A few weeks ago I was eating lunch with friends and lost a filling in one of my molars. I assumed I couldn’t have it fixed in Liberia, but one of my colleagues told me that Mercy Ships runs a dental clinic out Redemption hospital. Mercy Ships is a global non-profit organization that operates hospital ships in developing countries that generally don’t have an adequate number of doctors and other health professionals, or well-resourced health facilities. Mercy Ships are staffed by volunteers who perform some surgeries and procedures on the ship, and others off, at facilities in neighboring communities. The Mercy Ship dedicated to West Africa is currently docked in a Liberian port in a part of Monrovia called Bushrod Island. I’ve posted some pictures from the drive to Redemption here.
The dental clinic was perfectly clean and well-equipped. The procedure was simple, and carried out by an Australian dentist named Tania who kept calling me “hon” and telling me I was a very good patient.
It felt sort of funny to line up with dozens of Liberians to receive a free medical service, although being in this new setting allowed me to experience some of the anticipation and uncertainty that the other patients were likely feeling. A young Liberian woman next to me started up a conversation. She was curious about what I was doing in Liberia. She had clear opinions about the progress the current government is making and the potential that the international community believes her country has to rebuild. She looked about my age and told me she was 26, then asked how old I was. When I told her 29, she laughed and said, “But you look like a girl!” (an opinion that seems to be shared by people on multiple continents)
It was her next question, though, that I thought was quite telling and indicative of the Liberian experience. She asked me if my parents were alive. Her mother died when she was in her teens and her father had left years before, so she had grown up in Monrovia with a few of her siblings. She hoped to make it to France for graduate school. Many Liberians lost family members during the 14-year civil conflict, and average life expectancy here is under 50 (47 for males, 49 for females). Coming from an environment that often seeks to minimize difference, I was jolted by my new friend’s simple question, which pointedly reminded me how distinct our realities are. Soon after our conversation ended, I was called into the clinic. When I left, she was still waiting patiently in line, then looked up to wave goodbye as I turned the corner.
The dental clinic was perfectly clean and well-equipped. The procedure was simple, and carried out by an Australian dentist named Tania who kept calling me “hon” and telling me I was a very good patient.
It felt sort of funny to line up with dozens of Liberians to receive a free medical service, although being in this new setting allowed me to experience some of the anticipation and uncertainty that the other patients were likely feeling. A young Liberian woman next to me started up a conversation. She was curious about what I was doing in Liberia. She had clear opinions about the progress the current government is making and the potential that the international community believes her country has to rebuild. She looked about my age and told me she was 26, then asked how old I was. When I told her 29, she laughed and said, “But you look like a girl!” (an opinion that seems to be shared by people on multiple continents)
It was her next question, though, that I thought was quite telling and indicative of the Liberian experience. She asked me if my parents were alive. Her mother died when she was in her teens and her father had left years before, so she had grown up in Monrovia with a few of her siblings. She hoped to make it to France for graduate school. Many Liberians lost family members during the 14-year civil conflict, and average life expectancy here is under 50 (47 for males, 49 for females). Coming from an environment that often seeks to minimize difference, I was jolted by my new friend’s simple question, which pointedly reminded me how distinct our realities are. Soon after our conversation ended, I was called into the clinic. When I left, she was still waiting patiently in line, then looked up to wave goodbye as I turned the corner.
1 comment:
Paul loved this story!
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