Pediatric Eye Camp and Re-Entry

This post is really long overdue. I only just realized that I have been back home for a month now; time has gone really fast, and re-entry to American culture, Minnesota living, and my “normal” routine took a fair amount of adjusting to. I am going to try to add in photos to all of my previous posts in the next day or two so that, assuming you haven’t all given up on me and there is anyone out there who still reads this blog, you can match the descriptions in the posts to the actual photos.

The Pediatric Eye Camp was everything I hoped it would be, plus a little more. Basically, TCF has four eye hospitals in Nigeria. They are in Yola, Owerri, Calabar, and Kebbi. Each of these four locations, plus some kids from Zaria (where Sunseed, one of the corporate sponsors is based) buses their kids from their site to Abuja. For the Yola children it was an approximately 11 hour bus ride over some very bad roads. They do the sites one at a time, so that there aren’t too many children there at once, as they only have a limited amount of space in the wards that they rent out from Garki Hospital.

The Yola kids and their parents getting off the bus in Abuja

The Yola kids arrived the night after me, and I was so excited to see them. Over the previous 6 weeks at the eye hospital, I got to know most of them, and there were a few in particular who I was really happy to see, like Adamu and Garzali, two 10-year-olds who used to follow me around the Yola eye hospital, and the Mohammed family, headed by a fairly detached uncaring father, a mother who was blind herself before having surgery in Yola, and four children, all with cataracts. Two of the kids were going to be operated at the Pediatric Eye Camp, and I was jazzed beyond belief to think about what an improvement that would be in the quality of life those kids have, and it would ease their mother’s burden considerably, too. There was also a littler girl named Alheri, who was the most precocious little girl I met in Nigeria. She was declared unfit to be operated last time she went to Abuja, but she was in good condition for this round, and finally got to have her surgery!

The kids were all so good that it took my breath away. None of the screaming, crying, begging or tears that you might expect from kids hundreds of miles from home and about to have their first-ever surgery. They were all quiet, polite, obedient, and fairly willing to put on a brave-face and do whatever the doctors asked of them. They went into surgery the next morning, and I didn’t see them again until the following day, when they got their bandages taken off. They were all still pretty groggy from the general anesthesia, but, again, their calm and their sort of trusting innocence blew me away. Watching them get their bandages off and having their first pos-op eye exam was an experience I won’t ever forget. It hard not to start tearing up when I think about the little boys and girls who were able to, for the first time ever, tell you how many fingers you were holding up, or when I think of the youngest patient, only 1 year old, who was able to see and then reach out and grab Kelly Jo’s outstretched finger for the first time ever. I’ve never had an experience that could more accurately be described as inspirational than the few days I spent with my Yola kids in Abuja.

Adamu before his post-op check up. He was one of the boys who followed me around the Yola Eye Hospital (and a favorite).

Me and Dija (yet another of my faves), getting her post-op review


Garzali seeing for the first time post-op. He was the other half of the duo who followed me around the Yola Eye Hospital (and another fave).

I got to see them all one more time before I left on Friday morning. They were all livelier, and their parents were so excited. I really feel like I bonded with these kids and their parents. It was amazing to me how much both child and parent just took the leap of faith and trusted the surgeons who had brought them to Abuja to heal their children’s eyes. They weren’t disappointed, and, again, I have never seen as much pure, unadulterated, trust and gratitude as I saw in the faces of those moms and dads. It makes me so happy to think of the different directions their lives are headed in now. The vast majority of these kids won’t have to rely on others for their well-being. When they grow up, they will be able to farm, herd cattle, get married, cook, clean, and look after their children independently. The TCF surgeons didn’t just give these kids back their eyesight, They also gave them back their bright futures.

Sadly, after their second day pos-op, it was time for me to go back to the US. Leaving Nigeria was harder than I thought it would be. I made such real connections to the people and the place that it was impossibly hard to say goodbye. Leaving the eye clinic, AUN, Abuja, etc. is not the same as the goodbyes I have said before. This isn’t like leaving for college, going home for the summer, or bidding farewell to camp friends. For those goodbyes, there is always the promise, or at least possibility, or reunion, and, at the very least, e mail, facebook, and cell phones make the distance seem more bearable. However, the friends I left in Nigeria will stay there, and though I would love to go back sometime in the nebulous future, maybe even professionally after I graduate, there is nothing concrete. I miss everyone and everything about Nigeria, even the outrageously oppressive heat. It’s always nice to come home, but I definitely left a part of my heart in Yola.

Returning to the US was also not as easy as I thought it was be. I was only away for about two months, but the experience was so starkly different from life here, that is hard to grapple with the transition. I have photos, and this blog, and the stories that I have told people, but thee was no one else there with me. There were no other AU students who had the same summer abroad program with me, so there is no one who I can really reminisce with, so to speak. It feels almost like a strange dream, like it didn’t happen. I know it did, and I have the photos to prove it, but sometimes it feels so surreal, because Yola, Nigeria, and Minnetonka, Minnesota, are so severely different. From the weather, to the greenery, to the languages, to the amount of white people, to the anonymity, Nigeria and Minnesota are sort of polar opposites. I’m glad to be home, where my family is, where I fit in with the locals, and where I don’t have to work so hard to communicate, but there’s a definite part of me that would hop on the next plane back to Abuja in a heartbeat.

Me with some of the Nigerian things I brought back (and a happy Blacky).

This is my last post here for now, but who knows? Maybe I’ll reuse it when I go to Ghana this spring (as is the current plan). At the risk of sounding like an Academy Award winner, I want to thank all of you who read the blog, commented, e mailed, called, sent smoke signals, or communicated with me in any other way while I was abroad. It was so nice to hear from all of you while I was so far away from home. Your support meant a lot to me, and having you all behind me, both with my Nigerian exploits and in my general everyday life, is so important to me. I hope that through my blog I’ve been able to share at least a little of the many—and major—life lessons I learned during my short time in Nigeria. As always, stay in touch. I may be stateside once again, but I still want to hear from all you! I hope you’re having fabulous summers, working enough to stay busy and relaxing enough to unwind, and, most importantly, I hope to see each of you in the near future!