Snapshots from the time I might have had Zika

April 2nd

We dance a lot here, not that I didn’t dance a lot back at home, but when I danced it was to make myself happy; here I dance because I am happy.

Which is odd.

Because as I dance and my torso gives me strength and stability, I know very well that this same torso is covered in slightly raised, red splotches that signal some sort of histaminic reaction in my body. My arms are beginning to show signs of it’s spread, a wild kind of race to see where they’ll conquer next. 

April 4th

I eagerly spooned a mouthful of warm and creamy habichuelas con dulce (sweet beans), savoring the distinct cinnamon notes that sang through the brown liquid. It's made up of condensed milk, occasional raisins, pieces of soft batata, and of course, beans. 

     “You like this?” she asked me. 
     “Oh my, yes!” I replied enthusiastically. Everyone always gets a kick out of discovering that I enjoy their country’s traditional foods. It was just what I needed after a long day of being in the prison, blood tests, and intense medical conversations, both in Spanish and English. 
     “Yes, you’re blood is perfect,” she said, reviewing the test results I had just picked up at the clinic. The possibility of Zika still remains though, as there is no internationally available test sophisticated enough to detect the virus. She continues in her lilting Spanish voice,  
     “You’re rather strong, goodness, with as much blood as a man!!” We laughed, yet whether or not I have healthy blood, the fact of my skin’s disconcerting condition did not go away. I’ve quickly been overcome by red splotches, starting on my torso and reaching out towards my arms—with legs becoming the next victory of their domain. 

I reach out my arm and stare at it from time to time, marveling at the fact that this is me and my body and not something I’m looking at on Google Images. 

April 6th

Message to my Mom:

So I'm putting hydrocortisone on my rash but I really don't feel like it's getting better. I trust God, it is well with my soul, but it's hard at times to look at my body and see these bumpy things all over my skin. I know it will pass, I know it's not me it's just my body, but it's still weird. Though God has given me incredible strength to handle all of this without any anxiety, I'm ready for it to get better. 

April 9th

I wonder if it’s a common occurrence for writers, missionaries, or anyone who might be experiencing anything, to have seen so much, to have so much to say, that when they actually sit down to write something, there seems to be nothing there. The urge to write plagues my mind throughout the day; snippets of moments that I want to capture and share, or huge eyeopening experiences that make me realize that me and my previous mindsets can no longer coexist with the experiences I've had. I blame the keyboard and pen for being resistant, but in reality I think it’s myself. I fear that what I write will not do justice to it. Whatever “it” is.  

“It” is me pacing back and forth on our cement floor, hands gesticulating and voice raised, letting Kristen receive all the passion I had building up inside of me, the injustice that I had felt, the indignation and pain. I let it all out till I finally felt like I had emptied myself of the burden that my body and soul had been filled with upon visiting Casa de Campo, a resort belonging to the one family that rules the sugar cane empire.

The day before we had driven through miles and miles of sugarcane to reach a secluded batey and provide medical services to kids with gashes in their stomaches and attend to 13 year old girls who have 30 year old "boyfriends" and walk around with a load on their shoulders that was never meant for them to bear. All this and more that I saw kept me so round up that it wasn’t till the cold water of the shower pelted down upon me that I finally began to feel a little back to normal. As the day continued on, bits and pieces of the past three days began to be stitched together, yet even still I cannot say if I know what happened.

“It” is being seated on a plastic chair in the shade, surrounded by a small gathering of kids and a few young men in the near distance  who are listening to music and occasionally practicing their English with me while I answered questions and talked with the children around me. 

"It" is looking out over a huge river at night, soaking in the sense of unseen beauty as the valley is covered in darkness. My heart begins to calm down, yet the jarring reality of a world where one family's monopoly causes them to dwell in luxury--luxury that is won by the impoverishment of an entire people, an entire nation, an entire island--is just that: jarring. 

"It" is returning back after a three day stay "in the City" to have 7 doctors look at my rash and be told that maybe it's Zika and maybe it's not and then be prescribed Benadryl for whatever it might be, and upon returning, running into my small, humid, and crowded classroom with open arms exclaiming, "Hola!!". All thirty pairs of arms run up to hug me and I feel ever so thankful for a rash that gave me the opportunity to see why this school is so important, why Biblical education is the hope for this generation.

The majority of my students come from situations just like the bateye I had visited with the medical team, yet their future is drastically changed for the good thanks to this school. This school that is doing so much yet could do so much more. This school that came from such small beginnings and is now overwhelmed with the amount of students that traverse it's sunny yellow halls and it's dark and dank bathrooms. This school that Kristen and I envision as being capable of so much more, yet lack of money and resources keep us limited and dreams stay floating above our mosquito nets at night. 

April 11th

Snippet from an email: 

There's days when I feel tired from happiness and days when I feel tired from anguish. Or just from being tired. There's moments when I wonder if this rash will scar my body and I begin to worry about it and how it spreads and itches. When I wake up in the morning, it always seems to appear better, yet when I go to bed at night, it looks worse. Yes, missionary life is different, but it's really a lot of the same. However, I love living these differences. Speaking other languages, dancing when I'm happy because that's what we do, seeing every sunrise and glimpsing the ocean just a ways away on the horizon, meeting new people and learning their stories; all of these things that make up my days here make it all so differently wonderful. 

Today:

Me to Kristen: "I checked my rash this morning and was so pleasantly surprised to see my skin is almost normal!!" I show her my rash.

Kristen: "Well, that's still not normal, but I guess compared to what it was, it is better." 

I go into my classroom and exhaust myself in controlling the students. In the midst of it all I wonder to myself why God has put me in this experience where I am in charge of the discipline and instruction of children day in and day out. While I've grown a lot though it, it is still exhausting. Yet I think back to the overwhelmed and exhausted Maryah of two months ago, how the classroom would erupt like a volcano as she sunk under the lava, hardly breathing. And then I look at myself today, sternly commanding the misbehaving chaos and keeping most of the kids at their tables. When all's said and done I may not have gotten every child to behave, but I'm still standing.

Perhaps what goes on in the classroom isn't normal, but it's better.

**as of my recent intake of Benadryl, I am almost completely recovered**