Monkey engineering

Today was a bit of a different day here, a day where I had to get my hands “dirty” and try out some true field engineering.

One of the projects I helped with in the past was an intravenous fluid pump delivery system for pediatric patients. Often, hospitals will only receive large, adult-sized (1000 mL) IV bags. The problem is that many, many patients who require IVs are children. When children become dehydrated, which is especially common because of diarrheal disease, they often need to be treated with IV fluids. However, there is a precise formula that must be followed, because overhydration (administering too much fluid) is just as dangerous as dehydration. In the US and other developed countries, we have complex cut-off mechanisms using electronics that ensure that pediatric patients don’t receive too much fluid. The cut-off allows the doctor to administer only 200 mL of a 1000 mL bag, for instance, to a baby. However, in some places around the world, these electronics are not available. In such places, the only way to ensure that a patient doesn’t receive too much fluid is to carefully monitor the IV bag and manually cut off the flow. 

So back to the story- after our work in Malawi last year, Dr. Muelenaer has been using this a great teaching project for an incredible group of high school students from Roanoke County. He challenged them to develop a mechanical solution for cutting off fluid flow of IV bags. This year, they worked to create version III of the device, and they had a great time doing it. They took ownership and really made it their own. So my job today was to assemble the device for them, take some pictures, and see how it worked (and if it still worked after the pieces were thrown around a plane for 17 hours). 

So today, I got to get out my tools and give this a go. It’s nice to work with my hands and have time to think. But the best part of working on this today was being outside all day! As you can see from the picture, the flora is just beautiful. All day, the birds tweeted sweetly and kept me company. Also, Dr. Penny was pediatrician of the year and jumped elbows deep into the engineering project. I was so impressed. We were two women on a mission.

As the afternoon went on, I kept hearing this loud noises in the trees around me- it sounded like maybe the branches were going to fall. Finally, the noises got so loud that I stood up, put down the tools, and thought to myself “those have got to be some big birds in that tree!”. I walked out of the patio area where I was working to get a closer look, and to my surprise, there was a family of monkeys! Between 12-15, I would say. I was just elated. I ran back to grab Dr. Penny (and also my camera!) and snapped some awesome pictures of these little guys. They were hungry and looking for food!

And this is where the story gets really entertaining. Dr. Penny had run in to get a banana to feed them while I snapped pictures. She came outside, threw the banana- and then we had a riot. Actually, it was a bit terrifying, even though they are much smaller than us and amazing adorable. Instinctively Dr. Penny grabbed my arm and ran towards the door- “I think we’d better get inside NOW”, she said. So we ran inside and shut the door as fast as we could. 

Then, the monkeys became very interested in the IV pump. They circled around in for a good ten minutes, eyeing it as if to say, “what is this strange creature?” This picture cracks me up because it is the epitome of field engineering- interrupted by a band of monkeys!

The rest of testing the high school team’s IV device design will have to wait until another day, because the monkeys hung around the device until dark. I have to say, I’m not too disappointed- these memories (and pictures!) will make me laugh for a lifetime!

Happy Birthday Sissy!

Happy Birthday to my Aunt Sissy!

Last night, I taped a piece of paper (with bright pink duck tape- so fun!) to my mirror so that I wouldn't forget to wish Sissy a happy birthday first thing this morning. When I saw my friend Gift this morning, I told her it was one of my family member's birthday back home. She said that if Sissy was here, she would make her favorite food because that is the Malawian way. I told her that we do the same thing back home! It's comforting to know that everywhere, family is family. On birthdays, we celebrate family for the unique and special people they are! So today, I celebrate Sissy, who is hilarious, vibrant, generous, kind, and honest. Thank you for all that you do, Sissy! I love you!

Marching and the Universal Language

In Malawi, everyone is incredibly friendly. I’m not exaggerating. This country- nick-named by the world as the “warm heart of Africa” must be the friendliest place on earth. I do believe just being in this vibrant place could thaw even the coldest of hearts.

A picture from our vehicle window. Breathtaking beauty.

Chichewa is the local language here. It is a lovely, joyful language, but boy do we make ourselves look silly trying to speak it. Still, we try, and through the enduring patience of our sweet Chichewa-speaking friends, we are getting better. We keep trying, put aside our pride and passionately vowing to build genuine relationships with our friends in Malawi. Many times, these relationships may begin with Chichewa.

And so, we practice. In the streets, we wave and strike up conversations. Confession: I always try to talk to the kids, who I know will tolerate my imperfect Chichewa (and get such a kick out of it! I love their giggles!).

“Muli bwanji?”

“Tidi bwino, kainu?”

“Ah, tidi bwino, zikomo.”

“Zikomo kwambiri.”

“Duandani?”

“Ine dine Bridgette.”

“Hi, Bridgette! Ine dine Ashley.”

In the hospitals, we are lucky that the doctors and nurses all speak English. Still, we offer a simply greeting in Chichewa to try to show that we aren’t arrogant people who only want to do things our way. We want to understand, to work together. We want to speak the same language both metaphorically and literally. It is inadequate to simply and clumsily stumble through a few phrases of the local language. But it is something. Chichewa is something, so we try.

As we walk through the hospital with the brilliant nurses and physicians, it feels strange and impolite not to speak to the patients at the hospital, we I awkwardly mutter “how are you?”

“Muli bwanji?”

“Muli bwanji?”

“Muli bwanji?”

This feels slightly strange, too- to ask only at surface level how a patient is doing. But it does seem better than coldly ignoring everyone. So again and again, Lauren, Dr. Penny, and I enthusiastically offer “muli bwanji?” as we walk through the corridors. A toddler runs through the hallway, burning energy I presume. “Muli bwanji?” I say to him, but he just throws his head back in laughter and runs even faster.

“Muli bwanji?” I start to say as I turn the corridor of the hospital, but immediately I regret my enthusiastic tone. Marching down the corridor towards me is a procession of people, dressed in white, and their faces are hauntingly somber. As they get closer, my brain frantically reels as I realize they are carrying a child on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet. They are slowing marching towards the mortuary.

Our kind host whispers somberly, “let’s step back”. We had been frozen in our tracks in disbelief. He bows his head and we do the same. I closed my eyes, partly to lift up a prayer, and partly, I am ashamed to say, because I couldn’t bear to look into the eyes of this child’s mother. But I didn’t need to have my eyes open to see her pain. I keenly felt the grief, the sorrow as she passed us by, wailing from the depths of her soul. “My baby, my baby”.

There are no words to offer- in English or Chichewa- so we all stay silent. Our leader, Dr. Penny, stops for a moment, tears streaming down her face. And I am angry at myself, because I am too filled with sorrow to even cry. No tears will fall. Instead, we keep marching on to our task in the hospital. And everything in me just wants to stop, to pause, to grieve with this precious momma whose child has just entered heaven’s gates.

There’s an amazing thing about communication between human beings: sometimes words aren’t needed. Sometimes words are even futile, like in this moment. I had focused so much the language of Chichewa- reciting things over and over in my head- in a desperate attempt to communicate. But now, the only part of me that can communicate is my heart. Heart to heart with this momma, with her family. And as the procession moves slowly in front of us, I close my eyes and muster every part of my energy on prayer. Prayer of the heart. I lift her up, this momma, knowing that God knows the cry of my heart without language, without words, and more importantly, He knit together her heart and hears her cry. All of us, I think, cry out to heaven not in Chichewa or English, but in a universal language that surpasses all understanding. I am quieted by this.

The funeral procession continues to march, and so we do the same. We march- toward hope, towards faith, towards a tomorrow that may be better than today.