Anger at the Wind: a recent honest story

It’s 8:30am on a Saturday morning. There is a slightly orange hue to my bedroom room though the curtains are still drawn on all 3 windows. 

“I just got an alert of a mass casualty involving staff. I’m going to the hospital. The kids are downstairs watching cartoons, and the plumber is here fixing the broken pipes.”  

 

I rubbed my eyes as I sat up in bed. Trying to clear my head, I repeated his words back to him.

 

“Oh no, babe! Was it a matatu or car accident? Oh man. Ok. The plumber is here and the kids are watching cartoons.” 

 

“Yes, a road traffic accident I think.”, he said as he leaned down and kissed me on the head. 

 

Then he was gone. I sat up straighter trying to think, listening to his footsteps on the path outside our window, the green gate opening and closing, and then the voices of our usual Saturday saleswomen greeting him.

 

“You can set the samosas and english muffins just inside the door. Thank you.”, I hear him say. 

 

I hear the main door downstairs open and close. My feet touch the cold wood floor as I walk to my desk that sits just under the window. I climb on top of the desk and open the window, the strong, cool wind hits my face immediately. 

 

Is that wailing I hear? No, maybe it’s laughing? The sounds from the direction of the hospital and nursing school housing are hard to discern in the wind. I can see the back of the hospital clearly from my window, and I observe the lack of vehicles or people around. 

 

Maybe it’s not too bad? Oh Lord, please let these people be ok!, I whisper to the morning. 

 

My mind is flashing back to the fatal car accident we witnessed less than 2 weeks ago. We pronounced 3 people dead on the scene, and the 4^th died on the way to the hospital. An entire family’s lives gone in a single moment. 

 

I described the accident to my counselor on our zoom call a couple nights ago. It has continued to affect me deeply, and I can’t fully understand why. As a nurse and human, I have seen death and trauma many times, and walked through these impossible moments with people. 

 

“Something in me desperately needed to care for this woman’s body”, I recalled. “She was already dead, but they had dragged her body into the grass and just left her there, amid people milling all around. Some people were taking pictures of the car, while I begged them to help me pull the other woman out so I could see if she was dead or alive. She was dead also, as the driver clearly was. There was nothing I could do. 

I unlocked my car and climbed back in, checking on my children to make sure they were ok. Thankfully they didn’t see the worst of it, but we could all still see the woman’s body lying in the grass. Someone had covered her face, and a couple women were standing over her, maybe protectively? Everything in me wanted to care for her. It seems strange and illogical, but that is the part that haunts me. I needed to physically care for her body, to hold onto her dignity even in death.” 

 

After sharing this story, my counselor asked me to summarize the past couple months since we returned to Kenya from our summer in the US… what poured out surprised me… 

 

“Well, there have been so many good things happening – we love the kitchen and patio renovation and are hosting so much more. Jason and I are staying well connected. The boys are thriving in school and Anina is slowly adjusting to it. I’ve started doing interviews and writing stories for Friends of Kijabe – an organization that helps both patients and medical trainees in financial need.” 

 

“And…”, her gentle voice prompted the second half of my spilling. 

 

“And… there’s been a lot of hard. We’ve been involved in so many stories of vulnerable women and girls, children being abused, and humans in desperate poverty and need. There’s been death at the hospital, increased awareness of broken systems and injustices, corruption revealed, and just yesterday there was a young woman at our door asking for money for dialysis so she can stay alive for her daughters.”

 

My counselor didn’t say anything. We sat in silence as my confession settled into me. 

 

“I’ve become angry at the wind.”, I also admitted.

 

“What?!”, she said with curiosity, and the hint of a smile. 

 

“For the past two weeks I’ve been complaining about the intense wind that comes every night in Kijabe. From 6pm until 6am, the wind doesn’t let up. It prevents outdoor gatherings and sometimes keeps me awake. It comes up from the Great Rift Valley and over the hills where we live. The word ‘Kijabe’ means ‘wind’ you know.”

 

“Hmm. So this is where your anger has been pouring out?”

 

“Yes. Jason pointed it out to me. He gently said ‘You’ve raged at the wind for 7 nights in a row now. Maybe it’s not really about the wind?’ I think he’s right. Maybe I’m experiencing culture shock or something??”

 

I direct my question to her. It’s something I’ve been wondering for a few days. I know it’s not really about the wind, as the rage and frustration inside me runs deep. 

 

“I think you’re suffering from something called ‘compassion fatigue’. There could be some aspects of culture shock mixed in, but I think your description of the car accident is classic compassion fatigue. You desperately need to help, to do something, in so many overwhelmingly hard situations. 

 

She continued, as I listend in rapt attention. 

 

You are living in a place with high levels of poverty, disease, and corruption, and low levels of employment, infrastructure, and access to care and education. Combined with your personality as a deeply empathetic person, this puts you at an incredibly high risk for compassion fatigue.” 

 

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When I looked up ‘compassion fatigue’ online to learn more, it describes my recent experience to a ‘t’… 

 

“Feeling helpless, hopeless, or powerless. Feeling irritable, angry, sad or numb. Ruminating about the suffering of others and feeling anger towards the events or people causing the suffering.”

 

Much of what I read online says this is currently a huge issue due to humanity living through two years of a global pandemic. Historically, this is a major challenge for those in healthcare and counseling professions, as well as for anyone who is naturally empathetic and a ‘deep feeler’, or a highly sensistive person (HSP). People who live in developing countries, or ‘the global south’, struggle with this fatigue frequently, as the broken systems and massive poverty can be overwhelming. 

 

Becoming aware of these terms, and the reason I’m so angry at the wind, is helpful. I feel less alone, and a little less crazy. But what do I do with it??

 

According to God, my gut, and the experts, I rest. I pull back a bit from the things I’m involved in, while remaining connected to life-giving community. I listen to my body and care for her. I write, talk, read, and pray. I take hikes and spend time in nature. I play piano and guitar. I sing and dance. I let myself be angry at the wind, while also seeking to embrace it. I process my anger through the above ways, while also being thankful for the million gifts I’ve been given. Then hopefully I re-enter the work from a healthier place, a place of more wholeness and surrender. 

 

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So that’s where I am at, in our lovely little home in windy Kijabe. The sun is out, and a variety of birds are singing their morning songs. Jason texted to say that all the injuries are orthopedic, and everyone is going to be ok. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. The kids finish cartoons and their friends come over to play. 

 

Jason walks in and tells me that most of the injured are pediatric nurses who were on their way to work. 

 

“Man, I wish I could help!”, I say in frustration to the open kitchen. I don’t yet have a work permit here in Kenya, nor do I have an active nursing license anymore. While I’m working toward these things, it is a very long process that could take another year. 

 

My job today? Take care of my kids. Take care of myself. Breathe in compassion and breathe out grace. Soak in the sun. Enjoy the flowers. Drink my coffee and read Scripture. Play piano. Read a good book. Thank God for the million ways He meets us here.