Touchdown, Miami. You'd think after 3 weeks of 12-18 hour days that I'd just melt into a coma. I almost did - on the plane, in the back of the cab - but now, at 1:30 am, my eyes are open. I'm in my friend Claire's fabulous 24th floor apartment, with hot running water, toilets that flush, marble floors, and 2 huge balconies overlooking the city. It is like the Taj Mahal in comparison to my recent accommodations. Yet when I read the emails about the chaos of the day in PaP, all I want is to be back in my third-world-MASH-unit. Most of the people on my flight were happy to be heading home - they cheered as we landed in Miami - but I felt like I was leaving home, and tears ran down my face as we pulled into the gate.
I tried to leave good instructions - a recipe book for some of the compounds I make frequently, contact info for the incoming group (I'll still be acting as CPO, just "acting remotely" for a while), and I told Affia to make sure "the new kids" didn't mess up OUR pharmacy too much in my absence. She was upset to see me leave, and made me promise to hurry back. I hugged my workers goodbye, and started the mental list of "things to bring for the next trip".
I talked to Laura, one of my nurse buddies whose been to Haiti twice with me, about how hard it is to explain the need to return. I try, with these journal entries, to give people a little taste of what it's like. But the truth is, for those who've never been, no explanation is possible. For those who've been, no explanation is necessary.
~PJ
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