i'm sorry

This year, with our ship running at an even higher capacity than last year and all six operating rooms filled with patients most days, we didn't think that even the 1,900 surgery cards we gave out during our first screening day would be enough to fill the schedule. So we put out the word that there would be a second screening day, at the Hospitality Centre, a warehouse off-ship that we've converted into an outpatient eye clinic and ward for patients who live too far away from the ship to go home between dressing changes. By the time my friend left the Hospitality Centre yesterday evening, she figured there were already about four hundred people planning to spend the night in line, waiting to be screened this morning.

But today's screening wasn't like other screenings. Between that first day in February and the second one today, we did what we hadn't anticipated; we filled the surgery schedule. From now until when the ship sails in December, every spot has been filled, every operating room booked, every surgeon's day planned out. We went to the Hospitality Centre this morning knowing that we would be faced with hundreds of people, and knowing that, except for a select few who would be placed on a waiting list, just in case, we would have to turn every single one away. And so when we got into our Land Rovers, we didn't have any supplies with us. No needles or lab tubes or stethoscopes. None of the normal paraphernalia that goes along with seeing patients and ensuring that they're fit for surgery. The little green appointment cards stayed tucked away in their box on the ship, because today we were going to say no.

I started out as a water-passer. We plied our ware up and down the line, dipping the same few cups into coolers over and over, collecting the cups from outstretched hands and filling them again. Empty, fill, repeat. I was wearing blue scrubs, the trademark of Mercy Ships, and as the sun beat down on my shoulders and the sweat and dust caked my feet, I felt hands pulling on me every time I got within reach. S'il vous plait, they pleaded, eyes dark and tired, please. But I was trapped, stuck in some weird in-between place where I could understand what they were asking me, but had no words at my command to answer them. It takes so much more than bonjour and au revior to communicate the end of a dream.

When I reached the end of the line, which seemed to stretch the length of a city block, I stood for a moment in the dust and the heat, looking back. Mamas and papas and tiny babies. Old men and women, little kids, all clad in their finest suits of brightly printed cloth. All waiting to hear the same thing. No. I was there, lost in thought, when Bibini grabbed my arm. She spoke enough English to understand me when I explained that there was no more space for her to have her goiter operated on. Her eyes filled with tears. You mean I should go? Something inside me broke, and I put my hand on her shoulder, asked her if I could pray. I prayed the strongest prayer I knew, claiming promises from a God who I'm fully confident can deliver. And then I sent her away.

I spent the rest of the day at the front of the line, working side-by-side with a tireless translator from the ward, Abdel. His massive frame let me feel safe in the middle of a small stampede, when about a hundred mamas, babies bouncing on their backs, charged the gate. His head was shaded from the sun by one of those cheap, silly umbrella hats which poked me in the eye several times. But no one was laughing. Pretty soon Abdel was able to discern just by looking at tumors whether or not it was something that could go on a waiting list. If he was unsure, he asked me, but mostly I stood by his side, my red eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Nous sommes désolés, I murmured over and over and over again as they turned to go, having waited for hours in line to be crushed and sent home. We're sorry.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry we can't help all of you. I'm sorry that your baby may never walk on straight legs, that your body is covered in tumors, that your hernia will keep giving you pain. I'm sorry that people stare at you, spit at you, hate you. I'm sorry that you came here today, your hope in your hands, and I'm sorry that I've just taken that hope and thrown it in the dirt. (I know that's where it is now, because that's where you look while Abdel delivers the news; you never meet my eyes.) I'm sorry that it's not enough, that we're not enough. We don't have enough operating rooms. We don't have enough doctors, enough nurses, enough beds. It's never going to be enough.

I'm sorry.

(I'm editing this post to add a photo of Liz, Abdel and myself after the screening was over. Liz and I are clearly sporting forced smiles and Abdel just looks tired, but what I want you to notice is that hat. Hundreds of people managed to take him seriously while he was wearing that hat. That is something that would only work in Africa, and one of the many reasons I love it here.)