Viendo El Mundo de Una Nueva Manera

Para Nuestros Amigos y Nuestras Amigas en El Salvador y mas

Transmitir la forma y el sentir de la clínica I Care es difícil porque el proceso lo experimentan muchas personas. Por lo tanto; muchos lo viven de una manera diferente.

No todos los que contribuyen hacen el viaje. Tenemos estudiantes voluntarios de las escuelas secundarias de Morris, Illinois y Paso Robles, California, que lavan y limpian con mucha dedicación cada par de lentes recibidos de los socios y amigos de I Care y del Club de Leones, y luego evalúan cada par de lentes utilizando un equipo conocido como lenteómetro.  Una vez que se determina la prescripción exacta para cada ojo se escribe la prescripción en una etiqueta y se coloca en una bolsa de plástico en la que se guardan los lentes.

Algunos de esos voluntarios de la escuela secundaria son “Dreamers” o "Soñadores", y otros son inmigrantes de primera generación de Centro América.  Tienen como propósito ayudar a I Care, este propósito va más allá de completar las horas de voluntariado requeridas por su escuela. Lo hacen más con el deseo de ayudar y colaborar a los más necesitados y no lo ven como una obligación.

Tanto los que donan lentes como los que los evalúan confían en que sus esfuerzos se verán recompensados cuando los lentes que procesaron sean sacados de una bolsa por un voluntario de I Care en una clínica de Centro América; y éstos sean entregados a una persona que carezca de medios para obtener los suyos por medios propios.  Llevamos a cabo estas clínicas anuales para preservar esa confianza de nuestros contribuyentes y colaboradores y hacer de esta labor un movimiento que mejore la vida de cada persona que recibe un par de lentes.

Los voluntarios clasifican los lentes con función bifocal y de visión única los cuales son almacenados en diferentes bolsas. Además, las prescripciones para las personas con problemas de miopía, los hipermétropes, corrección de astigmatismo y toda una gama de necesidades correctivas son almacenadas de igual manera en bolsas con etiquetas diferentes con el fin de crear un amplio catálogo de los lentes que se utilizarán en el sitio de la clínica. A lo largo de los años, los optometristas que contribuyen con I Care han determinado el tipo y la gama de prescripciones que probablemente se necesitarán.   Los anteojos se clasifican por tipo y luego se coloca un amplio surtido de recetas en fundas de cartón en orden ascendente desde las recetas más débiles a las más fuertes.  Esto se convierte en la reserva de la cual las necesidades de prescripción de los individuos se ajustan a los lentes disponibles.

Hasta 6,000 lentes donados pueden ser trasladados en bolsas de lona negra especiales para su protección hasta el destino donde las consultas se llevarán a cabo. Todos estos lentes son llevados por voluntarios de I Care que pagan su propio viaje, alojamiento y comida mientras realizan las tareas necesarias para llevar a cabo dicha labor.  Esos voluntarios son las personas que nuestros pacientes ven, pero representan a otros que tal vez nunca viajen a una clínica pero que son indispensables para la realización y el éxito de la clínica I Care.

La causa más importante de la mala visión en el mundo no es el glaucoma, ni las cataratas, ni las enfermedades de la retina, ni otras enfermedades del ojo.  La mayor causa de la mala visión es la falta de lentes correctivos.  En eso es lo que nos esforzamos por proporcionar, una mejor visión a aquellos cuyos problemas oculares se pueden mejorar mediante el uso de lentes.

Ciertamente, I Care no crea ni planifica estas clínicas de los Estados Unidos sin un análisis previo.  Antes de nosotros proceder, necesitamos asegurarnos de que la gente de la comunidad a la que pretendemos servir extienda una invitación formal, proporcione contactos locales, seguridad, reclute voluntarios locales y haga el trabajo duro de la selección del sitio y la logística. Cuando llegamos al lugar de destino necesitamos ayuda para pasar nuestro equipo por la aduana, transporte, comida, y más detalles de los que cualquiera de nosotros entiende completamente.  En esta ocasión tuvimos la suerte y el agrado de encontrar la cooperación que necesitábamos en los miembros activos del Club Rotario en San Miguel.  Sin ellos, la clínica nunca hubiera existido.  No podemos agradecerles lo suficiente. Ellos nos brindaron todo su apoyo incondicional desde el primer día. Nos hicieron sentir en casa porque no solo fue un viaje de trabajo también tuvimos la oportunidad de conocer de cerca la cultura salvadoreña y disfrutar de algunos lugares turísticos. Tuvimos el agrado de conocer y trabajar de la mano de salvadoreños que nos brindaron todo su apoyo y colaboración.

Veintisiete voluntarios de los Estados Unidos, una voluntaria de La Peñita de México y dos de la Ciudad de México viajaron a El Salvador para unirse a nuestros anfitriones salvadoreños en la organización de esta clínica de cuatro días.  Trabajaron en seis estaciones de la clínica.  Las cuales se explicarán a continuación brevemente.

Inscripción: Nuestros hispanohablantes más fluidos conversan con cada paciente para determinar la información demográfica y personal básica para obtener un informe de las dificultades visuales.  Lo registran en una hoja de ingreso que viaja con el paciente a través de la clínica.

Enfermería: Debido a que la presión arterial alta y la diabetes están tan estrechamente correlacionadas con los problemas de visión, e información vital para nuestros optometristas, referimos a los posibles candidatos a una estación donde las enfermeras toman la presión arterial y determinan los niveles de azúcar en la sangre.

Agudeza visual: Los voluntarios se paran junto a los gráficos de ojos en una pared apuntando a líneas descendentes cada vez más pequeñas de símbolos indicándoles a los pacientes los símbolos que tienen que ver.  A tres metros de distancia, los voluntarios se sitúan a la par de los pacientes con portapapeles en mano para escuchar sus respuestas y registrar el alcance de su éxito; 20-20, 20-40, también se les pregunta si pueden ver los dedos de los voluntarios a tres metros de distancia, sea cual sea el resultado, para cada ojo.  Hacen esto hora tras hora, día tras día, para todas y cada una de las personas que entran en la clínica.

Refractores automáticos: dos voluntarios operan las máquinas más caras del viaje, refractores automáticos portátiles que miden la forma en que cada ojo se dobla o actúa y recibe la luz.  Esto les da a los oftalmólogos un poderoso indicador del tipo de prescripción que probablemente se necesita para mejorar la visión del paciente.

Doctores(as): tuvimos seis optometristas en nuestro viaje, más dos estudiantes de optometría de último año de la Universidad de Missouri St. Louis.  Eso es una gran ayuda voluntaria por parte de dichos profesionales.  Por primera vez en la historia de la organización toda la ayuda profesional fue de optometristas y estudiantes mujeres.  Trabajando bien todos juntos hicieron que el funcionamiento de la clínica fuera muy fluido a pesar del alto volumen de pacientes.  Los médicos evalúan la salud de los ojos de cada paciente, diagnostican las enfermedades de los ojos si las hay y proporcionan consultas y remisiones si es posible, y determinan la prescripción necesaria para los lentes si las hay.  No todo el mundo necesita lentes, pero todo el mundo merece un buen examen de la vista.  Muchos obtienen el primero de ambos en nuestras clínicas.

Dispensadores: Dos tipos de voluntarios trabajan en los dispensadores, recolectores y ajustadores.  Los recolectores buscan las existencias de lentes y seleccionan los que más se aproximen a la receta que el oftalmólogo ha escrito.  Una vez localizados, pasan los anteojos a los ajustadores que se los colocan al paciente, determinan si los anteojos funcionan bien para ellos y luego los ajustan para que tengan un ajuste cómodo.  No todas las recetas funcionan siempre.  Los ajustadores están en el final del proceso.  Se aseguran de que el proceso funcione para aquellos que cuentan con una visión mejorada. 

Juntos servimos y ayudamos a 1,707 pacientes en cuatro días, un promedio de 427 al día.   Eso es mucho trabajo.  Pero todas mis observaciones hasta ahora son desde la perspectiva de los voluntarios de la clínica.  Lo que falta es la perspectiva de los salvadoreños a los que servimos y vivieron la experiencia desde otro punto de vista.

No puedo hablar por ellos. Mi trabajo fue de ajustador con un español limitado, pero tuve la oportunidad de hablar con muchos de los que recibieron los lentes.  Quiero contarles las historias de dos de ellos, con la esperanza de transmitir la esencia de la clínica El Tránsito de I Care.

En una tarde calurosa en una ruidosa clínica llena de gente tuve la oportunidad de conocer a Alma, una niña de 9 años de un cantón cerca de El Tránsito.  Vino a la clínica el primer día, el domingo, con un hermoso vestido.  Estaba acompañada por su madre, quien me explicó que la maestra de Alma le sugirió que viera a un oftalmólogo.  Alma era muy tímida.  Su madre me explicó que no estaba segura de querer venir, y aún más insegura sobre el uso de lentes.

Miré la receta que la doctora había escrito, y los lentes que el recolector había elegido.  Alma requería visión única.  Esos están diseñados para pacientes con miopía, lo que conocemos como visión cercana.  Su prescripción era una esfera de -2.50.  La visión cercana de Alma probablemente estaba bien, pero le costaba ver las cosas de lejos.  Su maestra pudo haber notado esto cuando Alma intentaba ver lo que estaba escrito en la pizarra.

Esa es una versión moderada del tipo de visión que tengo.  Personalmente puedo decir que conseguí mis primeros lentes a su edad, también a regañadientes.  Pero después de darme cuenta de lo bien que podía ver con ellos no quise quitármelos.       

Los recolectores habían encontrado un bonito par de lentes pequeños, con marcos de plástico marrones por fuera y rosados por dentro.

«Alma, ¿has usado lentes antes?»

Lo dije en español sabiendo la respuesta, pero queriendo entablar una conversación.

Alma: No. Nunca.

Es la respuesta más frecuente a esa pregunta cada vez, cada año que hago el viaje.

«Bueno, estos lentes deberían ayudarte a ver las cosas mucho mejor a distancia.  Apuesto a que puedes leer bien, ¿no es así?  ¿Ves claramente las palabras de un libro?»

Alma asintió con la cabeza.  Su madre respondió por ella, orgullosamente.

«Alma es una buena lectora.  Lee mucho.  No es un problema».

«Bien. Dime, ¿qué pasa cuando miras a través de estos?»

Desplegué los lentes y se los puse sobre las orejas.  Acomodándoselos bien.

«Ahora, mira allá.»   (Ahora mira hacia otro lado.)

Señalé al otro lado de la clínica.

Alma miró a la multitud para ver a la gente que se encontraba en la clínica esperando su turno.  Vi que su mirada se dirigía a unas palomas que se encontraban en el techo de la alcaldía de El Tránsito (la cual esos días sirvieron de clínica).  La observé de cerca.  Una pequeña sonrisa se dibujó en su rostro mientras miraba al otro lado de la clínica.

¿Cómo los sientes? ¿Puedes ver claramente?

Sabía la respuesta por su sonrisa, pero quería que me lo dijera.

«Sí».  Muy Claro.  Exclamó Alma con mucho entusiasmo.

Alma se volvió hacia su madre y le dedicó una sonrisa aún más grande.  Su madre parecía aliviada y alegre por el buen resultado.

Me aprendí algunas indicaciones en español acerca del uso de los lentes que son las siguientes: usar los lentes todos los días, poniéndotelos cuando te levantas y quitártelos sólo cuando te duermes.  Le aconsejé que no los necesitará para leer y que si era más cómodo se los quitara mientras leía.

Les advertí a ella y a su mamá que los lentes eran de plástico y se rasgaban fácilmente.  Deberían ser limpiados con agua y jabón y sólo con un paño suave.   Le di uno de los paños de microfibra donados por un buen colaborador para que lo distribuyéramos.  Su madre lo guardó en su cartera.

Antes de que se fueran, le pregunté a su madre si estaba bien darle a Alma un pequeño regalo.  Fui a la mesa donde guardamos las herramientas de ajuste y seleccioné algo para Alma de una caja.

Sostuve un dispensador de dulces en forma de un animalito frente a ella.  En su parte superior estaba la cabeza de un conejo blanco.

«Mira Alma.  Es un conejo.» Le dije.

Incliné la cabeza del conejo hacia atrás y un dulce fue empujado hacia adelante por el dispensador.

Es comestible, Alma. Le dije.

Y ella sonrió más que antes, muy alegre.

Estoy bastante seguro de que la clínica I Care fue de mucha ayuda para Alma.  Pudo corregir su visión desde una temprana edad, lo que marcará la diferencia en cómo ve el mundo conforme vaya creciendo.  Con un poco de suerte, ella y su madre se darán cuenta de la importancia del uso de lentes y encontrarán la manera de reemplazarlos a medida que Alma crezca.  La miopía no es una condición que desaparece.  Pero se corrige fácilmente.  Alguien donó esos lentes a I Care.  Otros hicieron el trabajo necesario para proporcionar un buen examen de la vista y hacer que esos lentes estén disponibles para beneficiar a Alma.  Tuve la suerte de ver ese beneficio de primera mano.

A veces nos preocupa que nuestros anfitriones y colaboradores no se tomen en serio la tarea de promover una clínica en su comunidad.  En este caso el Club Rotario de San Miguel se unió a la alcaldía de El Tránsito para promover a través de los medios de comunicación las fechas y el horario en que se llevarían a cabo las consultas.  Este enfoque no siempre ha funcionado en el pasado.  Esta vez sí.  Fue la primera vez que trabajamos con este Club Rotario, nuestra primera vez en El Salvador.  Fue una experiencia muy gratificante porque pudimos observar el buen trabajo que realizó el Club Rotario de San Miguel en conjunto con la alcaldía de El Tránsito. La buena difusión de la información y el trabajo en conjunto se vio reflejado en el gran número de pacientes que llegaban a diario a la clínica.

La clínica era una locura.  Cada día antes de que llegáramos, para mantener a los pacientes en espera en la sombra, nuestros anfitriones llenaban el lugar con gente en espera.  Era muy difícil caminar entre la multitud.  Pedimos a nuestros anfitriones que crearan pasillos a través de las filas de sillas para que nosotros, y los pacientes que cruzaban a la siguiente estación de la clínica, pudiéramos atravesar el recinto.  La clínica era una novedad en la ciudad.  Atrajo a muchos vendedores locales los cuales cargaban sus mercancías sobre sus cabezas.

En el interior de la clínica, el constante bullicio de la multitud junto con un sistema de megafonía amplificado y una colaboradora de la alcaldía de El Tránsito con un micrófono que hablaba con una voz aguda para dar indicaciones a los pacientes hacia muy difícil de escucharnos los unos con los otros.  Debíamos inclinarnos cerca de los pacientes para poder escuchar sus respuestas.

A menudo les preguntaba a las personas que recibían los lentes cuánto tiempo habían esperado.  Algunos decían haber estado allí más de cuatro horas.  No hay manera de comprobarlo, pero ellos esperaban tranquilos su turno.  Los niños y los ancianos eran acompañados por miembros de sus familias para ayudarlos a movilizarse por las diferentes etapas del proceso.

Los colaboradores locales que dirigían la multitud tenían cuidado de dar prioridad a los minusválidos, los más ancianos y los que estaban en silla de ruedas.  Me impresionó la paciencia y la amabilidad que se mostraron unos a otros, y a nosotros.  Quería devolverlo.  Creo que cada voluntario de I Care compartía el deseo de corresponder a la bienvenida que nos daban nuestros anfitriones y reflejar la amabilidad que sentíamos de las personas a las que servíamos.

Cuando los ajustadores se retrasaban en la entrega de los lentes debido al gran número de personas en nuestra sala de espera, los recolectores llegaban para ayudarnos.  Mi esposa es recolectora pero no sabe mucho español como le gustaría.  Una de las buenas jóvenes voluntarias salvadoreñas, Carolina Navarro, fue su traductora.

Carolina gritó el nombre de una mujer y una anciana fue llevada al frente por su nieta. Caminaba con un bastón.  Colleen (mi esposa) miró más de cerca su hoja de ingreso y vio que la mujer tenía 97 años.  Se llamaba Victoria.

«Nunca hubiera imaginado que fuera tan mayor», dijo Colleen más tarde.  «Era tan atractiva.  Y ansiosa por conseguir sus lentes.»

 «¿Alguna vez has usado lentes, Victoria?»  Carolina tradujo las palabras de Colleen al español.

«Nunca.» Dijo, Victoria.

«Nunca ha usado», explicó Carolina a Colleen.

«Bueno, pruébese estos.» Dijo Colleen.

Colleen desplegó un par de lentes bifocales e intentó ponérselos a la señora, pero, Victoria, extendió la mano rápidamente y se los puso por sí sola.

Hacemos suposiciones sobre los ancianos. Colleen asumió que necesitaba y quería los bifocales fuertes principalmente para la lectura.

«Carolina, pregúntale cómo se ven las letras en este periódico.» Dijo Colleen.

Colleen le entregó a Victoria, de 97 años, una página de periódico.  Victoria la apartó y respondió, alegremente...

«No sé leer.»

«¿Qué dijo, Carolina?» Preguntó Colleen.

«Dice que no sabe leer.» Dijo carolina.

La anciana se enderezó en la silla y miró lentamente por toda la clínica.  Sonriendo, miró a Carolina y a mi esposa.

«Pregúntale qué ve Carolina.» Dijo Colleen.

«¿Qué ve Victoria?» Preguntó Carolina a la señora.

«La veo, y es hermosa.» Dijo Victoria.

«¿Qué dijo ella?» Preguntó Colleen.

«Ella dijo que la ve a usted, y que usted es hermosa.»

Cuando mi esposa escuchó las palabras de Victoria gracias a la traducción de Carolina, se le llenaron los ojos de lágrimas.  Si no captas la emoción envuelta en llevar una mejor visión a aquellos que nunca la han experimentado, te pierdes el impacto que I Care tiene en la gente fuera de nuestras fronteras.  Al igual que Alma, la niña de nueve años a la que pudimos ayudar, Victoria acababa de recibir su primer par de lentes y con ellos una nueva visión del mundo que la rodeaba.

Y en muchos sentidos, nosotros los norteamericanos que hicimos el viaje a El Salvador también abrimos los ojos a un nuevo mundo. Un nuevo mundo que nos mostró que con mucho esfuerzo y trabajo en grupo se pueden lograr grandes cosas y crear un impacto positivo en la vida de los demás. Comprendiendo de esta manera que la esencia del ser humano está en el ayudar a los más necesitados.

traduccion proporcionada por Carolina Navarro y Eduardo Santos

Hello in There

I spent Monday, March 30th believing John Prine was dying from the virus, or had died and his  family had not yet released the news.  Catastrophic thinking, I know.  There’s a lot of that going around.  I got very emotional here in the shack.  Sometimes my emotions surprise me.  The first emotion was profound sorrow.  Very soon it turned to anger.  Here’s what I thought.

“If this pandemic takes John Prine from us before he has written all the songs he’s imagined, in that wonderfully creative brain of his, I don’t know what I’ll do.  If anyone deserves to keep living until he’s ready to go it’s him.  I’ll be damned if he is going to be stolen away by some random soulless infection.  We share something.  That’s why I’m sure he’s not ready to go.  Because I know I’m not ready.”


I first heard John Prine in 1973.  I was a first year English teacher in Ottawa living alone in an apartment above a garage.  I entertained myself and others by playing albums like the Yes Fragile, Edgar Winter’s They Only Come Out at Night,”and Led Zepplin IV very loudly on a turntable through giant speakers.  It was a way to avoid stacks of freshman essays on a table in the other room that needed to be read and graded.

Tom Fatten, a first-year music teacher who was leading a great jazz band at OHS, made a quick assessment of my musical situation and suggested I broaden my playlist.

“Hell McClure, you’re an English major.  I mean, head banging is fine, but turn the volume down and soak up some poetry with your music.  Listen to John Prine.  You are going to love his lyrics.”

I took his advice and bought his first album, simply named John Prine.  On the cover sat a twenty-four year old man with a moustache on a bale of straw.  Kris Kristofferson wrote a blurb for the back of the album cover.  Steve Goodman played guitar and sang harmony on a few tracks.

But it was the wit, insight, and tenderness of Prine’s lyrics that made that piece of vinyl a hit.  And in all fairness Leo LeBlanc, the pedal steel player, helped too.  I still have the album, along with his most recent album and several in between.

On the back of that first album, Kristofferson writes about meeting Prine for the first time.  Kristofferson had played a Chicago tour stop where he shared the billing with Steve Goodman.  After the show Goodman convinced Kristofferson he had to hear this new guy.  They ended up in Old Town.

It was late. Kristofferson and his band had to leave town early the next morning, but they made their way to a club that was closing, probably the Earl of Oldtown.  The owner, Earl Pionke, would have unlocked the door and most likely made them drinks.

The streets were empty.  Inside the bar the chairs were up on the tables.  Kristofferson said they pulled chairs down and were sitting in front of the stage, just a raised platform really in the center of the room on the south wall.  There was an awkward moment, while John unpacked his guitar, where everyone knew it was like “Okay kid, show us what you got.”   

John Prine stood there, looked down at his guitar, and just started singing.

Kristofferson wrote this about that night;  “…by the end of the first line we knew we were hearing something else.  It must’ve been like stumbling onto Dylan when he busted onto the Village scene. …One of those rare times when it all seems worth it….”

“He sang about a dozen songs and had to do a dozen more before it was over.  Unlike anything I’d heard before.  Sam Stone, Donald & Lydia.  The one about the Old Folks.  Twenty-four years old and writes like he’s two hundred and twenty.  I don’t know where he comes from, but I’ve got a good idea where he’s going.”  

Where he was going was the place Bob Dylan, Kris Kristofferson and Steve Goodman had already entered, music stardom. 

By the time I saw John Prine in concert he wasn’t playing many small clubs.  I saw him at a big venue on Navy Pier in the 80’s.  But he remained a humble guy, a plain talker with a wry sense of humor, writing simple songs that went straight to your heart. 

John grew up in Maywood and worked as a postal carrier out of high school.  He said walking his mail route was good for thinking up songs.  He was drafted into the army and luckily sent to Germany. When his tour was over, he came back to Chicago.   

My friends Ken Brown and Sharon Loudon lived in Chicago in the 70’s and were lucky enough to hear John Prine play live at the Earl of Old Town.  They sat at a table up close, probably in the same spot where Kris Kristofferson heard him.  Prine performed right in front of them, singing songs that were recorded on that first album.

The song about the old folks Kris Kristofferson mentions is Hello in There.  It’s a story put to music with a short cast of characters: an old man who narrates the tale and remains nameless, his wife Loretta, their kids John and Linda in Omaha, Joe (somewhere on the road), a deceased son Davy, and his friend Rudy. 

Prine tells the story in three stanzas with a chorus that repeats twice.  212 words is all.  His spare acoustic guitar accompanies the lyrics, along with an organ and electric guitar on the studio version.  But that night in the empty bar it would have been just he and his acoustic guitar, unamplified, playing and singing quietly to a few people.

He sets the scene and then adds lines that stab listeners with an awareness of the emotion the narrator carries in his heart.  We feel what he feels.  Here’s how Prine, though the narrator, sums up grief and resignation over the death of his son.  One fact, two short phrases. 

We lost Davy in the Korean War,

And I still don’t know what for,

Don’t matter anymore.

The old couple’s relationship with their surviving children is captured in eight words.

              A life of their own left us alone

To help us understand their life together, the old man reveals this about he and his wife.

              Me and Loretta, we don’t talk much more

              She sits and stares through the back door screen

              And all the news just repeats itself

              Like some forgotten dream that we’ve both seen

He considers calling up his friend Rudy but doesn’t, fearing this exchange:

              But what could I say if he asks “What’s new?”

              “Nothing, what’s with you?  Nothing much to do.”

The chorus compares the effect aging has on people versus the world around them. 

Ya know that old trees just grow stronger

And old rivers grow wilder ev’ry day

But old people just grow lonesome

Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in There, hello.”

The song ends with a plea.  It’s John Prine speaking directly to us.  At least it feels that way. 

              So if you’re walkin down the street sometime

              And see some hollow ancient eyes

              Please don’t just pass ‘em by and stare

              As if you didn’t care, say “Hello in There, hello. “

Not many young singer songwriters wrote songs about the crippling loneliness of old people in 1971.  The late sixties and early seventies were all about youth, drugs, sex, and rock and roll.  But John Prine thought of other things and got his listeners to think of them too. 

I’ve had people tell me that they cry every time they hear that song.  I don’t cry anymore, but 47 years later I now know something of what that old man felt.  For John Prine to imagine those feelings and express them so well as a young man in his early twenties reveals his gift.  You can hear it by clicking this link.

Hello in There

But the song that spoke to me most directly on that album was Far From Me.  Unlike Hello in There told through a narrator, Far From Me is a first person narrative. 

Like most of Prine’s songs, it’s simple.  A guy picks up his girlfriend at a diner and has a realization.  The way he describes that moment made me his fan forever.

Here are the complete lyrics.  Nothing I write can improve on the these 282 words.

As the café was closing on a warm summer night

And Cathy was cleaning the spoons

The radio played

The hit parade

And I hummed along with the tune.

She asked me to change the station

Said the song just drove her insane

But it weren’t just the music playing

It was me she was trying to blame.

(Chorus)

And the sky is dark and still now

On the hill where the angels sing

Ain’t it funny how an old broken bottle

Looks just like a diamond ring

But its far, far from me

Well I leaned on my left leg

In the parking lot dirt

And Cathy was closing the lights

A June bug flew

From the warmth he once knew

And I wished for once I weren’t right

Why we used to laugh together

And we’d dance to any old song

Well ya know, she still laughs with me

But she waits just a second too long

(Repeat Chorus)

Well I started the engine

And I gave it some gas

And Cathy was closing her purse

Well, we hadn’t gone far

In my beat up old car

And I was prepared for the worst

“Will you still see me tomorrow?”

“No, I got too much to do.”

Well a question ain’t really a question

If you know the answer too.

(Repeat Chorus)

Far From Me (Live)

I was twenty-two and alone in my apartment above the garage the first time I heard Far from Me.  My mind raced back to a spring night five years earlier.  I was in the driver’s seat of a ‘63 Ford Galaxie when I realized the person I loved, sitting next to me, no longer loved me. 

Everyone has had their heart broken right?  I think so.  But few talk about it.  Fewer yet sort out what happened, write it down, and share it so others can relive and perhaps understand their own experience. And of those that do, none have done it better than John Prine.

I don’t remember the words that girl spoke when I first knew, in my beat up old car, she no longer loved me.  But when I heard John Prine sing the lyrics of Far From Me, I felt the pain wash over me like it had just happened.

I was convinced John Prine not only knew how I felt but felt exactly the same thing.  I knew because in Far From Me he put what I felt into words. His ability to express both my joy and despair through his songs makes me feel very close to him.  It makes no sense really, but I’m afraid when he goes, some part of me will go with him.   When it does it will truly be a time for tears.

And now that time is here-April 8, 2020.  Thank you, John Prine, for all you gave me.

Seeing the World in a New Way

Conveying the shape and feel of an I Care clinic is difficult because the process is experienced by lots of people.  There are so many points of view. 

Not everyone who contributes makes the trip.   We have student volunteers from Morris, Illinois and Paso Robles, California high schools that wash and clean random bulk glasses received from members and friends of I Care and the Lions Club, and then assess each one using a piece of equipment known as a lensometer.  Once the exact prescription is determined for each eye it is written on a label on a plastic bag into which the glasses are placed. 

Some of those high school volunteers are “Dreamers,” and others are first generation immigrants from Central America.  They have a purpose in helping I Care that goes beyond filling volunteer hours required by their school. 

Both those who donate glasses and those who assess them trust their efforts will be rewarded when the glasses they processed are taken out of a bag by an I Care volunteer at a clinic in Central America and given to a person who lacks the means to obtain their own.  We conduct these annual clinics to preserve that trust. 

Volunteers take bagged glasses, bifocal and single vision, minus prescriptions for the near sighted, plus for the far sighted, corrected for astigmatism, the whole range of corrective needs, and create a catalog of glasses that will be used at the clinic site.  Over the years, optometrists have determined the type and range of prescriptions that will likely be needed.   Glasses are sorted by type and then a wide assortment of prescriptions are placed in cardboard sleeves in ascending order from the weakest  to strongest prescriptions.  This becomes the stock from which the prescriptive needs of individuals are matched to available used glasses.

Up to 6,000 used glasses may make the trip in black canvas bags to a clinic site, carried by I Care volunteers who pay for their own travel, lodging, and meals while performing the tasks needed to conduct a clinic.  Those volunteers are the people our patients see, but they represent others who may never travel to a clinic yet are indispensable to its success.

The single biggest cause of poor vision in the world is caused not by glaucoma, or cataracts, or retinal disease, or other maladies of the eye.  The biggest cause of poor vision is the lack of corrective lenses.  That’s what we strive to provide, improved vision to those whose eye problems can be improved with glasses.

I Care certainly doesn’t create and plan these clinics from the United States in a vacuum.  Before anything happens, we need to make sure people in the community we intend to serve extend a formal invitation, provide local contacts, security, recruit local volunteers, and do the hard work of site selection and logistics. When we arrive in county we need help getting our equipment through customs, transportation, meals, and more details than any one of us fully understands.  We found the cooperation we needed and more in hard working members of a Rotary Club in San Miguel.  Without them the clinic would have never happened.  We can’t thank them enough. 

Twenty-seven volunteers from the USA, one from La Penita Mexico, and two from Mexico City traveled to El Salvador to join with our Salvadoran hosts in staging this four-day clinic.  They worked at six clinic stations.  Here they are briefly.

Registration-Our most fluent Spanish speakers converse with each patient to determine basic demographic and personal information and gather a self-report of visual difficulties.  They record that on an intake sheet that travels with the patient throughout the clinic. 

Nurses-Because high blood pressure and diabetes are so closely correlated with vision problems, and vital information for our optometrists, we refer likely candidates to a station where nurses take blood pressures and determine blood sugar levels.

Acuity-Volunteers stand by eye charts on a wall pointing at smaller and smaller descending lines of symbols.  Ten feet away volunteers with clipboards listen to their responses and record the extent of their success; 20-20, 20-40, sees fingers at three feet, whatever the outcome, for each eye.  They do this hour after hour, day after day, for each and every person entering the clinic.

Auto Refractors-Two volunteers operate the most expensive machines on the trip, portable auto refractors which measures the way each eye bends and receives light.  It gives eye doctors a powerful indicator of the type of prescription likely needed best improve their vision. 

Docs-We had six optometrists on our trip, plus two last year optometry students from University of Missouri St. Louis.  That’s an abundance of professional volunteer help.  For the first time in the organization’s history, we believe, all of our optometrists and students were women.  By working well together they made the clinic’s operation very smooth despite a high volume of patients.  Docs evaluate the health of each patient’s eyes, diagnose eye disease if present and provide consultation and referral if possible, and determine the prescription needed for glasses if any.  Not everyone needs glasses, but everybody deserves a good eye exam.  Many get the first of both in our clinics.

Dispensing-Two types of volunteers work in dispensing, pickers and fitters.  Pickers comb through the stock of glasses and select the closest match to the prescription the eye doctor has written.  Once located they pass the glasses on to fitters who put them on the patient, determine if the glasses work well for them, and then adjust them for a comfortable fit.  Not every script works every time.  The fitters are the end of the line.  They ensure the process works for those counting on it for improved vision.    

Together we served 1,707 patients in four days, an average of 427 a day.   That’s a lot.  But all my observations so far are from the perspective of the clinic volunteers.  What’s missing is the perspective of the Salvadorans we served.       

I can’t speak for them of course, but I work as a fitter with limited Spanish and was able to talk to a good many of those who received glasses.  I want to tell you the stories of two of them, in hopes of conveying the essence of I Care’s El Transito clinic.

On a hot afternoon in a noisy crowded clinic I introduced myself to Alma, a 9 year-old girl from a village near El Transito.  She came to the clinic on the first day, Sunday, all dressed up.  She was accompanied by her mother, who explained that Alma’s teacher suggested she see an eye doctor.  Alma was really shy.  Her mother explained she was not sure she wanted to come, and even more unsure about wearing glasses. 

I looked at the prescription the doctor had written, and the glasses the picker had chosen.  Alma required single vision minus glasses.  Those are designed for patients with myopia, which we know as near sightedness.  Her prescription was a -2.50 sphere.  Alma’s near vision was likely OK she but would struggle to see things far away.  Her teacher may have noticed that when she was trying to see chalk marks on a blackboard. 

That’s a moderate version of the kind of vision I have.  I got my first glasses at her age, also reluctantly.  But after realizing how well I could see with them I didn’t want to take them off. 

The pickers had found a nice pair of small glasses, plastic frames brown on the outside with pink on the inside.

“Alma, have you worn glasses before?”

I said that in Spanish knowing the answer but wanting to strike up a conversation.

“No.  Nunca.”

Nunca means never.  It’s the most frequent answer to that question every time, every year I make the trip.

“Well these glasses should help you see things much better at a distance.  I bet you can read well, is that right?  You see words in a book clearly?”

Alma just nodded.  Her mother answered for her, proudly. 

“Alma is a good reader.  She reads a lot.  Not a problem.”

“OK. Tell me what happens when you look through these.”

I unfolded the glasses and put them over her ears.  They settled down over her nose nicely.

“Ahora, mira aya.”  (Now look away.)

I pointed across the room.

Alma looked over the crowd at the people doing acuity.  I saw her gaze shift up to the pigeons sitting on a ledge above them.  I watched her closely.  A little smile broke out on her face as she gazed across the room.  

“Como es?  Claro?” (How is it?  Clear?)

I knew the answer from her smile, but I wanted her to tell me.

“Si.  Muy Claro.”  (Yes.  Very Clear.)

She turned to her Mom and gave her a bigger smile.  Her Mom looked relieved.

I went into a little rap I have memorized in Spanish about wearing the glasses every day, putting them on the first thing when you get up and taking them off only when you go to sleep.  I advised that she may not need them to read and if it was more comfortable to take them off while reading.

I cautioned both her and Mom that the lenses were plastic and easily scratched.  They should be cleaned with soap and water and wiped only with a soft cloth.   I gave her one of the donated microfiber lens cleaning cloths some nice donor furnished for us to distribute.  Her Mom put it in her purse.

Before they left, I asked her Mom if it was OK to give Alma a small gift.  I went to the table where we kept our adjusting tools and selected something for Alma from a box.

I held a Pez dispenser in front of her.  At its top was the head of a white rabbit.

“Mira Alma.  Es un conejo.” (Look Alma it’s a rabbit.)

I tipped the rabbits head back and a little Pez candy pushed forward.

“Y es un dulce tambien.”  (And it’s a candy too.)

She smiled bigger than before.

I’m pretty sure the I Care clinic worked well for Alma.  She was able to get her vision corrected early in her life, which will make a real difference in how she sees the world growing up.  With any luck she and her Mom will realize their importance and will find a way to get more glasses as she grows.  Myopia is not a condition that goes away.  But it is easily corrected.  Someone donated those glasses to I Care.  Others did the work needed to provide a good eye exam and make those glasses available to benefit Alma.  I was just lucky enough to see that benefit unfold firsthand.



We worry sometimes that our hosts do not take seriously the task of promoting a clinic in their community.  In this case the Rotary Club of San Miguel teamed up with the city of El Transito and simply broadcast over public media the dates and times of the clinic.  That approach has not always worked in the past.  This time it did.  It was our first time working with this Rotary club, our first time in El Salvador.  We should have trusted them to know their community.

The clinic was a madhouse.  Each day before we arrived, in order to keep waiting patients out of the sun, our hosts packed the place with waiting people.  It was very difficult to walk through the crowd.  We asked out hosts to create aisles through the rows of chairs so we, and patients crossing to the next station in the clinic, could make our way across the room.  The clinic was the biggest thing in town.  It attracted vendors.  They balanced their wares on their heads.

Inside the all concrete structure the steady hubbub of the crowd coupled with an amped up public address system and a woman with a microphone speaking into it with a shrill voice and it was damned hard to hear.  We leaned in closely to catch the responses of our patients.
  
I often asked the people who were receiving glasses from me how long they had waited.  Some reported being there over four hours.  You would never have known that.  They were calm.  Families brought their children and accompanied the elderly.

The locals managing the crowd were careful to give priority to the handicapped, the frail, and those in wheelchairs.  I was impressed with the patience and kindness they showed each other, and us.  I wanted to return it.  I think each I Care volunteer shared the desire to both reciprocate the welcome shown us by our hosts and reflect the kindness we felt from the people we served.

  
When the fitters were backed up dispensing glasses, when too many people crowded our waiting area, the pickers jumped in to help us.  My wife is a picker but doesn’t know as much Spanish as she would like.  One of the good young Salvadoran volunteers, Carolina Navarro, served as her translator.

She called out a woman’s name and an elderly woman was helped to the front by her grand daughter. She walked with a cane.  Colleen looked closer at her intake sheet and saw that she was 97.  Her name was Victoria.

“I would never have guessed her to be that old,” Colleen said later.  “She was so engaging.  And anxious to get those glasses.”

 “Have you ever worn glasses Victoria?”  Carolina translated Colleen’s words into Spanish.

“Nunca.”

“She never has,” Carolina explained.

“Well here you go.”

Colleen unfolded the temples of the bifocals and tried to put the glass on the old woman’s face, but she reached out quickly and put them on herself.

We make assumptions about the elderly.   Colleen assumed she needed and wanted the strong bifocals primarily for reading.

“Carolina, ask her how the letters look in this newspaper.”

Colleen handed the 97-year old Victoria a page of newsprint.  She brushed it aside and responded, cheerfully

“No sabe leer.”

“What did she say Carolina?”

“She says she can’t read.”

The old woman straightened up in the chair and looked slowly all around the clinic.  Smiling she looked back at Carolina and my wife.

“Ask her what she sees Carolina.”

“Que ves Victoria?”

“Te veo, y eres hermosa.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she sees you, and you’re beautiful.”

When my wife heard Victoria’s words through Carolina, big tears came to her eyes.  If you don’t catch the emotion wrapped up in bringing improved vision to those who have never experienced it, you miss the impact I Care has on people outside our borders.  Like Alma, the nine year-old girl we were able to help, Victoria had just received her first pair of glasses, and with them a new view of the world around her.
  
And in many ways, we Americans who made the trip to El Salvador opened our eyes to a new world too.

A Trip to the Sea

I’ve been unable to write a blog post lately.  Making sense of life these days is difficult.  Every time I think I know what I want to say, my assessment of what we are collectively experiencing changes and my assumptions get thrown out the window.  So, I’ve decided to just write about things that come to mind.  Maybe you can figure it out. 

Weeks before our departure date of February 29, the leader of our eye care mission to El Salvador, an eye doctor who values collaboration, while doing advance planning with a few volunteers, mentioned this near the end of a long list of items.

“OK, Coronavirus.  One of our volunteers brought it up in an e mail.  Do you think there is anything we need to do in connection with that?”

I was quick to answer.

“What could we do?  I mean what would we change now about the way we run the clinic that could make a difference?   I think we’ll be home long before whatever happens with that has any effect on anything.”

“I agree.  I just wanted to bring it up.  It’s a concern for at least one of us.”

When we landed in the San Salvador airport all the staff were wearing protective face masks.  When we left nine days later, we were afraid they would be taking our temperatures before allowing us on the plane back to Miami.

We operated a four-day clinic in the town of El Transito, a working-class community of 35,000 people forty-five minutes by bus from the large metropolitan center of San Miguel.  El Transito served as a hub for people living in small villages around it.

The third day was the toughest.  We worked late and served more people than we anticipated.  It was hot.  We worked in a concrete parking garage.  We had a roof over our heads, but it was an open-air structure with no air conditioning.  Temperatures topped 100 degrees in the afternoon.  By the time we served our last patient we were worn out.    

Though many of us wanted to simply go back to our hotel, our hosts, members of a good San Miguel rotary club, insisted we take a detour to a beach.  As we slowly wound through hilly country roads the light began to fade.  Some of us dozed off.

The bus stopped at a small resort.  We got off the bus, all thirty-one of us, and were directed through a group of buildings towards a place where the sky opened.  As we neared the beach, we could hear the waves.

When we reached the sand and began taking off our shoes the sun was nearly touching the horizon over the Pacific Ocean.  We waded into the surf as the clouds, the sky below the clouds, the cresting waves, and the water washing around our legs turned orange.  It was the perfect end to the day.

The resort staff put citronella candles on the sand between our tables and served us drinks and dinner under tents near the beach.  The night sky turned black and the air around us cooled.

An eye doctor from Mexico City, refreshed and reflecting on what just occurred, asked this question.

“When you saw the sea for the first time, how did you feel?”

I responded right away.  I’d thought about that very moment just an hour earlier, when I felt the waves rushing back towards the ocean pulling sand from under my bare feet.

“I was seventeen years old and the farthest away I’d ever been from the Illinois farm I grew up on was Fort Leonard Wood Missouri.  The day after I graduated high school three of us farm kids drove to Florida without stopping in a Chevy Impala Super Sport.  We drove straight to St. Pete’s Beach, changed into swimming suits in the car, and walked into the Gulf of Mexico.  The ocean was the biggest thing I had ever seen.  I thought my whole life was in front of me.”

“Yeah, OK.”  She said slowly, not satisfied with my answer, “But how did you FEEL?”

I thought for just a moment and then I remembered.

“I felt free.  I felt absolutely and totally free.”

I don’t feel that way now.

photo by Lynn Zwica

A Chance Encounter on the Way to Quesadillas

I see him sometimes on his bike, and knew he was big, but I didn’t know he’d grown taller than me until I stood next to him in the store.  I still live in the town where I was a counselor and he has never left.  Funny we run into each other so little. 

He immediately began talking, telling me a story of something that happened to him, like he did when he was a boy and I a young man. 

A school counselor asked if I could help him.  He was suddenly failing, but the counselor was worried about much more than that.  His parents were alarmed, unsure, but let me see him.

He was guarded, hedged his words, looked away.  I saw him every week, sometimes twice.  I’d see him alone.  He liked to ride bikes on the canal.  We rode slowly beside each other and talked.  When others rode by, he was quiet till they passed.

I included him in a group with three other kids I was seeing.  At first, he didn’t mix well, staying close and talking mostly to me.  I let individual kids pick where we were going next.  When his turn came this tall, friendless boy picked a place near a strip mine, sandstone canyons outside the state park, hard to get to, that the other boys loved.  It was a good day for him.  He became part of the group.

He shared secrets with me.  I suggested he let me help him tell his parents, but he was afraid, so I waited.  He finally did allow me to help him reveal those secrets to his sister, married and out of the house, who also promised not to tell.  That helped.  He was surprised and relieved she wasn’t angry.

Time passed.  I suggested we all meet, that both his sister and I help him tell his parents the secrets.  He wanted to think that over.  We let him.  Finally, he agreed.

His sister did most of the talking.  All of them, including their mother, watched the Dad carefully.  It was as if the things he admitted were not secrets to the mother.  The father looked down and nodded.  We couldn’t tell what he thought.  It was tense.

Then he looked up at his son and told him it was all right.  Oxygen flooded back into the room.  I soon begged off, saying I had an appointment.  Mom started dinner.

The boy didn’t need me as much after that, but he didn’t know it.  I saw him less but included him in the group for months.  The group began to see each other without me.  I faded out of their lives and into the lives of others.

As years went by, I heard from the sister most often.  Life was not easy for her brother, but he made it.  Their father passed away, and then their mother.  They sold the family home and with the money her brother, with his sister’s guidance, bought a small house he could afford to maintain.  He talks often with his sister still. 

Forty years later the boy, now a middle-aged man, was telling me, an old man, of a brush with death experience between him on a bike and a woman in a car.  He was excited and included all the details.  I was holding a bag of tortillas and slab of chihuahua cheese.  He didn’t seem to notice.  I could hear the boy in his voice, the boy I once knew, scared, but able to trust.  Loved by a family.  Grown into a man.  Living his life.

Finally, the tale ended.  I asked about the boys in our old group, his sister.  Our meeting was drawing to a close.

“Do you think I thanked you back then?”

“I think you probably did.”

“I bet I didn’t.”

“It’s all right.  I was glad to help.”

“Thank you.”

“Your sister did most of the work.  And you.  You were brave.  It was a lot to ask.”

“Still, I’m glad you were there.”

“Me too.”

“See you around.  Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

I shifted the cheese to the hand holding the tortillas.  He extended his hand.  I squeezed it.  He looked right at me.  It had been forty years.  Neither of us forgot.