I have a lot to write about, starting with something I used to feel every day. Being part of a larger whole, doing more with many than you can as one.
I retired ten years ago after thirty plus years of heading
up a private nonprofit social service agency that served children and families. Each day of my working life I was reminded
that the work of keeping those children and families safe and healthy went way
beyond my efforts as an individual.
Without good staff as partners, and foster parents, funders,
volunteers, board members, and community supporters; my individual efforts
would have produced next to nothing. It
was the group that mattered, the quality of that group, our connectedness, our
ability to understand and communicate what was needed by those we served, our
ability to plan and carry out those plans.
In the end I was a small part of that effort, but I felt so connected.
When I retired, I felt a loss. Working as part of a group can be
frustrating, but infinitely rewarding. I
was part of a common effort so long I took it for granted. In retirement I re-create it occasionally,
mostly at church. Our church does more
than worship. We feed people. We provide programs that help others outside of
ourselves.
While serving lunch on the second Sunday of every month for
eighty community people I am reminded that while in theory it is possible to
pull that off as an individual, it is wildly impractical. You need people to set up the tables and put
out the salt shakers. Others to bake at
home and provide desserts. Still others
to form a serving line, keep the platters and pitchers full, gather up the
dirty dishes, put the tables and chairs back, clean up. Someone might create the menu and prepare the
main dish, but no one does Second Sunday lunch alone. We do it together. It feels good being part of that group.
Of course, all that went away during the pandemic. So much changed. Save for a very few efforts, all group
activity ended. It grew very quiet. You could hear the crickets. And feel the loneliness.
In the fall of 2019, while planning an I Care International
optometry mission to El Salvador in early 2020, one of our volunteer
optometrists brought up a concern.
“There’s a virus developing the medical community is very
wary of, something like the SARS virus.
They’re calling it coronavirus.
Depending on how far and how fast it spreads, some say it could affect
travel in 2020. Anyone else concerned
about it?”
“We’ll be home by the middle of March,” I said. “I don’t think there’s any chance that could
involve our trip.”
Others agreed. We
went ahead with our plans. Forty some
volunteers paid for plane tickets to San Salvador and assembled at airports in
Illinois and California the first week of March 2020. At O’Hare, we noticed more people than usual
wearing blue surgical masks prior to departure.
When we arrived back at the airport ten days later it was chaos at
customs. There were rumors of
temperature taking and denying flight access.
Within a week the whole world seemed to shut down.
Three years later in 2023, I Care International resumed its
work with a mission to San Lucas Toliman in the Guatemalan highlands. We partnered with a medical facility in that rural
lake community which lent us the use of their small hospital to host a five-day
clinic that served just over 1,500 people.
We masked up, as did our patients, required vaccinations of our
volunteers, and proceeded cautiously as before providing free eye exams and
used eyeglasses to those whose vision required correction. There were no cases of COVID detected among
our many volunteers or our patients as far as we knew. It was business almost as usual, with a
healthy dose of caution. I hadn’t
realized how much I missed it.
My work takes place at Station 6. On that first day of the clinic someone is
inevitably assigned to make six signs on sheets of white paper. Equipped with a big black magic marker and
masking tape a first-year volunteer from California sat among boxes holding
over 7,000 pairs of glasses with a clipboard in her lap and laid down six numbers
writ large along with the Spanish translation of the station. Intake, Nurses, Acuity, Autorefractor,
Doctors, Dispensary. Soon they were taped up throughout the
hospital, creating a path a person needing glasses followed to receive
them. Step by step, volunteers at each
station worked with each person individually until they reached my station
where, with eight or so other dispensary volunteers, we completed the
process.
Once again, I forgot how much I missed being part of a
larger whole, doing more than I could possibly do myself. It came back to me in a rush when I
encountered the people we helped up close and personally. Here’s two examples of the assistance I Care
volunteers provided to some fifteen hundred people in San Lucas Toliman Guatemala
earlier this month.
Juan, age 84, showed
up in the dispensary with his wife and elderly son. Their
son was helping his mom and dad through the clinic, up and down stairs, through
the six stations. Neither of his parents
saw well, particularly his mother. She
was functionally blind. Juan had
cataracts, his left eye was clouded, and he wore very old glasses, thick, which
had been repaired by his family many times over. When I asked to see them, he
removed them carefully and handed them to me.
Taped, wrapped in thread, sewn, secured by a cord, I could
see how precious they were to him. How
important they were to his existence.
“Por cuantos anos tienes éstos”? (How many years have
you had these?)
Juan looked away and thought for a moment.
“Mas or menos veinticinco.”
(Twenty-five more or less.)
“Pienso que es tiempo por otros.” (I think it is time for another pair.)
“Sí,” his son said.
I dipped his old lenses in a basin of water we kept on our work table and dried them with a soft towel. They
were hopelessly scratched. Fragile, but
still working. I laid them in his wife’s
open hand. She held them carefully.
I unwrapped the new glasses the pickers had chosen from our inventory
for Juan. They were high minus, -6.50
with a little cylinder. I knew the left
lens wasn’t of much consequence. Juan
relied on his right eye to see the world.
Wrapped around the plastic bag holding the new glasses was
our one page form. On it was Juan’s name, address, occupation, and a self-report
of his eye problems. The nurses had
taken Juan’s blood pressure and recorded it.
Not bad. As I suspected his
visual acuity, how well he read the eye chart, was negligible in the left eye
without glasses and hardly improved with them.
His right eye without glasses was nearly the same but much improved with
his old glasses. He wouldn’t have passed
his driver’s license exam in the states, but with the proper corrective lenses
he could navigate his surroundings, see the faces of his family, and enjoy the sights
in the world around him.
His old glasses had been measured by the doc with a
lensometer and found to be -8.0. Advanced
age and cataracts change things.
Sometimes less is better. With
the help of the autorefractor reading, the volunteer optometrist reduced his prescription. I hoped for Juan that she was right. We were about to find out.
I unfolded the temples on the “new” donated used
glasses. They were big round lenses set
in a sturdy metal frame. Expensive when
new I guessed. Perfect for Juan. Now if he could see well through them.
“Prueba éstos.”
(Try these.)
I handed them to Juan.
He inspected them, turning them over slowly, then hooked them behind his
ears.
“Mira allá.”
(Look away.)
He did.
“Mira el arbol.”
(Look at the tree.)
I pointed in the direction of a big broad leafed tree conveniently
located across a courtyard near the street.
It was my crude eye test for near sighted patients.
“Mira las hojas? Or
simplemente verde?” (See the leaves? Or
just green.)
“Yo veo las hojas.” (I
see the leaves.)
Juan looked from the tree to me and smiled.
“Cómo es?” (How is
it?)
“Muy claro.” (Very clear.)
Juan continued to smile.
He looked at his wife and son.
“Son buenos?” (Are they good?) his wife asked.
“Si.”
“Felicidades,” I said.
(Congratulations.)
“Muchas gracias senor,” said Juan. (Many thanks sir.)
“De nada.” (You’re welcome.)
“Pienso que éstos serán buenos por veinticinco anos mas.” (I think these will be good for another twenty-five
years.)
Juan’s wife asked if we possibly had a new strap for the new
glasses. We did. Megan, who worked beside me fitting glasses
and whose Spanish was good, had thought to bring some. Though with a small adjustment the glasses fit
Juan snugly, I suspected his wife wanted the strap to make sure they were
safe. We forget how precious simple
things in our lives can be.
Before they left, I asked “Con su permiso, una foto?” (With your permission, a photo?)
As Juan left, helped by his wife and son, they each shook my
hand. Juan’s wife took my hand in both
of hers and carried on a bit. I didn’t
understand it all but caught the word “bendiga.” (Blessing.)
Slowly the small
family walked away. Juan with a new view
of the world around him and me truly blessed, reminded of how gratifying it is
to work with others who share my wish to accomplish important things.
My last patient at the end of our busiest day caught me
unaware. Sara, at the opposite end of
the age spectrum from Juan, was five. Like him, she was myopic. Near sighted.
In some cases, optometrists choose to delay correcting myopia at an
early age if it is not severe, suggesting instead to move those children to the
front row of desks at school to see the board.
Glasses at an early age can cause young eyes to lag in their
development. Universal vision screening
is typically done around third grade, age nine.
But Sara was seeing very little.
She needed glasses now.
I Care International has recently come to keep an
optometrist at the dispensing station to help volunteers like me, who are not
eye care professionals, with cases like Sara’s and others. It’s so helpful to have someone to consult
with who knows more than you. When I
looked over Sara’s sheet, I immediately talked to Dr. Julie.
“Oh boy, look at this one.”
Sara’s young age and the severity of the prescription the
optometrist had written was daunting. I
was afraid we wouldn’t have anything to help her. I was also worried about getting accurate
feedback. Sometimes it is hard to
discern if the lenses are truly helpful or if a young child simply wants to
please the adults around them and says yes to anything.
Julie looked it over.
“Let me pick this one myself. We’ll
give her a range of choices. See if you
can tell by her expression which one is best.”
“I’ll try.”
“Let’s look at her first so I can see what size frame is
going to work.”
Heads at any age vary greatly in size. I called Sara’s name and a very small face,
along with her mother’s, turned towards us.
Sara’s face was tiny and cute.
Soon Julie returned with four pairs of small glasses. She pointed to a pair with red frames.
“That’s my first choice.
Good luck.”
I invited Sara and her mom into my office, two plastic lawn
chairs in a crowd of people, and went to work.
“Buenas tardes Sara, como está?” (Good afternoon, Sara, how are you?)
She looked right at me and not at her mother.
“Bien. Y usted?” (Good. And you?)
That she responded so quickly, and clearly, was encouraging.
I shook her little hand.
“Mi nombre es David, y nosotros esperamos ayudar a usted ver
mejor.” (My name is David, and we hope to help you see better.)
Sara smiled. Her eyes
may have needed correction, but they did not want for brightness and
expression.
“Tengo cuatro pares de gafas aquí. Uno es major que los otros. Es necessario que usted me diga cual
es.” (I have four glasses here. One is better than the rest. You need to tell me which it is.)
She nodded.
“Los primeros.” (The
first.)
I hung the red framed glasses on her ears. She immediately smiled. I pointed to my tree.
“Mira el arbol.” (Look
at the tree.)
“Claro. Muy
claro. Yo miro los hojas.” (Clear.
Very clear. I can see the
leaves.)
Sara was way ahead of me.
Any fears I had of her not reporting accurately how well she was seeing
vanished. We tried the second, third, and
fourth pairs and as she looked at the tree each time she repeated “Los primeros
son mejores.” (The first are best.) She
had no doubt and neither did I. I put
the first pair of glasses back on her.
I gave both Sara and her mom my prepared raps in Spanish about
glasses. I explained how the lenses are
plastic and best cleaned with soap and water, then dried with a soft
cloth. Don’t rub them dry with your
shirt. I told them Sara’s glasses are
for seeing far away and will most likely not be needed for reading. When you read, take off your glasses. General advice.
Sara looked and listened intently. She was an engaging little girl. I have a two-year-old granddaughter named
June who has a lot in common with Sara; a winning smile and bright eyes that, when
they meet yours, convince you she understands way more than she lets on.
I gave Sara’s mom the pair of glasses closest to her
preferred pair’s prescription as a backup in case she lost or broke the first
pair. I gave Sara a Pez dispenser, which
she liked a lot. We stood up. Sara’s mom reminded her to thank me, and Sara
hugged my leg. They disappeared, Sara
wearing her new glasses, down the stairs.
The clinic was over for the day. My co-workers were gathering their things and
leaving. I went down the hall and found
a chair away from everyone. My feet hurt
and I was tired. I felt tears well up in
my eyes and let them flow.
As I get older, I get more emotional. I feel blessed to be part of an organization that
made its way through the pandemic to a small town in Guatemala. I was grateful that Sara and her mom, and
Juan and his family, and all the others we served found us. It is good for your soul to be part of
something bigger than yourself. I
recommend it. Thanks for reading all the
way to the end.
