Elle

Chapter 6: Haunted

July 12, 2020 Elle The Night Shift

We have this classmate. Since her last name is McDaniel and mine is Montgomery ,we are ofter placed in the same group. In every class someone has to be first and someone has to be last. Kate, our other friend Amanda, and I are first. As of now, all three of us are straight A students; McDaniel is…. decidedly NOT.

On clinical days, we have to be at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 06:30, and student parking is like a mile away from the actual clinical site so we have to arrive by 6:15 to be on time. I live about an hour away from the clinical hospital so I have to leave my house at like 5am. See? Ungodly. Anyway… I digress…

I’ve gone out with one of the hospital RTs a few time. His name is Jeremy, and he’s one of the ‘lead’ RTs… Not exactly a manager, but not a floor staff RT either. I haven’t told Kate or anyone really. Anyway, we’re gone out a few times, and last night was one of those times. Jeremy let me stay at his place last night since he lives so close to the hospital. There is a point to this, I promise.

Jeremy and I get to the hospital about 6:15. Since I’m early, I go to the unit I know I’ll be on. I strike up a conversation with the night shift therapist since she isn’t busy. You know the usual, how was your night? Anything significant happen? Which patient would be a good one for me, as a student, to work with?

I get the details and meet up with the rest of the class. McDaniel and Montgomery are once again ‘partners’ and assigned to the Cardiac ICU. I choose the two that was suggested to me and McDaniel gets one vent patient and one recently extubated patient.

After sfhit report, I go about assessing my assigned patients. About 7:30 I hear the computerized “Code Blue- Cardiac ICU”. That’s strange; that’s the unit we’re on. I pause my assessment and stick my head out into the hall. McDaniel is over by a room in the corner excitedly waving everyone over.

“I went in and did my first assessment. Came back out to get the meds, and went back to the patient’s room and they were unresponsive. So I called a code,” McDaniel reported.

“Did you check the chart for their code status?” someone asked.

“I couldn’t find it,” said McDaniel.

“What the hell?” Ah, yes, the therapist I’m working with has returned from getting breakfast. “What the hell is going on?” she repeated.

“This patient went unresponsive when I left the room to get their meds so I called a code,” McDaniel excitedly explained.

“Did you bother to check vital signs before declaring them [air quotes] unresponsive? the therapist asked becoming more and more exasperated.

“Yes” and McDaniel rattled off some numbers.

“That’s strange’, the therapist mused aloud. “This patient was pronounced dead at 5:45 this morning. We waiting for the morgue to let us take the patient down.”

McDaniel looked crestfallen. She stammered out ‘but I heard breath sounds. I felt a pulse.’

The therapist replied ‘well you must be a fucking miracle worker because you raised the dead– and then killed them again.”

Snickering broke out among the code team. Some even laughed outright. McDaniel looked like she wished the floor would swallow her whole.

I meandered back to my side of the ICU, and I overheard someone say “Imagine being so incompetent, that you imagined hearing breath sound and feeling a pulse.” and someone else chimed in “Fucking students. They’re all idiots.”

I do my best to not be an idiot, but when your classmates are assessing dead people and saying they hear breath sounds, it’s hard not to agree with them

Chapter 5: Message in a bottle

July 5, 2020 Elle The Night Shift

“Hey. Do you want to go to El Jalisco again for lunch?” Kate asks. We are supposed to be studying gas laws, capillary action, density of air and water, and other science-y stuff when Kate asks me this seeming innocuous question.

“You remember what happened last time?’ I responded without it trying to seems like I’m a party pooper.

Kate’s eyes glinted “yeah.” And I knew she wanted the same thing to happen again.

Last week, Kate, two other classmates, and I went to the local Mexican restaurant for our lunch break between out 3.5 hour class and out 3.5 hour afternoon lab. It’s like this every Tuesday. A full 8.5 hour day starting at 8:30am. And then I stupidly go in to the hospital from 5-11 every other Tuesday. So for me it ends up being about a 15 hour day.

“I have to work at the hospital this evening.”

“You’re just going to see your boyfriend.” She says that word-boyfriend- like a 5 year old would say.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I snap back, perhaps a little too loud as our instructor looks up at us.

“Not yet, but you want him to be”

OK. I’ll admit it. At to myself. I was attracted to Chris from the moment he crashed into me. I even arranged my schedule to be every other Tuesday because he works every other Tuesday. But the truth is, I know nothing about him. Not really. He’s nice and he’s a hospitalist. That’s all I got. Oh and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

Kate wants me to go to the Mexican restaurant because I speak Spanish. And last week, we got a free pitcher of margaritas. And the waiter was flirting with me.

Kate has been married something close to 20 years and she has a teenage son. Her mission is to get me “hooked-up” before we graduate. I don’t think it matters to her who since the top two candidates are Andres, our cute waiter from last week, and Chris-who she’s never met.

We go to the Mexican restaurant again. I order lunch fajitas again, and again, I get the large size. At least I’ll have lunch tonight, I think.

” I think I might be an alcoholic.” Kate blurts out.

“Well, alcoholism, is a self-diagnosed disease so if you think you are, maybe you are.”

Our order arrives along with a free pitcher of margaritas–just like last time. Andres is once again the culprit. We talk about gas laws and other school things. Kate drops another bombshell on me.

“My husband is an asshole. He told me he thinks you are cute.” I had gone over to Kate’s house to study. We were supposed to be alone, when her husband and son interrupted our study session by barging into the kitchen. “What’s really concerning is Bryan also thinks you’re hot.” Bryan is her 16 year-old son.

I began to think that Kate might really be suffering from alcoholism, because these are not confessions one makes sober.

And later that day…

Later….at the hospital, Chris stops by the office. Lloyd is somewhere in the building being the social butterfly that he is, and I’m studying and manning the phones.

“So what did you learn in class today,” Chris asks.

“Gas laws and alcohol… as in alcoholism. I think my friend Kate drinks too much–Oh and her 40 something year old husband and teenage son think I’m hot.”

“We’ll I’ll split the difference and say this 30-something year old agrees with them.”

I AM SPEECHLESS.

FLOORED.

The phone rings. They need me for a nebulizer treatment in the ER.

I laugh. Or I think I laugh. “Saved by the bell. Duty calls. I’m needed in the ER.”

When’s your next shift?” Chris asks.

“Thursday,” I reply.

“Great, I’ll see you then”. Chris and I head in opposite directions.

As I head home and get ready for beda I ponder the events of today. It feels like one of those nights I won’t be sleeping.

Chapter 4: Speak now

June 28, 2020 Elle The Night Shift

ElizaMarie, future RT

ElizaMarie, student RT’

Ummm hey, My name is ElizaMarie.

All three are variations of an introduction I’ve use at the hospital just this week. I have a hard time speaking up when it’s needed. Idk why I’m like this but it’s been an issue my entire life.

There are so many people to meet. There are the hospitalists. So far, I count 4. There are the ER physicians–I’ve met 7 so far. And so on. There are the ICU RNs, the ER RNs, and the floor RNs. There are a million a one PCTs, a few unit secretaries, X-ray techs, and the chefs. For such a small hospital, there are a lot of people here.

I notice most people are polite and welcoming. Some of the ER staff in particular get annoyed when I say ‘I can’t do *that’ (whatever *that is varies from time to time, but it’s most assuredly something I have yet to learn or be checked-off on). So I try to explain that I’m a student, a helper of sorts, with the added bonus of learning while getting paid. They don’t understand. I get it. It’s been a long time since Respiratory Student techs were even allowed in the hospitals so most have never come across one. Sometime I try to say I’m the respiratory version of a PCT, but even that gets people confused. PCTs have specific job duties. I do not.

But it’s exhausting–not only having to introduce myself to everyone and remember who they are in turn, but also, trying to explain my not-so-clear even to me role. Chris has been most helpful in introducing me when I work on his shift. He’s a nice guy, that one.

So allow me to give a proper introduction:

Hi My name is… ElizaMarie Montgomery. I’m 24 years old and a 2nd semester RT student. If things go according to plan, I’ll graduate next year and will be a Registered Respiratory Therapist, but for now, I’m here to learn and help out in any way I can.

Chapter 2: Begin Again

June 14, 2020 Elle The Night Shift

I was a bit preoccupied. Preoccupied with what I was going to say. Preoccupied with not getting lost. Getting lost. That was the hard one. Left. Turn right at the first hallway. The right at the last door. It’s easy.

It was not easy.

I have never been great at finding my way. Whether on a hiking trail. Or in life. And particularly, some random doorway down a long corridor where the rest of my life was waiting.

Not to be dramatic or anything.

Bam!

A literal crash of two humans.

“I amm so sorry.” I stammered out.

“You crashed into me”

“I’m sorry. I’m looking for the RT department. Is this the way? I ask, ignoring the fact that I almost knocked a grown adult male, quite possible a physician, to the ground in my preoccupation.

“Hi. I’m Chris.”

“I’m lost. Is this the right way?” Where were my manners, I thought much to late to correct.

“It is. Let me show you”

Chris chatted on, but I heard none of it. Fate. Future. All those thoughts were running through my head.

“Here you are. Good Luck”

“ummm, thanks for the escort”

I had never been one to have concrete goals or plans. I am a person that blows which ever the way the wind blows me. A tumbleweed. Do they even have those in the South? Random thoughts. That’s how my brain works. Jumping from here to there. Focus. I need focus. For my interview. For my life. This was a chance to begin life again.

“So why respiratory therapy?”

“To be honest, I went to the career fair, and that and x-ray tech were the only two programs still accepting students for the fall. So I enrolled. I’d never even heard of RT, had no idea what they did, or anything.”

Should I be this honest? In an interview? Well, it’s too late to stop…. I thought as I heard myself talking with the department manager, a grizzled old guy named Gus.

“I enrolled. Did well, and found myself actually enjoying learning about the heart and lungs. And clinicals were amazing. ICUs in the first semester”

“We’re no level 1 trauma center” Gus mentioned. “Things aren’t always exciting around here”

“That’s OK. I’m still in school. I can use the downtime to talk to people” Whaaaa- why did I say that? I’m an introvert. I hate talking to people..

“Well, the pay’s not great, and there are no benefits, but I’ll do what I can. We haven’t hired a student in years, but I think you’ll fit in OK around here. The job is yours if you want it.”

“OK. Thanks. I’ll get back to you and we can iron out the details”

Who was this person and what was coming out of her mouth?

“Sounds good. Here’s a card with my direct line on it. You can find your way back to the front of the building can’t you?

‘Yes, Thank you”

With no Chris to guide me, I meandered my way to the front door of my new place of employment.

Museums of Broken Relationships

May 18, 2020 Elle Featured Post Wanderlust

2020 Michelle here: This museum I found in Zagreb, Croatia is perhaps one of the more interesting museums I’ve ever been in [The Sex Museum in Naples is another]. While Zagreb is no uber charming city, this museum had me enthralled. The end of a relationship is always a trying time for everyone involved even if it’s just a ‘whew, I dodged that bullet’ thought. But I’ve never thought of putting my relationship detritus in a museum for others to look at. Let this be a reminder that atypical museums can be some of the more educational, informative, pleasurable. museums out there.

A break-up is like a broken mirror: it’s better to leave it alone than to hurt yourself picking up the pieces.

His name was Michael. Today is his birthday. I shouldn’t remember that, but I do. When we met he was 32, and I was 24. We met at work. I loved his sense of humour and he loved my adventurous spirit. We were friends first. Nearly a year, before anything more than friendly happened. But as is often the case between men and women, something did happen. I practically dared him to kiss me, and when he did, it was as if time stood still. July 19, 2004 –after lunch. The kiss lasted exactly 42 seconds. I know because I had a digital atomic clock on the wall in my office. The kiss touched every neuron in my body, and for the first time in my life, I felt alive.

I named him “Nobody” and he called me “Girl. ” If people asked me who I was dating, and they did because people love to meddle in the affairs of others, I’d say “Nobody.” If people asked him who he was seeing, he’d say “Just some girl.” It was our secret, and it was exciting.

We carried on our secret affair for 18 months –until I moved away… co-workers weren’t supposed to date. And even after moving to a different state, the thought of him was like a drug. We were like addicts addicted to each other; couldn’t stay away, yet couldn’t get enough.

The first step in recovering from an addiction is admitting that there is a problem, and oh boy, there was. Michael was as strong as any drug I’d ever encountered, and willpower alone wasn’t enough to make me quit him. Over time I came to rely on a power greater than myself and contact with Michael became more and more sparse. Withdrawal is a painful master. There was physical pain. There was emotional pain. There were tears.

There were no stuffed worms. No legs were broken in this break-up.

The last conversation I had with him was right before I left for Moscow. He said “you always did want to go places.” and I said “I will always love you, but this will be the last time I tell you that.” And I haven’t had contact with him since. After returning from Moscow, I wanted to call him. I wanted to tell him all the amazing adventures I had. Instead, I got a cat. I named her Lily. She was a sweet cat.

Lily helped me heal.

I still have a post card he gave me. And ticket stubs for various events. And a necklace. And various little notes. What can I say, I’m a sentimental soul.

I knew before I went to Zagreb that I wanted to go to the museum of broken relationships. I find it fascinating to see what people keep as mementos from relationships. Not every relationship ends on a sour note. Some have other obstacles that time just could not overcome. Some just aren’t meant to be. Some exist solely to prepare you for the future. Michael was not my first boyfriend, but he was my first love, and without that relationship, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

I’ve held on to the mementos of the relationship with Michael for 10+ years, and karma, good energy, and such being what it is, it’s time to release that energy into the universe. Good bye Michael, and with that I turned my items over to the museum of broken relationships

PS...I have a slight confession to make. Once upon a time I was dating this guy, James. Now I knew the relationship with James was never going to be long-term, but he was ummm, fun, and I had recently broken up with a cheating bastard I caught with another woman. I made James brownies for his birthday. I left them on the kitchen table with a ‘Happy Birthday’ note. I came over the next day to find everything in the trash. I was pissed to say the least. Livid. Irate. Incensed. A seething cauldron of raging fumes; you get the idea. He was being such an ass. I went to the local World Market, bought a bottle of cheap $7 Il Bastardo wine, and switched it out for his fancy $200 bottle of French Bordeaux. My friend and I drank the rich, velvet wine while sitting in her hot tub cursing all the shallow men in the world. I still feel no shame in taking Il Bastardo’s prized bottle of red wine.

In retrospect, the Il Bastardo was still probably pretty tasty. After all it comes from Tuscany and is a Sangiovese so probably still good. I really would have like to have smashed Il Bastardo over the bastard’s head, but I got my revenge in other ways that even though the statute of limitations has passed, I’ll still keep my mouth shut because some things are just better left unsaid [or in this case… things are better left un-typed].

at least no axes were ever involved in any of my break-ups although a knife was involved in one very traumatic incident.

PPS…Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent…Except Il Bastardo. His name really was James.

PPPS...If I dated women, I’d totally give every.single.one I ever broke up with this bar of chocolate. Because I am a petty mistress.

Medical Separation and Worldwide Evacuation

April 5, 2020 Elle Life Peace Corps

If we are being honest I was simultaneously bummed and relieved to be medically separated from the Peace Corps. Bummed because I came to do a job and despite all the issues at site, quitting was never an option. Relieved because medical separation gave me an ‘out. Physicians and Physiotherapists in Kigali couldn’t get me squared away and neither could the ones in South Africa. They recommended surgery but couldn’t say exactly what they would operate on or the desired outcome. So off to PC Med Hold in DC. So imagine my surprise when DC surgeons said ‘you should have come a year ago.. I don’t think there is much to be done at this point and if we evacuate the lesion, you’ll have a depressed area of your leg.’ Cue anger, rage, and disbelief on my part.

Med hold made me cranky

At this point I was given the option to do nothing and go back to Rwanda and finish service (another 6 months), have surgery in DC and be medically separated since recovery would take about 3-6 months, be medically separated and have surgery in my own community (or do nothing in my own community). Either way, PC would pay for a consult with orthopedic surgeon.

What’s a girl to do?

Medical separation it is. While I’m bummed I didn’t leave on my terms or with my things (I made a iist of what I wanted from my house and it was gathered and shipped), it was the right decision. I wasn’t overly close to anyone in my community or to anyone in my remaining cohort [currently at more than 50% of volunteers have left for myriad of reasons]. So with more of a whimper than a bang my PC service ended January 7, 2020.

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Birthdays = Road Trips

Birthday 2020 [aka February] had me visiting my PC bestie in Washington, DC and exploring one new state/location– Rehoboth Beach, DE. I was able to wrap up any remaining PC tasks and also process it with other PCVs [PC Bestie also med sepped] because no one outside the Peace Corps can understand life inside the Peace Corps.

After my time in DC, I indulged in my favorite pastime of visiting beaches in winter. I like visiting beaches in summer too, but there’s something special about seeing them without all the crowds of people or worry about my skin melting in 100 degree heat. Then I chased horses on Chincoteague and Assoteague Islands in Maryland and Virginia. I visited my cousin in Virginia Beach, Virginia, and fiinished up my somewhat unplanned road trip by cruising all the way down the Outer Banks, North Carolina. I returned home late in the evening March 12. With an IKEA trip planned for the morning, I barely had time to catch a few zzzzzz’s before heading out to design my new kitchen. Little did I know that the world would shut down a mere hours later and Peace Corps Worldwide operations would pivot to evacuating the current 7000+ worldwide volunteers..

Worldwide PC Evacuations

Especially knowing that NO ONE in my cohort was able to finish service. I’m glad I got to leave when I did. Scrambling from being on HOLD FAST to catch a charter flight in Kigali was less than idea;. The flight that eventually went to Kigali–>Kampala–>Nairobi–>Addis Abba–> New York picking up stranded volunteers at each location. [Europe had closed its airspace by the time PC Africa sprung into action]. I honestly cannot imagine the stress level of the evacuated volunteers. At every cohort meeting, we joked that we were one day closer to being evacuated due to Ebola. No one could have guessed a full GROUNDSTOP of all PC operations.

What’s next for me? Well, I’m working as a psych RN. and I was accepted to graduate school starting in May. I made it out of IKEA with enough supplies to build a closet. So there are two things that will keep me occupied in the next few days. I returned to the same house and same job as pre-PC. Sometimes is seems the whole thing was nothing but a dream,.

“Have a good journey” Adios in one of Rwanda’s 4 official languages

The next steps

March 22, 2020 Elle Peace Corps

I guess by now you know that I left the Peace Corps; I was medically seperated from the Peace Corps due to an injury I sustained while at a Peace Corps’ training. I returned to Greenville, spent the night with my best friend, and made my way to my little country house where Miss Molly and Miss Lucy were eagerly awaiting my return [or maybe not… they are cats after all]. So you are probably wondering what’s next?

Last month I was back working at the same job I was working at prior to me leaving for Rwanda. I won’t lie; the learning curve was a little steep. A lot has happened in American health care over the last couple of years [Covid-19, anyone?], but working with supportive, helpful individuals made that transition a lot easier. I’ve also accepted a full time position working with adolescents–which is my favorite patient population. And later this year I will start a Nurse Practitioner program which has been a goal of mine since entering nursing school in 2014. These 12 weeks back in the US prior to starting grad school are like a gift, much like the 12 weeks I had between my original departure to Madagascar and my eventual departure to Rwanda.

I do not regret leaving the Peace Corps [even if it wasn’t my decision to leave; it was my decision not to return]. It took me quite some time to realize that leaving would not be the end of the world. In fact, around 33% of all volunteers actually leave service early for a variety of personal reasons. It would not ruin my future career goals nor would it mean that I would be shunned by the Peace Corps community. It took me several heart to heart conversations with many people to come to the conclusion that it was okay that I left, and then one day it clicked–my life is not in Rwanda. I MAY be in Rwanda, but my life is in the US. I have a house, cats, friends, family all back in North and South Carolina and Tennessee, and that’s where I should be. The injury just made accepting that a lot easier.

adios 1000 hills

Throughout all of my decision making, this quote strongly resonated with me:

“Respect yourself enough to walk away from anything that no longer serves you, grows you, or makes you happy.”- Robert Tew

And so I began the process of walking away from something that no longer served me.

I had to close out my Rwandan bank account [I’m leaving the country with about $300 cash which is more than I had when I arrived]. Next up, was exit interviews, language interview, and medical interviews. Next, getting signatures from all the appropriate people and returning all the appropriate things [wouldn’t want to be absconding with government property], and finally, thirty six hours after being told I was being medically evacuated, I was on a plane back to the US. The final paperwork about a month later telling me I was medically separated was the final nail in that coffin.

BUT I am so ready for the next chapter of my life.

I got a new kitty cat

I had THIS waiting on my when I got back

My bestie had a baby in 2018 and made me an auntie

Your’re Confused; I’m confused

February 23, 2020 Elle Peace Corps

Wait? Are you still in Rwanda? The Peace Corps? The short answer to that question is no. No, I am not.

As of February 3, 2020 I left Rwanda for what I think will be the absolute last time, but I’ve learned to never say never. Earlier this year I was medically separated from the Peace Corps. No hard feelings there, but as medical separation goes, it is a bit of a cluster-fuck. PC rarely gives you warning that you are being medically separated, therefore there are a lot of unresolved issues that crop up. Rarely is there the opportunity to say good-bye to your cohort, let alone any friends you may have made in other cohorts, and even worse, there’s no opportunity to say good-bye to your community, or pack up what ever of your belongings you want to take with you.

I was medically separated on January 4, 2020. I was medically evacuated a week or so prior. I lived in the infirmary at Peace Corps Head Quarters in Kigali for 36 days. I left my little house on the corner on November 17, thinking I’d return in just over a week thanks to a Peace Corps training. But I never did return owing that to an injury suffered while at said training.

However, I already had Peace Corps vacation plans for the month of February so upon arriving back in the US, I did my laundry, organized my stuff, and prepared for returning to Rwanda [I KNOW!], this time not as a Peace Corps Volunteer, but as a private citizen with a still somewhat banged-up leg. I arrived to Kigali on January 22, spent the night in Kigali, shot down to Butare and hung out with friends. Made my way to Nyungwe National Forest… which was just as amazing as I thought it would be. Then I scooted up the coast of Lake Kive to Kibuye and Gisenyi, did some hiking on the Congo-Nile trail, crossed over into the DRC, scooted over to Musanze, made a run for the border and made my way to the ‘Equator’ sign in Uganda, and had a short but memorable safari at Akagera National Park. Finally it was onward to Kigali once again for the originally scheduled flight back to America.

So to recap: GSP–>ATL–>BRU–>KIG–>[11 days in Rwanda + 2 days in Uganda]–>AMS [7 hour layover in Amsterdam where I went out and explored the city]–>WAS–>GSP and in a month’s time I’ll go GSP–>WAS–>PAR–> LON–>ATL–>GSP. 6 weeks of a true whirl-wind exploring parts of Rwanda, the Netherlands, France, and England.

So what’s next?: After my injury, I did some contingency planning and applied to a couple of grad school programs. I just found out that I’ve been accepted to at least one of them. Starting tomorrow, I am back to work at the same job I was at before leaving for the Peace Corps [I’m not sad about that; I loved working there and my co-workers]. I still need some time to process everything that has happened in the last 9 months, but one day I hope to be able to look back on my time with the Peace Corps as a positive time where I did my best to help the people of the community of Mbazi. That time is not today, but I think with time, it will come.

Readjusting After Medical Separation

February 23, 2020 Elle Advice (that you probably shouldn't follow) Peace Corps

There’s a long version and a short version of what happened.

Short story: I was medically separated from the Peace Corps on January 4, 2020 after being evacuated on December 23, 2019. I was shipped out of the country just before the government shutdown started. PC’s theory was, and it seems plausible, that the impending government shutdown would impede my departure if we waited until the official required separation date. Only 3 people in the USA knew I was coming home which allowed for surprise reunions with some of my favorite people.

The kidless were glad I was back in the USA

Long Story:

On November 19, I was walking to meet some fellow volunteers at a restaurant, and tripped and fell on some rocks lining the sidewalks. I stumbled, almost regained my balance, but couldn’t and resigned myself to falling. I fell. It hurt. I didn’t rip my jeans so I thought everything would be OK… a bruise, but nothing major.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

I managed to make it to the restaurant, but I could feel my leg swelling rapidly. Another volunteer was headed back to our hotel so he and I walked back together. I cleaned the wound the best I could with the materials I had, and talked to one of my friends and told her to come check on me in the morning because I was concerned that I might not be able to walk.

The next morning I could walk, but my leg was definitely swollen. I sent a quick text to the PCMO who was scheduled to be at training later that morning anyway. It read something like ‘I fell last night and have some significant swelling in my left leg. I can bear weight, but walking in painful.’ NBD.

Later that day, the PCMO thought that I should have x-rays even though she didn’t think anything was broken.

And she was right… Nothing was broken, but I had a ‘soft-tissue injury’. I was put on ‘conservative therapy’ ie leg immobilization and bed rest for a few days. The prognosis: I’d be back to normal within a few days.

The truth was I never left med hold until I was leaving the country. I never expected a ‘bruise’ to be a injury Peace Corps’ couldn’t handle. I never expected to be medically separated for a bruise. A few days turned into a week and a week turned into three weeks. After three weeks, still having difficulty ambulating, I had to push the PCMO to order a MRI on my leg. I finally got the MRI on December 17, had a consultation with an orthopedist on December 18, and began physical therapy on December 19. All of this happened after I insisted on consultation with the other PCMO. And then the decision was made to send me back to the US on December 22 after only 3 PT sessions. I’m not sure if the PCMO took umbridge with someone questioning her medical decisions or what, but despite making progress in PT, it was decided that Peace Corps’ could no longer treat my injury in country.

Moto riding and leg injuries are mutually exclusive

I figured I’d have to get used to American English, flush toilets, driving, and winter, among other things. I’ve heard about how much harder ‘reverse culture shock’ is from regular culture shock. The the readjustment to fast-pace American life is a much more difficult transition than the transition to rural ‘African’ life. But I was prepared for that. As far as American life goes, my pace is much slower than the average American. I live in rural South Carolina and while it’s not quite the same as rural Rwanda, there are a lot of similarities. What I was not prepared for was dealing with medical separation during a ‘partial’ government shutdown; I was sent out of the country where I was receiving adequate treatment to a country [my own] where I’m unable to receive medical treatment because of a pissing contest between the two major parties of the American government.

Long-term med hold sucks

You see, medical evacuation and separation is fiercely different than a typical COS, or even an ET. Most PCVs have weeks or months to wrap up projects, pack, and say goodbye. I had two hours. Most end their service with world travel. I ended mine with uncertainty. Most PCVs get to prepare for life in the States again, looking for jobs and finding a place to live. I was on a plane 36 hours after they determined I would be leaving for good.

I had no idea the emotional toll of all this. I was prepared to serve as a health volunteer to the best of my ability for the entire 27 months. Despite the difficulties [Newsflash: Peace Corps service is hard]. Despite the hardship. [It‘s not the spotty electricity or the non-potable water; its the overwhelming loneliness that will get you.] And despite any other difficulties that may have popped up.

Rather than simply dealing with life back in the States, I have had to deal with being torn away from my job, my home, [not]mycat, and my friends, then be sent back to friends and family who just can’t understand it all. Because you can’t understand it unless you’ve been through it.

I’m still readjusting. Every. Single. Day. Some days I still feel homesickness for my life in Rwanda. Not every day, but more days than not. My guess is the longer I am here [in America], the less I’ll miss Rwanda.

I know my life has been fundamentally changed through my experience with the Peace Corps. I know some things will never be as they were before I left. I have changed. But in some ways, I am still transitioning back. It’s taken longer than I ever thought it would.

Things I don’t miss about the village: Muzungu

February 2, 2020 Elle Peace Corps

This may not be the most politically correct post I’ve written. If you are easily offended, you’ve been warned.

Back when I worked in the hospitals, occasionally some misguided soul would yell out ‘hey, respiratory,’ as I walked by. I’d continue to walk on by. And then the misguided soul would continue ‘hey, I’m talking to you’.. I’d feigned innocence, and say ‘oh you’re talking to me? I had no idea.’ and the conversation would continue with ‘I called your name’. Here’s where I’d get all passive-aggressive aggressive and say ‘No, you yelled ‘respiratory.’. That’ not my name; it’s my job title. You want me, you yell my name. It’s Michelle, in case you don’t know. I don’t answer to respiratory.’ Most people only did that once, and the ones who did it more than once were assholes.

Something similar happens in Rwanda [and Uganda. And Tanzania. And Madagascar. And I imagine every other African country where foreigners aren’t common] every.damn.day and it irks me to no end.

In Rwanda, especially Rwandan villages, white people are not common. And should you happen to be white, it’s assumed that you are French [or Belgium] both because Belgium was the motherland–the former colonial power, and most foreigners in fact speak French. When I lived in Mexico, people though I was from Spain. And when I lived in Moscow, people thought I was English. And when I traveled throughout South America, it was back to being from Spain. And let’s be honest, even in America no one ever really thinks I’m from South Carolina upon first meeting me. So, it’s not that people not knowing where I’m from that’s bothersome, it’s not that someone is essentially calling me ‘white foreigner’ bothers me, it’s the fact that no one calls me by my name or even a local version of my name that bothers me.

In Rwanda, it’s ‘hey look at what that muzungu is doing‘ and it’s essentially like saying ‘hey, look at that nigger [or wetback or chinc or whatever other ethnic derogatory term one can come up with].’ It’s not as if they don’t know that calling someone ‘muzungu’ is being offensive because Every.Single.Volunteer.Ever has told them some form of ‘hey, that’s not nice’.

So, the greeting that most people give a white person is “bonjour muzungu”. Or, they call out to you “ Muzungu!” And I just keep on walking. Some PCVs think the term “muzungu” is insulting. To some it is–because it means that everyone is being grouped together with all other white foreigners simply based on our skin color. I really don’t care that they are calling me white, pink, or purple. For me, it’s the simple thing that if I take the time and effort to learn their name, they should do the same. After all, there are many, many more Rwandan people in town for me to learn their names; and I am the only white person in town so learning Michelle or Mishel or even a Rwandan version of Michelle should not be that hard.

Huye Mountain coffee was one of my favorite places in my district. They never called me Muzungu

PCVs work hard to integrate in the local communities, and so being called ‘muzungu’ means that people don’t understand what I’m doing here and why I’m different. I am always reminding people that I’m not a tourist and I’m here to help. After all, if I were a ‘muzungu’ like they usually see, why would I be studying Kinyarwanda? I wouldn’t be; I’d be paying someone to fetch my water, do my laundry, and shop for and cook for me. Yet, I do all these things, often alongside of my neighbors.

The thing is, I know that for kids here, it’s hard to wrap their heads around the fact that there could even be a foreigner who isn’t French. To many of them, it’s ingrained in their heads from an early age that any time you see a white person, they are a muzungu, and you say to them “bonjour muzungu”. [As a side note they also seem to pick up the phrase “Donne-moi de l’argent” or ‘Give me money’ fairly young, too, because I get that a lot. Did someone tell them that demanding money impolitely in French or English and holding out their hand actually works?

And sometimes, just to fuck with them because I’m wired like that, I’ll speak to them in Spanish or German or Spanish-Russian and they stare at me like I have three heads, and I go on about my business ignoring them because as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not French nor do I speak it.]

I’ve seen, on multiple occasions, mothers teaching their babies the word “muzungu” by pointing at me. Depending on my mood, I’ll kindly inform them that no, my name is not “muzungu”. It’s Michelle, or I’ll roll my eyes and walk away. These days I get especially frustrated by it because even though I live in a larger village, you’d think word would have spread somewhat that the white woman who walks around carrying a funny looking helmet, who shops in the market, and fetches her own water is American and in fact does not speak a lick of French.

As much as it bothers me to be called ‘muzungu’, I’d be remiss if I didn’t comment on what life is like here for Asian- and African-American volunteers. To start, for many Rwandan village people it’s unfathomable that someone could be American but not look white. African-Americans often get the assumption that they’re Rwandan (which can be a good thing). However, when they say they’re American, people still ask “no, but where are you from?”. The fact that you could be dark-skinned but be from America is hard for a lot of people to wrap their head around here.

It’s similar for Asian-American volunteers, who are unfortunately subject to the type of comments [you have slant-y eyes] that would be considered horribly rude and offensive back home. Here are just simple commentary– not meant as an insult, just an observation. So volunteers who are American but not Caucasian have a different set of challenges to overcome.

So, the ‘muzungu’ issue is something that will continue to be a challenge for me much like ignorant co-workers calling me ‘hey, respiratory’. I always hoped that I wound cease to be a novelty. I know that I’ll never stop getting called ‘muzungu’. Some days it affects me more than others. Somedays I can turn these situations into ‘teaching opportunities’. Opportunities to teach people about what I am doing here, why health matters, why washing hands is important, why checking babies’ weight is a big deal, and how I’m different.

And, that my name is Michelle, not ‘muzungu’.

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