My Bestie

This is a response to the Nobody’s Cuter Than You request by Big Mama. Without further ado, here’s how J.L.W. entered my life for good.

My family had recently uprooted our stable, homogenous Midwestern selves from Kansas City, Kansas to a much smaller Blythewood, South Carolina. In dire need of local friends, I joined the high school cross country team. I spent August, September, and October—the entire season—running mostly alone, hoping someday one of my teammates would materialize into a friend, a “replacement(s) not replacement(s)” for the friend(s) I’d left behind. After the state meet, I had the opportunity to run one more race in Charlotte, North Carolina with a select group of runners from the team. This was going to be fun, I’d hoped. I roomed with two girls, both a year younger than me. This having been the Friday after Thanksgiving, I was wired. Hi, my name is S and I love dessert. Hello, holidays. Bring on the apple pie, cranberries cupcakes, pumpkin spice cookies, etcetera ad nauseam—I will eat you all. J.L.W., my friend-to-be, humored herself with my antics. I’m not sure if she was laughing with or at me. I do remember we didn’t get much sleep that night. So desperate for a friend, it—the laughing and sleep—truthfully didn’t matter.

The trip ended, yet our friendship grew and grew and grew into the big, mighty awesome gift that it is today. There was the brilliant idea to consume a gallon of McAlister's beverages--lemonade for me, sweet tea for her--before a mile run at an invitational track meet. There were countless "locker room parties" on cold (and windy!) South Carolina days. And then there was college. J.L.W. “followed” me to Clemson University—Go Tigers!—during my sophomore year where there were football games galore and a few too many late nights. We also managed plenty of early mornings camping out for football (or basketball) tickets. When ESPN’s College GameDay came to town, we were there at 5:00 am to begin cheering. And we kept on cheering until the conclusion of the 8:00 pm game… at midnight. There was also a camping trip we survived in the sub-freezing temperatures in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We concluded my junior year with a twenty-hour round trip drive to Cleveland, Ohio—for the weekend—where we insisted on listening to J.L.W.’s iPod in A to Z order. In the following year, we implemented a Tuesday night dinner club, where it was understood she would cook and I would consume.

 

Those four years had to come to an end, and when they did, I left for Peace Corps. We remained equally close, though we were limited to expensive, monthly phone calls. I returned to Northern Virginia while she had long settled in Columbia, SC. Having already mastered long distance friendship, we’ve maintained friendship just the same. We sometimes meet for incredible two-week adventures in the Pacific Northwest, other times we take unplanned long weekend trips to a random meeting places, like the most recent Asheville, North Carolina outing.

We have a big milestone ahead: J.L.W. is getting hitched, while I stand right beside her. Her second best friend, D.P.C, of oh so many years, but not as many years, recently proposed! I like him because he respects (and accepts?) my competitive personality. I’ll always be her first place friend; I’ve known her the longest. And I might love her the most.

An Affected Life

The New York Times is writing an article about recent Peace Corps volunteers. These journalists are currently collecting data on the broad topic: How Did Your Recent Peace Corps Service Affect Your Life? I'm someone who believes in processing and understanding and learning from; naturally, I opted to answer the call. I'm doubtful that anything will become of it. I'm hopeful an article on this topic will be published at all. After challenging myself to respond to two questions with strict word limits--100 and 150, respectively--I thought I would share my answers here.

Why did you extend or not finish your Peace Corps commitment?

While celebrating the "Close of Service" of fellow volunteers at a hotel in Maseru, the capital of Lesotho, my friend and I left the event to walk back to the Peace Corps (PC) Training Center, a quarter mile down the road. On our return walk to the hotel, my closest volunteer friend and PC neighbor was shot and killed. I was then sent back to the US for medical attention. PC eventually decided it was unsafe for me to return to Lesotho with a suspect at large. I restarted my service in Ghana and was medically separated shortly after.

How did your service affect your life after you left the Peace Corps?

First and foremost, I lost a friend while serving in Lesotho. As a result, the depth to which Peace Corps (PC) still affects my life today is in almost every way. There isn't a day, there's hardly a moment, that passes where I'm not reminded of my service. Through PC I experienced my highest highs and lowest lows. These highs, whether listening to my host sister share her story in broken English or planting gardens for orphans, showed me the brightest side of life. They've given me hope, taught me kindness, and instilled patience within me. Losing a friend, among other lows, ignited my courage and strength. These darkest times taught me to fight and to believe in myself. We as humans may not be able to control the unpredictability of life. But these moments--high and low--inspire me to live a life outside of myself.

Peace Corps recruits with the slogan, "Life is calling. How far will you go?" After serving in the Mountain Kingdom, I promised myself I would find my calling in local charities, often just as in need as the foreign nationals I served amongst. There are people fighting illnesses in need of blood. There are puppies at shelters in need of cuddling and walking. There are underpaid workers at the fire department that would love a plate of homemade cookies. There are underprivileged children in need of tutors and positive adult role models. There are soup kitchens that need servers. Through writing today, I realized my own needs have been elevated above the many deserving individuals in my community. If I want to be the best version of me, I need to answer these calls.

Will you join me? Let's serve.   

Three Years

Three years can be an impossibly long time. It can also be the blink of an eye. This all depends on your perspective.

On September 3, 2010, something went terribly wrong.

I witnessed a murder.

I had just turned 23. (My dad turned 52 that day!)  

I saw the darker side of reality – the ‘bad stuff happens’ side. And the sad truth is most of us are not immune to the bad stuff. It usually seeps – or burst in – to every one’s life at one point or another.

There is pain. There is sorrow. Grief. Rebellion. Depression. And so, so many tears of sadness. There is fear. Justifiable anger. Confusion.

My soul experienced a burn. One that buried itself really deep inside my soul.

For so long, I felt as though I had to ‘act’ like a young twentysomething should. Going through the motions was exhausting. Some days it still is. Because when you suddenly lose your luster for life, the relationship with living is tiresome. And when you do enjoy life but do not trust it, you try to control everything on your own. And that is a very big job. But I kept at it.

Until I just could not. I had to quit fighting for control. And when I did, things began to shift. Throughout the course of the past three years, seeds have been planted. Some small. The chance to finish my Peace Corps service in Ghana. Some big. My first 'grown up' job after eight months of unemployment. Some failed. And some rose through the ashes, shining light on tiny bits of new growth. These seedlings were fighting for life. 

They were my hope. They led me to love too generous to deny. And have allowed me to slowly turn my focus back to the good news. To shift my perspective to a place I am comfortable with. 

To borrow a quote from Mitch Albom, I know: “One day can bend your life.” And though it may not be for the better, life will be OK again... and I believe can even be restored to great.

For T.C.M., forever remembered.    

(Wet and) Wild Day, Sunday Edition

My 'Sunday code' was shattered.

• I learned how to swim while biking when an un-forecasted heavy morning rain storm came out of nowhere and flooded the Custis Trail. 
• I went out on a Sunday past 4:00 pm to rekindle a friendship with S.N.L., a fellow cohort from the Peace Corps days. I usually call it quits from all planned activities around this time on Sunday. It is a 'school night' for this working girl... and with a full week of accountability ahead of me, I function best when I start off with at least eight hours of sleep.
• I dined out for lunch and dinner at two new places--Red Rocks and Galaxy Hut. That is my cap for the week; I spent those meal tickets early. 
• This afternoon I was in search of lemonade to satisfy an intense craving. I settled on unsweetened--thou must clarify South of the Mason Dixon line--ice tea after three failed attempts. Notice to Washington, D.C. food establishments: Tis the season of lemonade.

There you have it, my version of a (wet and) wild Sunday. 

Visitors and Travel

I am coming up to breathe after a rowdy nine-day, late nights, friend-filled bender. The journey began with a Mexican date-night at Fuego on Friday, followed by comedy with new and old friends. Saturday brought Kansas basketball--the last game of the regular season--at The Bottom Line with friends from Kansas. And Sunday, there was a lengthy city stroll on Roosevelt Island and later through Georgetown for shoe shopping and ice cream at Thomas Sweet.

Monday was normal--a long, coffee-filled day of work.

On Tuesday, a dear friend, K.A.B., returned from a 10-month Peace Corps Response job in Hamburg, South Africa. The day was overcast--heavy-rain falling, and because I was working from home, I was barely awake when she knocked on my door circa early bird hour. The benefit of a work from home schedule allowed a little bit of catch-up time before she found the Pentagon City Mall for shopping. Post-work, I met Boyfriend and her for happy hour at The American Tap Room, and we later joined fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteers for dinner at The Lost Dog Cafe. During a well-timed, slow Wednesday of work, I spent time in conversation over Ethiopian coffee, brought kindly by my visitor following her venture there, with K.A.B. Then there might have been some Rocklands lunch and a Dance Moms siesta. Tough life I lead, eh?

Thursday I took the day off, and I deserved it, after all the hard-work logged on Wednesday. There was brunch at The Silver Dinner, followed by coffee at Baked and Wire. Coffee we might or might not have spiked with Baileys. Then, of course, Thursday being March 14, we celebrated National Pi Day at Pie Sisters in Georgetown. And since it was nearly time for Kansas to tip-off, I dragged our clan to McFaddens so this diehard could catch second-round play of the Big 12 tournament. Kansas whipped up on Texas Tech, which was nice to see, after the embarrassing loss to Baylor the Saturday before. After the game we migrated to the Science Club... because went you start drinking at 1:00 pm, you are really thirsty by happy hour. The Science Club is a great idea for a bar... there is just so much potential there... and if you have not already discovered the nerd in me (and my equally so friends; re: Pi Day), we really longed for drinks served in beakers. I hate to report we struck out, but know that I am not above investing.

After a drink, Boyfriend and I had to part ways with our West Coast friend to catch a bus to New York City for a(nother) reunion of sorts. I am still sort of exhausted when I think about this trip; NYC was filled to the brim with continuous activity. The 2:00 am arrival--thank you one-lane of traffic through the entire state of New Jersey--really jived with the City That Never Sleeps. We woke-up refreshed on Friday morning and refueled at H&H Bagels before heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (This was a pretty painful experience for me. Meanwhile, Boyfriend could quote the name of various paintings before reading the accompanying plaque. He has a bit of an old man spirit... and I will let this photo capture his essence for you.)

From the Met, we walked through Central Park. It was f-r-e-e-z-i-n-g, so we headed down to Chelsea for another outdoor activity--a walk on The High Line. I thought the attempt at historical nature in the city was neat while Boyfriend was less impressed. This was surprisingly more frigid than Central Park, as the wind whipped off the water. Then it was time to meet friends in Chinatown--where health inspection 'grade pending' signs were posted to nearly every window--for the most unhealthy linner (lunch + dinner). (But that is just me sucking the joy out of life... or so I hear.) Then back over to Chelsea--efficiency is totally our thing--for happy hour at the Trailer Park Lounge. So many fabulous things happen when a bunch of budget travelers find five dollar margaritas in NYC... and proceed to order ridiculous amounts right before happy hour expires.

R.D.S., bless her heart, met us at "happy hour" so we could walk to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre for an improv show. The show was excellent. Afterwards, we headed back to the Upper East Side for Insomnia Cookies before closing day and night one.

Saturday, R.D.S. and I got up early to get rush tickets to Rodger + Hamerstein's Cinderella. For a reason unbeknownst to us, there were no rush tickets on this snowy March Saturday. This means I did not get to see Cinderella or Matilda or Book of Mormons or Peter and the Starcatchers. Next time. For certain. From there, we met Boyfriend at Ess-a Bagel for another bagel breakfast. Delicious. And during out 20-minute wait for bagels, R.D.S. managed to snag us a table. Win. As we started walking back to R.D.S.'s place, the weather took a turn for the worse. After warm showers, we decided to cancel our plans for walking the Brooklyn Bridge and pizza by the slice at Grimaldi's due to snow showers. We settled Upper East Side coffee and pizza at Numero 28... and a relaxing afternoon of catch-up time. In the late afternoon, Boyfriend and I parted from R.D.S. to head to Harlem to visit with Peace Corps friends and later see the Africa Now! concert at the Apollo. Freshlyground, a South African band we adore, was playing one of the sets in show. I also got to see Blitz the Ambassador, a name I only heard in Ghana, perform. The concert turned into the highlight of the weekend. And what could have made the night more perfect? Street food and another helping of Insomnia Cookies. Yes. Please.

Spent from the first two days, we slept in a bit on Sunday. After saying goodbye to our excellent host, I headed to Brooklyn to meet J.W.M. and his girlfriend for brunch. The food was yummy and the company was, per usual, entertaining. Afterwards, I met back up with J.P.B. and the two of us wasted time for the final hour until our bus departed.

On any other given Sunday, my bed would have been the most delightful greeting when I walked in the door of my apartment... but this was Selection Sunday. Before sleep, I needed to do an initial bracket analysis. March Madness is upon us. Time to dance. And I saw a potential for a bracket filled out with a lot of heart. So Go Blue. Until the Rock Chalk Jayhawks take over in the South. Go Sparty in the Midwest. As for the East and West, heart might be lacking, but I will take ACC in the East and Big Ten (Badgers, NOT Buckeyes) in the West.

If that was not enough excitement, Gap was having a sale on jeans. I am in dire need, so I did closed out evening with some impulse purchases as the sale expired at midnight.

Times like these might lead to emails from Mom that say, "It's like you still live in Africa." Busy, busy.

The Commute

Yes, another post about the oh-so-exciting life I am leading. And you have heard it before, I am a functioning piece of the corridor of 9:00 am – 5:00 pm working America. I feel the need to repeat myself; I find this helps legitimize my situation—makes it feel real. For the record, this is not the first time I have held a job, believe it or not. Aside from serving as President of Human-sitting, I was in the Peace Corps—totally real job—for that short stint. Together, those with ample travel, sum up the past three years. (I never thought I had the capability to do that in a single sentence.) Yes, in May I will celebrate three years freedom from Clemson University—my graduation into reality, which I see as technically postponed with some life choices until now.

Though my prior totally real job as a high school math and science teacher in Thaba-Tseka, Lesotho never survived long enough to become resume caliber, it impacted my living resume in a grand way. For the sake of my upcoming point, let me recap the perks in a teaching position, more specifically my teaching experience in Africa. The school day began at 7:00 am sharp, the sole timely event in Lesotho, and ended around 4:00 pm… not so sharply. Because, like any high school in America, the learning was proceeded by activities, sports, tutoring and sometimes an after-hour meeting (I never approved of). I usually dodged out around 5:00 pm, unless I could convince running club to end at my place, more than three miles from the school grounds. On average, I worked a standard 10 hour day. My classroom time while at school extended around four hours a day. So during this time period, I was on my feet standing or pacing. And then there was the commute. 

In Lesotho, I commuted 47 minutes to school, morning and night—hot or cold, rainy or barren, energized or exhausted; I made my walking way in either direction. Three days a week I was in charge of collecting the mail from the post office I passed on my way to school at lunch. This meant a 40-minute round-trip additional "commute" because of limited post office hours. The point is I had ample “on my feet time” throughout the working day. And the thing is, I loved it. Some days I would greet everyone, including animals, especially pigs, on my way… extending the commute by over 20 minutes. Some days I would zone out to my overplayed music. Some days I would run to or from or both ways, avoiding thrown rocks along the way. Some days I would walk with Middle Sister. Some days I would walk in silence, pondering my place in this world. Some days I would stop to watch a soccer match being played on an unimaginably rough surface. Some days I would test out a new route. Some days I would time myself, attempting to best the time on the way home (without running). Some days I would stop at my host mother’s restaurant for the leftovers. (I could keep going.) My commute never felt grudgingly long because of these variances. 

This brings me to today, over three weeks in to work in cubical land, where I find myself with a Lesotho-like commute and a much different means of transportation. I have music. I have podcasts. I have books on tape. And I have a neighbor to converse and share the ride with twice a week.  It is America—I can have anything I want. There are food hubs buzzing along the way. There is a Starbucks tempting me at every turn. There is a cell phone, with unlimited minutes, begging me to return calls. But what I want more than anything is to be out of that car. To be away from the congestion. To be free from poor food options. I want to be walking the streets (of Africa, but I would settle for America). 

Why the desperate need for relief? Well... I hate the required weekly trips to the gas station. Oh the environmental suicide I am committing. I hate more time sitting and less time for being outside during daylight hours. I hate the being in traffic, watching my life tick off the clock motionless. And the thought of a minimal guarantee of 10 hours sitting, commute included, five days a week... makes me restless. Each new day my commute, following the same route, traffic patterns, and nonexistent scenery develops a more ancient feeling. I am not complacent, I will seek alternative solutions until I am satisfied. Biking to work? Breaks on the hour for cubical jacks, knee lifts, and tricep kicks? Public transportation? The obvious solution: RELOCATION. I refuse to find my sitting place in this world; we humans were made to move. In the meantime, I am exceedingly grateful it took me slightly under three years to get here.

Uvita, Costa Rica

The Dates: January 25-27, 2012

The Location: The minute I stepped off the bus in Uvita, Manuel Antonio was a destination of the past.  In place of traveling 'on the beaten path,' I waded through an enchanting location--removed from the weight of modern day Costa Rica. The beauty of this small hamlet was breathtaking; I am still speechless, wondering how to account for the trance I found myself in while visiting Uvita. Literally with each step I took, I paused... thinking 'wow, this is not real.' There were more birds than people on the beach, and since I love bird watching, even gulls, this was so my scene.

The Lodging: Flutterby House. This entirely outdoor hostel was a stellar 'word of mouth' recommendation by my friend, J.K.H.--currently serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Costa Rica. Nothing beat my tree house bedroom, a couple minutes walk from Marino Ballena National Park. The staff was friendly, and the owner has implemented a system--fresh ocean air and the canopy of mango trees for ventilation, skylights instead of lightbulbs, a biodigester to recycle waste without polluting groundwater, and chickens for pest control--to ensure visitors a sustainable stay(!!!). There was also a butterfly hatchery filled with hammocks.

This place had a good good soul. (When my Panama plans broke, this was the hostel I returned to for the finals days of the near six-week adventure.)

The Book I Read: Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer

The Activity: Talking "Peace Corps" with volunteers. Reading in hammocks. Riding bicycles. Running past the loose straggle of farms that make up the village. Sunsets. Long beach walks. (Day 16 details the action--with pictures--in Uvita.)

This was Uvita.

The Anniversary of the End

Sunday, December 18, 2011 marked my first full year back in the good ole U.S. of A. after the abrupt termination of my Peace Corps service. The end came before I truly got started. (The first year of service is about acquainting yourself with culture, developing relationships, identifying needs, and establishing trust.) When "I" agreed on Ghana, knowing Lesotho was not longer an option, I was aware my story had veered down a path of its own. Instead of the 'normal' two year stint in a single country--a single village--I would have two first years. I had the lone advantage of understanding--to expect nothing. I would learn a new language and, with time, slowly find my place amongst a far more Westernized culture. For this 'less is more' loving girl, I was skeptical and unsure of my ability to handle a second first year. 

The alternative was quitting... which was not actually an alternative. 

I must have arrived in Ghana to utter chaos; the month-long experience has been 'blacked-out' from my memory. That was not my intention; I still tug at my brain for memories--the name of the my headmaster, the name of my school, or the name of my village. If it were not for the four words of Twi (principal native language of Ghana) I learned or the grand total of six people interacted with, I would argue I spent a month on the tarmac of the Kotoka International Airport. 

I boarded the America-bound plane and panicked. If you have not met Rock Bottom, allow me to introduce you: Shrieking. Numb. Oblivious. Tears. Confusion. The United Airlines pilot privately escorted me off the plane to address "my condition" as he referred to it. I would learn, I could not be in this state at the time of departure... or I would be left behind. I searched for a metaphor in this. 

I never found my metaphor, but I found good fortune in the form of a six hour delay. There was a crew shortage... which, in retrospect, is probably why the Pilot Man had to deal with me. Then there was engine failure. I was able to stay outside under the warm Ghanaian sky, while the rest of the passengers sat--starring out their blurry oval windows--inside. Special Treatment? Pilot Man had his newest Crew Girl call me inside to my seat. I adjusted my seatbelt... and started shaking and sweating. We were in motion when the waterworks began. Another lecture. People were whispering about sedatives. Mom taught me not to take candy from strangers so I was not about to bum drugs off Randy Random(!!!). 

There was a minor victory when faulty wheels were discovered seconds before take off. I was re-released to the now brightly covered starlit night while repairs were made. And then the Boeing 767-300 and I were actually ready to go... at this point I felt more at ease than my fellow passengers appeared.

I landed on American soil between breakfast and lunch to the whites of my dad's eyes. He came inside to get me… or carry the luggage I did not even bother to bring home. I did not want belongings tainted with 'the end' of something I was unprepared for. I got to our snow-covered home and climbed into bed. After sleeping on a thick-ish pad in Ghana under a towel--soaked with sweat by morning--my twin-sized Costco bed luxuriously welcomed me; I climbed in for the winter hibernation ahead. I slept for six straight daytime hours--the most I had consistently slept since September 3. Minor victory #2. 

The holidays skated by in one big blur. I could not wait to be out of the season of joy--this time of year is the blatant reminder we are without one. 

In an ideal world, I would have shared this story yesterday on the one year anniversary. It was not, however, until today that I was able to combine the first half saved online with my word documented ending. What might seem ugly and embarrassing, even funny, to the masses is a display for myself of the length I have traveled between then and now. It is far to easy to count this year as another loss, after all, I still catch zzz's in my Costco bed... which between last year and night has become more unwelcoming than ever.

“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” (Maria Robinson)

What If

What if I had never joined Peace Corps? What if T.C.M. and I had never met? What if T.C.M. had never been killed in front of me? What if I had finished my service in Lesotho? What if I had never went to Ghana? What if I had not been medically separated from Ghana? What if I never got a parasite? What if these nightmares never go away? What if my luggage had made it safely back? What if Peace Corps cared about me as a person? What if I remain a spectacle to the media? What if I had never moved back to South Carolina? What if I never find a job? What if I never start to feel again? What if the rest of life is just going through the motions? What if these migraines and stomach aches stay with me the rest of my life? What if something terrible happens... again?

Two years ago today, I picked up my life and sealed my heart for Lesotho. I bid a tearful goodbye to both my parents... and joined 28 people, who shared at least one common bond with me, in a hotel conference room in Philadelphia's historic district. Together, we sat through orientation, spent the night getting to know one another, and in the wee hours of the morning, boarded a bus to John F. Kennedy International Airport, and finally a plane to Lesotho via Johannesburg, South Africa. The memories began building that night... and continue to this day. So the answer to one of my many 'what if's' is I would be without the volunteers I came to know through this experience, the connections made through these volunteers, and my rural mountainside living adventure. And that would be unfortunate, but okay.

Because, today, two years later, sans the bureaucratic garbage, I can all but guarantee I would be a better person. I would, first off, be happy and, second, employed or in grad school. Sure, I would have given up on a dream, but, unknowingly, be less damaged then living the nightmare. I would be the person I left, with many of the friends I had, instead of a phantom of my former self feigning interest in dwindling relationships. And even though that person lacked self-confidence and hated more than she loved, I liked that girl a lot. I might be 'stuck' with the mentality of my 22-year old self, which is probably not ideal... but that would be okay; I could make that work.

Before I left I valued happiness. I didn't need a 'rock-the-boat' night, in turn, a wasted two-year experience, to teach me how to work for happiness. I didn't need to be stripped entirely of control, to learn to manage my control issues. I didn't need to see the pain, work through the loss, and rebuild entirely new beliefs. In this season, I'm angry; I'm not able to care about anything the way I used to... I'm cold and mean... and know it. And when I have the best of intentions, they fail me. This was not my thought process a few months ago, and it may not be five years from now, and that will be okay.

This is today. May this not be tomorrow.

The Rebuilding

I had this illusion of my future and the Peace Corps was the key to it. I would join the Peace Corps after college, serve the two (or more) years and then I would be able to either get a job with them or another government agency through this connection, eventually winding up in grad school. This is why I could not quit on Lesotho during the tough moments, or when my health began to suffer. The Peace Corps was my way of contributing, to see the world, to help other people, to help the environment, to educate children, and to make a difference--regardless how small. This is what mattered most to me, serving was following my passion. So when T.C.M. was killed, I not only lost my friend in a terrible way, and almost my own life, but I lost a future. This is an unbearable lost, most people can not fathom. But this is what happened to me. And this is why it's so hard to see everyone moving on--I haven't been able to pursue the future I planned. I know this was not in my control. T.C.M.'s death and Peace Corps acting in my "best interest" threw me far from my track. This is (now) my life. This is my (new) future. And it's more. Many days, I feel as though I am living for two. In the back of my mind, whip-tee-do, I may have lost a future, well T.C.M. lost his life. I must forge on for both of us. It's the only life I have from here on out. I will always have bad days. There will be nights I can't sleep. There will always be time I need to cry and feel miserable and sad and depressed. That's never going to go completely away. No one, T.C.M. least of all, wants me to give up on my goals and dreams and live a life that doesn't make me happy and fulfilled. Easier said then done--it's hard to move on, to find a job, to leave my parent's house, to go through the motions of the day when I would rather be locked in a room alone upset. But it's what I have to do. I have to keep applying and applying and applying until I land a job. And even if it's not the one I want, it's a start. A way to renew life again. A way to reconnect.

There is hardly anyone in my circle who can relate. And, I hope they will never be able to. What I went through was terrible. And knowing I will never completely recover is scary. But I can't let my bad days or weeks rule my future. That will turn into bad years, and a bad life. I will never stop grieving, but recognize I need to push through the grief, and the pain, and the loneliness, or it will consume everyday. I have a good start at this. I pick up random jobs and visit friends... despite not feeling immediate relief from either activity.

For the past four months, and honestly much of the last year, I have had extreme difficulty relating to the majority of my friends. I am not sure they have noticed. I see myself as a soundboard--someone for them to bounce their tales off--in our conversations. They occasionally succeed in making me laugh, sharing in their annoyance with society, or getting me to discuss a hot-topic.

My friends are content. They're employed in their fields of passion. They are busy pursuing advanced degrees. They are this and that. And I am not. I strive to be each and every friends biggest supporter; I love these people, but keeping up with 13 regular phone calls is draining--not to mention the other ones in between. Though they continually ask how I am doing, it comes off quick and easy--similar to the way one would ask their neighbor when both parties happened to cross paths outside the home. These friendships, which have been building for as much as eight years, are faltering. 

After moving, you quickly learn friendship is not eternal. I am okay with letting go; not entirely of friendships--but of releasing myself from the old me persona. I have to, it's time. In all honestly, it's past time. I can no longer feign interest. I can no longer pretend to relate. These wonderful people came into my life, each friend more incredible and incomparable than the last. I do not want them to wait for me, wait for a time, wait for a friendship that is not returning to normal.

Most friends are for seasons... few are for life. Love it of leave it.  

A Story of Love, Loss, & Found

First, I hate eating in front of people, especially new people. Second, I like my food cold or at least room temperature. Third, I was vegetarian, worried each innocent vegetable was contaminated with chicken broth or animal fat. Fourth, I was in a very different environment.

Adapting to the food Lesotho had to offer was a challenge unlike any I had ever experienced. I had traveled, so not the same. This was foreign, people handing me food on a platter and staring at me while I ate. This was a carbohydrate-heavy meal, three times a day, at exactly 7:00 AM, 12:30 PM, and 6:00 PM for 10 straight weeks. This was not fruit in the morning, vegetables for lunch, and a protein-rich dinner. 

What felt like letting go of me was tough. 

Eventually I grew to be a tiny bit more adventurous... sampling a spoonful of samp, one evening I felt particularly famished. This was one variety of the "staple" food of the country I had chose to spend the next 27 months of my life in. I was underwhelmed as the samp was loaded with butter, my least favorite food, next to pickles and sour cream--both of which I lived blissfully without for 10 months(!!!). Samp, round two, came at the end of Community Based Training celebration. My job was to help prepare the samp for the entire village, meaning I did a lot of watching other people sort and clean and stir. In the midst of being too occupied to work, I scooped out a sample of samp before the gallon-sized tub of butter was added. Four bowls, at least, were put down during my shift. The other volunteers were aggravated--exhausted, hungry, sweaty... and lacking my wit. I had stunned the trainers with my Sesotho skills--spouting "I'm lazy" during this time of physical labor. This got me off the hook for at least a week. Locals thought this was funny, very very funny. Yes, those 10 months were great for my self-esteem. 

(Serious Side Story: Being lazy is nothing to pride yourself on in Lesotho, a country where people are literally fighting for life. I caught them entirely off-guard--the reason this statement was comical.)

So I'm feasting, prior to the feast, on samp--can't eat enough to satisfy the void--watching fellow volunteers slave over the hot pot under the relentless African sun; relishing in the fact, there is something I could survive off, for over two years. Not only was I hysterical, I was going to be full. 

I never learned how to cook samp; the process was long and tedious. When I wanted samp, I requested it from my host family. (For the record, I would usually make them popcorn or let them watch a movie in return. No, this was not a remotely fair trade.) I never even took the time to learn what samp was. I knew it was a derivative of corn, and I knew the corn in Lesotho was a different than ours here in America. I was lazy, geez. 

Who could have predicted I would come back to America and crave samp from time-to-time? Not I. There was no way for me to explain samp to anyone. Not that I tried. 

In my new learn-how-to-cook-so-I-can-survive-as-a-vegan lifestyle I tackled a dish that called for hominy. I had no idea what hominy was but knew it could be purchased in a can at the grocery. I was chopping and sauteing, prepping for the hominy moment. I opened, drained, and rinsed. Then like all good chefs, I sampled. I nearly melted in my tracks: SAMP! You found me(!!!).

Since the house was empty--and Louis was not at all interested in the my news--I danced a jig, temporarily forgetting about my burning vegetables. I also scarfed down half of the can before I remembered the one in charge of those charred vegetables to which the hominy belonged was me. I got my act together and finally, the meal was complete; the taste--wonderful. 

Turns out, hominy is corn that has been processed to remove the hull and germ. According to the intense food dictionary my parents rely on to decipher the ingredients in their mile-long recipes, samp is coarsely ground hominy. Either Americans or Basotho have it wrong: hominy=samp. No extra processing necessary. And with my Southern roots, I never paralleled hominy grits and papa--finely ground samp. All this time I thought the word 'samp' was not of the English language, and instead Sesotho. I do not belong in the kitchen.

If it took going vegan to guide me to my reunification with samp, it was the Best! Decision! Ever!

Being a Nuisance

What I think is thanks to a big lawsuit against the United States Peace Corps right now, I get lots of, at this point, unnecessary special care. One of these "perks" is phone calls from Peace Corps. These calls from the Care and Counseling unit would most accurately be described as check-ups. I find them fake, cheesy, judgmental... far from helpful. It might be my fault; I had to beg and plead and scream and direct the people of this organization simply to track down my luggage. In turn, this brought out a lot of extra baggage, none of the sort I had hoped for---clothes, books, camping equipment, my phone. 

So, here we are, July 28 and my phone rings while I am out with my family. It's a 202 number... which immediately ruins my day.

The message left on my phone--you're all shocked I actually listened to voicemail--yielded the caller's name and a brief summary of our last phone call. According to The Man I had some good things going for me. Yes, last time he checked-in I recall being unemployed, watching friends carry out my dreams, having no place of my own to call home, or future plans of any sorts. Definitely some awesome things going for me! In addition, in our June discussion, per usual, I asked about the parents of T.C.M., knowing full well The Man would not legally be able to give me any indication of how they were doing. To be fair, I muted myself to hide the crying while The Man repeated his go-to line on confidentiality. I fully respect their need for privacy and figured it was best to end the conversation there.

Since then, of no help from Peace Corps, I have found my own way of sharing, having questions answered, and finding the comfort and closure necessary for the next phase.

My sentiment to Peace Corps: if you want to chat-it-up, get in line behind the multitude of friends I have been neglecting these past couple of days. Realize calling near the third will never be a good idea... unless you have a job offer or a means of getting me into my first choice graduate school. Much appreciated.   

[Disclaimer: I hate to bash The (particular) Man calling, and I need to add, there have been many wonderful people from Peace Corps who, with guidance, have helped me along the way. This voicemail was necessary for perspective. I was a huge advocate of the organization, that is, until October 24, 2010 when the organization "acted in my best interest" by removing me from service.] 

Shoes for Lesotho

My 'first world' problems are a stark comparison to those of people in 'third world' situations. I lived that reality for 10 months; as the clock continues to tick I try to keep this in perspective. The story of the district track meet exposed this contrast most clearly to 'my community' of people back home--inspiring several, unbeknownst to me. I'm unsure how this poorly composed account of my experience broke through the deafening media storm of starving, shoeless Africa children, but it did.

With zero intention, this sparked a willingness from 'first world-ers' to help. First word of the project had me worried--here I was far away "watching" people come out of the woodwork, pouring time and energy into accomplishing a project with very loosely defined goals. Already concentrating on developing five secondary plans of my own at the time, I had no idea how to make shoe donations sustainable... but I went with it, partly because the two leaders were deeply invested before I even knew of it's existence. My main hesitation, beyond the [un]sustainability, was burn-out, from not only this project... but that of my upcoming library proposal, one yet to be announced.

Sustainability is constantly preached at volunteers; the word is frankly over-used. I understand it's very importance, but won't deny 'third world' problems wear you down. You constantly see, what you think is, the simple the solution: donations and money(!!!). In lieu of this, by guiding citizens to unite and work toward their own request you avoid creating monsters--lazy and demanding individuals. It's hard to argue doing a few small unsustainable projects as unworthy... those might be what touch and bond the people of the village the most, further allowing big ideas to come to fruition.

Spearheaded by two exceptionally inspired friends the 'Shoes for Samantha' project was born. Both friends served as college roommates, one right after the other, during the Peace Corps frenzy era. It's hard to tell if an entire school year of my 'save-the-world' rants had anything to do with this. Regardless, all of us were in slightly over our heads. These girls knew very little about each other beforehand, attacking full force from separate angles, eventually coming together... learning a lot about each other, steps to becoming an official non-profit, and understanding the developing world. I did essentially nothing--patiently waited, answered email questions when possible, and grew upset with their valid frustrations--from afar. The first shipment of shoes was safely delivered to Lesotho and mostly distributed at the time of my departure.

While working towards a more sustainable, long-term solution to the shoeless African children problem, H.C.O. talked to a lot of major shoe companies, including TOMS Shoes, about the possibility of setting up a large or regular donation. A text received a week ago indicated Lesotho is on the radar of TOMS Shoes. Rushing to check this out... I found my most loyal pen pal featured(!!!). I can only imagine the village excitement--children clamoring around with full bellies, proudly displaying their new belongings. Whoever and wherever you are--behind the scenes people--compliments on a job well done.

We as volunteers are brought together from around the U.S. of A. to serve these countries on behalf of our own; celebrating the successes each other experience is half the fun. It's hard to imagine the countless hours honed in, turning dreams into reality, by the homebase of my fellow volunteer did not coincide with my own community of people. Peace is about bringing people together all over the world. Thank you for all you have done and continue to do.

One for One.

My bright-eyed students showed me peace when I felt jailed by 'third world' problems. They acted courageously with hope to free me from myself--leading me to glimmers of light where reasons to celebrate do exist. Let the children, with covered feet, free of broken glass, be the ones we thank the most.

10 months with you, 10 months without you

My friend’s sister went through a tough pregnancy with her now twin one year old girls, who are simply adorable and have been nothing but a blessing for her and her family since then. Anyways—very few people actually knew how incredibly rough her situation was…until she shared the story on her new blog. It brought most everyone, including myself, near tears. The journey was unimaginable, unless you went through it yourself. Sound familiar? From her I learned how healing it was to put her story out there. And from my experience, I know the more I discuss the event of September 3, 2010 the easier it gets.

I have had a fair share of opportunities to share my story, yet as a "blogger" I feel opening the flood gates for others to read (or ignore) at their own will would be most beneficial. At this time I do not feel as though it’s right for me to publish the details without the consent of the people who may have been hurt the most, T.C.M.’s parents, whom I have had zero contact since the night of the murder. I have no idea what they know about the events of the night… but whatever they know was derived from my mouth, most likely channeled through several officials before reaching them.

Healing is difficult when your natural tendency is to dissociate. You never actually heal from such a trauma; it becomes a part of you. Right now I can't share the actual account but recollecting the back story seems appropriate on the ten month anniversary.

T.C.M. and I were not involved in any sort of romantic relationship; we were extremely good friends. Despite our platonic status, he continually professed he was going to marry me one day and prematurely insisted on calling my parents his in-laws. This was all in fun and games, of course. I was closer to T.C.M. than I have been with most people in my life. Part of this closeness was the nature of our situation: two young high school math/science teachers stranded “together” in the same mountainous district of Lesotho, for what was supposed to be two years. Apart from our proximity to one another, we had a lot in common. I had a college friend from his hometown, we shared rival National League East baseball teams, were both educated at southern institutes, come from families of musical inclination, and much more. Our extreme personalities counterbalanced each other quite nicely. He brought out a side of me I didn’t even know existed, a side of me I really liked. He was a schemer (I find most men are) with the unique ability to dream big and follow through, an admirable character trait.

Confident and caring, he shared my passion for Lesotho and global health, while remaining grounded by his family and large friend base back stateside.

Before moving to our Thaba-Tseka homes we spent a long weekend together in the South (of Lesotho), with a volunteer two classes our superior, learning about site life. During the three month district lock-down we were able to visit each other, prior to celebrating our "newbie" status with the remainder of our district. As time went on I grew less fond of public transportation and my primary teaching job. When I needed an escape from my village (or a shower) I weekended in Katse, T.C.M.'s home. He was always there to bounce ideas off of or forget about stress with for awhile. When he ran out of money or fresh produce... he made his way to the camptown where I resided. The entire district of Thaba-Tseka has very few high schools, meaning our schools frequently brought us together for events--track meets, debates, science competitions.

The first semester ended and we were both ready to get off the mountain, well mother nature had a different idea. It snowed and snowed and snowed a little more. There was never any real accumulation--just enough to keep transportation inoperable. We made the best of the situation by celebrating the World Cup opening at the lodge with his co-workers. The weather cleared and we parted ways, reuniting in early July.

T.C.M. visited [my] town to track down the perfect pig for a 4th of July slaughtering. He had "his" welder make him a spit for the occasion I was not planning on attending (me=vegetarian). You had to be there to understand the trials and tribulations required to purchase swine in Lesotho. Reeediculous! Realize, what was supposed to take him a day, took the week, in addition my accompanying him back to Katse, where I eventually witnessed this debatably humane killing.

The rest of winter came and went, ending with a week long AIDS training in Nazareth, a five plus hour trek West from my home. Immediately following, school started back, not feeling well I kept to myself for most of August--finally accepting company the last weekend. We got into shenanigans only T.C.M. would track down. Hotel party? In Africa? The very next weekend we traveled the six hours to Maseru, the capitol of Lesotho, for the Close of Service Banquet in honor of the education group ahead of ours.

This post is now a novel; I never said it was a short story. After typing I feel much relief, recalling many more good--over the one epic bad memory.

Africa (can) Suck

In retrospect, at the time of my journey, Ghana was not for me. This being said, I did my best to embrace everything Ghana had to offer for an entire month. The month I spent in Western Africa was a part of my Peace Corps experience. Through my eyes I witnessed the beautiful country of Ghana. My heart was very much aware of the abundance of the love Ghanians demonstrate for complete strangers, along with one another.

In the midst of my American travels, I was stopped in my tracks with the devastating news my Ghanian host-sister had passed away. Almost immediately upon arrival, little D informed me she had sickle cell anemia. An episode related to her condition took her life. Coming from a country that struggles with stigma, honestly discussing important issues regarding personal health, and the ability to apply concepts I was blown away by D's openness. She taught me more about her disease than any college genetics class ever did. BUT not only was her knowledge of life with sickle cell anemia passed along--she shared her culture and invited me into her life. She was one of those very special people who truly captivate their audience. They don't allow anything to hold them back; they intentionally create fulfilling lives.

The news caught me way off guard; it took everything I had not to burst into tears. Sweet D touched my life in a way no one else had. Her receptiveness and responsiveness to my unique challenge of readjusting to another new African home did not phase her. There was no time for wallowing as she filled every waking minute of my Ghana time with Yahtzee, card games, jump rope, swinging on the handmade swings, sidewalk chalk, Play-Doh, and short village walks.

Now she is physically gone--it's unfair.

Nine Months

By Peace Corps’ 27 month standard the education 2010 volunteers have completed two-thirds of their service. While I officially completed 13 months of service, only 10 of these months were served in Lesotho. No longer a volunteer I am very much united to my cohort of friends still in country finishing out the remainder of their service. We have been without T.C.M. for a complete trimester.

At the finale of each month abroad I chose one song to essentially define the atmosphere throughout the month. My playlist, heavily influenced by T.C.M., included these nine songs:

• Month One: Wagon Wheel—Old Crow Medicine Show
• Month Two: New Shoes—Paolo Nutini
• Month Three: Wonderwall—Oasis
• Month Four: 1901--Phoenix
• Month Five: I Got No Ceilings—Lil Wayne
• Month Six: She Moves in Her Own Way—The Kooks
• Month Seven: Waka Waka (Time for Africa)--Shakira
• Month Eight: July, July!—The Decembrist
• Month Nine: Let Her Cry—Hootie & the Blowfish

The second trimester, in country or out, has been a difficult one. Regaining confidence, resetting values, restoring passion, and finding a general sense of normalcy has included a celebration of small accomplishments. This month I reached a big milestone; I was able to start listening to these nine songs.

Goodbye Gals

On one of my final days in Clemson I had the pleasure of spending yet another afternoon with the fabulous T.D.H. before she takes off for Lesotho. If only I met the 80 pound weight requirement—I would be her luggage. I tried unsuccessfully to hide the envy running through my blood. I am plain and simple still having much difficultly coping with the unexpected early termination of my service, more and more as the reality of unemployment sets in. Knowing and accepting that life is unfair are two extremely different concepts; this is not how it was supposed to be(!!!).

My jealousy and complaints aside, I hope T.D.H. could sense my joy and excitement for her on this upcoming adventure. I give her a vote of confidence—she is cut out for what the next two years (plus or minus) will throw at her.

The South was very underrepresented in my class of volunteers, however, she will not be the only girl representing the Upstate of South Carolina in Lesotho, joined by C.M.B.—who T.D.H. so generously allowed me to share her time with.

We all have our own pre-departure fears—discussing with them openly, honestly, and without passing judgment I did my best to alleviate some of theirs. The difficultly here being I lived a very princess-esque lifestyle; my “survival” approach stood out from others.

Neither girl had a question they had not already sought out an answer to on their own. They were WAY more on top of it than I ever was, my best example being I did not even know how to pronounce Lesotho (le-soo-too) until training began. Eeek. Or the fact I was literally adding to my bags the morning I left my home, which turned into rearranging them to meet weight requirements at John F. Kennedy International Airport the day of the final flight. Then there was my final goodbye phone calls lasting into the wee hours of the night. I was an emotional wreck.

Well equipped, both physically and mentally, these girls head to Philadelphia today, where they will meet the rest of their crew, eventually departing for the Mountain Kingdom soon after. Happy, healthy, and safe travels to all of these fresh faces.

Your feet are the foundation of your life.

Narrowing my shoes collection was the most challenging part of packing I recall. For those volunteers heading out, my do not leave home without recommendations are as follows:

1. Chacos. I wore them every single day throughout three of the four seasons.
2. Danskos. Made for comfort and all day long use, with great arch support. These were my go-to shoes for working in the winter.
3. Duck Boots. Faulty weather, rain or snow these never let me down.

Originally these three shoes were included on my 'must have' belongings list, but it would have brought my total items to 13, which is such an ugly, worthless prime number. This is unless we are referring to a bakers dozen, where the number 13 is never stated--simply implied.

Onwards. Understand there is a lot of walking in Africa. I alone walked a minimum of two hours every single day, plus usually found an additional 30 minutes to exercise. Shoes are not to be under rated, even the boys would agree. The other five pairs I was happy to have but could have managed without.

• Running Shoes. My village chose to make running difficult by kindly throwing rocks at me. Each experience is different as I had several friends who were able to establish regular running routines in their villages.
• Hiking-tennis shoe style-Boots. The "hiking" is nothing like America. Rugged sandals will always suffice and usually be preferred.
• Rainbows (or sturdy flip flops). I was glad I had Rainbows because while flip flops can be purchased in Lesotho rather affordably they are not great quality. They do, however serve their purpose.
• Nice Flats. A nice pair of flats were great for swearing in, special events at school, and vacation. Definitely got plenty of use out of them--enough that I found lugging them along worth it. It was nice to have the option to mix it up from time to time.
• UGG Moccasins. It's debatable if I could have truly lived without these. They were my 'indoor' shoes, allowing me to keep not only my feet warm during the ungodly cold winter but also my hut clean...er. Slippers can also be purchased in country, those owning UGG Moccasins know once you invest in these shoes, other slippers don't exist.

Ultimate Packing Advice(!!!): Bring shoes and clothes you actually wear in America. All of these shoes were well loved before I took off. They represented me. If you have never hiked a day in your life--you probably will not start in Lesotho and you won't need them to handle the terrain. Save the money set aside to invest in hiking boots for vacation, then thank me later. Say you are one of those girls who prances around in high heels or cute flats everyday, you'll fit right in wearing those same shoes in Lesotho. As an added bonus the culture is quite hygienic and respects the well dressed.

Relax. You won't miss your things. Spend time with the people you will long for. Eat delicious food you will crave the minute you hop off the plane. Visit the places that you enjoy.

My Must Have Items

In two months from today a new set of eager volunteers will board a plane to the Forgotten Kingdom where they will be greeted by seasoned volunteers who have long awaited new faces.

I wish the newbies fresh starts and a smooth training--this will hands down be the most challenging part. May they show lots of love for a country that might effortlessly break them down, demand too much at times, and often act beyond the volunteers control.

For my cohort still serving, encourage these youthful faces, be open to their ideas, and rejuvenated by their desire and passion to serve and grow. Remember what it was like to be in their shoes and how discouraging the experienced volunteers were at times.

The more reality sets in here the louder I cheer for those of you still fortunate enough to be living and working is Lesotho. Your happiness, safety, and health will continue to be utmost important for success in your final months.

Two months till take off is when I actually put a little thought into the 80 lbs coming with me to Africa. This list is as much an excuse to reminisce as it is meant to help future volunteers through frustration. These are the tangibles I found necessary are listed below.

1. My weekend pants. These were essentially capri length comfy pants--not as tight as leggings and less frumpy than sweat pants. I'm someone you would rarely, if ever find in a skirt in America nevertheless was willing and open-minded about conforming in Lesotho, at the very least for the sake of my reputation. All those words to say I thoroughly appreciated the nights and weekend spent in these special pants.
2. Rain Coat. When it rains, it pours. And when it rains, you will not be cuddled up on a comfy couch eating bon-bons. Rain is a season in Africa.
3. My pocket knife. I used it all the time, for everything. This is an item I found quite handy in America before departure. If you don't use one in your current lifestyle, not worth purchasing. Perhaps instead, unlike myself, you're into cooking? This knife is will change your life, pack it.
4. My crank/solar flashlight shortwave radio combo. I purchased this specifically for my Peace Corps adventure. I ended up having electricity yet still managed to use a flashlight (night trips to the latrine, power outages) everyday. Living in the mountains I was not able to access shortwave at my actual site--the amount of BBC I listened to in training alone was worth the price.
5. iPod. My iPod and I go everywhere together because life without music, well it's no life at all. Most volunteers will disagree, but I would have been perfectly content without a computer. Even in a hut with electricity where I was able to freely charge my computer, I opted for listening to podcasts and watching television on my iPod when alone.
6. Speakers for my iPod. The one my parents mailed me rocked, only using two Duracell AA Batteries in four months with about eight hours of use a day.
7. Nalgene. You can buy plastic water bottles in Lesotho the same way you can here in America. You don't purchase them here therefore you won't do it there. Peace Corps hooks you up with a filtering system and pots for boiling water (or cooking if you skills exceed this task). Keep your Nalgene or Sigg, whatever your preference, full--your body and mother earth will be oh so grateful.
8. My preferred American face-wash. You can buy face-wash along with soap, shampoo, conditioner, and toothpaste in Lesotho. I never felt the face-wash was on par with America; in like manner I opted for American deodorant.
9. Sleeping Bag. Travel in and out of country. Brutal Winters. Hosting Visitors. Enough said.
10. V5 Pilot Pens. The pen selection in Lesotho is minimal and the quality is lacking. Writing letters, grading papers, or making lists in fancy colored pens might not delight you the way it does me--bring one item that makes you happy.

If I can't wake up to pigs snorting, rain leaking through my hut, and middle sister knocking on my door with a warm slice of bread forever, it's time for someone else to be given the opportunity. Do enjoy.

Somewhere Between Death and Dying

Somewhere between all the here and there I acquired a parasite. While I would not wish this experience on anyone--I am as confused as you are on how the vegetarian ended up with the parasite? More than six months since leaving Lesotho and a year after the end-all meal I am done questioning and onto dealing with said parasite.

The past five days I have been sick sick sick with a "self-induced" illness.

The word that has continually come to mind when trying to reflect has been: humble.

To catch you up to speed on my thoughts on medicine go here. If your life is much to busy, all you need to understand is that I basically swore off medicine at birth. During my Peace Corps stint I refused to go as far as to open my medical kit. As it turns out, to fight the parasite I was left with no other option than a high dose of two different antibiotics with not-so-fun side effects. The medication requirement in and of itself was humbling. My opinions were put to rest while I took the advice of several medical professionals with much more insight, training, and experience than myself.

This is not easy for a girl who refuses to take her iron medicine in order to ward off chronic anemia, unless she's under watch by the United States Government. In the beginning it was only 18 pills a day of antibiotics, the side effects being so awful by the end I was amped up to 25 pills a day.

The Peace Corps post service medical unit operates on a reimbursement system, meaning all the drugs had to be paid for out of pocket. Anyone who knows me will probably tell you I'm cheap. The verdict on whether that is a good or bad trait is still out. Moving forward. You can imagine my face when the pharmacist told me $392.85 was the total for these medications. I was humbled by the fact I have always had incredibly good medical coverage. This is something I took completely for granted until last Tuesday. I am going to be fully compensated for each penny spent... what about those who face the reality of, and I'll use this term lightly, "life-saving" expensive drugs without help?

The situation gets worse or more humbling? Last night when I found myself experiencing vomiting and diarrhea simultaneously (too much information, sorry-it's been my reality) I was forced to trudge out to Walmart, the only pharmacy open till nine in Small Town, South Carolina. Apparently 9 PM is the latest any one pharmacy stays open where I currently reside. Now I haven't yet composed a post on my distaste for the Walmart Corporation, but realize I have so much beef with them I am not sure where I would begin. I submitted my pride, added a tenth tally mark next to 'trips to Walmart' (an accomplishment here in the South) and contributed roughly 50 dollars to the multibillion dollar madhouse.

Lest I sound like a complete whiner and/or act as though I have been totally humbled, this has definitely been a character building week--posting twice on one illness is I understand weak.