“I don’t want to go.”
I don’t want to go. I remember Ginger’s words yesterday in Mykoliav: “The time is always too short.” And it has been.
We have one more clinic, a short day here at Pastor Igor’s church in Odessa where we’ve been staying, and then we’ll head to the Ukraine-Moldova border from whence we came. But my heart is still with Anna and Tamara and all the others yesterday in Mykoliav and what I think is, “And winter isn’t even here yet.” They already don’t have running water in their homes. They are right now this moment under threat of direct attack from the Russians. The Russians have threatened to take out Mykoliav. What is propaganda and what is truth? They see the evidence of bomb strafing and destruction everyday. They hear them, too. Smell them, I bet, when they hit close…
We have a beautiful breakfast. Our hosts Nikolai and Irina have seen to our every need. Their daughter Carol has helped so much, too, and I love them all. I am sad to leave them, too. They have worked so hard to make us comfortable, to be a smiling presence before our work days and when we return home. Their hearts are like pure gold.
And, Pastor Igor, badass driver into the war yesterday…showing us Odessa, treating us to architecture, a beautiful restaurant, and even sea lions and dolphins! Even now, today, he’d like to take us to the Black Sea for a proper visit in daylight before we leave. But Bob is concerned about the possible delays at the border and says we should leave quickly after we’ve seen all the people. He’s right, of course. When we crossed over the border to get into Ukraine, it was about a 3-hour stop and that’s without the border guards rifling through our suitcases, which they could have done. (And Aniel says the women guards are bigger sticklers than the men!) They may want to take a good look at what, or more likely who, we might be taking out of Ukraine. No Ukrainian men between 18 and 60 are allowed to leave the country unless they have three or more children. So, we’ll see what happens at the Ukraine-Moldova border. And, then it’s another hour and a half back to Chisinau (keesh’-no). And, we’ll need to stop for dinner and get Nastea and Roma to where they need to be tonight and drop Doyna off at her home in the capital before we make it to our hotel. Even with leaving mid-afternoon, we will have a late night of it.
But, I still wish for the Black Sea…
Breakfast is finished, delicious and plentiful as always and I head back to my room to finish packing. Sadness grips me. [As I write this memory, even now, the tears fall. Goodbye’s are very, very hard sometimes.] I pack up my remaining compression socks - I think I gave away three or four pair this week to women with varicosities - and my souvenirs. But I leave my suitcase open just in case there is something I have that might be useful here at the church at our last clinic.
A large room with a piano is ours for the morning. Roma starts to play and sing a sweet melody which helps our heavy hearts to smile.
Kathleen has set the medications out on a table and she will man the station as she has done all week. Our pharmacist. The remaining reading glasses are set out on another table. Ginger and I are at opposite ends of two tables set close together. Roma and Nastea assume their seats to interpret for us. And then the patients come.
Immediately, there is a woman from the north. Her city has been bombed. As she tells me her history, she bursts into tears. “We had to leave so quickly taking very little with us. I had to leave my dog behind!” And her tears fall and my heart breaks into a million pieces and I’m desperate to comfort her. “I left everything behind. I don’t even know if I still have a house!” What can I do? What can I do? All I know to do is hold her, letting my tears of sheer pain at her suffering mingle with hers. And I pray.
The morning goes quickly. Too quickly. Similar stories of pure hurt ensue. We see so much courage. Blood pressures for many patients are, as expected, through the roof. One of our last patients is wondering if her blood pressure is high because, she states, her anxiety level is overwhelming right now. But, it’s only slightly elevated. I remember my open suitcase and I run downstairs to retrieve some lavendar essential oil. I ask Roma to explain that lavendar has actually been shown, when breathed in deeply (which also helps), to ease anxiety. It is not a cure as we all know, but there is something healing in the giving of it and something soothing, I can see in her easing brow, in the thought of breathing in the scent of lavendar. [Note to self: bring more lavendar oil next time!]
A patient comes in with wheezing and a history of asthma. We don’t carry inhalers but I remember I brought one just in case I have an asthma flare. I run downstairs again to retrieve it. With instructions on its use, I give it to my patient. Such humble gratitude…how I wish I had more to give her. What I have, though, is hers. It’s theirs.
A woman sits down next to me. She appears tired and anxious and my heart lurches for her and I long to help. She says she needs more thyroid medicine. I ask Kathleen, a little bit apprehensive myself, if we have any more thyroid meds and I give her the name of the medication and the dosage. She says we have it! And, not only that, we have enough to see her through the winter! Yes!!!
Glasses are distributed. And, we’re done. We’re done. Our clinics are over. Bob says we saw 22 patients this last shortened clinic day. Eight people received reading glasses and forty-five medications were given. Ginger quietly starts unloading coats and sweaters and…so much she has brought with her specifically for the people. I learn so much from her and note what she has brought and store it away in my mind for future use. I bring in the suitcase I loaded with supplies (which I discussed in this post as I was preparing to go to Ukraine) and start unloading, too. When my supremely generous physician husband, George, was alive, we would often have townsfolk come to our door requesting medical help. Because of this he stocked many, many medical supplies for wound care; suturing (we both sutured aplenty on our dining table!) - headlamps, suture material, sterile gloves (he wore a HUGE size 8 1/2, his hands were massive), and suture instruments; blood pressure monitoring; ortho issues; and a lot more. I consequently have a lot of supplies left over and brought much of it along with me.
Ginger and I had packed our supplies in suitcases which was easiest to transport. What wasn’t used by us was now going to be taken to the frontline for the soldiers and communities there and suitcases allow for the ease in movement of supplies. How appropriate, I think, that supplies from my Vietnam surgeon husband will now likely be aiding physicians and surgeons in another war. My husband’s reach is long and far and wide and…forever.
And, then I start thinking about the sweaters and coats Ginger brought. I have some sweaters and vests for myself upstairs, I’m thinking, some long-sleeved tops, too. I run upstairs yet again and pull out every warm thing I can find that might help someone through this forthcoming Ukrainian winter. There’s even the favorite long-sleeved top of my daughter, Jacque, which she let me borrow to keep me safe and warm in Ukraine. I pause. Then I take it, too, knowing Jacque will understand that now it will do the same for someone in Ukraine who needs it so much more than she and I. [She understood wholeheartedly.]
We stuff the jackets and coats and sweaters and tops and pajamas into bags and…we’re done. We’re done.
It’s time for our last lunch with our hosts and then we will say goodbye.
After lunch, we gather outside for last goodbyes. Heavy hearts through the smiles. There’s great gratitude on both sides…
We are all changed by these beautiful people. So much uncertainty pierces their lives and yet, they give, and give, and give some more. We are told Pastor Igor will be taking the supplies we brought to the frontline soon. All the pastors and other heroes we’ve met this trip, there are so many who could leave Ukraine yet refuse to do so. They stay to look after the people, to ensure needs are met, to help people have water and warmth and food. I think of the coming winter with dread but I am comforted by the purposeful love so many Ukrainians give to so many others. I don’t want to leave but I have to. These heroes refuse to leave to help and serve.
I am undone.
I have received the greater gift, indeed.
Thank you, Ukraine. You and your strong and beautiful people will remain in my heart forever.
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