Stirring

Becca felt a stirring inside her, something was happening in there. For the first time in a long time though, this stirring did not trigger a call to the Peace Corps doctors or a sprinting sort of dance to the latrine. This was different, this wasn’t an illness but a slow cure. Things were changing.

This was after all, part of why she had joined the Peace Corps, why she had left behind family, friends, opportunities, and running water to live in the desert and misunderstand 75% of what is said. It wasn’t all of it, but change was a part of the reason. She wanted a growing up experience, a lesson in humbleness, a chance to appreciate the smallest things (like a loving hug from her two year old niece who mostly just screams, cries, and hits people - usually Becca). It was all well and good, the growing and the changing, except for one thing. She’d somehow forgotten that change is no easy process; that all of those gears and cranks inside her, constantly shifting around and transforming was going to hurt a little. It simply couldn’t be avoided.

She’d been told a million times that this experience wouldn’t always be fun, and in fact sometimes it would seem downright unbearable. There would be times when she sat in her room and cried, feeling like she simply wouldn’t survive two years of it and times when she would be frustrated, angry, and exhausted to a point of near madness. But every last bit of it, every second of pain, tears, excitement, happiness, hope, and change was important. Important in ways she understood and a lot more she didn’t yet, but eventually would.

For now, Becca sat back and tried to keep in mind that two years was a long time, plenty of time to let the gear grind until she came out the other side.

Morose

            Becca was feeling morose and perhaps a bit deflated. Maybe it was the holidays, or the lack of snow, or maybe it was receiving communication from some one at home she wasn’t yet quite ready to talk to, or the heat, or the language barrier, or illness that had persistently ravaged her digestive system for over a week. The Peace Corps doctors had a theory that with all of the factors of daily life in the campo, it was nearly impossible to figure out what exactly made you sick. Becca was beginning to think that applied to her mental health as well.

            She could already feel herself burning out hard; feeling that she couldn’t get anything accomplished, that she’d never learn Spanish, that she wasn’t going to be a good volunteer. How could this all be hitting her during month four...when she still had 23 more to go? Rationally, she knew it was likely normal, that nothing she was feeling was new, but the rational part of her was tired.

            She resigned herself to creating a new work plan, talking to more people, finally running in the mornings, talking to other volunteers, and remembering that time is all relative. It wasn’t a total fix but it was going to have to work. And in those moments when she really struggled she remembered the words of another volunteer; that everything passes in a few days, if you’re sad for a few days, wait, it’ll get better. She believed it would.

Ode to My Stomach Bug

To my dearest stomach bug,

I hope you’re feeling oh so smug,

I still don’t know what brought you here,

But I can’t wait until you disappear,

My darling stomach bug

You came upon a weekend eve,

Now a week gone, you will not leave,

And so I try every kind of pill,

To see my luck and hopefully kill,

My darling stomach bug

I’d heard about you long before,

In stories of volunteer lore,

But not until you came to me,

Did I understand you, horribly

My darling stomach bug

Fever, fatigue, a whole lot more,

With me you had to start this war,

And so I feel like a useless zombie,

Mainly when I’m on a combi,

My darling stomach bug

I tried the cipro to kill you off,

But after three days I heard you scoff,

“The fever and fatigue, it might be dead,

But I’ll never leave your aching head,

Love,

Your stomach bug”

And so you stayed true to your word,

And left me without a solid turd,

As I sit at dinner trying not to puke,

It’s you, my friend, I would rebuke,

My darling stomach bug

But just you wait, oh stomach friend,

Tomorrow it will all come to an end,

Because I’m planning to place a call,

Doctor Jorge will solve it all,

My darling stomach bug

Broken Bread

There are few things in the world worse than being sick, and not just kind of sick, but “actually concerned about having to confront the grim reaper about staying on the planet” sick. It was on a lovely, sunny Sunday afternoon that Becca was harshly reminded of this and learned of new things: one of those things in the world that’s worse is being that level of sick in a foreign country on an outing with your sisters and not being about to explain it to anyone effectively.

Saturday night ended with stomach cramps but Becca ignored them thinking they’d pass, Sunday brought worsening pain, headache, and eventually fever and complete deliriousness. And so she told the doctor over the phone what was happening and he prescribed her medicine which he said would make her nauseous but farther from death, though Becca wasn’t entirely sure what he said for certain because the human brain doesn’t do well over 102 degrees.

This was how Becca’s week began. On Sunday, her body broke.

And on Monday, her watch broke.