(Disclaimer: I have so many nursing-related things to write about, but for now, this is all that's on my mind... I'll write something more substantial soon, I promise.)
In my room tonight, it caught up with me.
That crushing weight of lonliness that I’ve travelled so far to escape. I don’t know how it got here - which airline it flew in on, or how exactly it knew I was living at the University of Botswana graduate student dorms - but it found me tonight. My chest tightened, making breathing difficult as my mind raced to find a comforting thought, some fantasy in which I could take refuge.
It felt like I was rushing to climb a tree, so I could be safe from some dangerous predator that was biting at my ankles - only every branch I grabbed for snapped off in my scramble. I tried to think of my work here, but instead my mind flooded with images of the abject, crushing poverty of my patients and their families. I thought of home, but instead of envisioning the familiar comforts, all I could picture was the vast ocean, cold and dark, that marked the separation between where I was lying and where I wished I could sleep.
I tried to pull back and remember what I’ve been told in every study abroad orientation I’ve ever sat through: This feeling of lonliness is normal, inevitable even. Home sickness? Somehow the term doesn’t fit. I’m not sick, and I don’t necessarily want to go home. I just want to feel, see, taste something familar.
Strangely enough, the only familar thing tonight seems to be this feeling of isolation. I think of moments in Mexico, New Zealand, India - everytime I’ve moved, the lonliness has caught up with me sooner or later. Across time zones, international date lines, hemispheres, it has always found me. Each time it does, it seems to take hold of me with a grip that is even stronger than the time before. I mean - shouldn’t I be an expert by now? Better yet, shouldn’t my previous exposures grant me immunity against this sickness?
I want this tightness to leave my chest, this wave to wash over me, but I know it’s just not that easy. The truth is that it never really gets any easier.
Even when the lonliness greets you like an old, long-lost friend.
2 comments:
Hang in there Michelle and the rest of you. Quickly you will be home, in your familiar bed (10 hours of catch up sleep) and eating your favorite meal. It is such a long way from home, but you and others are relating in such a special nursing way. The care you are giving is spectacular. All I can think of is how can we continue to give to the wonderful patients in Botswana. LM
Michelle,
I stumbled across the link to your blog on one of the Penn Nursing pages. I currently work in international public health - and am living overseas, of course. I am hoping to return home to do an accelerated BSN/MSN program in the next few years (my reason for being on the Penn page!)...but anyway, I just wanted to write to tell you how uniquely touching this post was.
I have actually just returned to my far-flung outpost in Central Asia after a (too) short trip home to see my family. I completely understand the feeling of "Shouldn't I be over this kind of thing by now??" The loneliness you describe is so vivid and accurate - the idea of loneliness being an almost-comforting (though not quite!) long-lost friend resonates strongly. I'm rarely touched by someone's writing in blogs like yours (too often trite and wide-eyed), but all I can say is...well done. You hit the nail on the head.
And of course, I offer my empathy to you. I've lived/worked in Africa and it's not easy (a dramatic understatement). Just remember that you're not alone in your loneliness and isolation, and that ultimately what you're doing is very important both for yourself and for those you come in contact with in Botswana. And if all else fails, remember "This too shall pass." And you'll be able to breath again when it does.
Best of luck for the rest of your time there, keep your chin up, and have a safe return journey.
Best,
Danielle
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