white aunty

My best friend here on the ship left today to go home for three weeks. While I can't begrudge anyone their time off, especially knowing how much I'm looking forward to my own in a few short weeks, I found myself feeling rather lost and forlorn this afternoon. I was sitting in bed reading a book when I got a call from the gangway. There's a patient here to see you. Since it's Sunday and I wasn't working and definitely not in a good mood, I thought about telling them to go away. I figured it was some random Liberian who got my name from a former patient and was here to tell me about their cousin's neighbor who has a tumor. Someone else I would have to say no to. The guard upstairs continued. His name is ... Harold. That was all I needed; I grabbed my slippers and headed for the dock.

Harold was one of my patients last week. He wasn't really sick; all the patients from here until the end of the outreach (I can say that now, since it's only three weeks away) are less complicated cases. Harold is a beautiful six-year old boy who recently started getting teased at school. His gums were swelling and sometimes they would bleed a little bit, so he would come home crying to his mama because the other kids laughed at him and wouldn't play with him. They were screened at a dental clinic and came to the ship for a simple surgery to correct the problem.

Harold was quiet the day he and his caregiver, his father, were admitted; I don't think he said a single word to me. Just beamed up at me with a huge, lopsided smile as I found balloons and coloring books and Jenga blocks for him to play with. It doesn't take much to cement a friendship with a six-year old, and by the time he went to the operating room the next day, we were good buddies. That served me well after his surgery, when I found it remarkably easy to convince him to take his medicines, finish his dinner and hold still while I took out his IV. Except for some confusion with a visitor card and a less-than-friendly encounter with his mother, Harold and his father were perfect patients. They went home the next day, and I couldn't imagine what they were doing on the dock.

When I appeared at the top of the gangway, little Harold caught sight of me and his face lit up like Christmas. I ran down the steps (carefully of course, in case the safety officer happens to be reading this) and he threw his arms around my waist. I sat down and gathered him into my lap, grateful for the hug I'd just been thinking I wanted. His mama sat by his side, beaming. We chatted about Harold and about how much she regretted being surly the other day. She shared with me that I have what's known as a Lomo Shape, after the Lomo tribe, renowned for, you guessed it, their wide hips and large bottoms. We even talked about the weather for the customary small while, and then I asked her why she had come. Her smile got even wider.

Ever since he come home, Harold been missing his White Aunty! He just telling us about the ship and he say he missing you and he wan' see you. So we catch car from Painseville and we tol' them your name at the gate and so they say we can come to see you. Harold just sat on my lap, his head nestled into the corner of my neck, not saying a word.

Painesville is a good forty-five minutes away from the ship, and you have to take two different taxis to get here. Factor in the time spent waiting at the side of the road and possible breakdowns, and it's a journey that can take up to three hours. Each way.

They had no agenda. They didn't ask me for money or food or a ticket to America. Harold's mama had been feeling guilty about being snappy with us, and so when Harold said he was missing me, she piled them both into a taxi and headed over to make it right. We talked for a long time about social dynamics in Liberia, how everyone's trying to get on top, and no one on top looks down to help those below them. When it came out that I'm not getting paid to work here, that I'm actually paying crew fees so that I can do this work, she almost fell off her chair. What she said will stay with me for a while.

You people are really different. I come to the ship and everybody smile at me. You abandon your homes. You abandon your families, and you come to us in Liberia. And I see the way you all can love. And that is how I know you are Christians. This is God's work here.

I choked back the tears that were threatening my composure and invited them to come inside for the evening church service that was about to start. Harold shook his head, still without saying a word; apparently the memory of surgery was too fresh. So, less than half an hour after they had arrived, Harold and his mama got up to leave, their mission to visit with me accomplished.

I walked with them to the gate, Harold's small hand firmly clutching mine. When I turned to leave, I knelt down to give him one last hug. His arms went around my neck, and his mouth found my ear to whisper the only words he would say during the entire visit.

I love you, Aunty.