The Philadelphia Inquirer column

This is a series of columns I wrote for the Philadelphia Inquirer from July 2007 to June 2008. I have been doing some "organizing" and decided to put them all in one place.

All articles were originally printer in The Philadelphia Inquirer.

July 2007, The Philadelphia Inquirer


A country where people live on a dollar a day

Arriving at the Africa Mercy was a surreal moment. For two years, I had viewed pictures of the ship and dreamed of joining its crew. This was not a dream. I was really in Africa.

In the span of two days, I had left behind my family, friends, church and job, as well as traveled halfway around the world and traveled to Monrovia, Liberia. I am a volunteer nurse on the Africa Mercy, a floating hospital ship. Mercy Ships, the medical charity I work for, provides life-changing medical care to the poorest countries in the world.

Liberia's people reside in extreme poverty, living on less than a dollar a day. On average, men live to 39. Woman live to 40.

In America, I had heard about poverty. I Googled it. I wrote papers about it. I researched its politics. I didn't think about the people it affected.

During the first week of July, I went to a Liberian orphanage. The children's faces were dirty. Some didn't have shoes. A boy had a bloated belly. A baby wore a washcloth secured by a piece of a plastic bag in place of a diaper.

We bought rice for the orphans. Each child receives two cups a day. One in the morning, one in the evening. Four bags will feed 75 children for one month. A bag of rice costs $22.50. Our $90 allows 75 children to eat in July. There's no guarantee for August.

About six weeks ago, I went to an American wedding. The couple exchanged vows. The best man gave a speech. A large dinner was provided. Guests took home cake and embossed picture frames.

The average American wedding costs about $26,000. That would feed 75 Liberian orphans for 24 years. We throw rice at the bride and groom.

Our worlds are so different.

A couple of weeks ago, Mercy Ships surgeons were repairing vesicovaginal fistulas (VVF). When a woman experiences a traumatic or prolonged labor, a fistula (an abnormal opening or hole) develops between the bladder and vagina and causes a constant leak of urine. These women smell and are always wet. Their husbands leave them. They are complete outcasts.

I will never have to worry about VVF. I have access to medical care. I have control over my body. I was born in America. But I could have been born in Liberia. My heritage was not my choice. Meeting these women has made me realize how alike we are. We breath the same air. We walk the same way. Our spirits need love and acceptance. Our bodies need food, water and sleep. We share the same humanity. We are really not so different.

Liberia's people have impressed me more than its poverty. War, hunger, and physical suffering has not stolen their hope. They remain joyful when they have every reason to be depressed. You can hear hope in their songs.

"The Lord will bless someone today. It may be you. It may be me. It may be someone by your side."

They have something to teach us.

August 2007, The Philadelphia Inquirer


As I stepped outside the air was already warm. It was going to be a long day in the African heat. I walked down the Africa Mercy’s lengthy gangway to the medical tent on the dock. Already, at 7 AM, the tents waiting area was filled with about thirty people.

I am a nurse working for the charity organization, Mercy Ships, in Monrovia, Liberia. My home is the Africa Mercy, a fully equipped hospital ship that performs free surgeries and provides medical care in the poorest countries in the world.


During our outreach in Liberia, we are performing three months of orthopedic surgeries. Today we were screening potential orthopedic patients. The docked was filled with men, women, and children who were hoping for a miracle in the form of a green Mercy Ships card with a scheduled surgery date.

I was handed a clip board with a stack of names and given a stationed position inside the medical tent. My job was to call potential patient’s from the waiting area, bring them inside to my station, and obtain a set of vital signs as well as an admission history. A simple task. I was not expecting to feel overwhelmed.


However, throughout the morning I was continually besieged by the stories I was hearing. Stories of poverty. Stories of war. A man who can no longer move his arm because it is severely contracted from an old burn. A woman who has spent the past 10 years limping because of a broken leg that healed incorrectly. An eight year old boy walking on two un repaired twisted club feet. You can’t help but feel overwhelmed.

Before lunch I brought in Cynthia. Her face was small and delicately shaped. Tiny rows of carefully braided dark hair covered her scalp. A small well-worn pink ballerina dress covered her petite frame.

Cynthia was a 1 ½ year old girl with a club foot. She had been waiting all morning with her mother and six month old sister.


As she approached me I noticed her painful limp. It was a combination of a bounce and a swagger. She‘d step forward and bounce up only to be jolted in an unbalanced fashion to the left on the step down.

I glanced and saw that her left foot was knar led and twisted entirely inward. She was using the top of her foot as a heel.


Walking was a painful, uncomfortable process and her slow steps did not match her energetic 1 ½ year old personality.

Learning to walk is a childhood milestone. Proud parents remember it. If they are lucky, they might get a picture or video of their child’s first steps.


Watching Cynthia learn to walk would have been a very different experience. Seeing her learn to balance the weight of her body on a twisted foot. Watching her fall and limp. Watching the thick callous form on her foot from the misplaced pressure of her body weight. Cynthia’s first steps must have left her mother feeling helpless rather than proud.

I don’t think she’d want a picture of those steps.


After taking her history and vitals signs I sent Cynthia and her mother back to the waiting area. Next, they would be seen by the orthopedic surgeon and his team to decide if we could help her.

Two weeks later I walked onto the pediatric orthopedic ward of the Africa Mercy for my first night shift.


There was Cynthia. Her left leg was held hostage by a stiff plaster cast. Cynthia had received free orthopedic surgery. We were able to help her.

Before Cynthia fell asleep I picked her up and took her for a walk around the ward. As I sang, my voice was harmonized by a series of loud coos. If I stopped, the coos stopped. Cynthia was singing with me.

It was a very precious moment. One I will never forget.


But Cynthia will forget.

She won’t remember the hospital, nurses, or her large plaster cast. She won’t remember the floating hospital ship that visited her country. She won’t remember her painful first steps or her twisted foot.


Cynthia has been given the chance to make new memories. She’s going to play tag with her little sister. She’s going dance in her pink ballerina dress. She’s going to take a second set of first steps on two steady feet.

I think her mother would like a picture of those steps.

September 2007, The Philadelphia Inquirer


Monument to Liberia's destruction

Monrovia's skyline is clearly seen from the port where the Africa Mercy is docked. The capital of Liberia is a small collection of bombed-out buildings - several of which look as if they were on the verge of inwardly collapsing - framed by the smooth shoreline and strong waves of the Atlantic Ocean.


There is a large, distinctive building perched on a small hill near the edge of the city. You can see it overlooking Monrovia from our port. The building is the Hotel Ducor. In its prime, the Hotel Ducor was a five-star resort and a popular vacation destination.
Now, it's a concrete frame.

During Liberia's 14-year civil war, the hotel was looted and stripped by rebel soldiers. After the war, the concrete shell housed more than 2,000 refugees, who were ordered to evacuate the building by the government in May.


Recently, I visited the hotel. After our group explained to the perimeter guard that we were from Mercy Ships, we were granted passage up the large hill toward the building. We then went through a series of three guards, and were finally accompanied to the top of the hotel.

The two rotted elevators that greeted us when we walked into the lobby made it obvious that we would be taking the stairs. Our security-guard guide led us through a maze of concrete walls and up a series of circular staircases, which took us to the hotel's main stairwell.

All the stairs proceeded in a uniform fashion. No rails. No carpet. Only endless waves of solemn concrete. Each floor contained broken windows and shattered glass, and was lit by only natural lighting, which left the halls dark and murky.


We finally reached the top of the hotel, and found a bird's-eye view of Monrovia. We could see the residential areas, which were a collision of opposing roofs that formed a muddy mosaic of tin. We watched the parade of old, yellow taxis haphazardly swarm through crowds of people on the streets.

The hotel was a monument to how destructive human nature can be. It gave me an unsettled feeling of sadness that was comparable to the first time I visited the World Trade Center site after 9/11.


After spending close to 30 minutes on the roof, we descended toward the city in hopes of catching a taxi back to the ship. While walking through the crowded streets, I saw a boy with a large cast. I looked closer and recognized his cute face and wide smile. He was one of our orthopedic patients, who had recently received free surgery on his left foot.

On a pair of small hand-crutches, he was moving against the fast current of vendors and people who filled the busy street on pavement that was uneven and difficult to navigate. It was an arduous task, but in his small face, you could see the fortitude and courage that could overcome any obstacle. His determination was unaffected by the challenging surroundings of the city street. He was moving forward, one step at a time.


Life is a matter of perspective. We can see the glass half full or half empty.
We can hope or despair. We can be crushed by difficulties, or we can be made stronger.
On the hotel roof, Liberia's poverty looked overwhelming. The glass looked half-empty. But as I watched the small boy move through the streets, undaunted by his poverty and physical deformity, the glass was full.

The conditions in which the Liberian people live are difficult. But the Liberian people have decided to live in hope. They have not been defeated by their difficult circumstances, and the buildings of Monrovia will not remain broken and empty forever. The Liberian people are moving forward, one step at a time.


My perspective was changed and poverty's power was made benign by the courage of a small boy. I saw the strength of Liberia's future.

October 2007, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Surgery a Godsend to Esther

This was the climactic moment that the previous two months' worth of surgery, pain, bandages and medications had been building toward.


A conflict of emotions surfaced as I watched Esther, wearing a crown of carefully wrapped purple fabric, a royal purple dress that accentuated her thin frame, and a bulky, baby-blue Hawaiian flower backpack, walk away from the ship.

The "Africa Mercy queen" had descended from her hospital-bed throne.
Esther was going home.


Esther, a surgical patient, is a 14-year-old Liberian girl. She is a little sassy; has a beautiful, mischievous, gap-toothed smile; and talks in a secret whisper when asking for chocolate. Her head is always adorned with a fireball of exploding, dark braids, which match her spunky personality, and sometimes a plastic, pink princess crown.

Her reason for needing surgery was summarized by two scribbled lines on her chart:
"Old burn of right hand. Hand stuck in fire by rebel soldiers."

When Esther was 3, rebel soldiers left her with a useless, gnarled ball of melted fingers and caustic, taut skin. When she heard the Africa Mercy hospital ship was coming to Liberia, Esther traveled three hours to be screened for a free surgery that would partially restore movement to her right hand. She was given a green surgery card and hope that she might be able to use her hand again.


Esther says she doesn't remember the day the soldiers came, but every day for the last 11 years, she has remembered the legacy of physical and social adversity they left.

There is a long list of things Esther could never do with only one hand - such as braid hair or eat with a fork and knife; small reminders that she wasn't like everyone else.


I caught a glimpse of her daily frustrations when I let Esther take a picture with my camera. I watched her struggle to hold the camera, look through the viewfinder, and snap the picture with one hand. It was nearly impossible.

Because of her physical limitations and deformity, children in Esther's village made fun of her. "People treat me meanly because of my hand," she said.


When her father brought her to the ship, Esther thought it was empty, became scared, and refused to come on board. After being assured that the ship was filled with people, Esther came aboard, and Mercy Ships surgeons performed a burn contracture release and skin graft on her right hand.

Skin was taken from her thigh, grafted onto the palm of her right hand, and thick wires were placed through each finger. The wires would hold the hand open while the new skin grew, which would allow her to open her hand and move her fingers.


When Esther came back from surgery, her hand was a thick mound of bandages that barely allowed her five grossly swollen fingers to escape. Thick tips of wire protruded from the taut skin of each finger. Even the mention of checking the fingers for circulation was met by loud protests because of the pain and tenderness.

The next two months were a long journey of highs and lows filled with dressing changes, medications and physical therapy.


During this time, Esther and I became friends. We spent time listening to my iPod and eating popcorn together. I taught her how to swing dance, and she taught me to carry things on my head like an African lady. She was always quick to break out in riotous laughter, and her spunky, youthful attitude (which made some nurses crazy) made me love her even more.

Finally, the day came when Esther's dressing was removed for the last time. I found her sitting on her bed holding a red ball in her right hand. It was the first time since her injury that she'd held anything with that hand.


The day before Esther was discharged, I asked her if she was excited about going home. It was a slightly rhetorical question; she had been talking about going home for weeks. As she answered, her eyes filled with tears and she buried her head in my side.

My tears soon followed as I gently rubbed her back, and we cried together for almost 10 minutes.


It was a bittersweet moment. I was so excited for Esther to go home with two working hands, but going home meant saying goodbye; friends never like to say goodbye.

As Esther walked away, I knew she would never forget the time she spent on our hospital ship.
A large number of resources are needed to keep the Africa Mercy working. It takes surgeons, doctors and nurses, as well as engineers, plumbers and cooks. It takes people of all ages and walks of life. It takes an international crew on board and supporters at home.


Every time Esther uses her hand, it will testify to the hundreds of people, many of whom she never met, who thought she was worth helping. I'm glad her father convinced her to enter our ship, because it wasn't empty. It was filled with people who cared about Esther.

November 2007, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Years after tragic childbirth, surgery has woman looking up

Editor's note: Megan Petock, 24, is a nurse from Holland who is volunteering for a year on a floating hospital off the coast of Liberia. This is another in a series of columns that she is writing.


"I have been sad for seven years."

As the words spilled from Korto's lips, she gently dropped her head, looked down, and fiddled with a piece of her hospital gown. A long, soft pause followed as she summoned the courage to continue speaking.

After a deep breath, she broke her stare and timidly realigned her eyes - which glistened with pain and tears - with mine, and began to share her story. When she was 15, a pregnant Korto tried to deliver her child alone, in Liberia's rural war-torn interior. But after three agonizing, painful days, "I couldn't do it. The baby would not come out," she said.


She was exhausted, anemic and dehydrated, and a family member brought her to Phebe hospital, one of the only functioning hospitals in the entire country. To save her life, Korto was transfused with six units of blood and an emergency C-section was performed to remove the baby, which was dead, from her womb.

Her nightmare continued when she recovered from surgery. Not only had her baby died, but the internal pressure from the baby's head had caused tissue to die and left a hole, or fistula. Urine and feces were pouring out of her teenage body.


Korto had become one of the estimated two million women in developing countries who suffer from fistulas and are completely incontinent.

Fistula injuries are devastating, causing physical impairment as well as social, emotional and economic isolation. Driven away by the stench and by cultural beliefs, family members, friends and husbands often abandon and ignore these women. The women become outcasts, have a difficult time earning any living, and might become depressed or suicidal.

Korto experienced this social isolation. No one touched or sat near her. People in her village insulted her.

"I have no friends," she said.


Childbirth is one of the most dangerous medical experiences for women in the developing world. In sub-Saharan Africa, 1 in 22 women die from childbirth-related causes.

In the developing world where there are few doctors, few hospitals, and few trained medical professionals, women have little or no access to maternal and obstetrical care. Each year, 50,000 to 100,000 women develop new cases of fistula, which could be prevented if they had timely access to emergency obstetrical services, such as caesarean section.


Korto received the caesarean section she needed three days too late. Her baby had died, the fistula had formed, and she almost lost her life.

Fistulas can often be corrected with surgery that costs as little as $300. However, women such as Korto who live below the poverty line cannot afford it. Instead, condemned by their poverty, they live in shame and sadness.


For seven years, Korto lived dejectedly. But as she finished telling me her story, her face was illuminated with a hopeful smile.

She is one of more than 115 women who have received free vesicovaginal fistula repair surgeries since the Africa Mercy's arrival off Liberia in June. Her shame and sadness have ended.
As she recovers in the ward, she dreams of what the future holds:


"People will be nice to me. I will have friends."

At Korto's bed, we were separated by only two feet of space and two years of age, but our experiences could not have been more divergent. Korto was having a preventable birth injury corrected and I was her nurse, who was helping her recover. But had I been born in Liberia, I could have been the woman in the hospital bed.


It's overwhelming to think that millions of women in this century are still affected by preventable birth injuries. Women who are daughters, and mothers who need love and friendship. Women who voicelessly continue to suffer.

Korto was set to go home with a new dress to signify her restored body and new life. But there are thousands of other suffering women waiting to be heard.

It's time to listen.

December 2007, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Restoring sight to blind is frustrating and rewarding


His voice became hoarse as Russell Leavitt, a retired 60-something eye surgeon from Oregon, tried to tell the story of a blind child he had treated whose sight was restored.

His sturdy hands, which had performed free eye surgery on the child, wiped the tears dangling from the corners of his eyes as he grasped for words to describe the power of the transformation. Finally, he surrendered to his emotions.


"I'll send you the rest of the story in an e-mail," he said.

Volunteering in West Africa on a hospital ship is not how most people would spend their retirement, but after handing over a successful ophthalmic practice to his son, Leavitt decided to do just that. He recently finished 4 1/2 months of service with the Mercy Ships' eye team, performing hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of free eye surgery, and restoring sight to the blind.


In sub-Sahara Africa, an estimated 5 to 6 million people are blind and 16 to 18 million are visually disabled. More than two-thirds of this blindness is treatable or preventable.

For example, an estimated 600,000 people per year go blind in Africa from untreated cataracts, which are routinely treated in Western countries with a 20-minute operation.

In Liberia, the situation is desperate; there are fewer than five ophthalmologists, and the general population does not have access to needed eye care. Men, women, and children slowly are losing their vision, productivity and independence while becoming an economic and social burden to their families.


But Mercy Ships is making a difference in the lives of individuals, one eye at a time. During this year's 10 months of medical service in Liberia, almost 1,200 free surgical procedures were performed.

Cataract and pterygium removal are two of the primary eye procedures performed on the Africa Mercy. A cataract is a clouding of the eye's lens, causing foggy vision and making it difficult to read or distinguish a friend's face, and it can cause total blindness if left untreated.

A tergum is a painful, irritating overgrowth of the eye's conjunctiva that can obscure vision. Pteridines are commonly caused by sun exposure, and are found in those living in tropical climates.


In a typical day, Leavitt performed as many as 12 surgical procedures while attending to the needs of the dockside eye tent, in which the eye team takes care of the admission, teaching needs and follow-up of every eye patient.

Eye surgery requires a steady hand to make precise, subtle incisions on the fragile and delicate eye, and involves a combination of intelligence, artistry and skill. The amount and intensity of the work were exhausting at times, but a deep conviction and passion for the physical and spiritual restoration of the Liberian people kept this retired eye surgeon energetic and empathetic. In the midst of his demanding schedule, he found time to pray with and talk to each individual patient after surgery. It was his favorite part of the day.


Sadly, the needs for eye care in Liberia are so overwhelming that for every person to whom
Mercy Ships restored vision, there is a blind man, woman or child who still needs help. Having to turn away patients - whose only separation from sight was a 20-minute operation - because of a completely filled surgical schedule was always difficult.

After a day when several potential patients had to be turned down, Leavitt felt frustrated and discouraged because he could not help everyone. But as he walked past the eye tent, he noticed four white canes, which are often used by the blind, pushed to the side of the tent. Curious, he asked one of the eye team's translators where their owners had gone.


The canes' owners were gone. Those people could see and no longer needed them. The canes were now a memorial to four transformed lives.

Leavitt instantly felt encouraged. He realized the weight of the impact the eye team was having on individuals: the power of the gift of sight.


When he thinks of the hundreds of volunteers it takes to run a hospital ship and bring the gift of sight to the poor, Leavitt says, "I'll bet God is looking down and saying, 'Well done, good and faithful servants.' "

I'd have to agree.

February 2008, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Cold, crisp Philadelphia air welcomed me as I stepped off the plane, a refreshing change from the thick, humid air in which I had spent the past six months.


Joining the rush of passengers, I walked toward the long customs line and waited for my opportunity to reenter America. I was halfway through my volunteer commitment, in which I was working as a nurse in Liberia, and had come home for a three-week break.

While standing in line, I noticed a woman next to me who was talking loudly on her cell phone. About every 15 seconds, she looked up toward the line's front and grimaced, obviously annoyed that she was having to wait.


I don't know where she was from or where she was going, but I felt very certain that she had no idea how fortunate she was to be standing in that line. She was in a safe, well-lit building, waiting to enter a non-war-torn country. She was waiting to enter a world with safe water, electricity, and access to medical care. A world where starving children and U.N. soldiers aren't lining the streets.

Liberia, where I am working, is one of the world's poorest countries. It is filled with starving children and former child soldiers, and has no electricity, health-care infrastructure, or public sanitation.


It's a country where rape was legal until December 2005, and childbirth is still one of the most dangerous medical conditions a woman can face.

It takes only a day's travel to get there, but Liberia is a world away.

Six months ago, I left America with two bags, a passport, and a naive idea of what poverty was like.


As I stood in the Philadelphia airport, filled with these plane passengers who were growing increasingly annoyed that they had to wait in line, most of whom had no idea how comfortable and blessed their lives were, I became overwhelmed.

I realized the personal encounter I was having with poverty was changing my perspective. Having to wait 10 minutes in line wasn't a big deal to me anymore.


Before going to Liberia, I had heard stories of impoverished foreign places, but they were just stories. The people in them were as real to me as a character in a book or movie, and I allowed myself to stay dissociated from their humanity.

But while I have been in Liberia, I have met a man who spent a month traveling throughout West Africa, trying to find a surgeon who could perform the simple but life-saving surgery that his son needed.


I have met a 63-year-old woman who, because of a preventable birth injury, had leaked urine for more than 35 years.

I have met a clever and witty 21-year-old woman who could not write her name because, while she waited years for the war to end, she missed the opportunity to go to school. They made me realize that the Third World isn't filled with fictional characters; it's filled with people.

When I finally made it to the front of the line, cleared customs and reentered America, it was with a new appreciation. The faces of those whose lives are consumed with a daily struggle to survive had allowed me to see the world differently. I realized that every day, I could find hundreds of reasons to be thankful.

And I am thankful. I am thankful for what the people of Liberia have taught me, are teaching me, and will teach me over the next six months. I am thankful that the work I am a part of is not only changing the lives of the people of Liberia, it's also changing me.

March 2008, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Hundreds of people were already waiting in front of the Samuel Kanyon Doe Sports Complex at seven AM. Hearing about the event through radio and print media, the crowd had gathered from throughout the country. Costly sacrifices had been made by many just to come. Some had spent large amounts of money on transportation. Others had spent several days traveling and spent the night in line to assure their place in the front of the line.

For many in the crowd, Mercy ships was offering the only chance they had for life changing surgery. Liberia has only 122 doctors, approximately 1 for every 28,00 Liberians and most Liberians have no access to healthcare. (This is statistic is from President of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, in her January sate of the nation address)


They came wanting to take home a small green card with a return date. Everyone needed a miracle and was chasing the same dream. They were hoping today would be the start of a new life.

They were hoping for a spot on the Africa Mercy’s surgical schedule.


*****
On February 18, at the Samuel Kanyon Doe Sports Complex, Mercy Ships held it’s second mass medical screening in Monrovia, Liberia.

When I walked down the gangway early that morning and thick beads of sweat instantly formed on my brow, I knew it was going to be a long day in the humid West African heat. Stepping onto the dock I joined the fleet of 14 Land Rovers, filled with an army of doctors and nurses, that were awaiting departure. Our convoy left the dock sharply at 6 am, armed with water, pens, stethoscopes, and lab equipment. We were ready to take on the challenges of hosting a medical screening in one of the world’s poorest countries.


Mercy Ships has been hosting large scale screening days for over a decade and has developed a strategic and efficient formula for recognizing surgical candidates. Our team was screening for orthopedic, general surgery, maxillo-facial, and plastics patients. In a single day, our international team of nurses and doctors would screen more than 1500 people.

The crowd was organized into long, coiled lines by a security team composed of crew members and UN soldiers, who also guarded the gate of the thick steel fence which separated the lines from the screening stations.


Weeks before screening, nurses and doctors were pre assigned to man a series of stations. At these stations nurses obtained medical histories, lab work, and vital signs, while physicians performed medical examinations and physical assessment‘s.

Pre-screeners, who were experienced medical Mercy Ships staff, stood at the gate and determined if the conditions presented by surgical hopefuls fell under Mercy Ships range of services. Those with conditions we could potentially help were escorted through the gate and allowed to continue with the screening process. Heartbreakingly, those with problems outside our range of services had to be sent home.


Once making it through the gate, surgical hopefuls went through each station to determine if they could be helped. Many who came spent hour waiting with small children for the opportunity to be screened.

Abel Weamie was one of the hundreds of people who came to the screening. Abel is a shy, three year old Liberian boy who lives to play soccer. His father heard about Mercy Ships on the radio, traveled an entire day to bring him to the screening. Abel was who was born with a cleft lip. Because of his facial deformity he is teased all the time and faces a lifetime of rejection.
Abel and his father spent hours waiting to be seen by Mercy Ships doctors. His father watched nervously as Abel went through each station, knowing this was his one chance to receive corrective surgery.


After completing the screening process, Abel was chosen for a surgical slot.

He received his free surgery on February 26. He left the Africa Mercy on March 3 with a new smile and a fresh chance at life.


It was a privilege to be a part of screening day. Hope was given to hundreds of men, women, and children in the form of a green Mercy Ships card with a scheduled surgical date. As surgeries continue aboard the Africa Mercy we will joyfully watch their miracles unfold before us.

April 2008 , The Philadelphia Inquirer


Slowly breathing through the pains of early labor, Grace felt the weight of her pregnant belly with each small step she took toward the tri-community clinic in Paynesville, Liberia.
It was midnight in a country where crime escalates after dark, and the clinic was almost a mile away. But Grace knew she needed to get to the clinic as soon as possible; her baby was ready to come into the world.

Childbirth in Liberia is dangerous, and Grace's mother didn't want her to get pregnant. According to the World Health Organization, the adult lifetime risk of maternal death of a Liberian woman - the probability that a 15-year-old female will die eventually from a maternal cause - is 1 in 12.


Grace's first husband, the father of her five children, had died, and Grace wanted to give her new husband a baby.

A month before, a doctor had examined her and thought that something wasn't right with the baby. Grace paid $10 - a large sum of money in Liberia - to have an ultrasound performed.
However, the technician performed the test incorrectly, and Grace did not have money for a repeat test. She never found out if there was a problem with her baby.


Everyone was sleeping when Grace breathlessly arrived at the clinic. Her husband, who had escorted her to the clinic, woke up the two nurses on duty and then returned home. Grace would deliver the child, and call her husband afterward.

A few hours after arriving at the clinic, Grace was painfully breathing through narrowing contractions, focused on bringing her child safely into the world. In her mind, she could hear the concerned physician telling her, "Something is not right with your baby," but Grace remained unworried. She trusted that God would help her deliver safely.


On March 1 at 6 a.m., Anthony safely entered the world.

Hearing his tiny scream, Grace stared at the baby she had worked to bring into the world. His 10 fingers and 10 toes were slender and long. His small face was crowned with a web of thin, curly black hair, and his porcelain lips were painted a light shade of pink.


Anthony was beautiful.

A sharp voice soon interrupted her stare. The nurse holding Anthony announced with concern, "The baby has two butts." Then Grace saw it: a thin, white, fluid-filled bulge - about the size of a baseball - attached to Anthony's lower back.


Anthony was born with a meningocele, a protrusion of membranes that cover the spine and part of the spinal cord through a bone defect in the spinal column, which forms a fluid-filled cyst.
Meningoceles are usually repaired within the first 24 hours of life to prevent life-threatening infections that can develop.

Grace called her husband to tell him that she had safely delivered his new son, but that there was a problem. "The baby has two butts," she explained. Her husband asked if the problem could be fixed, but Grace did not know.


Not wanting a baby with a deformity, he suggested they put the baby up for adoption. Grace was distressed by the suggestion.

"I came from suffering for my child all week, I deliver safely, and he said I should adopt the child? I can't do this," she said.


She didn't know what to do, but she trusted that God would take care of her and Anthony.
On Saturday March 1, Mamai left her house early to go to work at the Paynesville tri-community clinic. Mamai was changing Anthony's diaper when she noticed his defect.
Mamai, who also works as a translator on the Africa Mercy, had seen babies like Anthony before. She thought Mercy Ships might be able to help Anthony, and instructed Grace to bring Anthony to the ship that Tuesday.

Grace had heard of Mercy Ships but didn't think they fixed problems such as Anthony's. Mamai gave her hope. Grace would bring Anthony to the ship on Tuesday.

Tiny screams came from the bundle of baby blankets being handed to the nurse. Grace had brought Anthony to the Africa Mercy.


After an examination by a Mercy Ships doctor, Grace was told she couldn't bring the baby home; if he went home, she was told, he probably would die of a massive infection. Anthony was admitted to the hospital and started on antibiotic therapy.

Initially, Grace was told she would have to wait a month before a surgeon would arrive to fix Anthony's problem. But to her surprise, Dr. Bruce Steffes was able to perform the operation that Thursday. Anthony was only five days old when he received surgery.

Anthony quickly recovered from surgery without any complications. A thin incision line replaced his "second butt."


The Saturday after Anthony's surgery, when Anthony was a week old, his father saw him for the first time. When Grace saw her husband, she laughed and told him, "See what God can do. He has done a great thing. He has taken [Anthony's] problem from his back, and the doctor did the operation. You see my fine baby you wanted to adopt."

Grace looks forward to watching Anthony grow, and she will never forget the crew of the Africa Mercy who saved his life.


"He is different from all my children. He is special," she said. "Where God has taken him from, no man can take him from there. It's a testimony on his side when he gets big to tell his family, to tell friends. God has done His miracle."

May 2008, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Entering the ward, I saw Gaye sitting on his bed, carefully filling in the lines of his coloring book with a red crayon. Liberia is the only place I have ever witnessed a 21-year-old man so enthralled with paper and crayons. As I walked past his bed, he paused from his coloring, flashing his bright, brown eyes toward me.


"What is your name?' " he asked.
"Megan. I'll be your nurse."
"Meggee? That is a fine name."

Every Liberian patient I take care of instinctively changes my name from Megan to Meggee.
Before returning to his coloring, Gaye charmingly added: "Someday maybe I will name my daughter Meggee."


I felt intimidated that night when I received my nursing assignment; I was alone and in charge of seven male patients, whose ages ranged from 19 to 43. As a pediatric nurse, taking care of adults felt uncomfortable. Being the only woman in a room full of men added to the feeling.
The men of "A" ward were keeping themselves entertained by a lively conversation. When I completed my list of nursing tasks, I decided to join in. Grabbing a rolling chair, I positioned myself between the two rows of patient beds and listened.

Everyone was laughing at Abraham in bed No. 20. Abraham, who was barely 5 feet tall, was walking around the ward in bulky, oversized sneakers. The group agreed that Abraham looked silly because he did not bring slippers (plastic flip flops) to the hospital.
Abraham told the group he would continue to wear his big sneakers because they made him taller.


Gaye, still coloring, brought me into the conversation with a question, "Meggee, do you love fufu?"

Fufu is to Liberians what pizza is to Americans. Made of ground plant root, it has a soft and sticky texture that I'm not fond of, so I had to answer honestly: no.


Although surprised that anyone would not love fufu, Gaye continued to ask me questions. Soon, all the patients joined in inquiring about my home, family, church, school and job. We even ventured into politics when Gaye asked me who I thought would win the coming presidential election.

Last July, while riding a motorbike, Gaye was hit by a truck. He broke his leg and arm and did not receive the medical care needed to repair his injuries. As a result, his bones did not heal correctly, and a large ulcer developed on his foot.


For almost a year, he walked with a limp, and has been unable to attend school. He came to the Africa Mercy to have skin grafted onto his foot and possibly to receive orthopedic surgery.
After a half-hour of being grilled, it was my turn to ask questions.

"Gaye, do you live with your mother and father?" I asked.


Gaye put down his crayon and his bright eyes grew serious. He softly answered: "My father was killed in the war when I was very small."

Understanding the pain of war, the other patients became silent as Gaye, poised and intelligent, proceeded to share his story.


Gaye was 3 when the war started. His father was killed, leaving his mother alone to care for four children. Fleeing for safety, Gaye's family was separated; he and his sister stayed with his mother while his oldest sister and brother went with an uncle. They would be separated for years as Gaye's childhood was consumed by running and hiding throughout Liberia's bush.
Gaye remembers when rebel soldiers came to his school seeking new recruits for their army.
They pulled up to the school's fence in a truck carrying large weapons.

As the children and teachers tried to escape, the rebels grabbed boys who were old enough to be soldiers - boys as young as 10. A man grabbed Gaye's arm intending to take him away, but the sleeve of his school uniform ripped off and he escaped.


His best friend, however, was not so lucky. That day, he was taken away by the soldiers and Gaye learned later that he had died.

"Meggee, the people of Liberia have known great suffering," he told me.


For 14 years, Liberia fought a bloody civil war in which about 250,000 died and thousands more fled the country. The country was left completely devastated. Roads were destroyed. The electricity was gone. The economy collapsed and the health-care system was made non-existent.
At least two-thirds of the women experienced sexual violence and thousands of children were robbed of their childhoods.

Each face in the room wore a uniform, reflective look. The people of Liberia have known great suffering; all my patients had experienced it.

One by one, they shared their stories.

I cried that night as I filled out my paperwork.


I thought about the brightness and hope in Gaye's eyes as he told me his plans to finish high school and become an accountant. I thought about the compassion in his voice when he spoke of Liberia helping other countries the way it has been helped.

"I am determined," he repeatedly stated.


I thought about my own brother, who is only six months older than Gaye. He was playing Little League baseball and collecting Star Wars cards while Gaye was escaping from soldiers.
It didn't seem fair.

Before falling asleep, Gaye taught me one of his favorite phrases in a native Liberian dialect.
"Kou Kile Kou gar ton non," meaning, "We are all one."

That night, the men in "A" ward weren't a shocking statistic or tragic story.
They were my brothers.


We are all children of God. We breathe the same air. We have the same fears. We share the same dreams.

Some of us have never known need; some of us have only known need.
We who are blessed did not choose to be so, but we can choose to help our brothers.

June 2008 The Philadelphia Inquirer

Helping children with dire medical needs in war-torn Liberia, being vastly enriched by them.

Editors Note: Megan Petock is a pediatric nurse who is spending a year volunteering with Mercy Ships in Africa. This is the last in a series of columns she wrote for the Philadelphia Inquirer – reprinted with permission.


Walking on the dirt road between the ship and the port entrance, I was passed by a golf cart transporting a patient. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw 10-year-old Emmanuel, whom I had cared for on the ward.

Our eyes met and he let out an instinctive, excited shriek while nervously hiding an awestruck smile behind his left hand. He was happy to see me.


The cart stopped, and I ran toward Emmanuel. He stretched his arms toward me, and our opposing worlds were united by a friendly hug. It was a priceless moment.

Three years ago, I first heard about the work of Mercy Ships. I read a story about a 5-year-old girl who had been slowly losing her ability to eat and breathe because of a large, obtrusive facial tumor. In the West, the tumor would have been removed easily before it caused any problems. But she lived in country without health care.


The tumor was removed successfully by Mercy Ships surgeons. There was a post-surgery photo of the girl sitting on her hospital bed with a Winnie the Pooh sticker on her forehead and a smile stretching across the scarred skin that used to house her repulsive tumor. The universality of her smile broke my heart.

The disparity of our experiences was geographical; I was born into Western affluence; she was born into poverty.


Had she not received free surgery, she would have died. She didn't deserve that. She was 5 years old; she deserved to smile. And because a group of people from around the world was committed to practicing unselfish love, she did smile.

The power of that love was something I wanted to be a part of.


Last June, on the brink of 24, I took my first flight across the Atlantic Ocean. I left my Bucks County home, a job at the nation's top pediatric hospital, and a lifetime of friends and family to join the crew of the Africa Mercy in Liberia.

For a year, my world would consist of 400 people and be 500 feet long. Home would be a floating hospital ship. Family, an international community of all ages and walks of life.
My full-time nursing job would be compensated by $600 monthly crew fees rather than a paycheck. I would live in a war-torn country with no electricity, health-care system, or public sanitation.


It sounds like an illogical exchange. But love is illogical.

In the past year, I have watched talented surgeons pay to perform surgery. I have spoken to mothers who traveled alone for days, hoping to give their child needed surgery.

I listened to a man recount, without bitterness in his eyes, the day that rebel soldiers killed his wife. I have received a thank-you gift from a patient who didn't have money to buy food.
I have watched people from more than 30 countries live and work together for the benefit of someone else.

I have witnessed, in abundance, demonstrations of a love the world knows little of. A love whose goal is to give rather then receive. A love that is patient and kind. A love that is not proud, rude or self-seeking. A love that is more concerned about others than itself.

Love brings a new economy. It transposes and juxtaposes our thought, dreams, ambitions and goals. It's a current that carries you to action, compassion and mercy.
Become it's a catalyst, and you will be forever changed. And you will change the lives around you. Lives like Emmanuel's.

Three years ago, Emmanuel was living alone, drenched in his own urine, painfully walking on two club feet. Emmanuel is now well cared for at a local children's refuge home.
In the past year, he has received two surgeries on the Africa Mercy, and now is the owner of two straight feet.


He will no longer have to walk in pain. He is most excited about being able to walk to school with other children.

A small group of people from around the world committed to practicing unselfish love have given Emmanuel a reason to smile. I am leaving Liberia privileged to have been part of that group.
This year, I have gained little in a physical sense. But I have experienced the joy, satisfaction and freedom of pursuing the idea of unselfish love.


I have been privileged to stretch out my arms and be a part of transforming lives. And at times, there has been a 10-year-old pair reaching back.

You can never put a price on that.