Dispatches From Haitihttp://www.good.is/A continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:38:39 -0800CakePHPhourly1en-us <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Time Marches On]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-time-marches-on/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-time-marches-on/ IMG_1704This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

I walked the grounds of the main hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince, surrounded by ghosts—images and sounds rushing back of the early days right after the 7.0 earthquake here ten weeks ago.

I was here with our Emergency Response Team from International Medical Corps the day after the January 12 disaster. In the area we dubbed the “forest,” about 500 patients had lain on the grass or on hospital beds, many with infected crush injuries teeming with maggots, their blank stares reflecting how numb they had become from the pain—or their faces contorted in pain. Moans, screams, praying, chanting, sometimes just eerie silence.

On this day, the forest was quiet. No live patients lying next to dead ones, bloody bandages and IV bags strewn about. No doctors and nurses frantically wedging themselves into tight corners to dress and disinfect, transport, or declare dead. Today all I saw were tidy tents with a few post-operative cases inside. Sturdy chairs outside the tents provided a comfortable waiting area for loved ones. The place looked small, simple, organized. All I could hear was the breeze in the trees.

I stood there, awed by the transformation, and wept for those who lived here and went home, those who lived here and had no home to return here, and those who died here.

I exited the forest and walked toward the pediatric ward. How many times had I walked this path—to the pediatric and maternity wards, the supply warehouse, the blood bank, the U.S. military’s hospital headquarters? I looked to my right, waiting to come upon the nursing college, where as many as a hundred nurses had perished that day, where every day the powerful smell of their decomposing bodies hung in the air. As I passed an empty lot, covered in a neat layer of rocks and crumbled cinderblock, cordoned off by concertina wire, I yelled out to my colleagues, “Where is the nursing college?! It was right here!” This was the former nursing college—razed, gone—the bodies and bones of Haiti’s future interred underneath.

Time marches on.

We then walked to the two ICU tents, where a group of doctors and nurses rotating through from Chicago-Rush Hospital, the University of Connecticut, and other institutions were tackling about 30 urgent cases, from typhoid fever to congestive heart failure. Suddenly, as I stood next to one woman’s bed I saw her begin seizing. She had gone into renal failure. A team of about eight doctors and nurses responded quickly. Amid the commotion, her husband and son moved outside the ICU tent, where they gazed inside watching in terror, praying she would live. The medical team administered CPR, gave the woman epinephrine injections, and after about 15 minutes of vigorous, sweat-inducing pumping on her chest they were able to revive her. She was dead, then she was alive.

I think back to the early days at the hospital—we didn’t have any of the equipment I see before me today: dialysis machines, portable ultrasounds. Amputations were done without anesthesia. Antibiotics and powerful painkillers were precious and ran out quickly.

In the bed across from her was a beautiful, young woman who had suffered massive complications in childbirth and lay limp as her mother and grandmother together washed her face, massaged her limbs, mixed a little food for her that she tried to eat without choking. It was a striking contrast between medical advances hard at work on one side of the room, and simple, loving care on the other.

The fact is countless patients who’ve come through University hospital would not be alive today if International Medical Corps weren’t there. We’re treating anywhere from 500 to 800 patients a day there—plus another 1,200 or so at our mobile clinics in 18 sites in earthquake-affected areas across Haiti.

It is astonishing to see how far we’ve come. And yet I am surrounded by tremendous degradation, pain, and suffering. Areas like downtown Port-au-Prince and Leogane (the epicenter of the quake) are still complete disaster zones, awash in rubble. In many ways, they look no different than they did nine weeks ago.

So many people ask me about all the money that’s been raised in the United States and other countries for Haiti relief—is it getting to those who need it most? The answer is resoundingly yes—but millions were affected by the earthquake, in a place already buckled under by poverty and disease. They need health care, shelter, food, clean water. It will require herculean efforts, over the long-term.

We knew when we first arrived here on January 13 that we would need to stay for the long haul, doing the training of local health workers that is the hallmark of our work around the world and that will help Haitians rebuild and take care of themselves.

We have a responsibility to those ghosts—that we learn from what happened in those early days and move forward, caring for those they left behind and helping Haitians to carry on.

Margaret Aguirre is the director of global communications for International Medical Corps and is reporting for GOOD on her experiences in Haiti and the people she meets along the way. Photo by Crystal Wells.
]]> IMG_1704This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

I walked the grounds of the main hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince, surrounded by ghosts—images and sounds rushing back of the early days right after the 7.0 earthquake here ten weeks ago.

I was here with our Emergency Response Team from International Medical Corps the day after the January 12 disaster. In the area we dubbed the “forest,” about 500 patients had lain on the grass or on hospital beds, many with infected crush injuries teeming with maggots, their blank stares reflecting how numb they had become from the pain—or their faces contorted in pain. Moans, screams, praying, chanting, sometimes just eerie silence.

On this day, the forest was quiet. No live patients lying next to dead ones, bloody bandages and IV bags strewn about. No doctors and nurses frantically wedging themselves into tight corners to dress and disinfect, transport, or declare dead. Today all I saw were tidy tents with a few post-operative cases inside. Sturdy chairs outside the tents provided a comfortable waiting area for loved ones. The place looked small, simple, organized. All I could hear was the breeze in the trees.

I stood there, awed by the transformation, and wept for those who lived here and went home, those who lived here and had no home to return here, and those who died here.

I exited the forest and walked toward the pediatric ward. How many times had I walked this path—to the pediatric and maternity wards, the supply warehouse, the blood bank, the U.S. military’s hospital headquarters? I looked to my right, waiting to come upon the nursing college, where as many as a hundred nurses had perished that day, where every day the powerful smell of their decomposing bodies hung in the air. As I passed an empty lot, covered in a neat layer of rocks and crumbled cinderblock, cordoned off by concertina wire, I yelled out to my colleagues, “Where is the nursing college?! It was right here!” This was the former nursing college—razed, gone—the bodies and bones of Haiti’s future interred underneath.

Time marches on.

We then walked to the two ICU tents, where a group of doctors and nurses rotating through from Chicago-Rush Hospital, the University of Connecticut, and other institutions were tackling about 30 urgent cases, from typhoid fever to congestive heart failure. Suddenly, as I stood next to one woman’s bed I saw her begin seizing. She had gone into renal failure. A team of about eight doctors and nurses responded quickly. Amid the commotion, her husband and son moved outside the ICU tent, where they gazed inside watching in terror, praying she would live. The medical team administered CPR, gave the woman epinephrine injections, and after about 15 minutes of vigorous, sweat-inducing pumping on her chest they were able to revive her. She was dead, then she was alive.

I think back to the early days at the hospital—we didn’t have any of the equipment I see before me today: dialysis machines, portable ultrasounds. Amputations were done without anesthesia. Antibiotics and powerful painkillers were precious and ran out quickly.

In the bed across from her was a beautiful, young woman who had suffered massive complications in childbirth and lay limp as her mother and grandmother together washed her face, massaged her limbs, mixed a little food for her that she tried to eat without choking. It was a striking contrast between medical advances hard at work on one side of the room, and simple, loving care on the other.

The fact is countless patients who’ve come through University hospital would not be alive today if International Medical Corps weren’t there. We’re treating anywhere from 500 to 800 patients a day there—plus another 1,200 or so at our mobile clinics in 18 sites in earthquake-affected areas across Haiti.

It is astonishing to see how far we’ve come. And yet I am surrounded by tremendous degradation, pain, and suffering. Areas like downtown Port-au-Prince and Leogane (the epicenter of the quake) are still complete disaster zones, awash in rubble. In many ways, they look no different than they did nine weeks ago.

So many people ask me about all the money that’s been raised in the United States and other countries for Haiti relief—is it getting to those who need it most? The answer is resoundingly yes—but millions were affected by the earthquake, in a place already buckled under by poverty and disease. They need health care, shelter, food, clean water. It will require herculean efforts, over the long-term.

We knew when we first arrived here on January 13 that we would need to stay for the long haul, doing the training of local health workers that is the hallmark of our work around the world and that will help Haitians rebuild and take care of themselves.

We have a responsibility to those ghosts—that we learn from what happened in those early days and move forward, caring for those they left behind and helping Haitians to carry on.

Margaret Aguirre is the director of global communications for International Medical Corps and is reporting for GOOD on her experiences in Haiti and the people she meets along the way. Photo by Crystal Wells.
]]> Margaret Aguirre Wed, 7 Apr 2010 06:30:00 PDT <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Soldiers and Civilians]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-soldiers-and-civilians/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-soldiers-and-civilians/ Civ-mil-3This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.



It was an unusual team effort, one where two culturally opposite groups buried their differences and pulled together through the white heat of the catastrophe that befell Haiti last January 12-and saved countless lives in the process.



For more than six weeks after the earthquake struck, one group-uniformed, armed soldiers from the U.S. Army's 82nd Airborne Division-protected and assisted the second-humanitarian aid group volunteer doctors and nurses tending the injured, the sick, and the dying at the country's biggest hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince.



The military and the humanitarian aid communities are a renowned oil and water mix-a clash of  cultures where mutual understanding and respect for each others' mission are all too often in short supply. When events do throw them together, the result is usually an uneasy partnership.



Not this time. In Haiti, oil and water mixed.



So it was understandable that when the soldiers of the 82nd handed back the University Hospital's security responsibilities to local authorities late last month and withdrew to a nearby base, there was a sense of loss on both sides.



"We couldn't have achieved what we did without them," summed up Dr. Neil Joyce, International Medical Corps medical director during those initial hectic weeks.



Lt. Col. Paul Schillaci, a physician's assistant and one of a team of 32 U.S. Army medics that continues to support the hospital following the security handover, said those on his team vied with each other daily to get hospital duty.



"For us, it's been a universally positive experience," he said. The cooperation came easily, according to members of both groups..



In the confusion and desperation that characterized those early post-quake days, emergency medical teams, including those working with International Medical Corps at the University Hospital, breathed a visible sigh of relief when the 82nd Airborne first showed up. With little fan-fare and a soft hand, the soldiers established order. They calmed the anxious and unruly crowds of loved ones and passersby that milled around the hospital's main gate. They organized access to the hospital grounds.



"The soldier's presence was an altogether positive development for the medical teams," according to a recent article in the New England Journal of Medicine signed by nine medical professionals who were among the first to arrive at the hospital after the quake. "By maintaining order and limiting the crowds of onlookers, they gave us more ready access to our patients."



Army medics also pitched in to evaluate and treat patients, supporting the humanitarian aid groups' volunteer doctors and nurses on the brink of exhaustion as much with their energy and positive attitude as with their deeds. Military medics hauled stretchers and supplies and helped transfer many of the most seriously injured patients to other facilities, including the U.S. Navy hospital ship, Comfort, anchored just offshore.



Doctors say those transfers alone saved many lives.



The 24-hour security the soldiers provided at the hospital also saved more lives because it allowed humanitarian groups to maintain medical care for their patients through the night rather than having to pull volunteers out at dark for safety reasons. Although Port au Prince is far calmer today, representatives of some humanitarian groups were visibly nervous about keeping a night shift of volunteer doctors and nurses going at the hospital without the Army's security protection.



While American soldiers no longer provide security for the hospital, the Army continues to transfer patients in urgent need of additional care to better-equipped facilities nearby. One morning earlier this month, as Army medics waited outside the University Hospital's emergency room tent to take a critical ill child on a six to seven mile journey to a hospital operated by the University of Miami at the Port-au-Prince airport, Schillaci tried to explain why the military and humanitarian communities managed to cooperate with relative ease in Haiti.



"People who do [humanitarian assistance] work are usually those who don't hold the military in high regard, but the scale of this disaster was so great that everyone who came here, came to help in any way they good," he said. "That broke down a lot of barriers."



Photo of International Medical Corps volunteer Dr. Robert Fuller conferring with a member of the military at University hospital in Port-au-Prince. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps's Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.


]]> Civ-mil-3This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.



It was an unusual team effort, one where two culturally opposite groups buried their differences and pulled together through the white heat of the catastrophe that befell Haiti last January 12-and saved countless lives in the process.



For more than six weeks after the earthquake struck, one group-uniformed, armed soldiers from the U.S. Army's 82nd Airborne Division-protected and assisted the second-humanitarian aid group volunteer doctors and nurses tending the injured, the sick, and the dying at the country's biggest hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince.



The military and the humanitarian aid communities are a renowned oil and water mix-a clash of  cultures where mutual understanding and respect for each others' mission are all too often in short supply. When events do throw them together, the result is usually an uneasy partnership.



Not this time. In Haiti, oil and water mixed.



So it was understandable that when the soldiers of the 82nd handed back the University Hospital's security responsibilities to local authorities late last month and withdrew to a nearby base, there was a sense of loss on both sides.



"We couldn't have achieved what we did without them," summed up Dr. Neil Joyce, International Medical Corps medical director during those initial hectic weeks.



Lt. Col. Paul Schillaci, a physician's assistant and one of a team of 32 U.S. Army medics that continues to support the hospital following the security handover, said those on his team vied with each other daily to get hospital duty.



"For us, it's been a universally positive experience," he said. The cooperation came easily, according to members of both groups..



In the confusion and desperation that characterized those early post-quake days, emergency medical teams, including those working with International Medical Corps at the University Hospital, breathed a visible sigh of relief when the 82nd Airborne first showed up. With little fan-fare and a soft hand, the soldiers established order. They calmed the anxious and unruly crowds of loved ones and passersby that milled around the hospital's main gate. They organized access to the hospital grounds.



"The soldier's presence was an altogether positive development for the medical teams," according to a recent article in the New England Journal of Medicine signed by nine medical professionals who were among the first to arrive at the hospital after the quake. "By maintaining order and limiting the crowds of onlookers, they gave us more ready access to our patients."



Army medics also pitched in to evaluate and treat patients, supporting the humanitarian aid groups' volunteer doctors and nurses on the brink of exhaustion as much with their energy and positive attitude as with their deeds. Military medics hauled stretchers and supplies and helped transfer many of the most seriously injured patients to other facilities, including the U.S. Navy hospital ship, Comfort, anchored just offshore.



Doctors say those transfers alone saved many lives.



The 24-hour security the soldiers provided at the hospital also saved more lives because it allowed humanitarian groups to maintain medical care for their patients through the night rather than having to pull volunteers out at dark for safety reasons. Although Port au Prince is far calmer today, representatives of some humanitarian groups were visibly nervous about keeping a night shift of volunteer doctors and nurses going at the hospital without the Army's security protection.



While American soldiers no longer provide security for the hospital, the Army continues to transfer patients in urgent need of additional care to better-equipped facilities nearby. One morning earlier this month, as Army medics waited outside the University Hospital's emergency room tent to take a critical ill child on a six to seven mile journey to a hospital operated by the University of Miami at the Port-au-Prince airport, Schillaci tried to explain why the military and humanitarian communities managed to cooperate with relative ease in Haiti.



"People who do [humanitarian assistance] work are usually those who don't hold the military in high regard, but the scale of this disaster was so great that everyone who came here, came to help in any way they good," he said. "That broke down a lot of barriers."



Photo of International Medical Corps volunteer Dr. Robert Fuller conferring with a member of the military at University hospital in Port-au-Prince. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps's Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.


]]> Tyler Marshall Tue, 30 Mar 2010 05:00:39 PDT <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Far from the Last]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-far-from-the-last/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-far-from-the-last/ IMG_1298March 22 marked the eighteenth World Water Day, a date set aside each spring by United Nations proclamation to celebrate the importance of fresh water. For those living in the Developed World, it's a chance to remember that an estimated 900 million people globally still lack access to the minimum daily required amount of safe fresh water. This is the story of what befell one of those 900 million.



Max is a petite 17-year-old Haitian girl, who lay in the ICU tent at Port-au-Prince's University Hospital, her belly swollen and bandaged. In the next bed was another woman in the same condition.



Max, like the woman next to her, came to University Hospital with sharp stomach pain and a swollen abdomen. In the United States these symptoms would likely be appendicitis. Not in Haiti. Following the Jan. 12 earthquake that destroyed so much of the capital, hundreds of thousands now live in overcrowded, hastily thrown-together tent cities, at risk to something practically nonexistent in most of the developed world-typhoid.



I was introduced to Max and her attentive father, Jacksone, at the University Hospital, where International Medical Corps has been working since January 14. Her battle with the disease has been going now for two months.



When I learned why this beautiful, young, and otherwise healthy woman laid in a hospital bed for nearly two months, I had to share it. I share it for her and because I know the monsoon-like spring rains now bearing down on Haiti will certainly claim more victims amid post-earthquake Haiti's large displaced population.



When the 7.0-earthquake hit the country more than two months ago, clean water and sanitation, already issues for Haiti, became that much worse. Heavy rains will only add to that misery and to the threat of disease, including typhoid.



The tragedy is that typhoid is easily preventable. Vaccination is routine for infants born in the developed world. As a bacterial disease spread by eating or drinking contaminated food or fluid, typhoid is also prevented through clean water, sanitation, and hygiene.



Max's story is similar to that of thousands of Haitians. Their home was completely destroyed in the earthquake and they were forced to live on the street, without even a tent for shelter. Clean water was also impossible to find.



"In the first few days, many of the water pipes were broken, so I would collect our water from them and boil it for my family," said Jacksone.



Despite the boiled water, Max started to complain of stomach pain. The pain persisted for days and her belly began to swell. When Jacksone took her to the University Hospital, she was rushed into surgery to remove part of her bowel.



"In severe cases of typhoid, the bowel can swell and, like a balloon filling with water, it eventually bursts, leaking human waste into the rest of the system," said Megan Coffee, an infectious disease specialist at University Hospital. "The only option at that point is to do surgery to repair the bowel and then clean the human waste away."



And that is exactly what Max went through-and the woman beside her. "If she did not have surgery, she would have been in real trouble," said Dr. Susan Levine, an International Medical Corps volunteer from Connecticut.



I am told that Max will recover and, with the diligent care of International Medical Corps volunteer doctors and nurses, I do not doubt it. But as the spring rains prepare to roll in, I can't help but wonder how many others here will suffer from typhoid in the coming months.



As I was leaving the ICU tent, Levine pointed out a man tossing and turning restlessly on his cot. "He is another one who came in with severe typhoid and required surgery," she said.



And definitely not the last.



As we mark World Water Day, please help us spread the word about waterborne illnesses like typhoid by sharing this story with your family and friends. This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps's Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.




]]> IMG_1298March 22 marked the eighteenth World Water Day, a date set aside each spring by United Nations proclamation to celebrate the importance of fresh water. For those living in the Developed World, it's a chance to remember that an estimated 900 million people globally still lack access to the minimum daily required amount of safe fresh water. This is the story of what befell one of those 900 million.



Max is a petite 17-year-old Haitian girl, who lay in the ICU tent at Port-au-Prince's University Hospital, her belly swollen and bandaged. In the next bed was another woman in the same condition.



Max, like the woman next to her, came to University Hospital with sharp stomach pain and a swollen abdomen. In the United States these symptoms would likely be appendicitis. Not in Haiti. Following the Jan. 12 earthquake that destroyed so much of the capital, hundreds of thousands now live in overcrowded, hastily thrown-together tent cities, at risk to something practically nonexistent in most of the developed world-typhoid.



I was introduced to Max and her attentive father, Jacksone, at the University Hospital, where International Medical Corps has been working since January 14. Her battle with the disease has been going now for two months.



When I learned why this beautiful, young, and otherwise healthy woman laid in a hospital bed for nearly two months, I had to share it. I share it for her and because I know the monsoon-like spring rains now bearing down on Haiti will certainly claim more victims amid post-earthquake Haiti's large displaced population.



When the 7.0-earthquake hit the country more than two months ago, clean water and sanitation, already issues for Haiti, became that much worse. Heavy rains will only add to that misery and to the threat of disease, including typhoid.



The tragedy is that typhoid is easily preventable. Vaccination is routine for infants born in the developed world. As a bacterial disease spread by eating or drinking contaminated food or fluid, typhoid is also prevented through clean water, sanitation, and hygiene.



Max's story is similar to that of thousands of Haitians. Their home was completely destroyed in the earthquake and they were forced to live on the street, without even a tent for shelter. Clean water was also impossible to find.



"In the first few days, many of the water pipes were broken, so I would collect our water from them and boil it for my family," said Jacksone.



Despite the boiled water, Max started to complain of stomach pain. The pain persisted for days and her belly began to swell. When Jacksone took her to the University Hospital, she was rushed into surgery to remove part of her bowel.



"In severe cases of typhoid, the bowel can swell and, like a balloon filling with water, it eventually bursts, leaking human waste into the rest of the system," said Megan Coffee, an infectious disease specialist at University Hospital. "The only option at that point is to do surgery to repair the bowel and then clean the human waste away."



And that is exactly what Max went through-and the woman beside her. "If she did not have surgery, she would have been in real trouble," said Dr. Susan Levine, an International Medical Corps volunteer from Connecticut.



I am told that Max will recover and, with the diligent care of International Medical Corps volunteer doctors and nurses, I do not doubt it. But as the spring rains prepare to roll in, I can't help but wonder how many others here will suffer from typhoid in the coming months.



As I was leaving the ICU tent, Levine pointed out a man tossing and turning restlessly on his cot. "He is another one who came in with severe typhoid and required surgery," she said.



And definitely not the last.



As we mark World Water Day, please help us spread the word about waterborne illnesses like typhoid by sharing this story with your family and friends. This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps's Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.




]]> Crystal Wells Thu, 25 Mar 2010 07:00:14 PDT <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Quiet Heroism]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-quiet-heroism/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-quiet-heroism/ Samuel Abelard-QUIET HEROThis is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.



Samuel Abelard is an unlikely hero. The graying 54-year-old father of four has been quietly lending a hand as he and his fellow Haitians rebuild the pieces of their broken lives. He has been working at an International Medical Corps-supported mobile medical clinic in two classrooms of a small Port-au-Prince teacher's college ever since it was set up following the Jan. 12 earthquake.



From the start, Mr. Abelard, as he is respectfully known to all, has kept the clinic running. He is the pharmacist and the storekeeper, steadily keeping track of new medications and other donated supplies that come in, noting what gets used and alerting the medical staff when replacements are required.



International Medical Corps volunteer physicians and nurses say they rely on him for just about every support function they need. They know the order he maintains increases efficiency and thus helps them see more of the hundreds of local residents from the working class Bolosse neighborhood who crowd outside each morning to get treatment.



But that's just part of Mr. Abelhard's contribution.



"He's a leader," summed up Diana Rickard, a physician from UCLA who recently completed a two-week stint at the Bolosse clinic.  "The local nurses and other staff all look up to him and come to him for advice."



Mr. Abelard notes that keeping the clinic's small pharmacy organized isn't all that different than the storekeeping he did prior to the quake. And he learned the basics of medicine as a boy from his father, who was a pharmacist for nearly 20 years. Rickard says he's obviously  eager to build on that base.



Before the earthquake, he had a steady job as the storekeeper for a restaurant in

the United Nations compound not far from the Port-au-Prince airport, but that all ended in a few terrifying minutes on the afternoon of Jan. 12. The U.N. building collapsed and with it, the restaurant.



Several miles way, his family home was badly damaged, too. His wife suffered a fractured pelvis and requires a walker to get around, and the family now lives in one of the hundreds of tent settlements that have sprung up in Port-au-Prince. Mr. Abelhard's eldest daughter, the family's only other wage earner, lost her job too when the school where she worked as a teacher collapsed.



Still, he considers himself lucky because all his immediate family survived.



Like so many Haitians, he lives today in makeshift surroundings, mainly on emergency food distributions. Although he says his family depends on him for income and that he hopes one day to return to his job at the United Nations restaurant, he stressed that he plans to stay at the clinic as long as he can make a difference.



"People need me here," he said, quietly. "This is where I belong now."



Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.


]]> Samuel Abelard-QUIET HEROThis is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.



Samuel Abelard is an unlikely hero. The graying 54-year-old father of four has been quietly lending a hand as he and his fellow Haitians rebuild the pieces of their broken lives. He has been working at an International Medical Corps-supported mobile medical clinic in two classrooms of a small Port-au-Prince teacher's college ever since it was set up following the Jan. 12 earthquake.



From the start, Mr. Abelard, as he is respectfully known to all, has kept the clinic running. He is the pharmacist and the storekeeper, steadily keeping track of new medications and other donated supplies that come in, noting what gets used and alerting the medical staff when replacements are required.



International Medical Corps volunteer physicians and nurses say they rely on him for just about every support function they need. They know the order he maintains increases efficiency and thus helps them see more of the hundreds of local residents from the working class Bolosse neighborhood who crowd outside each morning to get treatment.



But that's just part of Mr. Abelhard's contribution.



"He's a leader," summed up Diana Rickard, a physician from UCLA who recently completed a two-week stint at the Bolosse clinic.  "The local nurses and other staff all look up to him and come to him for advice."



Mr. Abelard notes that keeping the clinic's small pharmacy organized isn't all that different than the storekeeping he did prior to the quake. And he learned the basics of medicine as a boy from his father, who was a pharmacist for nearly 20 years. Rickard says he's obviously  eager to build on that base.



Before the earthquake, he had a steady job as the storekeeper for a restaurant in

the United Nations compound not far from the Port-au-Prince airport, but that all ended in a few terrifying minutes on the afternoon of Jan. 12. The U.N. building collapsed and with it, the restaurant.



Several miles way, his family home was badly damaged, too. His wife suffered a fractured pelvis and requires a walker to get around, and the family now lives in one of the hundreds of tent settlements that have sprung up in Port-au-Prince. Mr. Abelhard's eldest daughter, the family's only other wage earner, lost her job too when the school where she worked as a teacher collapsed.



Still, he considers himself lucky because all his immediate family survived.



Like so many Haitians, he lives today in makeshift surroundings, mainly on emergency food distributions. Although he says his family depends on him for income and that he hopes one day to return to his job at the United Nations restaurant, he stressed that he plans to stay at the clinic as long as he can make a difference.



"People need me here," he said, quietly. "This is where I belong now."



Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.


]]> Tyler Marshall Mon, 15 Mar 2010 14:30:33 PDT <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: A Promise Made, a Promise Kept]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-a-promise-made-a-promise-kept/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-a-promise-made-a-promise-kept/ Ornesto and father, ClaudeThis is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

If I remember but one face of Haiti, it will be that of 4 year-old Oresto, with his big eyes and a nose that crinkles when he laughs. He is small and delicate, with a frame more like a child half his age, and a warm, rambunctious personality.

Beyond his energy and spunk, Oresto is a survivor. Buried alive in a rockslide, Oresto was rescued, but at the cost of his left arm. His head is scabbed and wrapped in bandages and he lives in one of the pediatrics tents at University Hospital, where International Medical Corps has worked since January 14.

I am not unique in my love for Oresto. He's easily stolen the hearts of a hundred women who have walked through the pediatrics tents, but I am bound to share his remarkable story in order to fulfill a promise I made to his father before I left the country.

It is a wrenching tale.

Before the earthquake, Oresto lived with others of his family in the mountains above a town called Leogane, west of Port-au-Prince. They are part of Haiti's rural poor. His father, 65, supported four children, including Oresto, with the little money he made from farming and slaughtering livestock. He never learned to read or write-which I discovered only after asking him to spell his name. He replied that he could not, so for lack of proficiency in French or Creole, I will spell his name like it is pronounced to my ear, Kesisan Claude.

Claude and Oresto are rarely seen without each other. Where Oresto is playing outside the pediatrics tent, Claude watches calmly and proudly in the shade. He sleeps on the floor beside his son's cot and makes sure the bandages are changed on time. "We have no tent or anywhere to go," Claude said from beneath the rim of his straw hat. "The earth crushed where we lived."

In the minutes before the earthquake, Oresto and his cousin, 5, went down into a ravine near his house to use the toilet. They were in the ravine when the earthquake hit and were pinned by falling rocks. Claude thought his son was dead, but still dug for six hours with a dozen others before they found Oresto with his dead cousin crushed on top of his left arm.  His head was badly cut and his arm mangled, but he was alive.

Without a car to drive to the nearest hospital, Claude carried Oresto to Carrefour on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, getting a ride when he could, before an American came and transferred them to the University Hospital. There Oresto's left arm was amputated and there they have lived since January 23rd. They are the only two living in Port-au-Prince. "His mother died," Claude said. "The other children have scattered and live in other houses with friends and family. We are the only ones here."

Claude worries about where they will go when Oresto is discharged. He does not know how he will support his son after losing everything he had in the earthquake.

In sharing his tale, Claude exacted a promised: If I retold the story I must include that Oresto, with his beautiful face and larger-than-life spirit, is up for adoption. Claude says he wants Oresto to live a healthy life filled with opportunity and this is something that he is afraid that he cannot provide. Because of this, Claude hopes that someone will consider adopting Oresto, even if that means giving his son up.

Please do not misunderstand me and think that I am advocating for Oresto's adoption. I simply had to share his story to shed light on what parents all across Haiti are praying for and dreading at the same time. If anything, I believe the plight of these parents underscores a need not for more adoptions, but for livelihoods programs that create new income-generating jobs so that Haitian parents such as Claude must never face such a heart-wrenching choice.

In all the promises I have broken and kept, this one had to be honored, even if I am one of a hundred women to do so.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way. Photos by Dan Ming.
]]> Ornesto and father, ClaudeThis is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

If I remember but one face of Haiti, it will be that of 4 year-old Oresto, with his big eyes and a nose that crinkles when he laughs. He is small and delicate, with a frame more like a child half his age, and a warm, rambunctious personality.

Beyond his energy and spunk, Oresto is a survivor. Buried alive in a rockslide, Oresto was rescued, but at the cost of his left arm. His head is scabbed and wrapped in bandages and he lives in one of the pediatrics tents at University Hospital, where International Medical Corps has worked since January 14.

I am not unique in my love for Oresto. He's easily stolen the hearts of a hundred women who have walked through the pediatrics tents, but I am bound to share his remarkable story in order to fulfill a promise I made to his father before I left the country.

It is a wrenching tale.

Before the earthquake, Oresto lived with others of his family in the mountains above a town called Leogane, west of Port-au-Prince. They are part of Haiti's rural poor. His father, 65, supported four children, including Oresto, with the little money he made from farming and slaughtering livestock. He never learned to read or write-which I discovered only after asking him to spell his name. He replied that he could not, so for lack of proficiency in French or Creole, I will spell his name like it is pronounced to my ear, Kesisan Claude.

Claude and Oresto are rarely seen without each other. Where Oresto is playing outside the pediatrics tent, Claude watches calmly and proudly in the shade. He sleeps on the floor beside his son's cot and makes sure the bandages are changed on time. "We have no tent or anywhere to go," Claude said from beneath the rim of his straw hat. "The earth crushed where we lived."

In the minutes before the earthquake, Oresto and his cousin, 5, went down into a ravine near his house to use the toilet. They were in the ravine when the earthquake hit and were pinned by falling rocks. Claude thought his son was dead, but still dug for six hours with a dozen others before they found Oresto with his dead cousin crushed on top of his left arm.  His head was badly cut and his arm mangled, but he was alive.

Without a car to drive to the nearest hospital, Claude carried Oresto to Carrefour on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, getting a ride when he could, before an American came and transferred them to the University Hospital. There Oresto's left arm was amputated and there they have lived since January 23rd. They are the only two living in Port-au-Prince. "His mother died," Claude said. "The other children have scattered and live in other houses with friends and family. We are the only ones here."

Claude worries about where they will go when Oresto is discharged. He does not know how he will support his son after losing everything he had in the earthquake.

In sharing his tale, Claude exacted a promised: If I retold the story I must include that Oresto, with his beautiful face and larger-than-life spirit, is up for adoption. Claude says he wants Oresto to live a healthy life filled with opportunity and this is something that he is afraid that he cannot provide. Because of this, Claude hopes that someone will consider adopting Oresto, even if that means giving his son up.

Please do not misunderstand me and think that I am advocating for Oresto's adoption. I simply had to share his story to shed light on what parents all across Haiti are praying for and dreading at the same time. If anything, I believe the plight of these parents underscores a need not for more adoptions, but for livelihoods programs that create new income-generating jobs so that Haitian parents such as Claude must never face such a heart-wrenching choice.

In all the promises I have broken and kept, this one had to be honored, even if I am one of a hundred women to do so.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way. Photos by Dan Ming.
]]> Crystal Wells Wed, 10 Mar 2010 05:00:13 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: “We Need Help.”]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-we-need-help/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-we-need-help/

Screen_shot_2010_02_13_at_9This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.



"We need help."



In English, Spanish, French, or Creole, the message is scrawled everywhere amid the wreckage of Haiti's January 12 earthquake.  It plasters crumbled walls in red spray paint. It dominates signs that jut out from makeshift camps and half-collapsed homes. Sometimes specifics are added: food, water, and shelter.



Whatever its form, whatever the language, "We Need Help" conveys a beacon of hope that someone-anyone-will come and those who wrote the message will not be forgotten. Those same three words could be Haiti's message to the world. With nearly a quarter of a million dead, three times that number homeless, and the economy shattered, Haiti needs help fast-lots of it-to recover.



Well over a month since the 7.0-earthquake, millions still need the basics, from food and water to shelter and medical treatment. Thousands live in temporary camps, with four, five, or six family members huddled beneath tattered sheets held up by sticks. There is little to eat, little access to clean water. There is also worry that "We Need Help" could soon take on a more desperate meaning.



Hints are already there. Along the road to Petit Goave, a coastal area roughly two hours west of Port-au-Prince, roadblocks made of rocks and sticks now accompany the signs pleading for help outside the camps. Some are discrete and easy to bypass, more attention-grabbers than serious obstacles. Others quite literally block the road and would demolish any vehicle trying to run them.



We ran into one of these while visiting one our clinics at a remote hilltop camp above the sea in Petit Goave. Camp residents had taken piles of rocks to make the road completely impassable. When we stopped, a crowd quickly gathered around our car, protesting that aid had not come. We visited the camp and saw a snapshot of what so many Haitians endure six weeks after disaster struck: little food, inadequate shelter, and little access to clean water.



Our group listened as the residents listed their needs. We told them of our clinic just up the road. We told them of our plans to build water and sanitation systems in the area. This time, it was enough for the residents to move the rocks. I wondered for how long.



The encounter served as reminder, both of the delicately-balanced public mood and the enormous challenge facing those directing the relief effort here as they work to get food, potable water and medicines as quickly as possible into the hands that need them most. Until they do, the ever-present message, "We Need Help" will likely continue to dot the Haitian landscape.



Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way. Photos by Dan Ming.









]]>

Screen_shot_2010_02_13_at_9This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.



"We need help."



In English, Spanish, French, or Creole, the message is scrawled everywhere amid the wreckage of Haiti's January 12 earthquake.  It plasters crumbled walls in red spray paint. It dominates signs that jut out from makeshift camps and half-collapsed homes. Sometimes specifics are added: food, water, and shelter.



Whatever its form, whatever the language, "We Need Help" conveys a beacon of hope that someone-anyone-will come and those who wrote the message will not be forgotten. Those same three words could be Haiti's message to the world. With nearly a quarter of a million dead, three times that number homeless, and the economy shattered, Haiti needs help fast-lots of it-to recover.



Well over a month since the 7.0-earthquake, millions still need the basics, from food and water to shelter and medical treatment. Thousands live in temporary camps, with four, five, or six family members huddled beneath tattered sheets held up by sticks. There is little to eat, little access to clean water. There is also worry that "We Need Help" could soon take on a more desperate meaning.



Hints are already there. Along the road to Petit Goave, a coastal area roughly two hours west of Port-au-Prince, roadblocks made of rocks and sticks now accompany the signs pleading for help outside the camps. Some are discrete and easy to bypass, more attention-grabbers than serious obstacles. Others quite literally block the road and would demolish any vehicle trying to run them.



We ran into one of these while visiting one our clinics at a remote hilltop camp above the sea in Petit Goave. Camp residents had taken piles of rocks to make the road completely impassable. When we stopped, a crowd quickly gathered around our car, protesting that aid had not come. We visited the camp and saw a snapshot of what so many Haitians endure six weeks after disaster struck: little food, inadequate shelter, and little access to clean water.



Our group listened as the residents listed their needs. We told them of our clinic just up the road. We told them of our plans to build water and sanitation systems in the area. This time, it was enough for the residents to move the rocks. I wondered for how long.



The encounter served as reminder, both of the delicately-balanced public mood and the enormous challenge facing those directing the relief effort here as they work to get food, potable water and medicines as quickly as possible into the hands that need them most. Until they do, the ever-present message, "We Need Help" will likely continue to dot the Haitian landscape.



Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way. Photos by Dan Ming.









]]> Crystal Wells Mon, 1 Mar 2010 06:30:27 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Not Another Concrete Graveyard]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-not-another-concrete-graveyard/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-not-another-concrete-graveyard/ IMG_0144This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

Sometimes the most memorable moments arrive wrapped in the mundane. For Luben, a frail man who seems older than his 47 years, it was watching an ant crawl across his kitchen table.

The image of that ant, clinging to the trembling table as the January 12 earthquake hit Haiti, was his last memory before the ceiling collapsed around him, pinning his body against the wall. For four days, Luben lay trapped on his side, cheek pressed against a wall, eyes closed for fear that he would die if he opened them. Then a man crawled through the wreckage of his home and dug him out.

Buried under the concrete slabs of his house, Luben dreamt that God gave him four pills-one for each day he was trapped-to sustain him until his rescue. "I pray everyday," he said.

Luben was taken to an outdoor clinic hastily set up near the crumbled remains of Church of St. Louis Roi de France near downtown Port-au-Prince, where he still is recovering. An extraordinary Haitian physician named Joseline Marhone has provided medical care there in a shaded courtyard since the day after the earthquake.

In normal times, Dr. Mahrone serves as the Director of the Coordination Unit of National Food and Nutrition in Haiti's Ministry of Health. But these are not normal times and with her home and office both destroyed, she decided to make the church grounds a place of healing. Here, amid the debris, she lives and works. The nearby church collapsed with the priest and nine others inside. International Medical Corps supports the St. Louis clinic with staffing and medicines, enabling Dr. Marhone and other Haitian doctors and nurses to see as many people as possible.

I came to St. Louis on a Sunday morning with one of our doctors to deliver supplies.  Expecting chaos and suffering. Instead, a crowd clapped and sang beneath the wood frame of a simple outdoor chapel. Blue balloons decorated a line of pews that spilled into the courtyard. The sick, some in chairs, some lying on mattresses, lined the side of the chapel like a bow, each one close enough to hear the sermon. Haiti was on its way back.

Luben's spot is just to the side of the pews. On days he's not well enough to sit through the service-like the day I met him-he follows along from his mattress beneath a tarp.  His mother lives at St. Louis too. She never leaves his side. She lost her home and all her other children in the earthquake. She will not lose Luben.

When Luben was admitted, he was malnourished and dehydrated, but he is recovering day by day. "I still cannot sleep because I am in pain," he said.  "But every day I feel better."

Luben is one of hundreds healing in the heaps of rubble and broken glass that could have been just another concrete graveyard in Port-au-Prince, but instead was dusted off and filled with hope, song, and unforgettable moments that undoubtedly show how far human compassion and strength can go, especially in the face of tragedy.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.
]]> IMG_0144This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

Sometimes the most memorable moments arrive wrapped in the mundane. For Luben, a frail man who seems older than his 47 years, it was watching an ant crawl across his kitchen table.

The image of that ant, clinging to the trembling table as the January 12 earthquake hit Haiti, was his last memory before the ceiling collapsed around him, pinning his body against the wall. For four days, Luben lay trapped on his side, cheek pressed against a wall, eyes closed for fear that he would die if he opened them. Then a man crawled through the wreckage of his home and dug him out.

Buried under the concrete slabs of his house, Luben dreamt that God gave him four pills-one for each day he was trapped-to sustain him until his rescue. "I pray everyday," he said.

Luben was taken to an outdoor clinic hastily set up near the crumbled remains of Church of St. Louis Roi de France near downtown Port-au-Prince, where he still is recovering. An extraordinary Haitian physician named Joseline Marhone has provided medical care there in a shaded courtyard since the day after the earthquake.

In normal times, Dr. Mahrone serves as the Director of the Coordination Unit of National Food and Nutrition in Haiti's Ministry of Health. But these are not normal times and with her home and office both destroyed, she decided to make the church grounds a place of healing. Here, amid the debris, she lives and works. The nearby church collapsed with the priest and nine others inside. International Medical Corps supports the St. Louis clinic with staffing and medicines, enabling Dr. Marhone and other Haitian doctors and nurses to see as many people as possible.

I came to St. Louis on a Sunday morning with one of our doctors to deliver supplies.  Expecting chaos and suffering. Instead, a crowd clapped and sang beneath the wood frame of a simple outdoor chapel. Blue balloons decorated a line of pews that spilled into the courtyard. The sick, some in chairs, some lying on mattresses, lined the side of the chapel like a bow, each one close enough to hear the sermon. Haiti was on its way back.

Luben's spot is just to the side of the pews. On days he's not well enough to sit through the service-like the day I met him-he follows along from his mattress beneath a tarp.  His mother lives at St. Louis too. She never leaves his side. She lost her home and all her other children in the earthquake. She will not lose Luben.

When Luben was admitted, he was malnourished and dehydrated, but he is recovering day by day. "I still cannot sleep because I am in pain," he said.  "But every day I feel better."

Luben is one of hundreds healing in the heaps of rubble and broken glass that could have been just another concrete graveyard in Port-au-Prince, but instead was dusted off and filled with hope, song, and unforgettable moments that undoubtedly show how far human compassion and strength can go, especially in the face of tragedy.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.
]]> Crystal Wells Thu, 25 Feb 2010 08:00:04 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: The Rains Come Early ]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-the-rains-come-early/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-the-rains-come-early/ This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

The rain fell a few nights ago for the first time. It started off slowly around 5 a.m., then came down hard. My first thought was for the countless thousands living in tent cities beneath ragged bed sheets. Even a light rain could wipe them out. And this one was just the preview of what will come.

My translator arrived at the hotel about an hour later, soaked. "This is nothing, boss," he said. "In Haiti, it rains dogs and donkeys."

Looking at the endless rubble, mile-long food lines, and families crouched under flimsy cloth and stick shelters, it is hard to imagine that Mother Nature could be cruel enough to send the rains early.

They usually arrive in the spring, followed by the hurricane season from July and November. We pray the February storm is a fluke and not the first sign of an early wet season that would turn tent camps to swamps and complicate recovery efforts underway here.

Beyond the emergency medicine still administered daily at the National Hospital and at mobile clinics by our volunteer doctors and nurses, our own work now comprises a small part of that recovery.

The rains have yet to hit Petit Goave, a coastal area of about 80,000 people 40 miles west of Port-au-Prince, where International Medical Corps water and sanitation expert, John Akudago, is organizing latrines and clean water systems. Some of the first latrines will be in a place called Beatrice, where some 2,500 people have resettled in half a dozen camps scattered on the hillsides above the sea and Akudago worries about the rains.

"Sanitation is a big problem, especially in Port-au-Prince, and when it rains, the human waste will spread," Akudago explains. "I fear that there will be an outbreak of disease when the rainy season starts."

Back in Port-au-Prince, families camped near a mobile clinic in the Carrefour area of the city where International Medical Corps provides care, were rebuilding makeshift tents wiped out by the storm. One young couple lined the perimeter of their tent with cement blocks, hoping that next time, they will keep out the water.

In the same camp, another woman living with her daughter and grandchildren worried that the babies would fall sick in the wet and cold that comes with with the rains.

"We have no toiletries and it is also hard to stay clean," she said. As she spoke, she picked her smallest grandchild out of the mud.

The rain is inevitable, but its first appearance in Port-au-Prince in mid-February could mean that it is coming early, giving very little time for the homeless to find relief before their next drubbing from Mother Nature.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.]]> This is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.

The rain fell a few nights ago for the first time. It started off slowly around 5 a.m., then came down hard. My first thought was for the countless thousands living in tent cities beneath ragged bed sheets. Even a light rain could wipe them out. And this one was just the preview of what will come.

My translator arrived at the hotel about an hour later, soaked. "This is nothing, boss," he said. "In Haiti, it rains dogs and donkeys."

Looking at the endless rubble, mile-long food lines, and families crouched under flimsy cloth and stick shelters, it is hard to imagine that Mother Nature could be cruel enough to send the rains early.

They usually arrive in the spring, followed by the hurricane season from July and November. We pray the February storm is a fluke and not the first sign of an early wet season that would turn tent camps to swamps and complicate recovery efforts underway here.

Beyond the emergency medicine still administered daily at the National Hospital and at mobile clinics by our volunteer doctors and nurses, our own work now comprises a small part of that recovery.

The rains have yet to hit Petit Goave, a coastal area of about 80,000 people 40 miles west of Port-au-Prince, where International Medical Corps water and sanitation expert, John Akudago, is organizing latrines and clean water systems. Some of the first latrines will be in a place called Beatrice, where some 2,500 people have resettled in half a dozen camps scattered on the hillsides above the sea and Akudago worries about the rains.

"Sanitation is a big problem, especially in Port-au-Prince, and when it rains, the human waste will spread," Akudago explains. "I fear that there will be an outbreak of disease when the rainy season starts."

Back in Port-au-Prince, families camped near a mobile clinic in the Carrefour area of the city where International Medical Corps provides care, were rebuilding makeshift tents wiped out by the storm. One young couple lined the perimeter of their tent with cement blocks, hoping that next time, they will keep out the water.

In the same camp, another woman living with her daughter and grandchildren worried that the babies would fall sick in the wet and cold that comes with with the rains.

"We have no toiletries and it is also hard to stay clean," she said. As she spoke, she picked her smallest grandchild out of the mud.

The rain is inevitable, but its first appearance in Port-au-Prince in mid-February could mean that it is coming early, giving very little time for the homeless to find relief before their next drubbing from Mother Nature.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.]]> Crystal Wells Mon, 22 Feb 2010 05:00:40 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: A Nation Mourning ]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-a-nation-mourning/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-a-nation-mourning/ Haiti - MOURNING picThis is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.
The music started around 4:30 am, soothing and melodic, like a chorus softly praying into the early morning air. As the sun rose, so did the energy of the music, filling the city with percussion, rhythm, and cheers of "hallelujah".

It was exactly a month since the devastating 7.0-earthquake hit Haiti and the sounds marked the start of a period of national mourning for the 200,000 who died in the disaster. Streams of people, mostly dressed in white, flowed towards a stage erected near the remains of the Presidential Palace in downtown Port-au-Prince to take part in a national prayer service.

Some here call the earthquake "l'événement"-the "event." Others refer to it by the terrifying sound of its destructive force: "Goudoum! Goudoum!" It's  a saying that started with children who, having no word for earthquake, invented one that mimicked the quake's shaking and rattling. Whatever its name, the earthquake was a collective, near-apocalyptic experience that touched every Haitian-rich, poor, mother, child, brother, sister.

If their house did not collapse, a close friend's did. Their family might have survived, but someone dear did not. So many remain missing, the majority lost beneath the rubble that is everywhere.

My second day in Port-au-Prince, my driver showed me a video he shot with his cell phone. It was of a casket. Inside, he said, were his wife's aunt and her two children. They had just been recovered from the rubble, three weeks after the earthquake, partly decomposed and their faces scarcely recognizable. One casket was all they could afford.

Yet he felt lucky to have found them. Now, they could have a proper burial.

Memories of the disaster haunt the city and as cranes start to clear the rubble, fear of another, possibly even larger quake, hangs in the air. Even those with undamaged homes don't dare sleep inside. Next time they might not be so lucky.

But on this day and the days ahead, it is time to mourn the dead.

Songs of prayer also hang in the air at the University Hospital, less than half a mile from the Presidential Palace, where International Medical Corps is providing around-the-clock medical care to thousands of Haiti's most seriously sick and injured. Patients in their beds, too sick to travel to the service, join together in song, often with their families beside them, in groups as small as two and large enough to fill two 30-foot long medical tent.

The music lifts tired spirits. It stokes resilience, assuring those in song that Haiti will not perish, even if the rubble of this memory takes years to clear.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.]]> Haiti - MOURNING picThis is a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground.
The music started around 4:30 am, soothing and melodic, like a chorus softly praying into the early morning air. As the sun rose, so did the energy of the music, filling the city with percussion, rhythm, and cheers of "hallelujah".

It was exactly a month since the devastating 7.0-earthquake hit Haiti and the sounds marked the start of a period of national mourning for the 200,000 who died in the disaster. Streams of people, mostly dressed in white, flowed towards a stage erected near the remains of the Presidential Palace in downtown Port-au-Prince to take part in a national prayer service.

Some here call the earthquake "l'événement"-the "event." Others refer to it by the terrifying sound of its destructive force: "Goudoum! Goudoum!" It's  a saying that started with children who, having no word for earthquake, invented one that mimicked the quake's shaking and rattling. Whatever its name, the earthquake was a collective, near-apocalyptic experience that touched every Haitian-rich, poor, mother, child, brother, sister.

If their house did not collapse, a close friend's did. Their family might have survived, but someone dear did not. So many remain missing, the majority lost beneath the rubble that is everywhere.

My second day in Port-au-Prince, my driver showed me a video he shot with his cell phone. It was of a casket. Inside, he said, were his wife's aunt and her two children. They had just been recovered from the rubble, three weeks after the earthquake, partly decomposed and their faces scarcely recognizable. One casket was all they could afford.

Yet he felt lucky to have found them. Now, they could have a proper burial.

Memories of the disaster haunt the city and as cranes start to clear the rubble, fear of another, possibly even larger quake, hangs in the air. Even those with undamaged homes don't dare sleep inside. Next time they might not be so lucky.

But on this day and the days ahead, it is time to mourn the dead.

Songs of prayer also hang in the air at the University Hospital, less than half a mile from the Presidential Palace, where International Medical Corps is providing around-the-clock medical care to thousands of Haiti's most seriously sick and injured. Patients in their beds, too sick to travel to the service, join together in song, often with their families beside them, in groups as small as two and large enough to fill two 30-foot long medical tent.

The music lifts tired spirits. It stokes resilience, assuring those in song that Haiti will not perish, even if the rubble of this memory takes years to clear.

Communications Officer Crystal Wells is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on her experiences and the people she meets along the way.]]> Crystal Wells Thu, 18 Feb 2010 05:00:43 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Burying the Dead ]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-burying-the-dead/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-burying-the-dead/ Unmarked Graves Sprawl Outside Port-au-Prince, HaitiThis is the third entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

My translator Ronald asked for the morning off yesterday. He had to bury his brother.

The brother, John, was 36-five years older, Ronald explained quietly. John had been standing at the wrong place at the wrong time on January 12. He had just finished his work as an information technology specialist at a community hospital and was waiting for a taxi in central Port-au-Prince when the quake struck. A building collapsed next to him and he was crushed.

Funerals have been a common site around the capital over the past two weeks and the ceremony Ronald described had many of the usual Christian rituals-a church service with friends and relatives followed by the mourners slow walk behind a hearse carrying the casket to a cemetery about a mile away. The tradition of returning to the family home for food and drink wasn't possible because there was no home to return to. Like John, it too, was gone.

The accumulation of events had taken such an emotional toll on Ronald's mother, the family had decided to send her to back to the ancestral home in Jereme, a smaller city about 100 miles southwest of the capital that was relatively untouched by the earthquake.

Despite their loss, Ronald and his family were fortunate in one respect: they know John's fate and were able to give him a respectful burial. They had the luxury of saying good bye. Two of John's work colleagues had seen him go under the rubble, dug him out and carried his body to the central morgue, where Ronald and other family members came face to face with the reality of John's death.

Many loved ones among the estimated 112,000 Haitians who died in the disaster still have no idea where the bodies of their relatives are. They have no certainty they are even dead. In a culture where ancestor worship is common and maintaining ties with their spirits is a sacred obligation, the ability to retrieve the remains of a loved one and give them a proper burial is no small thing.

In the days following the earthquake thousands of bodies were removed from the streets and other public places, then buried in large mass graves with little or no way for relatives to trace them. Three weeks after the disaster, relatives continue to search. It's a painful process.

"The problem with a missing body is, should you grieve or not," noted Lynne Jones, a specialist on disaster psychiatry for International Medical Corps. "You don't want to accept the death of a loved one, but if you don't accept it, you can't grieve, mourn and move on."

The traditional support network of friends and relatives who usually gather to help a family that has suffered a death is also broken because so many have lost so  much, there is no one to do the consoling. Such conditions increase the chances of psychosocial and mental health problems such as depression, said Jones, and that could complicate recovery.

She noted that in the aftermath of the 2004 tsunami which swept vast numbers out to sea and leveled large swaths of  the Indonesian island of Aceh, International  Medical Corp built so-called quiet houses near mass graves at the request of the local population to allow people to mourn those lost in peace and dignity.

Photo (cc) by Flickr user United Nations Photo.]]> Unmarked Graves Sprawl Outside Port-au-Prince, HaitiThis is the third entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

My translator Ronald asked for the morning off yesterday. He had to bury his brother.

The brother, John, was 36-five years older, Ronald explained quietly. John had been standing at the wrong place at the wrong time on January 12. He had just finished his work as an information technology specialist at a community hospital and was waiting for a taxi in central Port-au-Prince when the quake struck. A building collapsed next to him and he was crushed.

Funerals have been a common site around the capital over the past two weeks and the ceremony Ronald described had many of the usual Christian rituals-a church service with friends and relatives followed by the mourners slow walk behind a hearse carrying the casket to a cemetery about a mile away. The tradition of returning to the family home for food and drink wasn't possible because there was no home to return to. Like John, it too, was gone.

The accumulation of events had taken such an emotional toll on Ronald's mother, the family had decided to send her to back to the ancestral home in Jereme, a smaller city about 100 miles southwest of the capital that was relatively untouched by the earthquake.

Despite their loss, Ronald and his family were fortunate in one respect: they know John's fate and were able to give him a respectful burial. They had the luxury of saying good bye. Two of John's work colleagues had seen him go under the rubble, dug him out and carried his body to the central morgue, where Ronald and other family members came face to face with the reality of John's death.

Many loved ones among the estimated 112,000 Haitians who died in the disaster still have no idea where the bodies of their relatives are. They have no certainty they are even dead. In a culture where ancestor worship is common and maintaining ties with their spirits is a sacred obligation, the ability to retrieve the remains of a loved one and give them a proper burial is no small thing.

In the days following the earthquake thousands of bodies were removed from the streets and other public places, then buried in large mass graves with little or no way for relatives to trace them. Three weeks after the disaster, relatives continue to search. It's a painful process.

"The problem with a missing body is, should you grieve or not," noted Lynne Jones, a specialist on disaster psychiatry for International Medical Corps. "You don't want to accept the death of a loved one, but if you don't accept it, you can't grieve, mourn and move on."

The traditional support network of friends and relatives who usually gather to help a family that has suffered a death is also broken because so many have lost so  much, there is no one to do the consoling. Such conditions increase the chances of psychosocial and mental health problems such as depression, said Jones, and that could complicate recovery.

She noted that in the aftermath of the 2004 tsunami which swept vast numbers out to sea and leveled large swaths of  the Indonesian island of Aceh, International  Medical Corp built so-called quiet houses near mass graves at the request of the local population to allow people to mourn those lost in peace and dignity.

Photo (cc) by Flickr user United Nations Photo.]]> Tyler Marshall Mon, 15 Feb 2010 05:30:10 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Reasons for Optimism in a Makeshift Clinic ]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-reasons-for-optimism-in-a-makeshift-clinic/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-reasons-for-optimism-in-a-makeshift-clinic/ IMG_0133This is the third entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

Joseline Marhone is the face of Haitian optimism.

On January 12, the day of the earthquake, she lost loved ones and a comfortable home. Her prestigious job as director of nutrition in Haiti's Ministry of Health quite literally dropped out from under her when the ministry itself collapsed. In short, her world turned upside down.

A respected physician who also teaches as the National University Hospital, Marhone didn't dwell on her loss. She didn't hesitate a day.

The morning after the quake, she opened an emergency clinic under a grove of trees adjacent to the wreckage of the Church of St. Pierre a few miles from downtown Port-au-Prince and began treating the injured. Several of her medical students quickly joined her. A tent was erected, canvas sheets were put up to added more shade and mattresses were hauled in to create a 13-bed in-patient section to the clinic.

Now International Medical Corps is supporting the clinic with a volunteer physician, medications, and food for those who now reside in the makeshift neighborhood in and around the clinic.

Talking animatedly with a big smile, Marhone's body language alone conveys the message that the only response to the earthquake is to get on with rebuilding and there's no time to waste.

"We don't have homes, we don't have offices and we sleep right here at night and I'm practicing general medicine again," she said with a big smile. "I'm available for anyone who comes here and we'll stay for as long as we're needed."

Monday, the clinic treated about 60 patients-roughly half of them with earthquake-related wounds that require cleaning and new dressings. Physicians report a growing number of skin rashes, stomach problems and diarrhea-complaints that reflect the stress of maintaining good hygiene while living in the streets or in makeshift tent camps.

International Medical Corps's support began just over a week ago when it provided a volunteer physician and badly needed medicines. Volunteer physician My-Charllins Vilsaint who is Haitian American, currently serves at the clinic along side Haitian physicians. Sunday, International Medical Corps delivered 2.5 metric tons of rice, beans, maise, and vegetable oil to the residents of the little community-an action that clearly lifted Marhone's spirits.

After treating the injured and sick for much of the day, at night, her commute is short: she sleeps under the stars at her clinic.

"It's satisfying to be tending to patients," she said.

Photo shows Joseline Marhone (left) talking with International Medical Corps volunteer physician MTY-Charllins Vilsaint at the medical clinic we support in the Port au Prince neighborhood of St. Louis.]]> IMG_0133This is the third entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

Joseline Marhone is the face of Haitian optimism.

On January 12, the day of the earthquake, she lost loved ones and a comfortable home. Her prestigious job as director of nutrition in Haiti's Ministry of Health quite literally dropped out from under her when the ministry itself collapsed. In short, her world turned upside down.

A respected physician who also teaches as the National University Hospital, Marhone didn't dwell on her loss. She didn't hesitate a day.

The morning after the quake, she opened an emergency clinic under a grove of trees adjacent to the wreckage of the Church of St. Pierre a few miles from downtown Port-au-Prince and began treating the injured. Several of her medical students quickly joined her. A tent was erected, canvas sheets were put up to added more shade and mattresses were hauled in to create a 13-bed in-patient section to the clinic.

Now International Medical Corps is supporting the clinic with a volunteer physician, medications, and food for those who now reside in the makeshift neighborhood in and around the clinic.

Talking animatedly with a big smile, Marhone's body language alone conveys the message that the only response to the earthquake is to get on with rebuilding and there's no time to waste.

"We don't have homes, we don't have offices and we sleep right here at night and I'm practicing general medicine again," she said with a big smile. "I'm available for anyone who comes here and we'll stay for as long as we're needed."

Monday, the clinic treated about 60 patients-roughly half of them with earthquake-related wounds that require cleaning and new dressings. Physicians report a growing number of skin rashes, stomach problems and diarrhea-complaints that reflect the stress of maintaining good hygiene while living in the streets or in makeshift tent camps.

International Medical Corps's support began just over a week ago when it provided a volunteer physician and badly needed medicines. Volunteer physician My-Charllins Vilsaint who is Haitian American, currently serves at the clinic along side Haitian physicians. Sunday, International Medical Corps delivered 2.5 metric tons of rice, beans, maise, and vegetable oil to the residents of the little community-an action that clearly lifted Marhone's spirits.

After treating the injured and sick for much of the day, at night, her commute is short: she sleeps under the stars at her clinic.

"It's satisfying to be tending to patients," she said.

Photo shows Joseline Marhone (left) talking with International Medical Corps volunteer physician MTY-Charllins Vilsaint at the medical clinic we support in the Port au Prince neighborhood of St. Louis.]]> Tyler Marshall Fri, 12 Feb 2010 07:30:57 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Injured Ballerina is Determined to Dance Again]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-injured-ballerina-is-determined-to-dance-again/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-injured-ballerina-is-determined-to-dance-again/ haitiladyThis is the second entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

Two weeks after Haiti's great tragedy, stories of hope and inspiration speak to the resilience of the national character.

Consider Fabienne Jean, a prima ballerina for a national theater known for performances anchored in the country's rich folklore. Ms. Jean had her right leg amputated below the knee a few days after it was crushed under falling concrete during the January 12 earthquake.

William Gregory, a Los Angeles-based volunteer physician working with a team of  International Medical Corps medical professionals at the university hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince, says the initial healing is going well. On Thursday, volunteers were at Jean's bedside giving her the first lessons in using crutches and teaching her how to distribute her balance so she can eventually walk.

But for Jean, whose face is more often that not lit up by a radiant smile despite her injury, walking is just a half-way house to her real goal: she is determined to dance again. "I will do this," she said with a voice that carried not an ounce of doubt. Dr. Gregory thinks that, once comfortable with a prosthetic, she can make it. "Absolutely," he said. "Once she regains her sense of balance and learns how to redistribute her weight, she'll do fine. She's young and she's got a great attitude."]]> haitiladyThis is the second entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

Two weeks after Haiti's great tragedy, stories of hope and inspiration speak to the resilience of the national character.

Consider Fabienne Jean, a prima ballerina for a national theater known for performances anchored in the country's rich folklore. Ms. Jean had her right leg amputated below the knee a few days after it was crushed under falling concrete during the January 12 earthquake.

William Gregory, a Los Angeles-based volunteer physician working with a team of  International Medical Corps medical professionals at the university hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince, says the initial healing is going well. On Thursday, volunteers were at Jean's bedside giving her the first lessons in using crutches and teaching her how to distribute her balance so she can eventually walk.

But for Jean, whose face is more often that not lit up by a radiant smile despite her injury, walking is just a half-way house to her real goal: she is determined to dance again. "I will do this," she said with a voice that carried not an ounce of doubt. Dr. Gregory thinks that, once comfortable with a prosthetic, she can make it. "Absolutely," he said. "Once she regains her sense of balance and learns how to redistribute her weight, she'll do fine. She's young and she's got a great attitude."]]> Tyler Marshall Mon, 8 Feb 2010 05:00:19 PST <![CDATA[Dispatches from Haiti: Relief Workers Arrive on the Scene]]> http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-relief-workers-arrive-on-the-scene/ http://www.good.is/post/dispatches-from-haiti-relief-workers-arrive-on-the-scene/ 4278689635_ff30526591_oInternational Medical Corps arrived in Port-au-Prince just 22 hours after the devastating earthquake hit Haiti and immediately started to provide emergency care at a makeshift clinic at the Villa Creole Hotel and the Hôpital de l'Université d'État d'Haiti (University Hospital), a 700-bed hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince that was badly damaged in the earthquake. Since arriving in Port-au-Prince just weeks ago, the International Medical Corps teams have expanded their health services to cover more than a dozen sites in and outside Port-au-Prince, reaching thousands of survivors in need of medical care and emergency relief. International Medical Corps doctors and nurses at the University Hospital and through their mobile clinics are seeing some 1,000 patients a day. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

When International Medical Corps Emergency Response Team arrived in Haiti the day following the massive January 12 earthquake-and three other doctors quickly followed on day two-it was a group of four emergency medicine physicians and four emergency room nurses Stanford University Medical Center that answered the call for reinforcements.

Since arriving in Port-au-Prince on the morning of Sunday, Jan 17, the eight have worked for nearly two weeks, putting in punishing hours amid some of the most challenging conditions they have ever faced in order to treat those injured by the quake. Visibly exhausted, the team departed for home last Friday.

Soon after their arrival, team member Paul Auerbach, Professor of Surgery in the Division of Emergency Medicine at Stanford Medical School, assumed the role coordinating all medical services at the hospital being delivered by the 15 to 20 different international relief groups working there. Friday, Auerbach hands that role over to another International Medical Corps emergency care physician, Soloman Kuah from Columbia University's School of Medicine.

They have done outstanding work and saved countless lives as part of the international medical response effort at the country's main hospital in downtown Port au Prince. Still, Robert Norris, who heads the Division of Emergency Medicine at Stanford's School of Medicine, said he looked towards his departure with bitter-sweet emotions.

"We're glad to go home, but we're very sad too," he said. "There's so much still to do, but there are good people following us."

This is the first entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Photo (cc) by Flickr user IFRC.]]> 4278689635_ff30526591_oInternational Medical Corps arrived in Port-au-Prince just 22 hours after the devastating earthquake hit Haiti and immediately started to provide emergency care at a makeshift clinic at the Villa Creole Hotel and the Hôpital de l'Université d'État d'Haiti (University Hospital), a 700-bed hospital in downtown Port-au-Prince that was badly damaged in the earthquake. Since arriving in Port-au-Prince just weeks ago, the International Medical Corps teams have expanded their health services to cover more than a dozen sites in and outside Port-au-Prince, reaching thousands of survivors in need of medical care and emergency relief. International Medical Corps doctors and nurses at the University Hospital and through their mobile clinics are seeing some 1,000 patients a day. Communications Officer Tyler Marshall is with International Medical Corps' Emergency Response teams in Haiti and reporting for GOOD on his experiences and the people he meets along the way.

When International Medical Corps Emergency Response Team arrived in Haiti the day following the massive January 12 earthquake-and three other doctors quickly followed on day two-it was a group of four emergency medicine physicians and four emergency room nurses Stanford University Medical Center that answered the call for reinforcements.

Since arriving in Port-au-Prince on the morning of Sunday, Jan 17, the eight have worked for nearly two weeks, putting in punishing hours amid some of the most challenging conditions they have ever faced in order to treat those injured by the quake. Visibly exhausted, the team departed for home last Friday.

Soon after their arrival, team member Paul Auerbach, Professor of Surgery in the Division of Emergency Medicine at Stanford Medical School, assumed the role coordinating all medical services at the hospital being delivered by the 15 to 20 different international relief groups working there. Friday, Auerbach hands that role over to another International Medical Corps emergency care physician, Soloman Kuah from Columbia University's School of Medicine.

They have done outstanding work and saved countless lives as part of the international medical response effort at the country's main hospital in downtown Port au Prince. Still, Robert Norris, who heads the Division of Emergency Medicine at Stanford's School of Medicine, said he looked towards his departure with bitter-sweet emotions.

"We're glad to go home, but we're very sad too," he said. "There's so much still to do, but there are good people following us."

This is the first entry in a continuing series on the devastation and reconstruction of Haiti. As the story fades from the front pages of newspapers and trending topics on Twitter, we will endeavor to provide a continuing look at what is happening on the ground. Photo (cc) by Flickr user IFRC.]]> Tyler Marshall Thu, 4 Feb 2010 06:30:41 PST