a song.  What you can’t see is that Kimberlie only has one leg.  At the end of the song, you are supposed to stomp your feet.  Look closely, and you will see her stomping one foot.  The spirit that things will go on after a tragedy.  Things will go on.

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We arrived by van to the hospital and looked for our rooms.  All of the rehabilitation staff was in one large room.  There were 10 of us, cots mere inches apart, with no bathroom and no windows.  Truthfully, the lack of bathroom turned out to be a blessing, as the other volunteer rooms had a breeding ground for mosquitos.

We walked into the pediatric wing for the first time after claiming our cot for the week.  When we walked in, I thought it can’t always be like this.  Is it?  There were people everywhere.  Parents, staff, food servers, people looking for sheets (a hot item there), it was like a mosh pit, only somehow I was supposed to work in there, too.  The kids’ cots were less than a foot apart.  Around the corner from the kids were the babies, 7-8 cribs in a space equivalent to my bathroom at home.  In between here was the “nurses station” which consisted of one desk, one chair, and a shelf full of madness.  There were diapers, formula, clothes, thermometers, all lining the shelves with no particular order.  There was AC, but it was warm-the door to the unit was always being left open.

I looked around the unit a little more.  There were bags of donated clothes in the corner.  A sink full of bottles to be washed.  One thing conspicuously missing, aside from organization, was a bathroom.  Where did the kids go to the bathroom?  The answer was 200 feet across the courtyard at a series of port-a-pots.  And shower?  Good old sponge bathing at your cot.

Our day started around 5:30am when we began waking up.  I tried to stay in my sleeping bag until the last possible minute.  Then it was up, eat breakfast (we supplied our own breakfast food) and then off to the pediatric wing around 7am.  Gina and I would start by changing kids and feeding babies.  This gave the nurses time to check the kids’ IVs before we got them out of bed.  Once all the IVs were checked, we made a plan for the day.  Who was ready to go?  Who still needed to be bathed?  Once we got the plan, we started running through the day.

Treatment was similar to what I may do in the states, but with so many different twists.  For instance, when you are preparing someone in the US to go home, you assume there is a bed, bathroom, house.  Here, we needed to prepare the kids for tents, squatting, and walking over uneven terrain with some type of assistive device.  We began getting as many kids as we could off of their current devices, or altering them to the least cumbersome to negotiate the mess that is Port au Prince.

The therapy gym was an un-airconditioned building across the courtyard.  The kids loved to go to the gym.  Even after we were done with therapy, they wanted to sit in there, watch the other patients, talk.  I think the gym was an escape from the crowded wing where many of them had spent their life since the earthquake.

We treated kids with wounds from the quake, kids with amputations, kids with rat bites, kids with internal injuries.  Kids who were minding their own business on January 12, and had the rug completely pulled out from under them.  Some of them had emotional issues, not surprisingly either.

Our day lasted until around 5pm.  We usually missed dinner and ate an MRE instead.  Rather than eating at 5pm, Gina and I tried to get the kids out into the courtyard at this time.  The sun wasn’t as strong, and the hospital always seemed a little quieter then.  Every night we would try to do something fun.  Bubbles were a huge hit.  We had spa night.  We had gangsta rap night.  We had glow stick night.  Anything we could think of, for 7 days, to help these kids forget.

Around 7pm we would wrap up and go eat an MRE.  Then back into the unit to do our notes and say goodnight to the kids, maybe feed some babies.  My favorite little guy we nicknamed “Major” because his outfit said “Major Cutie” when we met him.  I never saw a parent with him.  Most of the kids though had a relative with them, and this relative was there all the time, even sleeping there.  The kids would get 3 meals a day, and their relative would get 3 meals a day, too.

Motivation at times was tough, not only for the kids, but for the parents.  Think about it-life is “good” in the hospital.  Meals are provided, there is a roof, and accessible toilet.  We would hunt down clothes, shoes, sheets, flip flops, whatever the patient needed we would try to find.  And then imagine life “out there”.  The other issue with motivation was how we (Western) view rehab and how they view rehab.  Their thought is when you are sick, you rest until you feel better.  Until then, someone will help you with what you need.  In our version of rehab, you get up, whether you feel bad or not.  This was really tough for me, but I tried to be as understanding as I could on these factors affecting motivation.

At the end of the week, Gina and I had instituted a toileting program with a bedside commode Gina found, discharged one kid, and got as many as we could on an increased weightbearing status and/or lesser assistive device.  I think for one week, we did all we could.

And we sure gave it our best.

Last post, a look at the kids.

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Five therapists were loaded into a dirty SUV.  We left the gates of our hospital grounds for a formal tour of the city, cameras in hand.  We were immediately instructed to maintain the cameras within the vehicle at all times, as on the last tour a camera was stolen right out of someone’s hand.

One of our first stops was the Cathedral of our Lady of the Assumption.  The Cathedral had been a longstanding building in Port au Prince, built in 1884.  I had seen photos of this majestic church before I left for Haiti.  To see its current state, and lack of reconstruction, was unnerving.

Our next stop was The Palace.  I thought of all buildings, perhaps the government building would be undergoing construction, even as a symbol of the country rebuilding itself.  What we saw was far from that.

Directly across the street from the gated palace was a sprawling tent camp.  Dotted all over the city were tent camps like this one, with seemingly no space between each tent.  People congregated on the streets, outside the tents, in the tents.  We did not go into the camps, but to imagine the living conditions within the depths of the camps without proper sanitation , drainage, and waste removal was an overwhelming thought.  How could the Haitians live like this?

And what happens during the next tropical storm or hurricane?  What happens when your only form of shelter is a flimsy tent?

We drove down streets covered in rubble, with the SUV riding up on the side of the rubble just to pass through the street.  We drove past crumbled buildings, hotels turned into one story pancakes, people digging through the rubble with their bare hands.  We visited the former UN, and Sean Penn’s tent camp. We saw signs written in English begging for water, food, and a doctor.

What we didn’t see were construction equipment.  The American Red Cross.  Why, after 6 months, did it look like this?  Why were people living in conditions unbelievable, deplorable, and beyond worse then I had ever imagined from our news back home?

Why?

How does a country so poor rebuild after such an event?

We hardly spoke on our tour.  We hardly spoke when we returned.  I could not process everything I had seen, and I could not help repeating the question Why.

I knew it was  a question I could not answer.  All I knew was at that moment, I had a useful skill.  I was a physical therapist, and although I could not rebuild a country or its people, I could try to help one person at a time.

So after the tour, I went to work doing just that, the  thing I know best.  I took a deep breath, and entered the pediatric “tent” where Gina and I would spend the next seven days, ready to work.

Next up, life at the hospital.

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The answer to that question came from right where I worked.  The crew I work with at St.Anthony’s Hospital was awesome.  Let me repeat, AWESOME.  From the day  I walked into work and told them I was going to Haiti, they swung into action.  By the end of day one I was going to be receiving donations to take from some of our vendors, and my trip was being blessed by the nuns at the hospital.  I received enough scrubs to clothe myself day and night  with the intention of leaving every article of clothing behind, and enough flip flops to keep my patients’ feet protected.  I got Gatorade, Poweraid, Power Bars, and snacks for the  therapy staff.  I got kids clothes, toys, bubbles, coloring books and crayons for the pediatric department.  I received a huge box of sheets for the ICU.  Their generosity, as well as the generosity of other friends, was overwhelming.

And so was the packing.

I had received so many donations, that I was daunted by the task of packing.  Gina and I had cleared it through Medishare that we were allowed to take 4 boxes, up to 70 pounds each.  But a few days before we left, we received word that these boxes must contain items on the “critical” list, like catheters and alcohol swabs.  My boxes contained none of these items.  What were we going to do?  So many people had donated items, and I was going to do my best to get them safely where they were intended to go.

Gina and I threw caution to the wind, and decided to take our boxes, plead ignorance at the airport, and hope for the best.

I packed a total of two boxes, one duffel bag, one “carry on” bag, and my trusty Kelty backpack. I packed and repacked these multiple times, until I had them as condensed as possible.  Not one donation was left behind.

I drove to Miami on June 11th and picked Gina up from the airport.  When we saw each other there, it was the first time in 13 years, but felt like not a day went by.

We swore to save our talking and catching up for the next day, so we could enjoy our last night’s sleep in a bed.

The next day we convinced the airport shuttle in our hotel to transport all of our gear to the airport.  We filled the entire back of the van.  Thank goodness it was only us and another couple, and they were patient as saints with our loading and unloading.

When we got to the airport, we got all of our gear loading onto a cart and headed for the check in counter.  When we arrived, the counter was not open yet, but a huge pile of supplies was sitting beside the counter.  Gina and I weighed the pros and cons of trying to check all of our boxes or piling them in the Medishare supplies.  We decided we had a better shot if they were in the supply pile, and stealthily added ours to the mix.  Ah, such savvy therapists.

Now insured that our donations were making it to Haiti, the only thing left to do was insure we got there, too.  We checked in, and headed for the gate, where we were briefed on what to expect on arrival.  We met with the other physical therapists, and got a general idea of our skill level and where we would be the most productive in the hospital.  One of the PTs had never been out of the country before.  I started to think what a hard time he would have, and how it would be easier for me since I had been to the Third World before.

As we flew over Haiti, it looked so peaceful from the sky, it was hard to believe there could be any type of devastation below.

As we entered the terminal in Port au Prince, the heat hit you like a ton of bricks.  One small fan groaned angrily in the corner in its efforts to cool the immigration area.  The entry way looked like a warehouse, bare and in need of repair.  There was one desk, with one immigration clerk.  The forms were strewn on the corner of the desk.  Is this truly the airport? I thought, looking around at the sparse conditions.

We were told to exit the terminal in a group, stopping for no one, until we got to the van.  We were to load quickly into the van, and our luggage would be brought to the hospital later.  As we exited, we were surrounded and approached by people asking you to buy their wares, not unlike many other places I had been.  As we got settled into the van, I thought I have this under control.

But as we started to drive to the hospital, and I began to get a better sense of my surroundings, I thought, you don’t know jack.  Travel smugness now gone, I was ready to admit, I was in it for a week, and no, I didn’t know jack.  Nothing could prepare me for the next week of my life.

Next post, the tour of Port au Prince.

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Sitting here I realized “Holy Normal Life! I’ve been home for a year already!”  Which means I should have some answers to the big blank questions most people have when they decide to uproot their lives and travel long term. 

The biggest one, the one that keeps people rooted, is: What about work? My typical smart-ass response before I left was “What about it? Will it be all done by the time I get back? Whew..”

Truthfully I had no idea what I was going to do when I got back, if I even wanted to continue on the same career path, or if we would even come back.  I did know I needed time to unplug from the daily grind and get some perspective, and I felt strongly enough about it to move forward with the seemingly insane idea of walking away from everything. Looking back now it was the only sane thing to do.

And guess what? Yes, I am back to work.  Why you guys didn’t finish the job while I was gone is beyond me so I figured I’d lend a hand.  I’ve made a slight adjustment to the career track and I am very happy with the choice.  I’m also extremely thankful it came rather easily considering the state of the economy when we walked back in the door of the good ol’ US of A.

I almost felt like this guy. I kid of course.

Which leads me to another question: What will life like be after the trip?  Answer: Like it was before, but different.  Or as WD likes to quip “Same Same, But Different”.  We took this journey like most anyone would, for the life changing experience.  There is no doubt it did change us, but not as we would have expected.

I still feel as if we just got home a short time ago.  But, in that “short time” we’ve both gone back to work, I saw my baby sister get married, we got a dog (who keeps dropping his slimy ball in my lap as I try to type this), I gained back the 20 lbs I lost on the road, we bought a house, I received my black belt after 10 years of training, moved my aging grandparents into assisted living, met babies that didn’t exist when we left… and the life list goes on.

Reality is, coming back to the US we were the slow old couple on the entrance ramp to the freeway.  Now I look down and realize we are doing 90 in the fast lane and beeping at the car in front of us.  Life moves fast with or without you and I found my lead foot came back without realizing it.

Yet, I don’t feel the level of stress I did before. I have a bit more trust things will work out.  I enjoy the daily routine of life at home that almost felt like trap and crushing burden before we went.  The trip, to me, confirmed just how good we have it here it at home.  

I thought when we first returned I would be full of excitement to see old friends and share stories of our lives on the road.  Instead, I learned how little I do know about the world.  I felt like seeing old friends I would be expected to sum up the last incredibly intense 18 months of my life into a three minute news sound bite before their attention wavered. Share some great bit of enlightenment without sounding like a pompous ass: ”Well, when we were in  ____…”

No, not my style.  I don’t have answers, only more confusion and questions. Instead I hid out and enjoyed the creature comforts of my own bed, a full fridge, my coffee machine, and a closet full of clean clothes.  

Things you take for granted in daily life feel like extreme luxury after being away from them for so long.  Not knowing where you will sleep each night, when you’ll get the chance to wash the 3 pairs of clothes you have… all part of travel but it does get tiresome after a while. I love eating out as much as anyone else, but doing it nearly every day for so long the appeal fades.

So, I was slow to come out of the traveler’s shell I had built around me.  Going to the store or turning on the TV was like having someone screaming in my face-pure sensory overload.  Time away made me realize how strongly news and marketing play on our fears.  It’s a ridiculous circus act to keep us spending, ignorant, and fearful.  I try to spare myself the drama and do much less shopping and sitting in front of the tube now.

Other habits I acquired on the road have thankfully faded.  One day I picked up a t-shirt off the bed and WD caught me sniffing it.  ”You don’t have to do that anymore.” She said.  ”Uh.. I was.. uh.. right.” I stammered before we both busted out laughing.  Old habits die hard.

The one year mark saddens me in a way.  Now it officially seems like the end of the adventure.  We’ve played a game all year trading “this time last year we were in ____” comments but now that’s over.  It seemed as if we were still traveling by pointing out these moments in time. We’ve even been fortunate enough to have friends from the road visit us and we’ll be doing the same next month but more on that next time. For now, the big adventure is complete and where we are now is our life.  Our life’s adventure is just fine too.

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Once in the house, I placed it in the closet, not knowing when it would see the light of day again.

Enter my friend Gina.

Gina and I went to physical therapy school together a number of years ago (okay a long time ago).  I have not seen Gina since we graduated, but we had reconnected on facebook.  We chatted back and forth about our love for travel, and our desire to go and volunteer our services somewhere in the world as therapists.  Africa?  Too expensive right now.  Asia?  Not enough time off.  And so we put our volunteer thoughts on the back burner, and continued to dream about the day we could make it happen.

Not long after, Gina posted on her facebook that she was going to Haiti.  She had been in contact with a group from the University of Miami.  The deployment could be as short as one week, which is perfect for those who want to donate their time but do not have a lot of time off from work.

When Gina returned, she contacted me, telling me about her experiences, and how if I could just get to Miami, it would be a great volunteer experience.  After I saw her photos and read her posts, I couldn’t say no.

And neither could she.

In one month’s time, my Kelty and I will go to Haiti with Gina for a week of volunteer services through Medishare and the University of Miami. We will be providing physical therapy services at a field hospital directly off the airport in Port-au-Prince.  I plan to blog about the trip once I return to the US as internet usage is limited to 10 minutes a day.

The pack is back, baby, and this time filled with sheets, pillows, shoes, and supplies not for me, but for the people of Haiti.  Here’s looking forward to returning with an empty backpack.

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But sometimes, all it takes is a little glimpse of a photo from the Galapagos, a charm from India, or a scarf from Egypt to take you back in time.

And even more mundane than that, is my moisturizer.

Today I had a travel moment that took me back to the Middle East.  You see, my Oil of Olay was bought in Dubai.  And the package is written in Arabic.  And today I ran out.

This is a simple purchase while I am in the grocery store.  In the Middle East, it took me a few trips to find something I recognized as moisturizer.  And when I saw that shiny Oil of Olay label, I knew I found a familiar friend.

And now its empty.

Why did this strike me so much?  I think it was an everyday reminder that I went, I did that trip.  I was there.  A reminder as I get ready for work, ready to go out, ready to live my life as it is now, so different than it was.

So with a sigh, I picked up a new bottle of Oil of Olay at the grocery store today.

And promptly emptied it into my Arabic bottle.

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But things are really not the same.

I find that I have a harder time talking on the phone, after being away from it for so long.  Before we left, this was a favorite past-time.  I have trouble engaging in every day conversations, as I feel like I am not connecting with what has been going on with movies and music and celebrities.

I am feeling the tug of my backpack, but also feeling the tug of life at home.  We re-tiled our bathroom floors.  We are putting in new kitchen cabinets.  My dog Hachi looks at me from his perch at my feet.  We are settled back into this life, but I can’t help but long for the life I left.

I was free to go where I wanted, when I wanted.  I ate new foods.  I met new people.  I had the opportunity of a lifetime to experience different cultures, practice new languages, and just wander this earth in general with experience after experience, good or bad.

I feel depressed at times, because no one really understands, and I cannot explain the experiences in a soundbite.  At the same time, I chide myself for feeling like this, as I had an experience that not many people get in their lifetime.

I was lucky.  Very very lucky.

Would I do it again?  Would I leave my house, friends, and family, and hit the road again to see the world?

Tomorrow.  I would leave tomorrow.

But I wish I could share the experiences better.  Explain to you what it smells like to walk down any street in Asia, with the street cart vendors cooking noodle dishes.  Have you feel the stares of locals on you as you sit in a train station, not sure what to make of your light skin or tall husband.  Taste the chai of a store owner as you discuss the weather while you bargain for their wares.  Experience the hospitality of total strangers, when you are a stranger in their land.  Wake up on foreign soil with nothing ahead of you but what that country has to offer, and all the time you want to experience it.

I wish I could do that in this blog.  I wish I could do it over the phone!  But I sit here lost for words, while the trip swims in and out of my vision constantly.

I may no longer wander, but I am still Wandering Dawn at heart.

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We do have a cat named Pewter.  Pewter was against the idea of a dog from the beginning.

But to Pewter’s credit, he is adapting to this bouncy hyper new little member of our home.

The name Hachi came from a Japanese dog named Hachi-ko.  The “ko” is a term of respect, and as our little Hachi gets older and wiser, he will get the “ko”, too.

The Japanese story of Hachiko goes something like this: a professor owned an Akita named Hachi.  Every day he and Hachi would walk to the train station, and every evening Hachi would meet the professor after work at the station.  One day, the professor went to work as usual, but died of a stroke while at work.  Hachi went to meet the professor, but he never arrived.  Hachi got a new owner, but he continued to escape to meet the professor.  Commuters started to recognize the dog waiting, and would bring him treats and water to sustain him during his wait.  His story somehow made it into the papers, and Hachiko became a touching Japanese story to demonstrate family loyalty.  A statue was erected for Hachiko in 1934, and he was there for the unveiling.

During wartime, the statue was melted for war efforts.  Hachiko died in 1935.  The sculptor died.  But the story of family loyalty was not forgotten.  Years after the war in 1948, the original sculptor’s son was commissioned to redo Hachiko’s statue.  Iit still stands today outside Shibuya station in Tokyo.

Our friends in Bangkok told us about the story of Hachiko before we went back to Japan, and we were lucky enough to go see the statue dedicated to this loyal dog.

We wanted to give our new addition a name that meant something to us from our trip.  The story of Hachiko seemed to resonate with us, and when we met our little guy, the name stuck.

Little Hachi is grounding us back into this life, but allowing us to remember every time we call his name, of the trip that changed our lives. This little dog is changing our lives as well.

Same same, but different.

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WS beat me home, and tried to convey the weirdness.  A week later, I experienced it for myself.  Everything I needed to make a meal was right in my kitchen.  My tap provided potable water.  If what I needed was not in my kitchen, I got in the car and got it.  I had a closet full of clothes, and when they were dirty , I washed them in my washing machine.   I called friends on my cell phone, and visited friends for the first time in a long time.  I met babies that were not born when I left, and kids who no longer remember me.

Then I started to process my surroundings more.  I realized just how many clothes I had.  And stuff.  Stuff everyhwere.  After living out of a backpack for 18 months, the amount of stuff in our home was overwhelming.  We began to purge like mad.  Donations made, items distributed, trash recycled.  Check. Check. Check.  The stuff had to go, for us to start fresh again.  A simplier house made us relax more, and feel more in tune from where we were before to where we are now.

So now what?  At the time, the travel bug has calmed.  I don’t think it is gone by any means, in fact, I almost feel like a trip like this makes it worse.  I saw 26 countries, but there are so many places I have not seen.  Facebook says I saw 11% of the world.  Didn’t I see more?!  Well then, I gotta fix that!  I am missing a continent!  I am missing one of the Wonders of the World!  China!  Russia!  Eastern Europe!  Ahhh!!!

But for now, we are going to go local.  Next week we are flying back to New York for WS’s sister’s wedding.  Then we are going on a road trip.  Not long, nothing special, but a bit of a last hurrah before we begin looking for jobs and really settle in from this wandering adventure.

We’ll see how long that lasts.

Check out our photos from the trip here so you do not have to sit through our slide show.

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