Category: Uncategorized

A Long Way to Love

Originally written for my Narrative Medicine college class in 2018. Further editing completed prior to posting, and permission granted from all parties mentioned by name as well as from my professor. 

In March of 2018, over spring break of my junior year in college, myself and several other nursing students traveled to Nicaragua for our community health clinical experience. This was made possible through a partnership between Norwich University’s Director of the Nursing program, Dr. Paulette Thabault, and an organization called Corner of Love based in San Ramone Nicaragua. This month marks three years already since my trip over there,

View overlooking the Corner of Love home in San Ramon, Nicaragua

Corner of Love is an organization founded by a married couple named Tanya and Nelson Amador. Nelson was a native himself, who immigrated to the United States following the war that took place there in the 1980s. It was during his time in America that he met Tanya. They were married and together felt called to return to Nicaragua and start a mission there. Over the years, Corner of Love has grown to serve more people than ever before. It is maintained by the work of Tanya, Nelson, the natives they employ, and the labor of many volunteers that filter in and help as they are able. They also depend heavily each year on donations from others, both monetary and material supplies including food, clothing, and medical supplies. Following violent political unrest in Nicaragua in 2018, Corner of Love was forced out of the country. They are now stationed in Costa Rica where they care for Nicaraguan refugees who have been forced to flee their home country. 

One of the requirements for going on the trip in 2018 was that each person bring at least one-hundred pounds of donations to go towards the villagers we would be caring for. Donations ranged from clothes and shoes to over-the-counter medication and supplies. A handful of people brought extra supplies and suitcases with them that exceeded the minimum of one-hundred pounds. With a group of around thirty-five or so individuals, it added up to nearly two tons of donations; enough to fill the beds of two large pickup trucks until they were heaping.

Our first big task that we did in San Ramone was sort and organize all the donations, specifically between clothes and shoes, medication, hygiene items, toys, and various other items. After arriving at the community center, the unloaded pile of suitcases was an incredible sight to see. As we tackled the task head on, something amazing happened; despite high temperatures, heavy workload, and little prior interaction, everyone worked together eagerly and efficiently. The ability to become acquainted while serving others made the problems of our own daily lives fade away. Together, we realized the importance of helping others as well as the value of our peers and the perspectives each person brought to the table.

The structure of our trip was centered around a total of four clinic days, two of which were done in the community center, a building owned by Corner of Love in San Ramone, and the other two were done out in remote villages located an hour drive or more away. With each passing day spent with the Nicaraguans, the stress of my life in America seemed insignificant and petty. As time went on, I found myself smiling more and more, while being immersed in their culture and the simplicity of their lifestyle. 

Assessing an elderly woman in the village clinic

Midway through our second clinic day spent out in the villages, I served as a scribe with Dr. Thabault serving as the provider. Our translator had gone to get the next person in line, and as they returned, my eyes immediately fell to the child. She was a beautiful little girl who came walking over with her mother and looked to be about five or six years old. As she approached, we made eye contact and her bright eyes twinkled as her smile spread across her face. It was a genuine and contagious smile that seemed to light up the room, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. 

They sat down at our table, and I began my routine as I had with every other patient that day. I asked the mother for their paperwork, and she passed it across the table. I began looking at the data: height, weight, blood pressure, age… Age? On the card, it said that the child was eleven years old. I knew that couldn’t be right, could it? I showed Dr. Thabault, who agreed with me and we asked the translator to verify the child’s age with her mother. He did, and the mother’s response was the same: eleven.

I was so surprised but attempted to put my questions about that in the back of my mind as we proceeded. After consulting the mother, the translator told us her symptoms and why she was here. It was all the same symptoms that we had heard over and over again all morning: headache, abdominal pain, diarrhea, etc. As I prepared to get up and start my assessment, her mother pulled up the child’s shirt, and I noticed a large abnormality within seconds. There were two incision sites that were each two to three inches long on her abdomen. It was clear that they were old incisions that had healed closed, but they were deeply indented into the little girl’s belly. On seeing them, Dr. Thabault said she would do the assessment, and I watched attentively. When asked, the mother said that the incisions were from the child having her appendix removed when she was three years old. Through the translator, the mother went on to tell us that the child’s vocabulary was very limited, and she was only able to speak in basic words with her family. 

My brain took off at full speed, as I sat there trying to figure it all out and connect all the pieces. There was so much going on that I couldn’t understand based solely on the information we had, and I hated it. Immediately and somewhat without thought, my brain began compiling a check list of things that were wrong with her and things I wanted to be able to “fix” and change for the little girl and her family. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, and so much more digging I felt like needed to be done. 

As I sat there, too busy in my own head to do much else, Dr. Thabault had written down parasite medication, ibuprofen, and children’s vitamins. She then had the translator ask the mother if her daughter had gone to school at all. The mother responded that she had only gone for part of kindergarten, due to the fact that she was fighting with other kids. Dr. Thabault encouraged the mother to try to send her back to school, even for just half days, to help with socialization and vocabulary. From there, the translator explained the medications and Dr. Thabault’s recommendations to the mother.

As she sat there listening, my gaze fell to the child. After choosing a brightly colored blue beaded necklace, Dr Thabault walked around the table towards the child, crouched down and extended it towards her. Once again, the child’s face lit up with a smile from ear to ear as she reached for it. She couldn’t stop smiling as she held it in her hand. Words were unnecessary in that moment, and as I watched, my heart flooded with joy for her and peace about her situation. She was so happy and loved so deeply. I didn’t need her to tell me that for me to know. 

This photo depicts Dr. Paulette Thabault giving the child the blue necklace while she sits on her mother’s lap

The entire rest of the day, this case stayed on my mind, and I couldn’t understand why. I did a lot of thinking and self-evaluation, and by the end of our time in Nicaragua, came to understand why it had left such an impression on me. On our final morning with Corner of Love, we all stood in a circle together as Tanya shared about a special little child her and Nelson had known, and the heart wrenching story of what had happened. During her retelling, there was pure emotion in her voice, and tears in her eyes. When her story ended, she continued that she suspected each of us probably had one person or situation in particular that we would always remember in a special way. She said her hope for us was that we would never forget them, and that we would carry them with us in our heart as we continued on in the world caring for others.  and that would always leave a mark on us. 

My eyes filled with tears at her words, and I felt like she had touched my soul. I immediately thought of the precious little girl from several days earlier and was overwhelmed with emotion. Not only was she someone I would never forget, but she had taught me so much about myself, humanity, and my outlook on the world without even trying.

I learned that sometimes it’s not about a checklist and having it all figured out. I struggled with feeling that the care we were able to offer was inadequate when compared to her needs, and I wanted so badly to understand how all the different things in her case fit together and why. In reflecting back on that day, I became painfully aware that in focusing on the things, I lost sight of the person. It also meant that instead of focusing on how to help them in what they need now, it became more about me than them. I learned the importance of viewing the whole person, and not just what their illness or challenges may be.

In this precious beautiful little girl, I saw happiness in spite of all circumstances. Her smile lit up the entire room, and she loved deeply, more than I could even understand. If she was able to find pure happiness in her life, despite her difficult and painful circumstances, how much more could I in my life, where the daily struggles were not even comparable.

Sunset view overlooking San Ramon from the little hill behind the home of Corner of Love

Going to Nicaragua was an incredible experience, in which the most important lessons were unplanned, and unexpected. I was consistently in awe of the contagious joy I saw in the children that I worked to assess, as well as those I just saw from afar. Even as they glowed with happiness, I could see clear indications of the pain and discomfort that they had already experienced in their young lives. My heart ached for the conditions that I came across, and I struggled with the feeling that I was not doing enough to help them. Over time I came to realize that we were often treating symptoms with no way to impact the underlying causes. So much suffering seemed preventable and needless, yet it would take so much for me to do anything about it, and I felt like my hands were tied. There were times when our capabilities for treatment options fell short of what I wanted my patients to have, which made me feel sad, angry, and even ashamed at times. 

In the middle of such obvious poverty and suffering, I witnessed smiles so pure and so intense that I couldn’t help but smile back. These children and their smiles were not hindered by a language barrier. Education, opportunity, and circumstances do not inhibit love and gratitude. Love is universal. Gratitude is a human language. My love is their love, and theirs is mine. I never needed the translator for the truly precious moments of my trip that I have carried with me into my career. Love is a language that crosses all barriers and speaks to the heart. Love was why I went there in the first place, and love was why I hope to go back.

At the end of my trip, they had taught me how to truly love.

The Unending Pain of Loss

Have you ever experienced the loss of someone you should have known, but never got the chance to? Do you have any idea what it is like to grieve the loss of someone you love but can barely remember? Another year has come and gone, and today marks ten years since my Grandpa passed away. The photo included in this post captures the very last time I ever saw him. I was one year old.

In the days after this photo was taken, my Grandpa and Grandma went back home from visiting my family and I, and were told to never contact my family again. You may be wondering why this was asked of them, and I will do my best to explain it to you. At the time they, as well as my family, were all a part of a closed tight-knit community that had started years before in Illinois. My Grandparents had made the decision to leave this supposed “church” community, which was deemed unacceptable and equivalent to “leaving God”. When a group of humans determines that their small gathering of humans is on the same level as God, and that their leader speaks for God to them, that pretty well meets the definition of a cult. For the duration of this post, the group will be referred to as the community, the church, or a cult, depending on the context. The best part of the entire separation and the shunning that ensued is that my grandparents were genuine Bible believing Christians. They truly believed they were following God and remained strong and devoted to God, with unwavering faith in their beliefs. Yet, the decision they made left them as outsiders and erased them from my family, the cult, and countless other peoples lives.

While my Grandparents were heartbroken by this request, they also knew that it was a decision that they could not disregard. They attempted to contact us in the first couple of years, but when it was returned with anger and hardheartedness, they chose to obey the request that had been asked of them, and not contact us again. For my older siblings, this meant losing a Christian set of grandparents that were very near and dear to their hearts. For me, it meant that they were erased from my life as if they had never been there in the first place. Growing up, their names came up now and then, but never in a positive light. They were the ones that “left us”, or the ones that “broke the church covenant”. The community we were a part of had erased them from existing, and if I ever brought their names up, it was as though I had uttered a curse word. This was life as I knew it, and my grandparents became nothing more people mentioned in passing.

Ten years ago, we received a phone call that would change my world forever. It was a call from Illinois, a place the cult had deemed “Egypt” (In reference to the Bible version of Egypt). I looked to see who was calling and was afraid of what it could be. I responded with my gut reaction; I promptly answered and then hung up the phone. My mom asked who it was and I remember saying, “Oh nothing, must have been someone from back in Illinois”. Thankfully, my parents answered it the next time the call came through and found out the real reason for the call. I never expected it to be as important to me as it turned out to be. My mothers words rang in my ears: “Grandpa has cancer. He is calling because he is dying”. I didn’t understand, and all the lies I had been told repeated in my mind. Who was Grandpa? Was it the guy who had abandoned us? Why would we talk to him? My parents explained that he was going to die soon and he wanted to be able to say goodbye to all of us before it was too late. As a thirteen year old girl with no real memories of him, I was incapable of understanding how important those few moments on the phone would be.

When it was my turn to talk to him, I hesitantly answered the phone. “Hello…?” An excited voice responded. “Hi! Is this Faith?” I barely had time to respond “Yes…” when he kept going. “You sound all grown up and mature now! How old are you now, twelve?” I was stumbling for words, and mustered out something along the lines of “No, I’m thirteen now”. He asked how I had been and what I enjoyed doing. I talked about myself some before I was prompted to pass it along to the next child in line. I told him it was someone else’s turn to talk and he said words I will never forget. “Alright, you be good okay? It was nice to talk to you. I love you Faith, I always have”. I responded automatically without even thinking about it: “I love you too Grandpa”. He died just a few days later, the morning after Thanksgiving.

Grandpa’s Grave

It was at least seven years after this conversation that I was reintroduced to my Grandma, his wife, and came to know her again. It took another six months or more for me to accept her as my Grandma and learn for myself the truth behind all the lies I had been raised to believe about her and Grandpa. It took another year and a half for me to plan a trip out to Illinois. It was a heartbreaking and healing trip, more than words can ever explain. I was able to visit Grandma in the beautiful house Grandpa had built, as well as meet several other family members I never even knew existed. Perhaps most importantly, I was able to go and visit Grandpa’s grave. The heavy weight that came over me in that moment was almost more than I could bear, and it took my breath away. Here I was, finally there in Illinois to see him and Grandma, but I was too late. The finality of seeing his gravestone brought tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat. My Grandpa was dead, and seeing his gravestone reminded me that there was nothing I could do to change that.

The pain I felt in my heart, standing at his grave being forced to say goodbye, was perhaps one of the worst pains I have ever felt. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to someone I was finally able to allow back into my life again. I don’t know that I ever will fully be at peace with the situation that resulted in this terrible heartbreaking scenario, but I will say that I am eternally grateful for those precious moments on the phone with him. I wish I could say that our conversation made up for the years of missed time. I wish I could honestly say that it helped me to heal and not feel so broken, but it would be a lie. That conversation was a band-aid on an open wound, and I have spent the last ten years trying to heal from something I never knew or understood why it hurt me until it was too late.

The front porch of the house Grandpa built

Grandpa. I am so sorry for all the pain and hurt your heart had to endure, and I pray that you have found joy and laughter as you wait for us on the other side. I hope that the big picture you can see with clear eyes helps to make the pain we feel more worth it in the end. As you watch over us from heaven, I hope that I am half the woman you thought thirteen-year-old me was capable of being, and as you watch our lives unfold, I hope that you are proud of me. Your love means more to me than words, and it is in your honor that I share this story, ten years in the making. As life continues on, I will remember you and your life as a part of my little family, and I will make sure no one forgets you. Please know that I love you very much and I miss you. I look forward to a day when I can see you again.

Love, your all grown up granddaughter, ~ Faith

Progress

For those of you that follow and have taken interest in my blog!

I am still here and kicking! Time is a real factor in my healing process these days! Writing is a curious thing, and requires me to be in the right head space to be able to get out the stories and emotions buried deep within.

I have started at least half a dozen pieces to share, and finished none of them as of yet. This quote rings true for so many of the writings I have started: I am learning to reread some of the old chapters and accept them myself, before I feel that I can be at peace enough to share them with all of you.

I have so many important things to say and so many stories that I know could be used to help others! I aim to bring awareness and real truths to confront some major issues out there today.

Please bear with me and continue to follow along! More content headed your way soon!

Love, Faith ❤️

From Victim to Survivor

“That’s the thing about pain, it demands to be felt.”

Augustus Waters from The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
A photo of me at the age of 7, playing at the local park

I am here today to tell you that for me, pain was just the beginning. My story is my burden to carry for the rest of my life, but I refuse to keep it hidden any longer. No matter what my abusers have done to try and shut me up, or pretend it never happened, I am still here, and I am stronger than I have ever been before. I have crawled from the bottom of some very dark places to be here and it is not over yet. I am still fighting to keep my voice, but I promise you and I promise myself that I am never going to give that up again.

First, let me introduce you to my original self. As a young child, I brought life to my family. I’ve been told that I would make people laugh and was full of joy and hope. One of the most distinct memories I have from my early childhood was playing in the local park on school breaks. They were short 30-minute breaks, where I remember being that young innocent girl who was so trusting and naïve. I was able to enjoy the moments and my life, without a worry in the world. This was the girl I was before the age of nine, and the girl I longed to be again for years to come. 

When I was nine years old, everything changed. A young man close to my family began molesting me the summer I turned nine. The once trusting young girl was replaced with a sad, distrusting child, filled with self-hatred and low self-esteem. In the years that followed, I was betrayed time and time again by people close to me. I was used and abused by people that I looked up to, older people who should have known better, and I didn’t know how to say no. I was told that it was “just experimenting”, and that it was “normal for boys to do”. I was conflicted, and an indoctrinated sense of duty towards men kept me from being able to say no. 

I had no one that I could confide in about what was happening, and the guilt felt as though it rested all on me. Fear of harsh punishment, being called a liar, or worse, stopped me from telling anyone. I felt trapped in my own body and wanted to escape it all. There I was, alone in the midst of a crowd; I was hurting and afraid, with nowhere to turn. All I longed for was to be seen. I wanted someone to look me in the eyes, see my pain, and reach out to me. I begged God to take the pain away and to make it all stop. I cried myself to sleep and prayed that I could go back to the innocent young girl I once was. Yet, night after night, I fell prey to the abuse and went to bed hating myself and the body I was captive to all the more. I fought with all the strength I could muster to hold on to what was left of that happy innocent girl I used to be, afraid that if I lost all the pieces of her, I wouldn’t be me anymore.

Years went by like this, and when it finally stopped, I found that I had forgotten how to breathe. I was a teenager by now, and all the feelings the abuse had awoken in my body made me unable to forget. I did everything I could to be what I considered “normal”, which was really just code for innocent. I wanted to forget all that my eyes had seen and all that had been done to me. I reached out for friends, surrounding myself with people in an attempt to silence my own pain. I would have given anything to be like some of my friends that didn’t have a care in the world. I worked hard to make sure I blended in with them, and made my family believe I was living a happy life. Under the surface the pain never went away, and my self-hatred grew stronger. If only I had said no, if only I hadn’t let them touch me. Then maybe I would be free from the guilt and I would be worthy of love and belonging. I showed the world false strength during the day and at night I would lie in bed and cry.  

Work, as a coping mechanism started when I was twelve. I would garden, work at a bed and breakfast, in an office, or any other odd jobs I could get. I would work as much as possible while in school and every summer. After I graduated, I used my year off to work overtime as much as possible, and I continued to use work, friends, and other things to occupy my time. Yet nothing could fill the void or take away the pain and self-hatred that had ahold of me to my core. 

In one of my first relationships, I began seeing a man who had been my best friend, a man that I trusted with my life. I was fragile and broken even more than I understood. He didn’t know how to help me or give me the support that I needed, let alone how to treat me because of my abuse history. He did the best that he could, but in his weakness, he hurt me too. Yet again, I found myself betrayed by someone I trusted, someone that I had allowed into my corner and bared my soul to, and I was devastated. My heart was ripped in two, but I couldn’t even blame him. I understood how someone could fall out of love with me, and I didn’t blame him for giving up on me. I never imagined some nine months later, that I would break all over again with suppressed memories and more pain resurfacing. 

In the last four years, I have hit absolute rock bottom several times, and have learned a lot about myself. In moments I didn’t know how I could possibly go on, I focused on one step at a time even if it meant I had to crawl. I chose to leave the place I once called home and lost countless people in the process. I found the courage to tell my family the truth of what happened all those years ago, and the strength to report my abuser. I found myself, amongst the rubble of my broken and crumbling life, and I learned the importance of courage. After giving up all that I once thought to be true, I have been working hard, piece by piece, to rebuild my faith and relationship with God on the truth of what I believe. 

Most importantly, in these last few years, I have found my voice and some meaning to why this all happened. I have channeled my pain and the abuse of my past into empathy and compassion, both in my personal life and my life as a nurse. I have found much strength in this, and I thank God for the pain that has enabled me to be strong for others like I needed someone to be strong for me. I have held friends as they cried and told me their stories, and I have sat up late talking with others, supporting them, and letting them know that they are not alone. In a world where I have spent most of my life trying to be someone else, I have finally found beauty in being me. 

My journey is far from over, and my struggles may never end. Yet I know that in the midst of all my pain, there is beauty rising from the ashes, and that beauty is me. I am still standing, still fighting for who I am and what I believe, and I will keep fighting until the day I die. The pain of abuse doesn’t go away with time, and healing doesn’t happen overnight. No matter how many times I am knocked down, I will rise. No matter how strong the forces around me, the force within me is stronger. Healing will be a lifelong journey, but I am proud to tell you that this is my story and I am no longer a victim, but I am a survivor. A survivor who is strong and beautiful and still fighting every single day to stay true to myself and what I believe in. 

In closing, if you have ever been abused, know that you are not alone. There are so many of us, and silence is deafening. In your own time, and in your own way I hope that you find your voice and the courage to share your story. You are strong, and you are brave for the battles you fight every day that others may not know about. Healing is not linear and moving forward takes time. Know that I am a safe person to talk to, and I will do what I can to support you.