Fieldset
Closed chapters

Today, Friday - the one precious day described candidly as weekend, I found in it a few extra hours of sleep under the progressively lighted night sky and stingily cold night, awaking to a considerate phone call from Khartoum and a good earnest discussion about some of the project concerns, then

Today, Friday - the one precious day described candidly as weekend, I found in it a few extra hours of sleep under the progressively lighted night sky and stingily cold night, awaking to a considerate phone call from Khartoum and a good earnest discussion about some of the project concerns, then making the trip to the 'mushtashfa' to see ''hows evvverrything''. I'm greeted by the herds of visitors to patients and the sweet nurse who accompanied the gunshot victim yesterday to Zalingei. The nurse took my hand, led me the only 5cm of shade to be found, preparing to spare me the knock he was about to deliver. He died. The gunshot victim who exsanginuated out of his bleeding kidney died. He died. He died. He died. How can anyone feel inspired or thrilled when we surround ourselves by impracticalities. Death is an impracticality really. Which any dimwit would agree with, well except a deranged serial killer. I guess this posting is really trying to convey and grapple with the fatigue that creeps and resultant disillusionment that comes with expenditure of vast amounts of energy, but also how I'm trying to climb beyond it. I'm so tired of feeling tired that I want to end it now. I'm prone to the turbulent ruminations about everything, I know that. I know that also I'm a really cool chick. I know how to have fun, I know how to sneak into people’s spaces they stash for special ones, I know well how to cheat at card games and I can be intuitive and silly simultaneously. Today I decided to be faithful to all I am.So I cheated at cards and stroked my geriatric patients cheek when no one was looking.

When I returned to the expat house, I finally completed what I have been putting off for ages. Finishing the novel I've been reading for just too long a time. It’s written in the voice of a 55 year old man, who is ridiculously witty, intelligent, equally bewildered by life and insights are downright honest and admittedly doubtful. So in these strange circumstances of isolation, I've been enjoying the relationship that’s now so amplified, I felt at a wits end to let go of. I also transferred all things lost, by the way of many lives lost here in Darfur (the stories of 2004 from the staff are frightful) to the loss of my night time author companion. The loss strikes so hard when I close the book and think of the young man who died today that I weep. Both chapters closed. But after this outpouring, I open another book and look forward to another new-fangled spell. To conclude this long recitation: I feel like tomorrow I'll be better. What I will do is make the medical meeting into an exercise of dissecting what we did right for this guy and what we can improve the next time someone comes in. Motivation comes when we feel inspired and if I don’t feel the kick and buzz, I can’t let that trickle down to the staff, they are in need of it as much as I am and they need it desperately.