 |
| My Mission of Hope (By Cherie Clark) When I was in my late teens, a young priest gave me a prayer card inscribed with the words of Cardinal John Henry Newman, a nineteenth-century cleric. Titled "I Have My Mission," it read in part: "God has created me to do him some definite service: He has committed some work to me, which he has not committed to another. I have my mission . . . I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good. I shall do his work." The words struck a chord deep within me. The prayer card became one of my most treasured possessions, and I carried it with me for years. The priest also told me about Mother Teresa, the nun who was working with the "poorest of the poor" in India and I longed to do something meaningful with my life. A few years later, after I married, I began taking evening classes at a local community college. I started with psychology classes, then took a course that was ostensibly sociology but focused very much on the war in Vietnam. I invested a semester of hard work, earning an A in that class, as I did in most classes, but I took away far more than a good grade. I soon became active in antiwar demonstrations and in the presidential campaigns of antiwar candidates. I read everything I could, trying to make some sense of America's involvement in Vietnam - but the more I read, the less I understood it. By this time I had two children and was pregnant with my third; education and motherhood became my equal passions. I continued to enroll in classes, and in a burst of confidence took an intensive biology class. The idea of becoming a nurse grew within me. When I passed that class, I knew I was on my way. I took chemistry and passed that exam, too, with the second highest score in the class. Ultimately, I completed my nursing degree. Meanwhile, the war in Vietnam dragged on. I felt helpless, fighting for a cause that most people didn't seem to care about. Gradually the thought struck me that perhaps I could make a single, small contribution by making a difference in the life of one person. Recalling a magazine article I had read about the plight of poor, unwanted children in Vietnam, I asked my husband how he would feel about adopting one of them. We not only adopted one child, but applied for adoption of a second and third. When the process grounded to a halt, it seemed the children would never be released to us. After several frustrating months of waiting, I decided to go to Vietnam and attempt to untangle the paperwork. Arriving there in November of 1973, I was immediately enthralled by this amazingly vibrant country and its people. On my second day I was invited to work with a nurse at the To Am ("warm nest") Nursery, founded by Rosemary Taylor, an Australian social worker who had been working in Vietnam since 1967. That evening I was greeted warmly by Elaine Norris, a volunteer American nurse. Elaine was obviously exhausted. The influx of orphaned and abandoned children was increasing daily and this center was overflowing. They had no more room inside and were accommodating the extra babies wherever they could, even outside on the open porch. The villa's living room had become a makeshift intensive care unit, filled with very sick babies. Many of them were receiving IV fluids from bottles hanging from nails driven into the walls. Nothing in my training had prepared me for such a sight, and the enormity of the task ahead took me by surprise. Nervously, I confided in Elaine that I wasn't sure I was competent to help with so many babies. Elaine smiled and assured me I would learn quickly. We talked while diapering, feeding and caring for the infants. At last, bone-tired, I crawled into bed. As I drifted off to sleep, I listened to the night's serenade: babies crying, gunfire in the street below and explosions in the distance. I woke before dawn to find Elaine working in one of the rooms. Quietly, she pointed to a tiny baby boy and told me she'd been up all night nursing him. The baby was scheduled to travel to a new family soon, but he wasn't going to make it. The sight was traumatic for me. Before that moment, I had never seen a baby die. I stayed with Elaine, and we lovingly comforted the tiny boy until he passed away. By then I was crying so hard, I was sure I couldn't continue to work. The emotion was too much for me. But I couldn't leave the nursery because Elaine was exhausted after a full night's work. She needed me to get back in control. I urged her to rest and told her I would take over while she slept. Alone, I gazed about the room, frozen by the awesome responsibility I had just agreed to take on. Suddenly, I was in charge of a house full of babies. There was no doctor and no other nurses, only the Vietnamese staff, who spoke little English. There was nobody I could turn to for advice or guidance; it was up to me to make the decisions. A childcare worker soon approached me with an infant in her arms. She pointed to the child's forehead. I saw his flushed face and felt his forehead; he was burning hot with fever. Together we sponged the baby with cool water, and slowly the fever diminished. When he was sleeping soundly, the woman gently slipped him into a crib. I followed behind the workers as they made rounds, quickly seeing how well these women knew their small charges. Though we couldn't converse, we communicated through the needs of the babies. A nurse pointed to one whose IV had infiltrated. The area was red and puffy. I knew what was needed, but there was no doctor to do the job. I'd have to do it alone. My hands shook as I pulled out the IV needle and correctly reinserted it into the tiny girl's vein. It was the first time I had ever started an IV, and I was relieved when I saw the fluid begin to flow into her vein. I fretted, checking the IV every few minutes, and was amazed that it continued working well. As I went from child to child, my nursing skills came to the fore, and I knew what had to be done. No sooner had I finished with one child than another would need my attention. The hours blurred into a constant round of nursing each baby. I started recognizing the individuality of each one, and soon could identify them as the unique little people they were. Finally, I looked up to see Elaine smiling and watching me, looking refreshed and rested. "You're a natural," she told me. "I have my mission." At last I had found the "definite service" for which I had been created. I returned to the United States only long enough to retrieve my children and husband and never returned to America to live again. The work in Vietnam in 1973 was the beginning of my lifetime commitment to children in Vietnam and India. I eventually opened my own organization ? International Mission of Hope |