Trying to process home

Today I went to the farmer’s market in my city. It’s generally one of my favorite places to go.

It’s hard to explain exactly what happens when we come home from faraway places like Haiti. It’s not like I make conscious decisions toward dysfunction. It’s more like I’m standing somewhere normally familiar and okay and my brain just short circuits.

And then I am completely overtaken by the urge to run away.

There was food everywhere … beautiful, yummy, fresh fruits and vegetables. And I was using WIC vouchers to get my produce, which should be a good thing, right?

Well, it is a good thing.

It’s just really hard to process when I was only a week ago triaging patients in an outdoor clinic who are unable to feed their children enough for normal growth and development, never mind fresh fruits and vegetables.

So, because I am a US citizen in a certain income bracket the State of CT will help me buy produce for my children.

But, there are mommies in Haiti who are living in a world of poverty I cannot even imagine who have no access to adequate food for their babies. And no government who cares to intervene.

And this comes down to where we were born.

Where I was born was not a choice I made or a circumstance for which I can take pride.

I am here. And they are there.

And now I can sit and eat my salad.

Only it just makes me nauseous.

Coming home is really hard.