Como no?

I'm 22, I know. I'm 22 and I'd like to call it a retirement.

May 26, 9:26 PM, email to THE Foundation

Hi all,

I´m writing to let you know I would like to pass on the coordinator position at the end of June. I´ve had a fantastic experience here. I think this clinic is awesome and provides an amazing amount for an amazing amount of people. This experience has been super influential on me and has inspired me to want to pursue further studies in non-profit management and development.

I feel I have put everything I could into doing this job well and I hope I´ve done a good job. At the same time, I have been overwhelmed by 6 straight months of non'stop work. I realized this when I had dengue and emotionally and physically I am realizing this again (hopefully without a repeat medical case). I´m also sensitive and my heart is starting to feel a bit raw. As you all know, the coordinator job is challenging. Of late, financial issues have been the most draining on me.This experience has taught me this is the kind of work I want to do in my life. I want to gain the experience and knowledge to really make a difference.

I hope to always be connected to this clinic and connected to Bolivia. I would love to re-visit this experience again when I have the skills and energy to make a real impact. For now I want to help facilitate the transition to the next coordinators. I´m working on some new forms, will draft a working training manual and will devote myself and Maria to pass on (in writing) everything we know.

I´m still in it heart and soul, my heart and soul are just tired.

Abrazos,
Rachel
__________

I think the American founders already knew. They know this job is untenable. They know that when dengue and deportation are vacations, 'burn out' is the trifecta perfecta. For all it's worth, my email took my Bolivian Jefe Dougman by surprise. I love him a lot (because everyone is loveable when you get to know what makes them shine) and I have enjoyed working and learning with him. This last month will be hard. I will be sad to go. He asked me in a Skype conversation from the States last night why I hadn't talked to him about this. I said, "because Douglas, in 6 months, you never gave me the chance." I told the truth. I care about people and no matter how frustrated I was, I care about him. Every Monday and Tuesday morning I enter the office to see Doug stressed and overworked, and almost always on the onset of depression if we add the foundations work to the mesa. If I were ever feeling stressed and overworked and overwhelmed, the last thing I wanted to do was tell him... just the other day he showed his shaking fingers...how effective would it be if we were both temblando juntos?

When Jefe comes to the clinic, I love it. I am always energized by his spirit and passion. On the Mondays and Tuesdays we have no money. On Mondays and Tuesday the sustainability of a chronic care institution that provides specialization and surgery yet has NO MONEY, drives us nutz and keeps us humble (and by that I mean internalizing a lot of pain and defeat).

This week my brother and I had the life and death talk with the dialysis patient we've been following (the one Susan found). We said her body seemed ok, but inside was failing. We discussed Argentina (where she has a daughter and could move to receive dialysis covered by the State). We discussed the limits of our treatments here in the clinic and how we can attempt to help for now but no one knows how long the help will make a difference. I made the band-aid analogy in spanish. In waiting rooms, during dialysis, while communicating and coordinating their care back and forth to palacios, I got to know this mother and daughter. The daughter is my age. At 22 she is dealing with the unimaginable. This was my first life and death talk. That I've heard. That I've thought about. And that I've given. My reality of understanding her situation, and the situation of all the patients we help, is only a very very very tiny piece of the weight of hers. When they left the room I sat with my brother. It took less than the closing of the door, for me to break down and cry. And I mean CRY. I know what we are doing is good. Maybe every consult, every treatment, every chat makes a difference. Maybe we involve ourselves in things that might be more natural, less difficult, less complicated and introduced to false hope, than if we leave them alone.

I realized about this position that the coordinator is stressed so that everyone else can be happy, can learn and treat patients in ways that they'll probably never forget. In my 6 months of being challenged and being overwhelmed and acting as Indiana Jonesina, every single volunteer has told me they had amazing time and has thanked me for helping make the experience possible. I've been told that people can tell the job is stressful but that "externally I handle it well." Damn external shells. I bet my shell is still not transparent. However, when I stopped being able to feel the difference inside, I new it was time to move on. I tried to tell Bossman it doesn't mean i didn't love this experience, give to this experience and learn from he and his clinic any less.