 "Photo: Courtesy photo")
 "Photo: Courtesy photo")
 "Photo: Courtesy photo")
They are told to sleep on the nine-hour drive from the Dominican Republic to what’s left of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.
Miriam Cummings, a December 2009 graduate of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, is a brand new nurse on her way to one of the worst disasters in the world. She’s nervous, but focused.
“Once we get off the bus we’re going to work,” a person in charge says.
Buildings are reduced to rubble. Bodies are still being pulled from the wreckage.
Relief efforts have already been going on for a month when Miriam arrives, but aid is still needed. The work is hot and sweaty. They work outside because there are very few buildings standing. They drink liters of water and only have to use the bathroom twice a day because of the sweating. There are rats and flies everywhere. The smell of death lingers. But Miriam is ready to work.
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“You should go to Haiti!” said a girl in Miriam’s church group. Miriam doubted that would happen.
“I don’t think they want a new grad that doesn’t know what they’re doing,” she said. But soon, Cummins’ father, a pastor, received an e-mail from Baptist missionary organization International Ministries, saying medical volunteers are needed.
It didn’t take long to prepare for the trip. Cummings already had many vaccinations and paperwork done.
“Nursing school keeps you up to date, but I still received the typhoid and malaria vaccines,” she said.
With a plane ticket covered by IM, Cummings flew to the Dominican Republic. Once there, she and the other volunteers organized their resources. They counted pills and other medical supplies for their journey. They would be in Haiti for the next two weeks.
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She works in a mobile clinic for the most of each weekday. It’s mainly pharmacy work, but she strives to get more contact with patients.
“We kept busy,” she said.
While working in the hospital on the weekend, she is able to administer shots, take blood pressures and give out medicine.
A typical day in Haiti starts at 7 a.m. for breakfast. From there they load the truck and drive to a rich person’s house or church to set up the mobile clinic. They are done accepting patients by 3 p.m. and pack up, but the day isn’t over. In the evening they prepare their prescriptions for the next day and go to bed.
The workers only had downtime on the weekends, Cummings said.
On these drives to different clinic locations she can see the slow cleanup. Some streets are already cleared while others are still full of rubble.
“People returned to everyday life,” she said. Locals sell things outside of what used to be their homes or businesses. Cummings said she learned that Haitians don’t usually dwell on losses. They grieve for a little and then swiftly return to normalcy. But even a death toll of more than 200,000 can be hard to fathom for some.
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It’s nighttime when Miriam experiences her first aftershock. She’s asleep inside a church with a strong foundation. The aftershock doesn’t wake her, but the panic of people around her does. If you’ve been in one, you’ll always wake up.
The first aftershock isn’t a big deal. The second, however, is larger. A doctor gets Miriam up. She’s disoriented, not knowing if its early morning or late at night.
After it ends, the residents convince her it isn’t safe to sleep inside.
“Aren’t you scared?” a volunteer said. A Pastor’s wife brought Miriam a mattress and a pillow and she spent the rest of the night under the stars.
Haitians rich or poor, young or old are now sleeping outside. They do not enter buildings that still stand for fear they will be crushed. They pray to God at night that it doesn’t rain.
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