It’s amazing, the difference between being sick in Month 3 versus Month 10.
Month 3
We almost are proud of our illness. It’s like a right of passage – you’re not really a Racer until you’ve been sick. You try to figure out how to suffer in silence humbly so that everyone notices (it’s a tricky balance), expel all the fluid from your body (from both ends), and pray that you feel better before Race policy dictates that you must make a trip to the doctor. But in those cases where your body takes a day or two too long (“I would have gotten over it in another day, I didn’t need to go to the doctor!”) you force yourself to drink your oral rehydration salts, take your Cipro (because that is what the doctor will prescribe), kill all of the bacteria in your body, and then eat yogurt and probiotics to get the “good” bacteria back. Depending on the length and severity of the illness, sometimes one of the worst parts is the ministry that you have to miss as you recuperate.
Month 10
You’re tired of it. You’ve been through 9 months of varying degrees of discomfort. This month is no different – you already are uncomfortable when your body starts telling you “somethin’ ain’t right, Boss…” and despite your reprimands: “No! I do not have time for this! Nor the patience!” reasoning: “I cannot be sick right now. I’m going home in two months. Just two more months.”
and pleading: “Please don’t do this to me… Please!” Chicken Guinea shows no mercy. So there you are, simply exhausted; tired of being uncomfortable, tired of being sick and not knowing why, tired of all of the home remedies that your hosts offer (well-intentioned though they are), tired of not trusting the water, tired of being tired. If there is one silver lining to being sick in Month 10 it’s having an excuse – after 9 months of intensely close community – to be a hermit. Of course, your loving ministry hosts will check on you to make sure you’re ok. At 2230 and at 0630.
In Month 10 you start to get senioritis. You can see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. You begin to shift into survival mode: “I only have to survive two more months… I can do this.” I’ve heard said of marathons: “At mile 18 you wonder why you’re doing this. At 26.2 it all becomes perfectly clear.” So that’s what you have to do – dig in and find that little bit of energy that you only tap into when you’re being chased by a pack of rabid dogs down some sketchy backroad in a tiny Peruvian town.
To us, we are coming to the end of our Race. We’re tired. We can smell home (literally, we could swear we smelled Steak & Shake yesterday). But to the folks that we are serving this is the only month that they have us. This is the life that they know. They’re not looking forward to air conditioning, Chick-Fil-A, hot showers, or citronella candles. So whatever strength we can find, we have an obligation to muster, then ask the Lord to make up the difference for us.
*I have had some squadmates who have dealt with much more serious maladies – I do not intend to make light of their experiences. My frame of reference is much more mild cases of GI upset, fevers, etc. – more discomforts and inconveniences than true illnesses.
