Background Info

I first learned about fistula before my 2005 trip to Ethiopia. I was traveling to the country for the opening of an eye clinic my father had helped found.

Eric and Mary Oemig, friends of mine who had been to Ethiopia, said that while I was there, I had to be sure to visit the hospital for obstetric fistula.

I said: "Fistu-huh?"

So they told me about the condition.

Obstetric fistula is a devastating childbirth injury caused by an unrelieved obstructed labor. In the US, if your pelvis is too small, or for some other reason the baby gets stuck during labor, a doctor performs a C-section.

In poorer areas of developing countries, laboring girls and women often don't have access to medical care. In these cases, the woman will continue to labor for up to 2 weeks. The baby nearly always dies, and if the woman survives, she is often left with a tear in her vaginal wall that causes her to leak urine and sometimes feces.

Because of her smell, a woman with fistula is relegated to the edges of society, unable to board a bus, share a meal, or work with others. In some areas, members of her community believe that her condition is punishment for having been unfaithful to her husband.

For women without access to treatment (a $300 surgery), their suffering and isolation is life-long.

Seeing the clinic in Addis was an a transformative experience. Before surgery, women are pariahs with little hope for the future. After surgery, they see a new possibility for re-integrating into society, and many of the women and girls smile for the first time in years.

It was moving the way the hospital staff treated their patients with such dignity. Classes were held prior to surgery to teach the women and girls about the procedure, and how to care for themselves post-op. I remember seeing a staff member entering a classroom after the students filed out, and humming to herself as she cleaned the urine off of the floor so the room would be ready for the next class. I was amazed at how clean the clinic was and how beautiful the hospital grounds were. What moved me most at the clinic, though, was learning that the average age of their patients was 14.

I left Ethiopia completely mortified that this problem existed. I promised myself that I would do something about it. What exactly I didn't know. But something.

When I got back to Seattle, I experienced the kind of things that people often do when they return from overseas. I saw my home and surrounding with a new appreciation for their familiarity. I knew exactly where to find everything I needed at the grocery store. No more fumbling with my dictionary every time I had a conversation. My local barista asked me where I'd been and did I want the usual? It was good to be home.

The next week I got busy working on an article (I was writing at the time). And 6 months later, I remembered the trip as an amazing experience, with the condition of fistula still upsetting to me, but more like the feeling I'm left with after a real downer of documentary film, rather than something that I had once felt enough passionate for to commit to doing something it.

Besides, it wasn't as though I was sitting around eating bon-bons all day. I had my writing, and my volunteer hours developing the school newsletter. I had a daughter who wouldn't eat her vegetables, and a husband who's car was in the shop. I had my own stuff to deal with. So quit nagging me. Stupid Conscience. Sheesh.