"On Deck 3, it is Africa"

This is what we were told in our first cultural orientation onboard the Africa Mercy. 

One of the Patient Life coordinators was trying her best to explain to us that, while the ship may feel a lot like our respective homes, the hospital level is another story. Down there, it would be more like the country outside the portholes than the ones we hail from. And honestly, I wasn't really sure that was true at the time. I mean, of course the patients would be African, but they will be coming aboard OUR ship, admitting to OUR hospital, learning to do things OUR way ...right? Haha.

After having worked my first stretch of shifts, I now have a taste of what she meant. And she was right.

Here is the first lesson I have learned on Deck 3.

My very first patient was a 7 year old girl; a little doll with big, chocolate brown eyes that just stared at me with the hint of a smile. She would have surgery the next day on her wrist. But today, all we had on the agenda was to admit her. She was accompanied by her mother, who was dressed to the nines. And for the life of me, I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to know what happened to her, if her mother had any questions, what I could do to "ease their way".

But there was one teensy problem:

I don't speak Susu.

My second patient was a 2 year old boy, one that I actually recognized from Screening day! I had taken his history from his mother, an absolutely lovely woman also dressed to the nines. I'm not sure if she remembered me, but I'll never forget her face. Again, all I had to do was admit them; his cleft lip surgery was scheduled first thing in the morning. But I wanted to reach out, tell her how excited I was that they were here, ask if she had any worries, learn about their lives. 

And then the tragic reality check:

I don't speak Fullah.

Overarching feeling? Totally handicapped.

I realized in that moment how much I value my ability to verbally communicate. 

Subjectively, it's one of my best assets. 

As a nurse, It's what I have come to lean on. 

It's how I build rapport, 

how I make my patients feel at ease, 

how I let them know that I am on their side 

and have a handle on their care. 

I love talking with my patients. 

And here, that is being withheld from me. 

Every patient I encounter speaks everything but english.

So I have to learn another way. 

I need to depend on others to verbally communicate for me. 

(Which feels often times like taking three lefts to make a right)

I need to trust that those translating for us are saying what we need them to say. 

(Only one out of 30 have ever been in a hospital before, and they are our conduit for relaying information to people who have also never encountered a healthcare system) 

I need to practice patience. 

(My pace is not everyone's pace, and we are all learning this new way together)

And I need to let Christ's love shine through my actions. 

(They speak louder than words anyway)

The next day, one of my patients was a 63 year old man who had just had a tumor removed from the right side of his skull. Now, with a big bandage wrapped around his head and under his chin, you couldn't wipe the smile off his face! And his favorite pastimes included coloring with me. Or hitting balloons back and forth. Or playing Jenga for hours at a time on his bedside table. I realized in THAT moment that not every important encounter has to be accompanied by words. Maybe just by being with the patients, showing interest, playing with them, I can connect more than with my translated attempts at conversation.

Sometimes I get the feeling I am living in an alternate universe. On the one hand, we live on a converted cruise ship. We can pass the day reading in the cafe, playing games in the mid-ship lounge, sunning on deck 7 overlooking the ocean. Then, when shift comes, I go down to the third deck and find myself somewhere else entirely. Where the patients have never been in a hospital. Where they believe that surgery means taking them to a white room, killing them, and then bringing them back to life. Where the national language doesn't guarantee you communication at all. 

I am still trying to reconcile my expectations of these two vastly different environments. 

This is the Africa Mercy. My hospital. My home.