A few pounds lighter

Whatever anyone says about getting deathly ill in a place like Haiti, it’s no fun. Trust me. I really thought I was going to die. But it can only be a story if I look for the humor in it.

Data collection on Friday went well; I spoke with dozens of mothers and got loads of information. That night, one of the new volunteers invited me to stay with her the fanciest-schmanciest hotel in Cap Haitien. There was AIR CONDITIONING and a POOL and PEOPLE TO WATCH. It was luxury and I was so very excited. But, by the end of the night, I was sick, sick, sick. Get ready; this is going to be a long one.

When I say I got sick, I don’t mean I developed a gentle sickness. This was a nasty illness of projectile proportions. Read no further if you cannot cope with reality. My body retained no substance. During one desperate attempt at self-treatment, I sucked on a tootsie-roll pop; that too sent my body into angry convulsions. After 10 hours without any intake but plenty of going-out, I called Dr. Pat (who I now know is my Personal Savior). I hadn’t wanted to bother her because she is so busy, but I knew that even my tears of fear were making worse my rapid dehydration. I lay on the bed in the air-conditioning. By this point, I was no longer a fan of the air-conditioning (notice that the caps lock is not in use—not a coincidence). In the last 4.5 weeks, I seem to have habituated to this oppressive tropical heat; my fingertips and toes were numb from the cool air. It wasn’t just from fever. I could not move my body (at least not voluntarily), and my greatest wish was for my mother. It’s true. Laugh if you will, but any of you in the same situation would have cried for your mother too.

So, I was becoming more and more dehydrated, hallucinating a little bit, gripping the sheets in the hopes that it might quell the nausea. I knew I would die. I knew my best hope was to get to a hospital, but asking for treatment at a hospital in Cap Haitien is evidence of an almost certain death wish. How could I get back to Florida (if not St. Louis)? Would my basic and pathetic emergency insurance hire a helicopter for me? Would someone fly down to Cap Haitien from the U.S. to carry my wasting body to better care? What could be worse: feeling as horrible as I did in that hotel room or feeling that horrible while trying to navigate international air travel? Nobody was around. And I cried. My body was wracked with tears (and other intermittent convulsive non-voluntary activities as well).

Dr. Pat walked in. She said, “Okay. What’s going on? When’s the last time you threw up? When’s the last time you had diarrhea? Have you kept anything down? Why are you crying? Do you think you’re going to die? You’re not going to die. I’m going to find some oral re-hydration serum.” She took my pulse (it was just over 100) and said she’d be back. If there is one thing about Dr. Pat, it’s that she gets down to business. She looked in the ‘depot room’ (whatever that is) used by the Haiti Mission when they come into town to save lives. Upon not finding any oral re-hydration serum in the ‘depot room’, she informed me that she was walking down the hill to find ingredients to make her own solution. I’m sure I limply nodded my head. When she left I did a bit more dehydrating.

Dr. Pat returned with Tampico (a rather vile fruit punch) and some baking soda. She mixed them together, and I took a small sip every five minutes for the next hour. It wasn’t half bad, especially compared to all that had recently passed through my mouth. Nixon (one of the Meds & Food for Kids employees and another hero of mine) arrived a while later with bona fide oral re-hydration serum from Meds & Food for Kids’ stash. (I think it was expired and no longer being given to the organization’s patients, so don’t start thinking I was stealing from starving children.) At this point I was doing whatever Dr. Pat told me to do. She’d call to me from the computer where she had set up shop in the hotel room, “Okay Grace, time for another sip.”

Around 3:30 pm I wanted to be back at the factory ‘compound’. What!? That’s right, it turns out I feel more comfortable there than at the hotel. I decided I would rather dehydrate in a familiar bathroom and in familiar buckets. Who thought this place would feel like my home away from home? Also, I was determined to go wherever Dr. Pat was going, and she was headed back to the factory. And, oh, what a wonderful journey it was.

Nixon arrived at the hotel to retrieve us. At first, the streets in the city were eerily serene. So calm, in fact, that Dr. Pat commented on it twice. I heard her through my nausea but didn’t comment because the effort of making any noise paved the way for projectile vomiting. Once we got to the other side of the city, there was a bit of a jam. Then we were at a standstill. Seven thousand, I repeat, 7,000 Haitians from all over the country were marching down the only road toward to the factory. Any other day, I would have been in hog heaven. Not only was it a great cultural experience, but also a people-watcher’s dream. I sat in the front seat, certain of my imminent expiration, and knowing that if I lived, I would have to write about this on my blog. I knew that it was sort of funny that I was stuck on a street in Cap Haitien on the one day that 7,000 people were marching from all over the damn country, and that traffic was stopped, and that I was holding my breath in attempts to control incontrollable bodily functions, and that people were singing beautiful hymns as they passed, and that the rain made everything not too hot, and that it was an awesome sight. And when, 45 minutes later, we finally got moving I had yet to ‘dehydrate’ myself further.

Right as we passed the city’s most revered spot, a commemoration of the heroes and leaders of Haiti’s Slave Revolt, I began to expel the contents of my stomach out the car’s window. It dripped on the door. My body convulsed until I nearly fell out the window. Nixon pulled the car over. Dr. Pat passed tissues to me. I continued to relieve myself in every way. A small crowd of Haitian faces formed around the door where I heaved and drooled and revealed my undignified self. They were just watching— nothing better to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I suppose. In the midst of it all, a honking truck reminded me further that I was quintessentially experiencing Haiti. The honking continued and wouldn’t stop because we were, quite simply, in its way. Never mind that the cause of this short stop (much shorter, mind you, than a parade 7,000 people strong) was a person whose body seemed to be exploding out of the car window. I finished my work, gave a wave of apology to the truck behind, and we drove on. Nixon asked me if I was scared. Through my tears, I nodded affirmatively. He told me, “Don’t be afraid. Everything is okay.” And I believed him because Nixon is one of my heroes.

I spent the rest of Saturday and the night lying in bed here at the factory, pondering the same concerns about being airlifted to Florida. Was that even a possibility? My mind fumbled with logistics. Pat told me to keep drinking the oral re-hydration serum (it’s really just Pedialyte—have you ever had it? It doesn’t taste too great.). She reassured me that I wasn’t going to die and that in the worst-case scenario, we’d go to the hospital for an IV. The next 24 hours proved to be far less noteworthy as they involved my slow recovery. Currently I’m operating at about 80% capacity, but that’s measured in Haitian capacity. This means I’m functioning at roughly 60% of the Grace with which many of you are familiar.

Now I know why Haiti not a place to get sick. This sort of thing kills people here. Luckily, I had Dr. Pat.