#itsthesmallthing

[elhybrid-blog]

It’s the small things that matter in LIFE... I love this kid

[yesimgoingtopeacecorps]

Her Name Is Miriama

It’s Wednesday.

Wednesdays in Donghol-Touma mean market day, where many of the sous-prefecture’s 26,000 residents descend on Donghol-Touma center and buy their produce and food for the week. Taxis arrive, and Guinean women climb out of the cars, zipped up from head-to-toe in their best outfits to socialize and sell their wares.

Wednesdays are also the busiest days for the health center, where those who have ignored their intestinal issues, toothaches, and fever for the past week decide to make the trip on the only day of the week where it’s easy to catch a ride in a run-down Peugot from 1998 to the Centre de Sante.

It’s also the “official” day for pregnant women and new mothers to come in for their prenatal consultations and vaccinations for their newborns.

Most of these days, I spend the morning shopping for my weekly groceries and try to avoid the numerous questions of “Himo mari moodi?” to which I respond, exhausted and defiantly, “Oui, mido mari moodi. Mi falaaka moodi Guinee” Yes, for the love of God, I have a husband, and no, I don’t want a Guinean husband.

After 11:00am, I arrive at the health center and assist with everything from the consultations, to giving sensibilisations on birth control behind closed doors, to holding the hands of a child wincing in pain over the stitches being administered to her smashed finger. These afternoons are a blur and usually I wouldn’t be able to tell you the names of anyone who I helped with, let alone recognize their faces.

Except Miriama.

I opened the door to the “lab” room to see a bored looking woman getting ready to get a shot and when she turned to me I stopped. There was Miriama. As she turned and saw me, her belly large but well hidden by her beautiful outfit, she spoke. “Bonjour Aicha”.

Two weeks ago, I went around with my counterparts and conducted sensibilisation on the importance of prenatal consultations and regular checkups during pregnancy. I had met Miriama and at the time, meek and shy, she seemed unconvinced. She had gotten pregnant for the first time at fourteen, right after she had gotten married to her husband. She had two children and was carrying her third, cradled quietly in her belly. She was twenty-two. She had only attended school until she was eight-years old.  When we tried to show her the pictures on the chart I had brought of the different things that go into a prenatal consultation, she couldn’t explain it. I realized at this point that being able to interpret a photo and explain it is something that is taught at a young age, and she never had done this sort of thing.

I wasn’t sure how to go forward. After a long talk with her and her friend and an explanation from my counterpart on the importance of prenatal consultations, I left this confused and overwhelmed girl with small words: “If you come in for a prenatal consultation, I will be there and I will sit with you and help you with it.”

She absentmindedly nodded, her mind seeming to have already forgotten my words, and went back to shelling her peanuts.

But here she was. I looked at her and had to stop myself from hugging her. I swelled up with love for this woman. Maybe I’m wrong, but something I had said stuck with her that day. She had made the conscious decision to come in for her first prenatal consultation. I dropped everything else I was doing and sat with her through the entire consultation, telling the nurse to explain things very slowly and clearly in Pular and pointing to the spots that she was referring to in the conversation.

It was an average day. The world didn’t stop spinning. Nobody was there to see this happen. At the end of the day she went home, none the wiser that she had made a lasting impact on me.

I walked out of the health center that afternoon feeling different. Yes, I am still frustrated by a lot of things and there are still huge moments of my day where I want to walk away. But as I made the short journey home, the cars leaving a trail of dust that settled on the discarded mangos in the dirt, I finally felt as if I was beginning to make the change I came here to make.

I learned recently in my community assessment reporting that “Donghol” of Donghol-Touma means “on top of the mountain” and at the end of this past market day, this Peace Corps volunteer felt as if she was living on top of the mountain, looking down at the endless possibilities.