DAY FOUR – Rhythms and Validation.
The rhythm of the week is settling in.
We woke to clear morning light over Antigua, the silhouette of Volcán de Agua standing calm and watchful beyond the garden wall. Inside the hospital, the air buzzed with the familiar cadence of care — pre-op checklists, patient rounds, soft jokes traded between sips of coffee from Casa De Fe. There were more smiles this morning. Faces we’d only met days ago now greet each other like old friends.
By midday, the flow of surgeries was in full swing again. There’s a kind of choreography to it — the unspoken movements between scrub techs, circulating nurses, and surgeons. You can sense it even between procedures, when instruments are cleaned and tables re-set like resetting a stage. There’s laughter in the break room, charting in the computer room, writing notes in hallway corners, and the quiet focus of those preparing for what’s next.
Some of us are starting to realize that this rhythm leaves a sliver of time between our final patient of the day and dinner. And in that sliver — life. A few volunteers wandered the cobbled streets of Antigua, discovering local coffee shops, music and silver shops, a climbing gym tucked into alleyways, and tiny tiendas with snacks you’d never find back home. Others simply sat in the plaza, watching the sun dip behind colonial buildings, kids playing with balloons, abuelas (grandmothers) sharing stories on benches. It’s the kind of town where you can feel the world slowing down just enough to catch your breath.
And while the schedule has kept us moving, there’s talk we may be able to add more cases before the week’s end — a sign of how well the team is working together, how streamlined things have become. But more than that, it’s a testament to the need here, and the dedication it takes to meet it.
In the midst of this rhythm came a story I won’t forget.
She came to us with abdominal pain — the kind that speaks plainly without needing translation. She’d already gone to the National Hospital, where they told her there was nothing wrong. But she knew better. She knew her body. She also knew she couldn’t work like this. And work, for her, meant driving a big rig — back and forth across Florida — to provide for her family in Guatemala.
She’s a mother of four. One of her sons, in his 30s, has been struggling with depression. She told us she’d recently stopped taking her thyroid medication so she could afford to pay for his therapy. That one sentence cracked something open in the room.
Dr. Christine Henderson, one of our general surgeons, listened closely, examined her, and quickly discovered what others had missed — a rare and severe hernia. Christine also noted her thyroid levels were dangerously low. But now there was a plan. A way forward.
It’s staggering how often physical pain carries hidden burdens — and how often those burdens belong to other people. This woman had been driving freight across an entire state, in another country, holding her body together with grit and necessity, while quietly breaking inside. All so her son could have a chance at healing. And now, because she trusted us with her care and her story. Our team took the time to listen to validate her concerns and because of that, her path, and her son’s can find a new direction, a new road to travel on.
This is the impact of showing up. Of presence. Of care that doesn’t rush or dismiss.
And it’s also why we keep coming back.
Back to these ORs that feel like a second home. Back to hallways echoing with the soft shuffle of post-op recovery. Back to our makeshift workspace where someone is always looking for the right hemostat or offering a half-eaten granola bar. Back to this country that keeps teaching us how to be human.
There’s an image from today I keep coming back to — two providers, heads tilted, stealing a moment of rest on a bench between cases. It captures something I can’t quite name: the exhaustion and joy of service, the bonds forming between us, and the simple human need for pause. We’re nearly halfway through the week, but already, it feels like this place is shaping us.
Tonight, somewhere in the city I’m sure fireworks will explode as they did last night. But the real sparks — the ones that matter — happened in the quiet rooms behind these doors.
Brian Jensen, Team Blogger
