Bountless amounts of love

I have this pretty great quality (well, I think it is) that comes in handy with the kind of job I'm doing right now; I don't really get homesick. During the soon to be decade that I've been living in Denmark (please don't remind me of how old one has to be to be able to say that!), I can't say I've been particularly homesick at any time. Sure it would be great to be able to curl up on moms couch and get taken cared of when you’re sick, but me sick isn’t really me (I’m the biggest baby and bitch combined into one not very charming person at those times…), so it doesn’t count. The point is, I’m comfortable being away from family and friends and I’m quite quick at making a new place feel like home and I’m not constantly wishing to be somewhere else.

 

That being said, I do like vacations! The last couple of months I’ve been imagining myself on a sandy beach, under a huge parasol with a good book and a salty drink by my side looking out on a vast beautiful sea. It’s been this kind of mental break from the hard work and dessert sand (that is in no way close to as marvellous as the beach sand!) that I was living in. The image of coming home felt too far off and maybe even like too much of a hassle to be of much use. But then things changed and everything got turned on its head. Instead of the beautiful beaches of Zanzibar my vacation has turned into a couple of days of pure relaxation and quiet time in Scandinavia. I’ve had some stress free days at a friend’s house, some a bit more stressful days in Stockholm and now I’ve landed at my moms for a week of doing absolutely nothing. Here I get up, get breakfast, walk around in a t-shirt and panties for hours and listen to moms well-known stories that I already know the ending of. If we’re up for it we take a walk, maybe get a cup of coffee in town and I listen and listen. I organise her stuff – closets, storage-room, old flowers and books. I wish for special food and she makes it. We eat way to late and I complain, but that’s just the way it works here so I try not to complain too much. I go to bed later than I normally do and she comes in and sits on my bedside and we talk for another half hour, then she kisses me goodnight and I sleep better than I have in months and months.

 

In less than a week I’ll get on a plane again and even though I won’t be homesick once I’m gone, I’ll be sad to leave, like I always am. This place might not have famous beaches, margaritas and exciting new stories to tell, but it’s home and having this base, being able to come here and get recharged with love and care is what let’s me do stuff and go places where I have to give everything I have and then some. I always know there’s more where it came from so I know I’ll never run out.

Two months in less than 400 words

So about two months ago I wrote the last post before what was supposed to be a six months long hiatus from blogging, but as it turns out things change. These last two months have been the hardest most exhausting months of my life – and yes, I remember starting medical school in Denmark not knowing a word of Danish or flunking my first big exam or studying like a dog for my final exams – and no, it doesn’t compare.

The first three weeks I worked, slept and ate. When anybody asked how I was the only answer I could give was “tired” – not good, not bad, just tired. On the fourth week I didn’t feel quite as tired and I actually had some good days. Naïve as I am, I thought that was it, I had gotten used to the hard life as an ex-pat. Then came the fifth week and brought the worst day of my life. I even cried in public, which I hate (HATE!) to do, because everything was just too much, too sad, too hopeless. I honestly don’t remember ever being so sad before; the expression “heartbreakingly sad” has a whole new meaning in my mind now. When my long-weekend arrived it couldn’t have come at a better time. I really didn’t do anything exciting or extraordinary – I slept, watched series on my computer, bought chips and soda and had a different view from my window – but I came back feeling like I’d gotten just a sliver of myself back. I was happy, I smiled and I felt up for the challenge, excited actually about all the plans I’d gotten the chance to form in my head for the next six weeks. The week that followed was pretty great and this is something I’m insanely grateful for, as it turned out to be our last.

When working with MSF you know that you have to be able to roll with the punches, and being pulled out of the country was nothing less than a fist in the stomach. So many thoughts run through your head, all from concern for your patients to unwillingness to be separated from your ex-pat colleagues and of course the selfish (but normal) practical concerns of “what am I supposed to do now?” When they say you need to be flexible to do this job they are most certainly not kidding.