India Pt. 4

In the words of my high school fantasy boyfriend Chris Brown (pre-Rihanna incident, don't judge), there's never a right time to say goodbye. However, unrelenting vomiting and sickness for days can certainly make the prospect more appealing. India and my farewell came too soon, literally. 11 days sooner than expected, and the teary goodbye and my joyful homecoming didn't go exactly as planned.

My flight over to India is really where my sickness started. It struck just a couple hours in to my 14.5 hour cuddle-session with random strangers also seated in row 12. Conveniently, I was seated precisely in the middle of the row. It was 6 on one side and half a dozen on the other, so maneuvering out every 30 minutes to stand in line to vomit in the airplane potty made for a long flight for all. We were blessed to be upgraded to business class for the last 5 hour leg of our journey, and the full-recline couldn't have been more happily welcomed. After our 4 am touch down in India, we had a "4 hour" drive from the city to our village. This means that there's no real way to estimate how long it will take to get home, and honestly, one just stops counting the hours. Accounting for all of the the traffic and stops and potholes and cows and whatever else may come in our way, it's best to just assume it'll be an all day affair. And rightly assume I did. A bumpy, long, stop-and-go car ride was just what I wanted to top off our 20ish hour flight with a tummy that wouldn't stop spinning.

It took about 3 days to fully recover. By day two I was really starting to get concerned about dehydration and the health of the baby. I have a serious anxiety at the thought of needing serious medical care while I'm in India. I know I'm spoiled with my western medicine and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's very hip right now to be anti-modern medicine in our over-privleged society, but I for one will toot the horn of sanitary hospitals and thank Jesus for the medicinal availability in America any day. It's easy to be anti-hospital until you're faced with no other choice. Alright, stepping down from my soap box. Luckily it didn't come to that, but it was beginning to become a realistic option for me. I called on some of my lady friends back home who had created a prayer group for our trip and took full advantage of the TLC that was offered to me by my Indian family.

I lasted about 6 days before sickness came back with a vengeance. This time was just like the first, miserable and scary. It's hard enough to be ill, but to be ill in another country without your husband or the luxuries of home or the security of the E.R. made it that much worse. After about 48 hours of round two, I came to the decision that I wasn't willing to risk the health of the baby or myself by staying in India any longer. As soon as I said the word, Will had Nehemiah and I on a plane home.

Just like that, our trip came to a abrupt end. For good reason-- I visited the doctor soon after returning home. I lost 6 pounds and had become very weak and dehydrated. Fortunately the baby is healthy and well, still measuring mostly on time. At 22 weeks, I had hoped to be up 10-15 pounds from my starting weight instead of a mere 5. The doctor validated my hasty actions and said that I did the right thing in coming home. Who knows what I could have contracted or how long my sickness could have lasted. Although it was sad to say goodbye so suddenly, nothing is worth compromising the health of my babies. I know it was the right move, no matter how much I regret not being able to fully take advantage of the abundance of guavas and chai at my disposal.

I've been home for 4 days now and am getting better day by day. Sleeping lots and eating everything in sight has helped with the weight gain, and having my sweet husband to take care of me doesn't hurt either. My current ailment is actually this ridiculous jet lag. Nehemiah and I are going on 4 days of sleep-all-day, up-all-night partying. By partying I mean him catching the early cartoons and me googling weird things like elephants in the womb or recipes that contain popcorn. (Yep, I'm still pregnant.) I'm happy to be recovering from the comfort of my home and in the arms of my husband. Next time I cross several oceans I'll be sure to go without a fetus in the womb and equipped with more English speakers.

Until next time, India, I'll be missing you.

India: Pt. 3

Today is a lazy day. I am completely okay with it-- that's the luxury of being across the world from my to-do list. I have spend the better part of two weeks doing a lot of nothing. My agenda pretty much goes as follows: wake up, bathe, eat, do nothing, eat, nap, do some more nothing, eat again, Skype with Will, go to sleep. I am getting pretty spoiled and pretty fat. Actually I won't be be able to accurately judge my weight gain until I go home, I've been wearing a lot of Indian dresses that are rather accommodating in the midsection. Heck yes. Except when I get home and I'm sobbing because my love handles are busting out the seams of my "fat pants". I haven't seen myself in a full length mirror since I came here, and I strategically plan on avoiding one for at least a week after I get home. They put a high priority on eating here as it is, but come to India pregnant and expect to do literally nothing but sit and eat. If ever I reject a meal (which, let's be honest, is not often), I get a nice scolding in which the only discernable words are "baby" "take care" and "need to eat". I'm gathering by inference that they think you're literally starving your fetus if you don't plan to pack on a minimum of 50 pounds over the duration of your pregnancy. Don't worry aunties, because of you I just might. How can I deny the food though? I mean, have you ever had Indian food? Now multiply it's goodness by about a million, because the American version is garbage compared to the real deal. I mean, come on, I met a lovely hen at lunchtime and ate it for dinner. It doesn't come more fresh than that. I also drink milk straight from the buffalo. Ok don't panic, it goes into a bucket first. We don't talk about the fat content. I don't care that if it were packaged it would actually be classified as half and half. I am having my cake and eating it too.

I really consider today a good day, because I got to have hot water with this morning's bathing experience. Hallelujah! I take for granted the glory of a hot shower.  I squint my eyes and cross my all of my digits and hope the water will run hot. Usually no dice. Today I was patient and waited while they boiled some for me. Here, a "shower" means filling a bucket with water and using a smaller bucket to pour said water on yourself. It gets the job done but is by no means anything more than that. At least this time around I had the presence of mind to invest in some quality hair products, because this white girl's hair does not do well with what is available here. The water is different and there's just no living up to American salon quality products. Last time I was here it was literally a chore to run a brush through my hair. I think I came back stateside 50% balder, leaving half of my hair still attached to my brush. It was terrible. I would con various friends and family members into the arm workout that was brushing my hair. Thank you, Redken, for saving me from acquiring arm muscles bigger than my husband's and looking like I suffer from male pattern baldness. Sometimes being accustom to this culture means knowing what not to skimp on while packing.

The afternoon is the longest part of the day for me. The hours drag by between lunch and bedtime. Usually not much to keep me occupied and no one to talk to. Everyone back home is asleep, and it'll be hours before they wake up. We aren't really allowed to adventure about, because 1. I'm a girl 2. I don't know where I'm going and don't know how to ask 3. I'm white and so I'll probably get kidnapped and die. Okay I might have exaggerated that last one a tad. But it is pretty hard to walk around the village and explore without getting stares or getting laughed at or getting approached by someone. I wish being white wasn't such a hot commodity here, because blending in a little would really make it easier to experience the culture. I want to see the scenes, not be the scene. Today my father-in-law is heading into town to bring me more guavas and Maaza, because I'm spoiled like that. I asked him how far to town because I am bored and want come come along for the ride. He said it was an hour. Lawl, I am not driving an hour for guavas and mango juice. I think I'll take another 3405807895 pictures of a coconut tree and take a nap.

India: Pt.2

Im going to be honest, I'm really struggling.

For being in a place so chalked full of people, I've never felt more lonely. I knew when I left it was the right decision to come for Nehemiah's sake, even without William, but now I'm not so sure. I am really having a hard time without the ability to communicate with people. It's my nature to communicate often; I am a writer, a talker, a joker. I don't do well with being quiet with my thoughts to keep me company. Although I appreciate the effort of my family's attempts at English, there's only so many ways I  can answer, "How are you?"I am thankful to have a computer with me, but no amount of Skype or emailing can compare with true face time. The time difference is also a pretty big road block. While my world here is awake, a 10.5 hour time difference means back home everything is asleep.

This trip is surely teaching me how blessed I am to never have had to feel the sting of long distance marriage. We did our time living long distance when he was in college, but most will agree it's a different ball game when you're married, especially with children. A 23-day excursion across the world wasn't the easiest way to start learning how to be apart, I'm guessing. I am gaining more and more respect for the women in my life who go weeks and months without seeing their husbands. Day in and day out, living life alone. Raising kids. Holding it together at home. I feel an ache in my heart so deep it's almost visceral, and it's only been 10 days. Kudos to you, long distance lovers, because it's nothing short of tragedy to live with half of your heart somewhere else. I spoke to my pseudo-mom about this before my trip. I told her that I was almost fearing my trip because I couldn't bear the idea of being so far from Will for so long. She listened and comforted me so compassionately, all the while he husband working on the other side of the country. She said she remembered her first years of marriage, not even wanting to go to a weekend women's retreat because she couldn't bear the thought of leaving her husband. She told me that although it's hard to be apart, the love she has with her husband has grown stronger and the time together sweeter. I try to hold that close to my heart on the days I feel like crying. How blessed am I to have someone whom I can miss so much.

I feel guilty that I can't handle it with more grace; I am angry at myself for not carpe-ing the diem and soaking in every last drop. I wish I could. I want to. But for me, I don't know how to fully enjoy the experience without being able to share it with someone. If I feel like laughing or crying, I can't tell anyone. If I think something or am curious about something I see, I have no choice but to think it to myself. My days go through ups and downs of loving it and hating it, sometimes simultaneously. I love to travel and I love India, but it's just not the same to do it alone.

Most of my time I sit quiet in a room full of people. They're all discussing and laughing and sharing life together, all I can do is try to put together the few words I can grasp and just guess the rest. I kind of feel like the dog. Loved by all but by no means on the same level. I am very sensitive and wear my heart on my sleeves and don't do well feeling like the dog.

I'm honestly not sure what lessons I am supposed to be learning through this. I know that there's a purpose for it; I don't believe that we can go through hard times and not be stretched and grown or changed in some way. Perhaps I am relying too much on people for my happiness. Perhaps I invest too much weight in my husband's availability. Perhaps I need to learn to be okay with the quiet-- embrace it even. Become okay with being my own validation and companion. I am trying to relinquish my control and expectations and just let things be. As easy at is was just a week ago for me to preach about finding peace and joy in all circumstances or expressing a heart of gratitude, it's not as easy being put to the test. So this is me: taking the foot out of my mouth and learning, humbly and in my weakness, to practice what I preach. By myself.

India: Pt.1

I've been trying to put my thoughts into words for days now. I had big plans of keeping a daily blog while on my trip here, but alas, I haven't. This post is probably going to be jumbled and chaotic, which is pretty much reminiscent of India and my pregnant brain. So there you go, I'm really letting you in on my experience. This may end up feeling more like a letter than a blog. We'll see where it takes us. I've never been much for descriptive writing anyway. If you don't believe me feel free to inquire with my college English Comp professor, we passionately debated on multiple occasions on my "misuse" of fragments. Whatever. Im down. With. The. Fragments. She said I could use them when I have my own book or column someday. Sweet vengence, look at me now teach! Ok. I digress.

So basically, this is the jist (gyst? juist? Is this a word? who knows) of my being in India. Will and I had big plans of coming for months. We wanted to come just after Nehemiah's first birthday and stay for several months, working at our family's orphanage and experiencing some life outside the US. We decided to give it to God and pray about it. Various circumstances and opportunities came our way that we knew we weren't supposed to turn down, err go our trip was indefinitely put on the back burner. Even though our extended stay wasn't in the cards for us at the time, we both agreed on the importance of Nehemiah meeting his great grandparents before they, eh, you know, cease to exist. If it weren't now, it wouldn't be possible for me to go until baby #2 is over a year. So it was now or never, pretty much. Will has commitments with work and coaching that he couldn't leave.
So, here we are.

This is my second time to India, so I feel slightly more equipped physically and mentally this time around. I say slightly because as an American, I really don't know if there's a time when I won't be taken back by the abundance of sound and people and colors and commotion. It is noisy all the time. At all hours. I guess that's what you get when you put over a billion people into a country 1/3 the size of the United States. There are constantly people outside, doing things, just living life right there on the side of the road. There are cars honking and motorcycling passing and animals talking to each other. There's a big variety of religion here,. They all make themselves known though, at very early hours with very loud megaphones. I wake up at 4:30 am regularly by the sound of the Hindu temple in the village singing and chanting over the loud speaker. Not long after is usually the muslim mosque, and then around 5:30 our kids at the orphanage chime in with their worship songs and prayer. The birds, crickets, chickens, dogs and buffalo at the school all join in too, singing their own songs. Noise is just a part of the culture here, and I suppose one just becomes immune to it. The bombarding noise is met with motion. Nothing stands still here. Do yourself a favor and YouTube "Indian Traffic". Um yes. It's terrifying. Cars and auto-rickshaws and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles and animals alike, all sharing the road. No traffic rules, no lanes, no nothing. The rules I can observe basically consist of "if you can fit, you can go" and "the bigger one always gets the right of way". It amazes me how unafraid people are to cross the streets or share the road with vehicles of all shapes and sizes flying by without a care for anyone. Before I had a baby, I got a kick out of it and enjoyed watching traffic. Now it scares me to death. I hold myself in a ball and close my eyes and bargain with Jesus to spare our lives.

It's also hard to prepare yourself to handle being the only white person. I am as white as they come folks, straight out of Scandinavia with the hair and skin to prove it. There is nothing that tans on me. My skin hates the sun; I am the ideal Oregonian. That being said, there is not a chance in the world that this toehead could fly under the radar in India. Everyone looks the same here. Brown skin, black hair, dark brown eyes. Saris. Braids. Gold jewlery. Jasmine in her hair. He has a mustache. There is one acceptable way to look in small-village India. I hear the really big cities are much different, but I have no experience to stand on for that. The interesting thing is that regardless of how vast I differ from the Indian status quo, they love to look at me. Most of them have never seen a white person in their lives, only in magazines or TV. The bold ones come up and touch my hair or my skin, but most just stare. Some come and take pictures of me. Some take pictures with me, knowing I will likely be the only white person they'll ever see. I'm much better at handling it this time around. It's easy for me to feel embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention that I didn't do anything but be born to merit. I have gotten good at telling myself to ignore the stares and just smile at them. Sometimes I make a weird face. Hey, if they're looking, I might as well give them something to remember, eh?

The first time I came, there was quite a learning curve between Will's extended family and I. Most accepted me with love and affection, some didn't. Even if they liked me, they didn't know how to act around me. They laughed at me with surprise when I denied the fork and knew how to eat rice with my hand. I didn't want to be treated differently because I am white. If you don't need a fork, neither do I. If you poop in a hole in the ground, by all means, show me which hole to use and I will oblige. This time around has come a lot easier now that we understand our expectations of one another. Although I still have to fight the special treatment sometimes, I know this time it's out of love and hospitality instead of fear or insecurity. They don't laugh when I answer them in Telugu and they don't even offer me utensils. They still hand me a roll of toilet paper when they point me to the toilet though, which I graciously accept. Sorry, I am not that Indian yet.

Speaking of bathroom situations. Yes. I have to talk about this. So I don't know how many third world countries have public restrooms with holes instead of/coinciding with toilets, but I am going out on a limb and saying most, because Western toilets are called Western toilets for a reason. As much as I love a good ole toilet, I am totally kosher with the hole in the ground. We have reconciled our differences and I no longer pee on myself or feel the need to remove my pants when I go for fear of getting them wet. This is an accomplishment for me. I will precede my next statements by reminding you how cautiously you set the toilet paper on the seat at Mini Mart before even considering touching butt to toilet; I will leave it to your imagination how many rolls of toilet paper you would like to use in India to separate your skin from whatever you're reliving yourself in. In the terrible event you're desperate enough to go in a public restroom, I'll tell you now, it is better to choose the hole than the "western toilet". I don't know if ever there was someone hired to clean these toilets, but if there were, they 1. are blind and can't smell and should probably be fired immediately if not sooner, or 2. need to be laid to rest because they surely died. Because of that, my skin is getting nowhere near any surface in those places, so I will opt for the hole. You're welcome for that little nugget of wisdom.

Don't worry though, it's not all bad. Aside from the gross toilets, rampant mosquitos and flying spiders, there's lots to enjoy here in India. The fruit is sweeter, the trees are greener and the sun is warmer. The society cultivates a sense of community and loyalty, which is a stark contrast from our self-serving and closed-door culture in America. More on that later.

I wish I had a great conclusion but actually, I am just ridiculously unsure of the jumbled mess that I just wrote and have no way to sum it up. Eh, when in Rome, right? er, India?