Homesick as an astronaut...

(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.

I am the lucky one.

Tonight at dinner, our new friend, Bogolo, gave some of us Setswana names (Setswana is the language spoken here.) The name she gave me was "Kesego," which means "she is lucky."

I loved it. Lucky is what I've felt all along my journey to Botswana. I was lucky to have been chosen by Penn to come to Botswana. Yes, we've had some problems this first week - getting housing settled at the University of Botswana, getting in to our selected clinical sites - but all eight of us agree that we are incredibly lucky to have Jodi as our instructor here. She's been working tirelessly to make sure that we all get the best clinical experiences possible; there'd be some pretty desperate-feeling nursing students here if Jodi wasn't here to help us get settled.

I'm also feeling lucky to have these amazing group of students with me. Everyone has brought unique perspectives and experiences with them to Africa; so far we've been able to share those experiences with each other in a pretty constructive way. If someone has a frustrating day, or sees some things that are difficult to stomach or even comprehend - so far the group has been able to pull together, to listen to each other, and to support each other. Tonight we sat around talking about HIV treatment and ARV regimens, and why some patients have a difficult time adhering to those treatments. We've gotten angry together over the way standards of patient care vary here from the standard of care that patients might receive in the States. We've stayed up late talking with each other about life, love, and other matters of nursing.

So it's true - I do feel like I am the lucky one, with these opportunities, these mentors, and these friends. Let's hope the luck continues.