Читать книгу unDIAGNOSED - Randy Beal - Страница 8

If you had asked me if I could ever picture myself traveling to Africa, I would have given you a strange look. But when one of my pastors asked me to join an Africa mission trip, I said yes without hesitation. Since I was somewhat of a last minute addition to the trip, there wasn’t much time to prepare. I had to get my first passport and the multiple vaccinations the trip required. I got the vaccinations at an infectious disease center. I was more worried about the pain from the shot itself than the possibility of catching a debilitating virus (you can add needles to my “not-a-fan-of” list). Little did I suspect at the time of the vaccination that I would one day be back at the center for a far different reason.

A few weeks before the trip, I was at work at my family business when my left eye started tearing up. I also noticed that I was having some difficulty talking. I could move my mouth some, but half of it wasn’t cooperating. Shortly after that, the entire left side of my face went numb—to the point that I was actually drooling on myself.

I saw my family doctor the next day when the symptoms continued. He diagnosed the condition as Bell’s palsy. Bell’s palsy is a type of facial paralysis that is temporary in nature and is the result of either trauma or damage to one or two of a person’s facial nerves. My doctor prescribed steroids, of which I only took a few doses. Thankfully by the time we took off for Uganda, all symptoms were gone.

The first flight was to London. I was a bit unnerved by those TV monitors that charted our flight path and kept hovering over the ocean for hours at a time, but otherwise, my first overseas flight proved uneventful. I felt a little odd when we landed, like a cold was coming on, but was soon distracted by all the sights and sounds London has to offer. We had one full day of rampant tourism before the Uganda branch of the trip, and we took full advantage of it by visiting the standard hot spots: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye. I gave fish and chips a try—disgusting!

While we were hanging about Buckingham, one of the guys in our group, George, was particularly intrigued by the Queen’s Guard and their vow of silence. George thought he would succeed where so many others had failed and embarked on a campaign of taunts and jeers to draw one of the guards out. His campaign was so obnoxious and persistent that it actually paid off. The guard motioned him into an alley and, setting aside that famed British stiff upper lip, delivered a severe tongue-lashing that George and everyone else on the trip wouldn’t soon forget.

Our final flight to Kampala offered incredible views from the plane, first of the Alps and then of the Sahara desert. The majesty of those scenes contrasted sharply with the smallness of the airport. I was amazed that the steps had to be rolled out to the plane and that the entire airport was not much bigger than a motel. Machine-gun-toting guards constantly patrolled the area, adding to my discomfort, but we made it out of the airport and to our hotel without any incident.

The next day, we caravanned into a more rural area in several SUVs. The trip was long and treacherous; I can only describe it as white water rafting on a dirt road. I marvel that we didn’t flip over. We arrived safely and settled in with the work of our mission, which included teaching Sunday School to groups of village children. One of my primary tasks was to provide audio-visual support to a large group of pastors. I lugged the projector to a conference, only to discover that a power cord hadn’t been packed. I felt that sickening, sinking feeling as I realized this and explained it to the group. We managed to rig something up in time for the first meeting, but I still felt terrible about the whole thing.

Within a day or so of that, I felt a more literal sickening. It started with an intense headache—borderline migraine—and progressed to puking, diarrhea, and absolute loss of energy. What was worse is that I became dehydrated. I knew better than to drink from the tap, though I was tempted.

The loss of energy resulted in a profound and seemingly insatiable need to sleep. I missed several day's worth of activities with the group because I slept through them. A few times I dragged myself out to a church service. You haven’t experienced a worship service until you’ve experienced one in Africa. They’re intense, to say the least, and can often include non-traditional expressions of joy, such as lifting up folding chairs over your head and twirling them around. Despite the loud singing, rigorous shouts of praise, fervent dancing, running, jumping, and chair twirling, I’d sleep through most of these services, just dropping my head where I sat. I usually had to be woken up at dismissal.

During one of our trips back to the hotel, I struck up a conversation with our driver about how I was feeling.

He said, “It sounds like African sleeping sickness.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s when you go to sleep and never wake up” he answered.

“That’s called death,” I returned. For some reason this amused him and he laughed and laughed over it.

My stay in Africa was nearing a close and I still was no better. Three of us, George, Steve, and I, had to leave for the States early, so we headed once again to the airport in two vehicles. One vehicle carried the passengers and most of our bags, while the other carried overflow luggage. My backpack containing my passport happened to be on the overflow vehicle. Our plan was for both SUVs to meet first at the hotel and then at the airport. Along the way, the SUVs got separated and ours arrived at the hotel first. We waited patiently for the other SUV until we could wait no more.

Once again I found myself in a situation where I was the only one who didn’t have the proper rites of passage. I suggested to our host pastor that he could pull some strings with the airport authorities to get me on that plane. He couldn’t offer me that but he did share his faith in God with me.

“Go to the airport by faith. God will make a way.”

Sure enough, the other vehicle was waiting there, just in time for my flight and with exactly what I needed.

Sometimes on our life journey we simply misplace our passports. We find ourselves lacking what we need to break away from a place of suffering to a place of peace.

This is a stressful and frightening place to be. The certainty and weight of obstacles in the path looms ominously and larger than life here. I have learned that it pays to lunge forward toward your goal, as if you already have what you need. More often than not, your passport awaits you on the other side.

We were all motivated to get back home quickly. On the London to Chicago flight, the pilot announced that flight would take about nine hours. George woke me to repeat the captain’s assessment.

I said, “I asked God to get us there quicker,” and fell back asleep. The next thing I remember was George waking me again.

“Randy!” he shouted, shaking me, “the pilot just announced that we caught a strong tailwind on the way back and made it in record time!” He and Steve were shocked. I just smiled. Perhaps the faith of that pastor had rubbed off a little on me.

For several weeks after my return, I remained extremely sleepy and experienced several headaches. I was able to function somewhat normally but felt more run-down than usual. I also noticed a slight slurring of my speech. None of this gave me much concern. Though I was no longer a stupid teenager, I had managed to carry over a great deal of that stupidity into my 20s and decided to ignore these symptoms. I also started to notice a tingly feeling in the bottoms of my feet and toes, primarily when playing weekly pick-up basketball games. Sometimes this was accompanied by blurred vision. Again, it caused no concern. I just dealt with it by not dealing with it. The invincibility of youth still enveloped me, and I looked forward to more days of travel and adventures. Life was looking good.