Death

Less than 5 months ago, I sat in a graveyard surrounded by freshly dug graves. In those graves were the bodies of hundreds of Ebola victims. In those bodies, lived beautiful souls.

Death is so final.

Not including war and HIV/AIDS, I’ve now worked disasters that led to the total death of over 20, 000 people. That is only my international experience. An experience I don’t often discuss. How can you even begin to describe what that feels like? How can you even want to explain what that looks like?

Death ends a life and destroys so many others.

It’s an interesting thing for me though, death. Being faced with so much of it, I’ve spent a lot of time processing what it means to die. And what it means to watch someone die. And what it means to be the one that gets to live.

I’ve seen some of the most violent deaths you can imagine. In my field, death is rarely peaceful. I’ve heard countless stories of the same. I’ve seen the scars; physical, mental and emotional. I’ve wiped the tears. I’ve held children that were now left completely alone in this world. Sometimes I wonder how I can be so numb to it all.

But I am numb.

You go through periods where you question how you can do what you do. How you can watch everyone around you fall apart completely, and you don’t even shed a tear. That’s often spoken of as a strength, but the truth is, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. In the moment and shortly afterwards.

But I am only numb because I have to be.

There is no weakness in feeling. There is no shame in crying. But I have to play a role that involves allowing everyone else to do that, without turning to that myself. In the moment, I have to be numb to keep moving. To keep working. To keep my focus.

It scares me but I understand it.

You don’t bounce back from this work. You don’t heal. You don’t forget. But you get to survive. Sometimes, even that can feel like you drew the short straw. But I am grateful. Always.

You go numb and you do whatever you have to do to feel again. My self care routine is strong. So strong, that sometimes it looks selfish to those who don’t understand. I don’t fault them for their feelings, but I don’t care either. I take my time to myself. I work out. I travel alone. I speak about it when I need to. I write. I do what I have to do to process my feelings. To feel again. To remember that my numbness isn’t as permanent as the death that causes it.

5 months ago, I returned from Sierra Leone, after working at the Ebola Treatment Centre. I left death and arrived home, to the news of another death. A more personal one. I thought I was ready for the funeral. I was still numb.

Standing in that graveyard, the whole world was spinning around me. I was surrounded by people who were feeling something. So much of something. So much of everything. People that I loved.

I stood there and all I could see was death. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t breathe. In a graveyard, so close to home. I saw names. I saw graves. I saw Sierra Leone. Africa. The Ebola Treatment Centre. Death. I could feel the vomit coming. I couldn’t stop the tears. I had to leave.

It was in that moment that I came back to me.

I always do and I always will. This is the cycle I live.

Until my dying day.

Minimum Wage, Maximum Life

Growing up with very little, teaches you a lot.

A lot about life.  A lot about love.  Money.  Power.  Respect.  Time.  Value.  What’s important and what isn’t.

Character.  Poverty builds character.  Characters.  I have seen many.

Fair or unfair, we are all a product of the life we are given.  We are not born with a choice.  We are just born.  The circumstances around that are out of our control.

Who we become, some of those decisions are taken from us too.

I’m not sure who I would have been if I hadn’t been broken so early.  If I had ever known what it felt like to be whole.  If I hadn’t experienced so much shortage.  Pain.  Anger.  Violence.  Hurt.  Loss.  If the external influences in my life were more positive than negative.  If I knew what love was supposed to feel like.  Who knows what that Sandra would have looked like today?!?  Not me.

Still, I have never been concerned with who I might have been.  I’ve never been uncomfortable with who I am.  I’ve never been afraid to find out who I will become next.

I may not have been born with choices, but I’ve made many since.

One of the most important choices I made, was in the design of my career.  That choice was built around experiences.  Feelings.  Having felt poverty.  Having felt hunger.  Having felt homelessness.  Having felt a dependence on various systems.  I have felt what having nothing feels like and therefore, I have no fear of it.

Not being afraid doesn’t mean I want to ever experience it again.  I don’t!  It just means that I know what I am able to survive, regardless of how much, or how little I have.  It means that I understand the value of something, and the lesson in nothing.

Growing up with little left me with the belief that I had 3 options in life…

1. Continue with nothing.  Be content with shortage.  Struggle.

2. Search for something different.  Something more.  Be bigger.  Be better.  Hustle.  Strive for money and power.  Live a life of material wealth.  Forget what shortage ever felt like.

3. To find a balance.  To find comfort.  To find true happiness outside of money.  Outside of luxury.  Satisfaction without concern for the expectation of others.

I chose option 3.  Again.  Always option 3.  The happy medium.  Never too little.  Never too much.  Good enough for me.  Plenty.

I built my life around that.  Balance.  Money would never be my motivation.  Power would never be my motivation.  Luxury, I didn’t need that.  I still don’t.  My goal was simple, if I were to rise, it would be without regret.  I was content with simplicity.

Minimum wage, maximum life.

Balance.

I’ve lived that reality for most of my life and I’ve loved every minute of it.

When I started my current job, it was part of my journey.  A natural progression for the career path I’ve chosen to walk.  It came with more money and more power but it also came with much personal sacrifice.  It paid more, but I made less. It meant working long hours. Evenings. Weekends. More time away from my family. Less time with friends. Less time for the gym. Less time for school. Less time for recreational activities. Hobbies. Painting. Writing. Less time for all the things that made me, me.  Still, I loved it.  I loved the possibility of it.  How it provided an opportunity for me to work on so many of my different personal passions.  How it combined the ability to learn, grow, be creative, be active, be flexible, affect change where it really mattered.  It was perfect.  The trade-off was worth it.  It was just me, happily rising without regret.

As a baby, I was given the nickname “estrelhinha”, meaning “little star” in Portuguese.  Told that I’ve always been able to light up a room, I have been known for my smile.  It’s the one thing you will never see me without.  My smile.  Even with nothing, I’ve always had something.

The last few weeks at work have become increasingly difficult.  An internal struggle between the love I have for the position/people I serve/the possibilities, and the dislike I have for the egos of some of the people I have to work with.  Today was a reminder of the option I chose so many years ago.  Happiness.

Somewhere along this path, I seem to have lost my balance.  Somewhere along this path, my smile has begun to fade.  I needed the reminder.  I’m not sure where my path will take me next.  I don’t know what choices I will make in order to find that balance again.

When I was in Sierra Leone, we had daily surveillance meetings at the local hospital.  In the room where the meetings were held, there was a sign on the wall with the following written on it:

If you lose your wealth, you’ve lost nothing.

If you lose your health, you’ve lost something.

If you lose your character, you’ve lost everything.

 

I can live with nothing, but I can’t live without my smile.

Time to refocus.

Making changes.

 

 

Returning to me (pt. 2)

After feeling this way for a week, I decided this would take more than love.  An outsider. Someone I can unload to without concern for their feelings.  Without having to worry about worrying them. 

I trust my process but I know how terrifying it can look to someone that cares about me.  

I know I’m ok. 

I don’t want to have to worry about making sure everyone else knows it too. 

So today, I made the call to my employee assistance program for counselling.  It’s not the first time I’ve deemed it necessary, it likely won’t be the last. I’m familiar with the intake process.  

A series of questions to find out who I am, where I’m at and what is happening.

She gathers the basics.

Name

Number

Address

Blah blah blah. 

Next is the confidentiality clause…We won’t tell unless you’re at risk of hurting yourself and/or others.  Got it.  Cool. 

Then we get to the heart of the matter…tell me a little bit about what’s going on. 

I start with, I just got back from an Ebola mission in West Africa. 

She interrupts.  That’s so wonderful. Good for you. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I keep going. 

My marriage is falling apart.

There is a lot happening in my personal life.  I’m coming up on the anniversary of my suicide attempt and I’m surrounded by death.  

My family and friends are going through a lot right now.

I’m going back to work in a week and a half and I know there will not be a smooth transition.

She’s gathered enough. 

After you said Ebola mission, I can completely understand why you called. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I am so much more then my career in disaster response. There is so much more to my life.  This is part of what makes coming back so difficult.  Everyone wants to hear about your mission, your deployment, the horrors you’ve seen and heard.  All to satisfy their own curiosities.  It’s such a lonely feeling to return to that. To be surrounded by that. To lock yourself away because you know this is what you will have to face.  Every. Single. Time. You. Walk. Out. That. Door. 

My mission is a fraction of what I’m experiencing.  I’m trying to figure out how my life will function if my marriage ends.  The thought of not being with my husband, having to move, struggling financially, maintaining my very demanding career as a single mother and not having my kids full time.  I’m struggling with the fact that my life has been plagued with death. How my first 17 years and my last 17 years started and ended with it.  So much more. So much fucking more. 

I don’t say any of this. 

Next question. 

Do you have a history of drug or alcohol abuse?

Yes, but I’ve been sober for over 16 years. 

Are you on any medications for depression right now?

No, but I’m considering it temporarily while I access supports. 

Have you been on medication before?

Yes, at various stages in my life. Temporarily, while accessing supports.  

You said you were married, does your husband work?

Yes. 

So, obviously you don’t have any children so I can skip that. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I have three kids. 

Ohhhh. 

But now I’m pissed. 

What the fuck about my life led you to make an assumption like that?  

Is it that I can have a successful  international career?

A successful full time career?

My past addiction?

My mental health history?

I don’t say anything. I’m not in a good place for that. I get through the intake and just sit with it. 

 

I’m 34 years old. 

A woman. 

A mother. 

A daughter. 

A sister. 

A queer woman. 

A woman who was homeless. 

A recovering addict. 

A former drug dealer. 

A street involved youth. 

A runaway. 

A survivor of an eating disorder. 

A survivor of suicide. 

A god damn fucking success story. 

I am what mental health looks like. 

I am what drug addiction looks like. 

I am what a good mother looks like. 

I am so proud of everything I am. 

Fuck your labels.

Fuck your assumptions. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

My appointment is next Tuesday. 

I’m getting back to me. 

That was unexpectedly painful

I woke up refreshed this morning. Yesterday was rough.  

Grocery shopping was overwhelming.  I talked myself through the process.  I opted to do my own basic manicure and pedicure, not ready to have to sit still for an hour and be forced to make small talk.  I spent most of the day at home, prepping food for the week and packing away all my deployment  items/clothing.  I didn’t answer my phone much. I responded to only a few texts. I sat and processed. 

Processed the last five weeks of my life. 

Processed the few months before those five weeks. 

So many decisions were made at the beginning of this year. So many decisions now have to be put into action.  

I processed the next five weeks of my life. 

I processed the few months after those five weeks. 

As I was returning home from grocery shopping, my neighbour was getting off the elevator. She was with her two young children and they all smiled when they saw me.  She let go of the stroller and gave me a hug.  It was unexpected.  I haven’t been able to hug many people in a while. I expected my family to hug and kiss me but this was a pleasant surprise. 

Ebola is so misunderstood.  Knowing that she wasn’t afraid, made me smile. 

Every part of me was drained by the evening. Jeremy took Cam and Linc to hockey practice and I spent the evening with Pearce.  We played a couple games of cards before the Raptors game started. Then, we put the game on, lay down with our heads touching and cheered.  I feel like I’ve been away for so long. 

I was sleeping within 15 minutes. Pearce let me sleep but held my hand the entire time.  My being away is always very difficult for him, this time was probably the hardest.  His behaviour and attitude was an awful reflection of that while I was gone.  

When the rest of the family got home, I got up, took my temperature, took my pills, and kissed the boys goodnight.  I don’t remember anything after.  I woke up at 6am.  I needed that!!!  

I packed up the lunches for the boys and prepared my breakfast.  I’m happy to be eating clean again, I can already feel my body functioning better.  When they leave, I sit down with my breakfast and the news. 

I don’t know what I’m doing today. I know public health will check in at 10am.  That’s it. 

My phone rings and it’s my ex, J, Pearce’s dad. I shouldn’t have answered. 

That call was the result of my first official post mission cry. 

He welcomes me back and asks how I’m doing.  Nothing out of the ordinary here. Small talk. He tells me about how P has had a really bad attitude lately and how he hopes it helps that I’m back. I remind him that he’s becoming a teenager now and he will likely have a bad attitude for the next few years.  I ask him how he is doing and he’s well.  I can tell he wants to ask me something so I give him the opportunity. 

“So, I just need to know if you being back puts my other kids at risk at all?”  

There it is!  

He has two children with his wife, a two year old and an infant.  How will my being back impact his life?  

I’m not sure how not to be offended by that question.  First, he knows I’m home.  How can he possibly think that I would put my own children at risk?  Second, we share a child, is there no concern for how this might impact him?  

I answer in the most respectful way I can. I give him the public health protocols and an Ebola 101 crash course. Still, that was unexpectedly painful. 

J and I met over 15 years ago.  I was working at Starbucks, he was new at the Chapters bookstore my store was connected to.  I saw him on the escalator and I turned to my roommate and said “he’s mine!”  It became a joke for a few weeks but I was serious.  Two weeks later, a bunch of us went for drinks after work to celebrate anti-valentines day.  I introduced myself and we spent the next few hours getting to know each other. By the end of the night, I knew we were going to be together.  Two days later, I asked him to hang out. He said no.  Said he just got out of a relationship and wanted to make sure he was in a good place before committing to anything. That’s cool. I respected that. I gave him three weeks.  

We hung out anyway for the next couple weeks, really enjoyed each other.  Two weeks later, he asked me out. I said no. Just to make it even. My real answer was yes.  We slept together that night.  When we woke up, we realized we hadn’t let go of each other’s hand the entire time.  I told my roommate that day that I was going to marry him.  I meant it.  

We were amazing together.  Just two young people in love. Free. Happy. A couple months after we met, we packed our bags and bought a one train ticket to British Columbia. There were no expectations for our new life, just us. We were together, that’s all that mattered. Life was beautiful.

15 years later, few people in the world know me as intimately as he does.  We’ve loved each other, we’ve despised each other, we’ve hurt each other and we’ve supported each other. We have ridden the longest, bumpiest roller coaster ride I’ve ever been on, together.  

The minute we conceived Pearce, was the minute we became forever.  We committed ourselves to being parents to our child.  It’s been 12 years since we’ve been a couple, we are still committed to co-parenting Pearce. 

J would be the first person to credit me for raising Pearce.  He knows how much I love that child.  He knows there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to keep him safe. He knows the choices I’ve had to make in order to give Pearce the best life possible.  He knows I was constant, even when he was absent. He knows. He knows. He knows. 

And somehow, Ebola makes him question that.

My neighbour gave me a hug in front of her two children.  J called me to make sure I wasn’t putting his family at risk.  There is something so fucked up about that. 

So, I cried. It seemed like the only thing to do.  

Shortly after, I get a text message from two of my girlfriends asking to meet for lunch.  

I say yes. 

Right now, I don’t want anything to do with those who believe I would put anyone at risk.  Anyone. A stranger. Family. Or a friend. 

Those who know me and love me, would never question that.

I’m going to lunch with two amazing women, and I expect a hug from both of them. 

Before and after.

There is nothing glamorous about mission life.  Nothing.

I left looking like my usual lovely self, five weeks later, I return looking like Will Smith’s allergic reaction in the movie “Hitch.”  This is why I take before and after pics. You have to see it to believe it. 

 

My favourite line in the field is “don’t judge me based on what you see here”.  If you know me in the field, you would have a hard time picturing anything else.  My personality suits it.  I’m laid back, low maintenance and relaxed…so, people don’t believe that I would enjoy dressing in a way that would normally be considered high maintenance. Wrong.  Sandra and heels go together like white bread and Nutella on this mission.  Or like chicken and anything.  We just fit.  I enjoy heels, skirts and dressing up as much as I don’t mind being filthy in the field.

Jenny and I shared that message this time around and it was the source of many good laughs. 

Everyone follows the exact same process when entering the ETC. You get your temperature checked and recorded, get the soles of your shoes sprayed with chlorine, wash your hands with chlorine, walk to the laundry to get scrubs and a pair of rubber boots and head to the changing tent to get dressed. 

The changing tent is as hot as I imagine the pits of hell to be.  You are dripping sweat the minute you walk in.  The female national staff come to work at the ETC wearing these beautiful outfits, heels and with their hair all done up.  The international staff come in what we call “mission clothes”.  We all change together for our shifts.  I couldn’t imagine wearing something nice while sweating as much as we do.   

The laughs came from us trying to explain to our male colleagues how ridiculous we look changing next to our local staff team.  You pack light for the field, usually taking clothing you wouldn’t mind losing or not bringing home with you. These are your “mission clothes”. We practically wear the same thing everyday and it’s often not in the best condition.  This is easy for men to understand, they do the same thing with their clothes.

What is more difficult for them to grasp was the concept of “mission underwear”.  The local staff would come wearing these lacy and funky print bras and panties and we had to change in our best undesired ones.

Jenny and I tried to explain what that meant to our male colleagues on several occasions.  We told them about the cycle of a bra…when it’s on the way out, it becomes mission underwear. Same with panties.  But they don’t get it.  It just didn’t make sense to them. 

Us – bras are expensive, you wouldn’t bring a new one to a mission.  Wouldn’t you bring your older underwear with you?

Them – no, actually, I packed new underwear for this one. 

Us – what?!  What name brand is it?

Them – I don’t know, my wife buys them. 

Us – check. 

Them – a Walmart brand, I think. 

Us – yeah, well you’re regular underwear probably have the same value as our mission underwear. 

Looking back now, I laugh at how ridiculous our conversations in the field can be.  It was a good mission. It was a great team.

For five weeks, I’ve wanted to have some time to myself.  Today, I am a perfect recipe for being left alone; Coming from Sierra Leone, having working at the Ebola Treatment Centre, and with my face looking sad, swollen and contagious.   

 

The universe delivers in unusual ways.  I may as well enjoy it. 

Next stop: Montreal 

Something ate my face

I knew I was getting bitten all night.  I felt it. Every part of me was itchy. 

This was my first night out of a mosquito dome since I arrived in Africa.  It was laziness really.  I had packed everything so perfectly when I left Kenema. Everything was ready to go for the rest of my journey.  I assumed they would have a mosquito net set up in Freetown, but no.  Back to my laziness.  My pelican case has exactly 7 clips to lock it.  If I had undone those 7 clips, my mosquito dome would have been the first thing I would see.  Two poles and a tent. Simple. It takes me a couple minutes to assemble it but nope. LAZY!!!!  

My left eye felt slightly swollen in the middle of the night.  I knew I had been bitten. Too late to do anything about that now, I kept sleeping.  And scratching.  I was being devoured and I was too tired to care.  By the time my alarm went off for breakfast, my eye was swollen shut.  I pried it open with my hands to make sure I could see out of it. All good.  I lay there for a few minutes before deciding I should go have a look at it.  Mirrors!!!!

I’ve spent the last few weeks without a mirror.  It’s been incredibly freeing. Refreshing.  A pleasant change from my everyday.  I haven’t cared about what I looked like. I haven’t been able to check if I had food in my teeth after a meal.  I haven’t thought about whether or not my face was dirty, if my roots were growing out, or how awful my skin must look after consuming all this gluten and dairy.  I’ve just been content with whatever it was I looked like.  Bliss. 

But my eye is swollen shut and I finally have access to a mirror.  I decide to go have a look.  Ummmmm. What in the actual fuck happened to my face??!!!  

The ENTIRE left side of my face is paralyzed with swelling.  I look like I have taken a serious beating, minus the bruising.  The only thing to do at this point is laugh.  So, I laugh.  It’s business as usual with my swollen face.  I hop in the shower and run some cold water over it.  There is no redness or puss, so I rule out infection at this point.  Looks like an allergic reaction.  That’s cool.  I’m happy that large rimmed sunglasses are in style as I walk to meet Claire for breakfast.  

I forgot to pack any Benadryl with me this time.  Oops.  Luckily, we happily share medication on missions.  We all deploy with the same meds, prescription or over the counter.  We have pills for everything.  With limited access to health care, you have to be prepared to medicate yourself should anything happen. We have anti-malarial meds, various supplements, Tylenol/Advil, cold and flu meds, sleeping pills, de-worming meds, prescription meds for severe diarrhea, at least two rounds of antibiotics in case of infection, pills for yeast infections, etc etc etc.  You name it, someone has it.  

I may have forgotten mine but Claire has prescription meds for allergic reactions with her.  Yay!!!!  I take one immediately and half of the pack to hold me until I get to Toronto.  Four hours later, the swelling starts to go down. A bit. A very small bit. Time for my next dose.  Everyone that sees my face shows genuine concern.  They are all relieved when I tell them it was an insect, and not a man.  I start to introduce myself by saying “I got bitten by a bug AND my name is Sandra.”  It’s easier for everyone this way.  By lunch, I can finally see out of my eye.  It’s trial and error in the field.  My self diagnosis appears to be accurate.  Cool.  

I go back to my room after lunch to put a cold compress on my face.

I have had one of the Ebola songs in my head for the last week.  It may be stuck in there forever.  It’s so ridiculously catchy!  I lay down on my bed, put the Ebola song on repeat and place the wet towel over half my face.  Ebola. Ebola. It’s such a good song.  When the towel gets warm, I get up to soak it with cold water again.  I dance the whole way to the sink and back.  It’s going to be strange to go back to life without singing and dancing all the time.  

An hour later and it’s time to go.  I look in the mirror one last time…yikes!!!  I need to get my eyebrows waxed, my skin is in dire need of a gluten detox and I still look beat up.  I immediately want to go back to not having a mirror again. 

Seriously though, my face is huge.  I look more beat up now than I did when I actually got punched in the face.  That sucked.  Oh well, I grab my bags and walk out the door.  

As I go to load my bags in the van, I roll my ankle on the broken pavement.  Under normal circumstances, I likely would have been able to find my balance but I am seriously top heavy with my bags. The whole thing happens in slow motion.  Today is becoming a disaster in itself.  It has been filled with a series of comedies that I will be laughing at for a long time.  With all the extra weight on me, both my knees hit the ground hard.  Followed by both my palms.  I sit there for a second to assess the situation and realize that this is going to hurt later.  I hear Claire, with her little British accent, “Are you ok, Sandra?”  I think so.  I get up and put my bags down.  The only thing I can think of is how fortunate I am that I didn’t smash the other side of my face on the ground.  I’m not sure anyone would have believed the bug story if the other side of my face was busted on the concrete.  That would have been awesome.  Luckily, I have no shame, so my pride is well in tact. 

We drive to the next mode of transportation on the journey, the ferry across to Lungi.  The cool breeze over the water feels great on my still swollen face.  I’m used to strangers wanting to talk to me but not today.  I know everyone is wondering who hit me, some ask, most just pretend they don’t notice. I guess this is one way to get the alone time I’ve been craving.  I can’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.  My palms are now bruised. My wrists are both sore and so are my bruised knees.   

Going through all the check points with this face is interesting.  The first medic at the airport looks at me and says in a very serious, slightly angry tone, “What’s wrong with your face?”  I want to respond with “what’s wrong with YOUR face?!?”  but people at the airport don’t have a sense of humour. “I got bitten by a bug.”  Seems like an acceptable enough response, he flags he through after making sure I don’t have a fever.  The next lady quietly asks “your face is swollen, are you ok?  What happened?”  “I got bitten by an bug, I’m ok.”  Relief everywhere. Just a bug. No need to panic.  I limp across to the gate. LOL. That’s a lie, I’m not limping at this point but everything really does hurt.  

More of the swelling has gone down now and I can finally see where the bite is. It’s EVERYWHERE!!!  My face was a buffet for whatever hungry beast attacked me last night.  I count at least ten bites on the left side of my face. 

After five weeks of potential exposure to a million terrifying things, a bug and broken concrete finally do me in.  The only thing I can think is that I hope my mother doesn’t come pick me up at the airport.  She won’t like this one bit.  I take another pill and hope for the best as I board the first flight. 

Next stop: Brussels.

 

Run to the water…and find me there.

The water has always been two things for me:

Where I can be found. 

And where I find myself. 

It’s been a life long love affair.  Still going strong after 34 years. 

Today was beautiful.  

I couldn’t think of a better way to start my journey home.  

We left the Kenema Pastoral Centre at 9:30am.  I got the best hug I’ve had in 5 weeks.  It’s a no touch mission but some hugs need to be had.  I can’t believe how much I didn’t know I needed that.  

It was a half hour drive to the field where the United Nations helicopter would be picking us up.  We had an hour and a half of waiting before our flight was scheduled to depart. The flight was on time, not something I usually expect in Africa.  We drive up to the helicopter. There are children and adults running towards it from every direction.  This trip is made three times per week and everyone wants to watch it take off.  My driver tells me how lucky I am to be able to ride the helicopter, I agree that I’m quite fortunate.  While my job is not always very glamorous, we do often get to experience the world in very different ways.  I see and appreciate the blessing in that.  There are two passengers already on the flight before Claire and I board.  It’s a 25 minute ride to Kono, where we are dropping off the two and picking up three others.  

  

Kenema and Kono are two of the main diamond mining areas in Sierra Leone.  There are diamond mines and dealers everywhere you turn.  Although I know this and I’ve seen this, I’m rendered speechless as we fly over a massive diamond mine.  To see the magnitude of the operation from the sky actually hurts my heart. This is a country that is so resource rich and yet it’s people don’t benefit from any of it.  Blood diamonds. Corruption.  Poverty. 

  

Shortly afterwards, I see the Kono Ebola Treatment Centre; our first stop.  We land. Two get off. Three get on. Children and adults gather again for the take off. It’s just over an hour to our next destination, Cockery (Freetown). 

We fly above the clouds this time so I can’t see much on the ground.  I didn’t sleep very well the night before and I’m tired now.  I close my eyes and manage to fall asleep for a half hour.  I needed that. I wake up refreshed and just in time for the view. 

The ocean.  It stretches for miles.  So does my smile. 

We land and our driver is already waiting for us. It’s a 20 minute drive to the hotel.   After spending a month on dirt roads populated with mostly motorbikes and pedestrians, seeing so many four wheeled vehicles feels like a culture shock.  

There are Ebola signs everywhere. Freetown is still experiencing new cases of Ebola regularly.  They recently lifted their quarantine and have now scheduled another one, beginning on the 27th of March.  A few days notice allows people to prepare and stock up their homes with whatever they will need to sustain themselves for the duration.  As soon as we arrive, I’m even more happy to be here between the quarantine periods. 

The hotel is right on the water. I can see the ocean from right outside my door. I can hear it. I can smell it. I can feel it.

We arrive at 2:30pm for check in.  The four of us hadn’t eaten since breakfast at 7am. We quickly drop our bags off in our rooms and meet for lunch at the Retro Cafe.  I order a club sandwich with bacon. Although I’m sure anything would have tasted delicious at that moment, that honestly could have been the best club sandwich I’ve ever had.  I must remember to add sliced boiled eggs to my club sandwiches at home. Brilliant. 

We finish our meals and each order a cappuccino. It’s also delicious.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had coffee that wasn’t instant.  It’s perfectly frothy and hot and it hits the spot.  Immediately after we pay the bill, I say goodbye to the others and walk as quickly as I can across the street to the beach. 

My flip flops are off the minute my feet touch the sand.  There are no words for that feeling.  

  

I walk towards the water and I can literally feel the weight of the last five weeks lifting off of me.  I don’t stop until I’m in the water.  It’s warm.  Just as I imagined it.  I’m tempted to just dive in but I don’t want to leave my bag on the shore alone.  Instead, I let the waves crash over my legs, from the knee down.  I start walking in one direction with no intention of stopping.  Before I know it, I’m a few kilometers from the hotel and decide that I should probably start walking back.  This has been the first time in five weeks I’ve been truly alone.  It’s amazing. But short lived. 

There is a man walking the opposite direction and he smiles and says hello. I smile, wave and say hello back.  He sees the tattoo on my arm and comes over.

I have only met two people in Sierra Leone with visible tattoos.  They are always curious about mine, so I’ve had many conversations about the process here. Tattoos are done with just a needle and ink.  Very basic. Simple designs.  Not very regulated.    Tattooing has virtually stopped since the Ebola outbreak began, it’s risky.  

As he walks closer to me, I can see that he has both his arms and legs covered in tattoos.  He asks me about my arm as he notices my leg and foot.  And so, alone time is over. 

Victor is a local tattoo artist.  He is his own canvas.  His “sleeves” are not like the beautifully detailed, colourful scenes you would see back home.  They remind me more of the collection of little pictures you see drawn on paper, hanging in a tattoo shop.  Those pictures that you look at when you don’t really know what you want and need ideas. Victor is covered in ideas. Random thoughts. Images.  Words.  He’s got a basketball net and ball, which makes me smile.  Basketball is not really a popular sport here.  We spend the next hour together, walking on the beach and talking about tattoos and life.  

He speaks to me in both English and Krio and is surprised at how much I can understand.  

The other night at the Pastoral Centre, we were finishing up our dinner.  Daisy, one of the cooks, came by and said something to me. My response was “no, I’m still drinking my water but I’m almost done.”  Everyone looked at me in shock and Daisy said “how did you know what I asked you?  I said it in Mende.”  I had no idea how I knew. I just did.  I hadn’t even noticed that she was speaking a different language during our conversation.  

I’ve never known life without languages and accents.  My first language was Portuguese.  English came afterwards. French. Spanish.  Italian.  Patois.  My first serious relationship was with an Egyptian/Canadian, my introduction to Arabic.  My first “real” job in the field was working for World Vision. They used to operate a shelter for refugee families in Toronto, and I was employed there for a few years.  The residents were admitted directly from the airport, the majority of them being refugees from all over Africa. Many had very limited knowledge of English and we would have to teach each other.  I had to learn how to communicate without words.  I paid attention to actions, voice pitch, facial expressions, body language, the little universal signs that we forget about when we understand each other’s words.  I’ve had to communicate that way my entire life, it’s so natural to me now that I don’t even notice I’m doing it.  

It makes Victor happy to know that I understand him.  I’m happy he’s happy.  But it’s time for me to be alone again. We say goodbye, exchange email addresses and take a picture together before parting ways.  

  

I cross the street to the hotel and walk through the security gate. They take my temperature, 36.5.  I wash my hands with chlorine.  A routine I’ve become quite familiar with here.  I walk down the road to my room and a deer starts walking beside me.  I take a picture with it. Clearly the universe has decided that I don’t need alone time right now.  I get the message and smile. 

  

There was a little street market with some carvings in front of the hotel.  I walked by without looking.  I can see my room, I can see the deer and I can see the carvings.  I choose the carvings. 

When I get there, I see the man who is selling the carvings.  He is sitting alone and I smile and say hello.  He looks at me, smiles and asks me how I am.  We start to chat about the carvings and he gets up to tell me what each one represents.  He has crutches, I hadn’t noticed that before now.  He is an amputee.  A very visible reminder of the civil war in Sierra Leone.  I ask him if he carved these himself and he says yes.  I tell him he’s quite talented and he responds with “if you don’t have strong legs, you have to have strong hands.”  We both start laughing.  I enjoy his logic. His positive approach to a negative experience. It’s one of my favourite qualities in people, one I don’t see often enough. We spend the next half hour laughing even more as we talk about carvings, crocodiles, and Sierra Leone.  I don’t have any money with me to buy anything but he doesn’t mind.  

Some things are better than alone time.  

This is it.

I’m all packed up. 

I’ve said my no touch goodbyes. 

Not quite sure if I’m ready to go but there is no alternate option. 

Today is the day.

The next three days will feel longer than the last five weeks combined.

In just under two hours, I’ll begin my journey back home.  Into the arms of those I care about. Into the life I am used to living.  The life I know. The comfort of everyday. Still, that always seems like the most unfamiliar place to go back to after a mission.  

I’ve been preparing myself, physically, mentally and emotionally, for this day. For the next three weeks.  And partially, for the next few months.  

It’s a process. 

I have smiled at the thought of leaving.  

I have cried at thought of leaving.

This is not something you can normally share freely.  Not without risking the feelings of others.  Those who love you. Those who wait weeks, months, years to see you. Those who have practically planned out everything they want to say and do when you return.  If they had any idea how much you fear those moments. Those reunions.  They would question their own value in your life.  It’s not worth sharing. 

Those who don’t know, will never understand. 

In three days, I will feel suffocated by the life I live.

This is it. 

Alone

As much as I speak to people, the best conversations I have are when I’m alone. 

I listen. 

I speak. 

I hear. 

I haven’t been alone in a while now. And that, is the loneliest feeling in the world.