Disclaimer: This month I did not go through Jesus-size suffering. No one has suffered the way our Savior has. I am simply writing my story to explain how it brought me closer to him.
Also: Do not read if stories about medical procedures or poop make you unhappy/uneasy.
We arrived at our ministry site on Saturday afternoon right around lunch time. I was cautiously excited. On the ride to Takeo from Phnom Penh, I heard the four words no girl in her right mind wants to hear, “squatty potties, bucket showers.” The whole ride to Teen Challenge, I listened to worship music and reminded myself that Jesus probably had a similar toilet and shower situation, so I should embrace this new way to have kinship with my Savior. I was mad at myself for thinking it mattered so much.
When we pulled up, there were about half of a dozen eager, curious, and smiling faces waiting to carry our packs up to mine, Vivian’s, and Kate’s room.
The glue boys. We’d heard about them: twenty teenage-aged boys who had been pulled off the street because they were addicted to sniffing glue, doing drugs, or consuming alcohol. I didn’t know what to expect, how to treat them, or if they’d even allow me to be a part of their world.
We got our stuff situated and walked over to the dining area. We were given a spread of delicious food. We ate, we drank lots of water. We were merry! It was the kind of excitement that always comes with a new ministry: hope about what is already happening there, hope about how God is moving, and hope that he will work through your own shaky, incapable hands.
I’m not sure when exactly I started to feel poorly. I started throwing up, and figured it was just something I ate that didn’t agree with my stomach. At the urging of my teammates, I laid down. I slept fine, but the next day I continued throwing up. It was about 6pm on Sunday when I asked if I could be taken to the hospital. We talked to our contact, Pastor Mop, who speaks very little English to take us, and he pretty much immediately went to get his son, Samuel, who speaks more English to translate. We managed to explain to Samuel that I had been vomiting profusely and that I’d like to go to the hospital.
Jeff and Bobbi Jo and I began an adventure for the books. When we pulled up to the “hospital,” we exchanged fretful glances and Bobbi Jo whispered, “Jesus, be with us.”
I will try my best to explain the local clinic to you. As most everything is in Cambodia, the door to the clinic (a massive door that resembles a door the size of an American garage door) was wide open. Lining the two walls there were old, metal beds that were rusting, none of them sported a mattress, only thin Asian sleeping pads. We sat on a bench near the entrance, imagined the worst, and waited for the doctor. A young boy (maybe 14) came out from the furthest room and told us that the doctor was eating dinner, and that we’d have to wait for a little while.
When he emerged, the doctor greeted me, barefoot. He asked what was wrong and as Samuel rattled off my symptoms in Khmer, I pondered on what was about to happen. The doctor walked me back to a room with a similar bed situation, donned with a bright pink blanket. An ancient ultrasound machine was on the desk directly beside the bed. Bobbi Jo held my hand like she was my Momma, and told me everything was going to be okay. She’s a medical assistant in the States, so she gave me a play by play of how it would happen at home. Sadly, there was no warmer for the blue, sticky ultrasound goop and the doctor squirted it on my stomach without warning. I gasped. Bobbi Jo giggled. I rolled my eyes at her and laughed. The doctor commenced his ultrasound. “I’ve got good news,” whispered Bobbi, “it’s not a baby.” She smiled widely. “Well, darling,” I said, “I could have told you that.” We chuckled. The doctor started yelling in Khmer and startled both of us out of that moment.
Suddenly, a 16 year old girl rushed in. “My daughter,” he announced. The girl smiled sweetly, and started translating. The door to the examination room was left wide open. Shortly after the girl came, two little boys crept in, too. More of the doctor’s children, I assumed, though he did not acknowledge their presence. They stared at my stomach, captivated. It hasn’t seen the light of day in a while, so you can imagine how pearly white it was. I smiled at them and turned to Bobbi Jo and said, “The more, the merrier, I guess.” She giggled again.
He explained, via his daughter, that he thought it was food poisoning. Bobbi Jo and I frowned. I was the only sick teammate and we had all eaten exactly the same things. He wanted to give me a sample injection to see if I would react to the actual, imminent one. Bobbi Jo peeked over to make sure the needle was clean (it was: he had to unwrap it out of the plastic), and she held my hand again.
TO BE CONTINUED…
