Print
Send
Comments
Respond
Sharon Maas
Spring 2010
Sharon Maas, 26 years old, is a member of the Spring Valley Community in Farmington, Pennsylvania. She is currently studying medicine at West Virginia University in Morgantown, West Virginia. She arrived in Paraguay on February 15, 2010 and completed her last three months of medical school by working at a small hospital in the village of Yalve Sanga, located in the central part of the Paraguayan Chaco, a vast plain of scrubland and palm trees where poisonous snakes, mosquitoes, various other insects and an amazing variety of birds and animals abound.
Temperatures soar as high as 122 degrees in the summer, and for much of the winter months a hot, searing north wind blows, driving sand and dust before it. Six or seven months of the year are devoid of any rainfall, and if rain does come during the remaining months it is often insufficient. This dry, dusty inhospitable area has earned the name "The Green Hell." As a result of these conditions life is very harsh and difficult for the indigenous people, who are also marginalized and impoverished. The hospital, staffed by one Mennonite doctor and several nurses (Paraguayan, Indigenous and Mennonite), serves twelve thousand indigenous people from nine different tribes. The majority of the patients Sharon attended are of the Enlhet and Nivacle tribes.
The early reports are at the bottom of the page.
Sharon and one of the babies she has delivered.
April 20, 2010
Two young indigenous men arrived at the clinic this morning from Nueva Promesa. The younger of the two, Daniel, was clearly very ill, sweat pouring down his thin body. Everything screaming “tuberculosis.” Three months of high fevers, wheezes throughout his lungs, thin as a rail. We took sputum samples from both brothers to confirm the diagnosis. However, what’s most notable here is the fact that these men came to El Tejano from over 60 kilometers away; especially when you consider that there is a health post in 25 Leguas with a doctor in attendance. A doctor who, for all intents and purposes seems to be a slothful and rather ineffective healthcare provider. The stories they told made it clear that this fellow does not have his patients’ best interests in mind. He doesn’t have the medications needed for tuberculosis treatment. He dismisses patients’ complaints, or is absent during clinic hours. Later, Beryl told me tales that made my hair stand on end. Laboring mothers in need of forceps delivery dumped in their communities to fend for themselves. Same thing with patients in need of surgical attention. And, guess who takes up the slack for this gentleman? Beryl, of course. So Beryl serves here as doctor, nurse, public health officer, dentist and teacher. If only folks at home could see the state of the health care here, perhaps there would be a little less complaining and a little more gratefulness.
April 17, 2010
We went to La Patria again today. It was very noticeable how much drier the land was here after only a month. Less water in the tajamares (ponds), brown grass, fewer birds—it is going to be another tough year here.
Clinic at San Fernandez was much the same as last month. More upper respiratory infections and urinary tract infections, the top two complaints here. Two patients to worry about, though. One is the chief’s wife, a middle aged woman who has lost a dramatic amount of weight and can barely walk anymore. Then there is a two month old baby who has been seizing several times a day since his birth. Apparently the mother suffered from eclamptic seizures. We paid for two bus fares to get them to Asuncion tomorrow. I hope they receive the appropriate attention without an advocate to help them in the city. It is so easy for the indigenous to simply get sidelined at the hospitals. For example, Beryl tells of the wife of one of the ranch hands, who was admitted to the huge government hospital in Asuncion for a postpartum complication. Just so happens that Rhett, the ranch owner, walked into her hospital room to find the bed covered with blood, and no staff in sight. Thanks to him she was saved, but otherwise it would have just been another needless indigenous death.
April 15, 2010
El Tejano acquired a baby Giant Anteater today, weighing in at only about 1.5 kilograms, with distinctive slender snout and worm-like tongue. We purchased him today from an Enlhet woman in El Estribo for 50,000 Guaranies (just over $10) —a steal. I’ll never forget how, when she brought him to the doorway of the hovel where we were conducting consultas, Beryl’s face lit up like a million candles. He rode all the way home in my lap, snuffling, licking and clinging with his inch long claws to everything in sight. It’s hilarious to watch him drink his milk, plunging his nose in, then blowing bubbles to propel the milk out of his nostrils. His long tongue flicking in and out, curling into strange shapes.
April 14, 2010
A little flavor of Beryl’s life. Following high school Beryl proceeded through a series of jobs—banking, veterinary nurse and then secretary. Of greatest note were the last two positions. Truthfully, Beryl always wanted to be a veterinarian, which is why she took the job with a Scottish veterinary surgeon. But she loved the animals…too much. She was constantly bringing home cats and dogs that were to be put down, much to the despair of her parents. Then there was the vet’s race horse, his pride and joy. Until one day it tore a muscle jumping fences and he shot it unhesitatingly. She simply could not handle the stress of such a cold attitude, and at her doctor’s suggestion she left this job and became a secretary for the Royal Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen - work that took her to London, opposite the London Bible College. While teaching the Bible to the fishermen’s children, she discovered that she herself lacked the knowledge necessary to teach, so she enrolled in the Bible College and studied theology for two years. It was here that she realized that nurses could often get into foreign countries where doctors or pastors couldn’t. Next logical step—nursing school, completed in a school located in one of the roughest parts of London. During her time in school she spoke to the Anglican mission board about her desire to serve overseas. In the end, it was this board that chose Paraguay, not Beryl herself. Within six months of completing her education she was in Paraguay working alongside Dr. John Prosser in the Anglican mission in the Chaco.
When Beryl received the news that the mission had lost funding and her colleagues were to leave for England, she decided to stay. How could a place with so much need simply be abandoned for lack of convenient funding? After a series of temporary jobs Beryl obtained a position with the Ministry of Health, working at a health post in Pozo Colorado. The post there is located directly at the side of the Trans-Chaco highway, not exactly the safest place for a single woman to be living and working. Beryl tells the story of four drunk Paraguayans who came knocking late one night asking to be seen. She told them to wait till the morning. They became even more belligerent, and started to break into the gate. Suddenly, she heard a wild neighing in the background, and there came her horse, normally the picture of gentleness, now kicking and biting the intruders. Needless to say, they fled without obtaining their consult. This story illustrates the dangers of this job, and these dangers did not escape the attention of the British ambassador. One day Rhett Butler, at the behest of the ambassador, arrived at the clinic and announced to Beryl that she would be leaving Pozo Colorado and coming to work at a clinic that he would build for her on his ranch.
April 12, 2010
“Texas. It’s hard to be humble.” Those are the words that adorn the wall above my king sized Texan bed. No, it’s no overnight flight. It’s just that I’m 100 kilometers south east of Yalve Sanga at El Tejano ranch, owned by Texan millionaire Rhett Butler. This morning Marlene’s brother (Marlene is a Mennonite nurse working in Yalve Sanga Hospital) drove us from Yalve Sanga to Beryl’s clinic here at the estancia. We made the trip in record Menno time, 40 minutes, driving at over 140 kilometers per hour. As we climbed over the fence into the ranch, we saw Beryl approaching. Almost the first words out of her mouth were, “We just buried Oliver.” No, Oliver is not a patient, but one of her beloved dogs who died on Friday despite a whole barrage of diagnostic studies. Beryl loves animals. Actually that’s an understatement. Her family here is animals—ten dogs, 5 or six cats, and two deer. If you didn’t like animals, you couldn’t survive a minute living and working at El Tejano.
Once again, I must say that Beryl is probably one of the most impressive women I know. For thirty three years she has persevered in the Chaco, alone. Single-handedly she has built up an entire health system in this region of the Chaco, replete with health posts and staff that she has trained. Its hard to describe a woman who has stared death in the face a hundred times, who has had her vertebrae crushed by her own truck, who has raised a giant anteater in her own living room, who speaks four languages fluently, who is deeply loved and respected by Paraguayans, Mennonites and Indigenous alike. To know Beryl is to know true Christian service—unflustered, caring, selfless and warm.
April 11, 2010
Zuni de Fernandez is dying. It breaks my heart to see her husband, Remicio, by her bedside. She is a young woman from one of the furthest Enlhet communities, Paz del Chaco. For five years now she has courageously battled rheumatoid arthritis. Five years of unremitting pain. However, it’s her liver now that is killing her. She came to the hospital here over a week ago, her skin and eyes a glowing yellow, vomiting and febrile. Her liver enzymes were unbelievably high and they have kept climbing despite our best efforts. Yesterday she went to Filadelfia and the doctor there confirmed that her liver was cirrhotic, dying. Of course we will never really know why. Perhaps it’s a virus, maybe drugs, maybe her own immune system. What´s sure now is that without a new liver she won´t make it; that´s not even an option here. This afternoon I walked into the room and she was lying there, dozing. She woke up, but didn´t respond as before, only signaling that her eyes hurt her. Now she doesn´t know where she is, nor how many children she has. Her husband told me that she was restless all night, talking and talking without making any sense. It appears that she is on the point of slipping into a coma. It is really hard to imagine what Remicio is going to do if she dies. Their relationship has touched me deeply. I have rarely seen a husband as dedicated to his wife. For the past five years he has done all the household chores that are typically done only by the women here. He has cooked, cleaned, washed the laundry by hand, hauled the water—all this besides his daily work. He sits beside her bed all day long, attends to her every need, takes her to the bathroom and the shower, feeds her, cleans up her vomit. The love in that room is palpable. The kind of love that has been to hell and back unscathed.
Zuni and Remicio
March 28, 2010
Perhaps I should entitle this entry the “Charge of the Light Brigade.” This evening Renate, Amaris, and I decided to celebrate Palm Sunday by taking a stroll out to the Nivacle Tacamar, a pond that is 3 km walk from here. The weather was perfect, cool with a breeze, and it looked to be a spectacular sunset. As we approached the Tacamar we began to spy groups of cows grazing nearby. “Wouldn´t that be frightening if one of those attacked us…check out those horns,” I remarked. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than one of the more adventurous cows decided to pay us a visit. She must have been one of the matriarchs of the herd, because pretty soon we had a group of fifty plus cows bearing down on us at a brisk walk. We high-tailed it to the nearest wire fence, only to discover that once we were safely on the other side our backs were to a thick wall of thorn trees—no escape possible.
The cows stayed a respectable distance away, but continued to pose an obstacle to reaching the Tacamar. Nothing doing but to attack. We each picked a sturdy thorn branch, crossed the fence and charged at the wall of white, brown and black. In an instant they were nothing but a cloud of dust and waving tails. Triumphantly we strode toward our goal. Not so fast. There they were again, heading toward us at a swift trot. Back to the fence and thorn bushes. Clearly we were going to have to hold our Palm Sunday meeting elsewhere. Strategy modified, we charged again, whooping until the enemy retreated. Then we turned tail and fled in the opposite direction, shrieking with laughter, barely able to run.
We beat our retreat until the closest gate. Feeling safe there, we sat down on a broken cement watering trough to read from Matthew´s account of Palm Sunday, then from Romans 8. It was as if the whole creation around us was affirming these powerful words, “For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things past, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
As the sky was growing dim, the frogs beginning their nightly chorus, we ended by singing Easter songs. Midway through our final song familiar heads began appearing over the long grass. Sure enough, there came our friends, attracted to the singing. They stood there en masse some thirty meters away, lowing and pawing the grass. Then, gradually, one by one they left us, trailing off toward the west.
March 20, 2010
La Patria is approximately a 180 kilometer drive from Yalve Sanga, 100 kilometers on the Trans Chaco highway and 80 kilometers on rough dirt roads. But it might as well be a thousand. As we jolted down the dirt track in Monica´s pick-up, I felt like we were entering another world. No bikes, no motorbikes, no people. Just miles and miles of green palms and cacti, dotted with fresh water represas, huge whooping cranes and the ever present birds of prey. The only signs of civilization were fences, bridges and the occasional ranch sign. No cell phone signal here, nor electric wires, nothing. As we drew closer to the clinic in La Paciencia, we started to see people on the road, all walking toward the clinic. The houses we spotted were made of logs, wired together to make walls, with tin roofs above. Such was the clinic. We pulled up to see the clinic there in full swing. I had expected to see a line of patients, but was overwhelmed by the throng that greeted us. Between 100 to 200 patients crowded around the truck, practically all women and children. Their clothes rags, many with light brown hair—the herald of malnutrition. Large patches stitched onto threadbare t-shirts, cast offs from the West.
Myself, Beryl Baker, a British nurse and Chaco veteran of 33 years, Renate, and Marylou, a Mennonite nurse, headed off in the Land Rover to San Fernandez, another community of Enlhet Sur tribe farther down the road.
The clinic there is held in the school building, a well constructed brick building, which rapidly turned into a furnace under the fiery Chaco sun. It must have been well over 110 degrees inside there today. Within minutes our faces were dripping, half an hour and our clothes were soaked. On one side of the room were Renate and Marylou, weighing and charting babies´ weights and giving vitamin A to all the children. Every weight taken or dose given filled the room with protesting wails and screams from the already wary infants. Meanwhile Beryl and I worked together in the other half of the room, attempting to hear the soft spoken mothers and lung sounds of tuberculosis above the general din. It was wonderful to see Beryl work. Tiny, barely over five feet, with a full head of pure white hair, face aged and wrinkled by years of Chaco heat and sun. Above all lovely, twinkling blue eyes. Beryl speaks Enlhet, Guarani, Spanish and her mother tongue English—all fluently. She works quietly, speaks softly to her patients.
We handed out large quantities of anti-parasitic medications, cream for scabies which is rampant, as well as lots of antibiotics. Tuberculosis is an enormous problem in these communities and it is not uncommon for someone here to die of it without ever receiving medical attention. Today we tested several patients for TB, one of these was an abuelita (grandmother) living in one of the hovels a good 5-10 minute walk from the clinic. She was unable to come due to weakness, so Beryl, and the nurse here, Lidia, and I went out to see her. She was lying on a wooden pallet, her face covered with sweat. Dogs slunk in and out of the wooden hut. I stepped back to find my feet in the ashes of an old fire. We left her house with a sample to check for TB, and will treat her for pneumonia until Beryl completes the test in her lab.
March 15
Daniel died this morning in Filadelfia, in the ICU. We still have no idea what was wrong with him. I also wonder if he might have lived had he been transferred sooner. Really, though that doesn't matter now. What matters is that Menciso and Severa, his parents, are grieving. What matters now is that his community has to dig yet another grave for an untimely death.
March 14
I'm whipped. In tears. Puzzled and saddened by a system I truly don't understand. This morning I arrived for informal rounds in the hospital. The doctor was away. All was tranquilo except for Room 3, Bed 1—Daniel. Immediately I could sense that something was dreadfully amiss. But still no fever, with nothing to point me to the source of his problems. I returned to his room several minutes later to find him in full blown seizures. That was the start of a terrible cascade of events. First one seizure medication, then another, each unable to control his convulsions. Once again, nothing to point us to what was causing his seizures. You could see his heart pounding through his dreadfully thin chest wall. So why were we still here in Yalve Sanga? Because the insurance fund from Daniel's community is low, and transferring him to an expensive hospital such as Filadelphia could drain the fund.
The part that really ripped out my guts was Daniel's father. He broke down in terrible sobs, questioning God, asking why he could not die in his son's place. Why? Why? Why? All I could do was stand there broken, powerless and weep at the side of a father who is losing his son senselessly.
We finally did transfer Daniel to Filadelfia after four hours of uncontrollable seizures. I travelled in the back of the ambulance, with the father hunched over with his head in his hands, the picture of abject grief.
March 13
It seems as though our babies are beating the odds. Soficha's baby made it to Asuncion and through the surgery. Indeed it was an obstruction of sorts, the congenital absence of an opening between the small and large intestine. Apparently she tolerated the surgery well. Now I pray she makes it through her post operative course.
My doings for today primarily consisted of a very long ambulance ride. Mission being to see if a patient admitted to the clinic in Campo Largo needed to come into the hospital in Yalve Sanga. The patient was a fourteen year old boy, Daniel. His symptoms started on Monday with fever and vomiting accompanied by increasing weakness. By the time I saw him he was so weak that he couldn't walk on his own. Apparently he's been admitted for similar episodes before and has always responded well to rehydration.
This evening I went back into the hospital and Daniel hadn't improved at all after receiving a significant amount of fluids. He is also breathing very rapidly, his heart pounding like a machine gun. Still no fever, and blood tests show no sign of infection.
March 11
I arrived this morning in the hospital to find Soficha's baby seizing, her little arms and legs jerking rhythmically. We were able to calm her medically, but not solve the problem. We were told by the maternal infant hospital in Asuncion that we would hear if she had a bed there by 8 am. Eight, then nine, then ten, then eleven, endless eternities sitting on the edge of her bed, comforting her pitiful cries. All the while her mother was sitting a foot away in silence, flinching at a comforting touch. Finally we heard that the ambulance from the local government-run maternal-infant hospital would arrive at one pm to take her to Asuncion. We had a bed. Hallelujah.
March 10
Several days ago we delivered Soficha's baby girl. Although she was quite premature, at first blush everything appeared fine. However, yesterday afternoon she started to vomit. By this morning she was dehydrated. We are giving her IV fluids, but it feels like we are temporizing an emergency. I hope that I am wrong, but this could be an abdominal obstruction. It is a four hour ambulance ride to Asuncion—that's a long ride for a sick baby, should it reach that stage.
March 5
I must confess that my heart jumped into my throat this afternoon when I was told that I would be accompanying one of the nurses here to attend a difficult birth in one of the outlying villages. Immediately my mind started racing through all the possibilities that could await us. An hour later we were bouncing down the dirt roads in the ambulance toward Campo Largo, an Enlhet community some 40 kilometers away. Entering the birthing room I was impressed by the stifling heat, and the filth. No sterile gloves or sterile instruments here. The mother was clearly fearful, and perhaps rightfully so—her last child died from sepsis after a difficult birth. Paulina, the midwife was clearly happy to see us. You have no idea how thankful I was when the baby finally arrived, alive and screaming. A little boy, perfect in every way. Truth is, I'm not sure what we would have done if things hadn't turned out so well. We had only the limited supplies from the hospital with us…some IV fluids and instruments.
I keep reflecting how differently life starts out here. No bright lights, no infant warmers, no continuous monitoring of mom and baby, no surgical suites right around the corner, or intensive care unit. And yet, for the most part, both mother and infant do well.
March 2
I just received a message that Virgiliana died at 7:40 this evening. I'm told she stopped breathing and went peacefully, both her parents at her side. I'm so thankful since I was expecting a difficult death for her. Tomorrow she will be buried at her village, Pozo Amarillo. I'm thankful that her soul is now free, but at the same time my heart is shouting against this injustice. Once again I must compare—at home she would have had easy access to dialysis. A transplant would have been a very viable option. In fact she may never have reached this stage of renal insufficiency in the US. Please explain to me how it is possible that many of my fellow Americans who smoke, eat to engorgement, and consciously abuse their body in every way can receive this treatment, while beautiful, innocent Virgiliana has to die.
February 27
Virgiliana continues to fill my mind. This morning I thought she might go, but time has proven me wrong. We arranged a chair for her today, padded with quilts and cushions. As I transferred her into it she slumped against me, unable to support her weight. Since then she has been fitfully sleeping, intermittently coughing up pink bloody froth into a small basin. It makes me weep and rage inside to see such a lovely girl cough her lungs out bit by bit.
And her mother. She sits beside her hour by hour, supporting her head. She is clearly grieving, but grieving without a tear, without a word. Today she told me that her daughter had picked out Romans 6. I'm not sure why, but verse nine stuck out. “Christ rose from the dead and will never die again. Death no longer has any power over him.” Perhaps she knows that once she dies she will never have anything to fear again.
February 26
Virgiliana's been here at the hospital for several days now. She is 15, and she is dying before our eyes. Her kidneys shut down well over a year ago, and up until three months ago she was receiving dialysis in Asuncion. She hated the hospital, the city and life away from all her relatives, so she left. Not only that, but once home she didn't take any of her medications. So now her lungs are full of fluid. Through the stethoscope they sound like a symphony of screeches and moans. Every time I enter the room she is sleeping upright, collapsed forward over a stack of pillows.
Our little Enlhet baby died this morning. Yesterday morning he stopped breathing and never really started again. We tried to get him breathing for 24 hours straight with an emergency resuscitation bag. I will never forget the sobs that wracked his mother's body when the doctor told her that her son's organs were failing and that we were going to stop the oxygen and lay him in God's hands. She wept and wept against my shoulder, but wouldn't touch him. Nor will I forget his last moments in my hands as his little heart slowly stopped beating.
February 19
I am having an amazing time here. It is hard to put into words what I am experiencing. I have already written five pages in my journal, just to give you a bit of an idea of how full the time has been.
When I think of a hospital, I think of shiny floors, bright lights, the constant beeping of alarms, the latest technology, an overwhelming array of medications. Not so here in Hospital Yalve Sanga. No, here it is the people that really count. The floors are covered with the fine red Paraguayan sand, and are constantly being swept. The beds are three to a room. No fancy trappings here. Volume infusion is calculated by drops per minute. Gauzes are rolled or folded by hand. Only the most basic medications are available. But the love that the staff pours into the patients is amazing. Dr. Wilmar Dyck greets every patient like a long lost family member. Or perhaps it’s simply with the love and respect that every person deserves, a concept often lost in the world of western medicine. I think what means the most to me is the relationship between the staff, especially Doctor Dyck, and the patients, so loving and caring, it is really wonderful to see.
February 18
This afternoon we visited a village to attend Sara, an Enlhet “abuelita” (grandmother). When we came to her hovel, she was sitting on the ground, surrounded by cats and dogs, her water jug several meters away. Every bone protrudes from Sara's thin body, joints gnarled and swollen, brown skin parched and flaking from poor nutrition, feet edematous, clothes ragged and stinking. But, although she knows she is going to die, she has a lovely, serene smile and peaceful demeanor. Her hovel is a piece of corrugated metal set on top of four posts and wrapped with black plastic. Several pieces of scavenged cardboard and carpet serve as her bed. Her only source of water is an old laundry soap bottle filled with brackish, cloudy water. Nobody brings her food. We tried to clean Sara and then rubbed ointment into her parched skin. We gave her oral rehydration solution and some cookies. Before we left Marita, our Enlhet nurse, read to her from Revelations in her native tongue.
February 17
He continues to fight for survival. His breathing stopped several times last night, so now a nurse is with him round the clock. His mother knows his chances are slim. Today she started crying when I asked her if she wanted me to come and see him. It is so difficult to see him lying there and struggling. His little belly rises with every breath, his chest retracts terribly. At home he would now be on a ventilator.
February 16
Today we delivered a premature Enlhet infant. At birth he weighed 3.3 lb. He was placed in an incubator and given intravenous nutrition, but right from the start he seemed to be laboring to breathe.
Your Turn. Tell us what you thought about this article:
Responses
As a former teacher of Sharon (WVU) and a continued friend through the community in Morgantown, I am proud and pleased for what she is doing in the Chaco. I am also heart sick at the inequities of health care around the world. Her work challenges me to live my life here to the fullest, and to minister to the needs around me.
G. Truett Rogers
Morgantown, WV
Dear Sharon,
Your commitment and efforts to help the staff at Yalve Sanga are honorable.
I spent several years in the Chaco during the 1970s and 80s and several times since. I was born and raised in Primavera and worked for several seasons in wildlife research (mammalogy) and later in work with the Mennonite Indian settlement program (with ASCIM/Wilmar Stahl) in the Chaco (1973; –75; –76; –77; –80; –81; –82; –86; and again in 1993 & 94; 2004). I have since done some translation of literature for ASCIM and wish to do more.
I love the Chaco and am impressed with Mennonite work among the Indians, although I no longer hold to the Christian religion. In 1981 I was operated for an inguinal hernia at the Loma Plata hospital, an experience which was life saving and also so rewarding, even though conditions were quite simple at the time (reminded me of our sweet Primavera hospital where I was treated for leishmaniasis as a boy of 11). I resonate with your grief and concern for the Enhlit and Enenhl it and Nivacle and Ayoreo (Totobiogosode), Sanapana, Mataco and Guarajos, all of which I got to know well back in the days when we were identifying and purchasing lands for the central Chaco Indians. I hope you can take time to visit the ASCIM offices in Filadelfia and perhaps get to know Wilmar Stahl and his brother Uwe (who comes down from Canada each winter) and please give them my greetings and regards.
Cheers,
Phil Hazelton,
former Primavera "sabra."
We recently returned to the United States afer living for 1-1/2 years in Yalve Sanga, teaching violin to the children and young people of the Enlhet and Nivacle peoples. During the evenings and on weekends we spent many hours visiting the patients and their families in the hospital where Sharon is now working, and were also touched by the love and respect Dr. Dyck and the other staff showed their patients. We were always asked to sing, and were often asked to say a prayer too. Many times we sat beside a dying person, quite often a child, feeling helpless and saddened, just as Sharon describes, because we knew that in the hospitals that we have access to much better and more thorough medical help would have been available for them. Often we arrived at the hospital tired and overwhelmed by the oppressive heat, but we always left feeling inwardly refreshed and strengthened through the childlike faith and trust in Jesus that so many of our indigenous brothers and sisters expressed, and through the love we received from them. This faith and love is the most precious gift a person can ever have, and we who tend to put our faith in modern medicine and all it seems to offer, can learn from our indigenous brothers and sisters. Sharon is sure to return home realizing that all the medical technology in the world, and the best medical care, is worth nothing compared to faith and trust in Jesus.
Mark and Krista Clement
Walden, NY
It was wonderful to hear about your experiences and feelings in the Chaco. I spent a year with my family in the 1960's with Lengua Indians. I have visited more recently and am in contact with Nurse Beryl Baker, who if you have not already had contact with her you would find her energy and work amazing. Your descriptive article makes me feel that I am there! Please keep them coming.
PS: Thank you for the deicated work you are doing amongst those lovely humble people.
Gottfried Holland
England
You've come a long way, Sharon: geographically,educationally, professionally. What a thoughtful, kind-hearted account! The world needs compassionate doctors like you, with excellent writing skills to arouse an unknowing / indifferent world. And you are just getting started . . .
Thank you -- keep it up!
Fritz Ottenheimer
Pittsburgh, PA
please, understand, that medicaments are no good things, they are from HELL; I KNOW IT, IT IS TROU.
Daniel Wieser
weinfelden-TG-switzerland
