Maryknoll Sisters

I met Catarina, a Mayan indigenous woman about 36 years of age in June of 2010. She approached me one Sunday after Mass and asked me if I would help her. Talking to her I learned that she is the mother of six children ranging in ages from 14 down to her 2-month-old baby, Santos Martin.

The baby was born with a cleft lip and was unable to nurse. Catarina had been buying powdered baby formula for him but found it to be very expensive, an expense she could not afford. I inquired about her husband and his work in order to ascertain more about their income.

It was then that she explained to me that he had disappeared about four months ago. He routinely would leave their home in a rural village near San Andres Sajcabaja and make the five-hour bus trip to Guatemala City where he had found work.

Monthly, he would return to visit his family and leave money for their expenses. Catarina had no idea what had happened to him and not knowing where in the city he worked, was unable to get information. Since his disappearance, Maria, her 14-year-old daughter, got a job doing house work for a family in San Andres to help support the family. Her 13-year-old son, Concepcion, goes to school but also takes care of their small corn and bean crop. It was clear to me that they barely could afford the basics and definitely could not keep the growing baby supplied with milk.

Using funds that had been donated by sponsors, I was able to provide Catarina with milk, giving it to her on a monthly basis, along with instructions on infant nutrition and food preparation until his first birthday. At that age he was able to eat solid foods and drink a more economical milk substitute.

On one such monthly visit when Santos Martin was about 5 months old, Catarina expressed her desire to have his lip repaired. I told her that I would check out possibilities and let her know. Friends working in the health field informed me that in February 2011, a team of volunteer pediatric surgeons from the United States would be coming to our regional hospital to attend to children with conditions like Santos Martin’s, and there would be no charge. Catarina was elated when I told her, but then her expression turned to dismay. “I can’t afford the bus trip to the hospital!”

I assured her that funds were available to cover travel expenses and once again I dipped into our ministry funds. All total, Catarina, Santos Martin and Concepcion (who served as guide, translator and assistant) made five trips to the hospital.

The final outcome was a “new” Santos Martin without the split lip and just as handsome as his brothers!

— Sister Barbara Noland, MM

My present pastoral health ministry among immigrant families stems from my former work as a visiting nurse with Dominican Sisters Family Health Services in New York. About eleven years ago, with the creation of a new Maternal-Infant-Child program, I was offered the opportunity to be part of the team, with Sharon Lavery, who was a former Maryknoll Lay Missioner in Guatemala. The vast majority of our patients were recent immigrants from Central and South America, coming from Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Peru, Ecuador, Brazil and Mexico.

We began visiting patients who lived in the Westchester County area. While I had been aware of the Latin American immigrant presence in these areas, I never could have imagined how many families there were; almost weekly, the numbers increased. Nor could I have known what was behind the doors of the large colonial-type homes and apartment buildings, where families rented one room, sharing the bathroom and kitchen with the other five or six families also renting a room in the house.

As word spread among health-care circles that there were two Spanish-speaking nurses available to provide prenatal, postpartum and pediatric nursing home visits, we began receiving referrals from clinics and schools in the area.

Because some of the moms and children, who are former patients, live nearby, I have been able to keep in close touch with them and their families. It’s in these friendly visits, doing neighborly things for one another, that deeper sharing of thoughts and feelings occur. While I have felt that I had a fairly good understanding of the struggles of immigrants, I continue to realize how much I still don’t understand.

It was during recent car trips to a specialized clinic in New York City, with 19-year-old Luisa from Central America, that I recognized this. I first went to visit Luisa about 5 months ago, when she came home from the hospital with her baby boy. Justin was born 3 months prematurely, weighing 1 pound, 3 ounces. Two days after birth, he was diagnosed with a perforated colon, for which a colostomy was performed. Luisa was at the hospital every day, and was helped by her husband Juan on his days off. She learned how to medicate and treat Justin (no easy task with a colostomy and for such a young mom).

It was when Justin was discharged, that I visited to follow up with care and instruction. From the beginning, I was very impressed with this young mom who appeared very self-assured and eager to learn. As I got to know Luisa, I learned about her health history with Lupus and other serious medical problems. She was resigned to living without medical attention, as she could not get any insurance, and with Juan’s salary ($40 daily, “off the books”), they could barely pay for rent and food. Luisa was able to consult with some health care specialists, who were touched by her story and the gravity of her health problems. She is now in the long process of receiving the care she needs.

It is during the times that I accompany Luisa on her trips for medical care in the city that I become aware of the depth of anxiety, shame, loneliness, homesickness, and worry suffered by Luisa, and countless others like her. Below, I share a little about Luisa’s situation as she sees it. Her story is so similar to countless other stories I have heard over the years.

Because so many family members helped gather the money to help her come to the U.S., they in turn, are now expecting help. Luisa laments that she can’t even help her mom, who recently was hospitalized back home. She is too embarrassed to tell anyone that she and Juan are barely making it here. Even if they want to return now and “lose face with everyone,” the debt they owe prevents that. She tries to talk weekly with her mom but still hasn’t told her of her health problems and other concerns. She knows her mom will worry more.

Soon after arriving in the U.S., Luisa began working as a cleaning woman. Her fatigue level kept her from studying English at night, and soon after arrival here, she learned she was pregnant. From early on, complications kept her from continuing her work. She told me she hardly ever goes out now. It bothers her that she can’t speak or understand English, making her feel “stupid” even though in Guatemala, she is smart and finished high school. As Luisa told me this, I noted her head to be lowering, with a very sad expression on her beautiful face; she then looked up and added: “I feel like a trapped cockroach in a cave” ……… Over the years, I have heard many patients use similar statements when describing themselves in their present situation.

On a recent medical trip with Luisa, I was stopped by a police car. The policeman informed me that one of the brake lights was out. As we drove away, I noticed Luisa’s face to be red, her eyes tearing, and she was breathing heavily. It was then she talked non-stop about what was going through her head in that short interaction, saying: I was so afraid he was going to arrest me.” Back in Central America, police could arrest someone for no reason. It took a lot to calm Luisa; her fear was so palpable. I am reminded of another situation, where we spoke about a social worker named Dorothy, coming to visit, to see what other community services were available for her or Justin. While I thought Luisa understood that Dorothy would be visiting with the purpose of helping her, she recently told me she couldn’t sleep for days before Dorothy’s arrival. She’d read of a baby being removed from a home by Social Services, and was so worried that the social worker coming would find a problem and take Justin from her.

There is so much yet to learn about what goes on in the minds and hearts of people who find themselves in an unfamiliar world, often unable to communicate freely because of language and cultural difference. They come with a dream, but all too quickly, find themselves in isolating situations for which there was no preparation. Yet, like Luisa, they continue on with deep Faith and courage.

I pray each day for wisdom and a listening heart; I also thank God for the blessing of being able to journey with neighbors like Luisa, Juan, and 8-month-old (now 14 pounds!) Justin.

— Sister Maria Colabella, MM

Below is a picture that’s almost as brightly painted as the Easter egg! Her name is Elaida and I have known her since I took this picture a year ago when her young parents came with hopes of repairing their daughter’s hand. Elaida, their only child, was born with her thumb and index finger fused and was missing her middle finger.

This past February I learned of a group of U.S. pediatric hand surgeons, aptly called Helping Hands, who come to Guatemala City annually to operate on children’s hands free of charge. What costs, of course, is transportation from Chajul to Guatemala City, a 7-hour trip, plus food, lab tests, x-rays and medicine.

The father, Gaspar, paid for some of the tests and medicines and I was able to help with transportation and the rest through donations. With fuel prices skyrocketing, the donations are a blessing.

After several trips and successful surgery, little Elaida’s hand is well on its way to being a fully-functioning, 4-digit hand. The child is so used to me now that her mother, Ofelia, says she refers to me as “grandmother.”

I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the family could stay at Ronald McDonald house near the big national hospital in Guatemala City while waiting for the surgery.

Gaspar is a farmer, like almost everyone in town. It’s not yet planting time, so he earns what he can. He told me recently he worked a few days for a butcher, breaking up cattle bones for about 20 Quetzales a day, which is about half the going rate for laborers in town, and well below the national minimum wage. (One Quetzal = 12½ cents, U.S. money; Q20 = $2.50)

When I’m in town Ofelia sometimes sends me breakfast of tortillas, beans and an egg, and a few times sent the local delicacy called “boshhboles,” made of finger-shaped cornmeal units wrapped in local vine leaves and steamed, then topped with a hot chili sauce. I can eat at most 8 boshboles, but she sends enough to last me several meals!

— Sister Bernice Kita, MM