Recognition, Resolution, and Restitution

 

One of the few rescues who got out. We brought her to Romania.
She has since found a home.

I had hoped I would be at a different place then here. And yet I am not. I am still stuck. Mucking and muddling through the aftermath of a trip I was so compelled to journey upon. I was hoping to make a difference. Assist a place so fraught with injustice. Throw a fist in the air to provide a whisper of defiance to a place I have never been before, for a people I do not know.

The Ukraine story, my story within theirs, still nags and gnaws on inside of me.

Here’s where I am, and here’s what I didn’t know I needed to start to try get away from it all.

Sandbags and steel barricades. They are everywhere.

Validation. I needed this. It might be shameful to admit. (Heck, if it is I am ok with that). I needed to not feel so alone. It came from two voices today. One, Dr. Sarah, who felt as desperate to go and help as I did. And two, Dr. David who arrived at the group I was with a week after I left, and described it, his experience with them, (not even the Ukraine war debacle) as; “the worst experience of my life.” He has been a veterinarian for 37 years. I found myself apologizing to him. Sorry for what he had been through. Sorry that I couldn’t have helped discourage him from being there. I can feel his weighty regret. He, like me, wanted to go more than our due diligence in trusting commandos with nothing to lose brought us. He, just like I, was content to clean the kennels of the dogs that the egomaniacs who had retrieved them would not do. Silly how we were so easily and eagerly recruited to came care for the animals because there was no one with any veterinary training there to help, only to be trusted with kennel duty. For me, I was more intent on being useful than being disposed. It seemed from day one of my arrival in Ukraine that my two options for being a part of the ramshackle team was clean cages/walk dogs/try to lay low, or, be headed with the engine crew to drive all over Ukraine on a rescue mission. He, like me, feels misappropriated, cheated, and deceived to have come so far to clean kennels, while watching them die of disease and isolation in dark cramped cages. I feel most closely connected to the animals I was so intent upon helping because of the solitary time I spent with them. Regardless of my medical prowess my contentment, despair, and painful burdened heart lies most solely upon walking away from those animals. I am bitter, burdened and speaking out for them. I will not be able to find my answers to the nagging puzzle still in pieces around me, but, now I can share my story with the others who passed through after me. Revenge for the eyes of those needful, displaced souls I can no longer be walking near.

Jeffery. One of the few to get out.

Resolve. There is none of that here. So, I fall back into recognition. I keep finding myself chewing on the days, the quiet with a dog on a leash, walking, walking, walking. And the faces I will never see again. The eyes of those faces that I dream of. Want for, and beckon to.

Mischa, the compound kitty. I loved her, she needed us. I needed her.
I spent much of my days just holding her. 

Today I found a community. It was the first time I could talk about my trip and have it resonate with someone else. I can say that I needed them, and feel great comfort in them also needing me. A community of more than a singular being who still tries to settle for the dust that won’t fall. I have found three other people, (maybe four? Or, even five?) who went just to be helpful. Just like me. They put their lives into a precarious place for the pure humanitarian effort that is so desperately needed. Just like me. Three other people who went because we were silly enough to believe that we were needed just because we were told so. We all asked for references, a call from the one before us to help settle the voices within that we were doing the right thing with the people who shared our view on this preposterous invasion and had the gumption to not only say so, but to do. All of us received the same response. None of us were given each other’s contact info beforehand. We found each other afterwards. After we left. Came home. All of us struggling to come to terms with our time there. All still reeling from the experiences we had. All ostracized by the group we put our lives in the hands of. I can’t express how consoling having this community is. There is something inexplicably horrible about loneliness. Loneliness with a secret no one can digest. A rumination of fear-based failures from a faraway place that isn’t relatable, nor comparable. War is the most atrocious act of mankind. War upon fellow humans just because you believe your might is more than their spines can withstand is unforgivable. The weak, poor and defenseless who get caught in between, that, well that is enough to motivate foreigners to your shores. And yet there is this survivors remorse, this silent pain of abandonment, and the futility that seemed to have come from risking so much.

My husband doesn’t understand. I can’t share this with him. It is still too raw, and my actions too selfish for him to make room for empathy on what that trip cost me, never mind him. He thought it foolish from the start. Empathy with a fool is permission to repeat. He wants me to see the experience in valuations from the economist’s eye. The weight of one life and the cost it requires. “Is one dog from Ukraine worth the thousands of dollars it cost you to care for them? Is it worth it when they still cannot get out? When 25 out of the 30 puppies that were brought to the compound died of parvo simply because they were rounded up, caged together and never vaccinated?” No, the answer is no. I wasn’t brought there to practice 30 years of medicine that I was armed with. I was brought there to be a pawn in a delusionist's collection. I was pled to so that I could be a talking point for more social media fuel. The lives can’t be counted as not valuable, not risk-worthy, not my problem to solve.

The first euthanasia I had in Ukraine. Heart failure.

If grief is part of this recovery I am past the heartbreak of not being able to bring the dogs and cats I helped smuggle into Romania. I am in anger. Anger that I wasted my time, watched those dogs die from sheltering, caging, and followers. Angry that this is the only place I have left to put the pieces. It’s not good enough that the wolf and the grizzly bear are safe and out of Ukraine. It’s not good enough that I came home safely. There is not a place I can shelve this and go on.

Can I continue to carry the stories of the faces I left behind? Can I find the will to put the pieces back into some assemblage of peaceful acceptance, or, am I at the place where restitution is the only resolution?  

Coughing all night. He just coughed all night. Antibiotics, sedation and a full grooming shave down. He was brought to Romania. In a shelter now.

I said once to a fellow, equally fried veterinary colleague, "yeah, I get it. I am so exhausted by the sheer volume of need, and the frustration of my inability to meet the demand that I went off to a war to try to feel better about myself, and my current place within vetmed." Maybe the muck is my own to own, and accept? Maybe there isn't such a thing as a peaceful recognition, nor resolve. And, then again, maybe the restitution only exists within?

Better Left Undone. When Action Breeds Contrition

 

Everyone else guessed it, I had dismissed it as foolishly foreshadowing. A ruse. A game with no clear odds favoring one or the other. When at face value it was so commonplace, that I should have seen myself as the typical ‘subject’ and counted myself as a loss before leaving the gate. Or, to put it literally, crossing the border out of Ukraine.

It has become my form of PTSD. I can’t leave it, them, or most of what I encountered, behind. It’s become a haunting. It’s been a month since I got back home. Twice as long as I was there, and, still,, I can’t let them go. I can’t let almost any of it go. Worst, most painful of all, the animals. Not their medical stuff. The stuff so routine I dismiss it as collateral damage to pet ownership, domestication of the species. The medical needs of the animals struggling to survive in a war, all look like the medical needs of animals the globe over. No, it’s not those. It has become my lack of belief that they were better off after our acts of intervention. Our pulling them from the home they knew, whether it still stands any longer, or not. I am not sure if my efforts, my time, the efforts of those who are there has helped the pets we intervened upon made a better difference for them. They are now caged, full time, and stuck in purgatory limbo inside Ukraine. There is little hope they can be moved out. Little hope they can be adopted once moved. The numbers of pets in need is so great that the ocean just swallows them and grows a little bigger with each soul it consumes. With that burden, on top of the rest of the burdens, I have given them all names. The names they never had the time to be troubled with before. The designation of belonging when the concept of that left permanence and citizenship. I was a visitor. An overnight guest. They, the animals I was brought over to care for, they were residents. If their parents hadn’t deemed them worthy enough for a collar, a name tag, or even a bus ticket out, why would I give them names? Who was I to claim them? Baggage leads to expectations and I had no plans to stay longer than the pre-purchased round-trip ticket date designated. Ukraine was set up/expected to be, just a brief stay. A substitute teacher venue. Arrive, deliver a little vet-med grub hub style, meet/greet-guh-bye. I’m an expert vacationer, world-traveler, veterinarian on the fly. Surely this wasn’t going to be a big challenge. Nope, not for me. Indoctrination at the Academy lasted two weeks. Those were the longest two weeks of my life. That set the bar. I didn’t quit then. Why would I quit now? Sea year lasted (you got it) a year. Alone on a big cold, ocean for weeks on end. Nope that didn’t wash me away. The Academy, vet school both 4 years. Hard work, lots of grit and very little mercy for weakness and meekness. I know what serving a sentence voluntarily feels like. I can do it, bide my time, count the days, survive a great unknown. I can even make it memorable, dare I say, enjoyable. Ukraine from the outside, at the beginning was an adventure in serving a people whose country was so inconceivably violated. I was going to have my protests heard by volunteering to help their plight, vet-med style.

Four weeks later they have names. Five thousand miles away from me, and I give them names. It's madness. I have slipped in, gone all Rosemary’s Baby and become consumed with faces I will probably never see again.

I’m stuck. I now understand why/how it happens. Being here and feeling you should be there. The people who are there, willingly, volunteering, surrendering their life, the lives of those who love them from their home countries, they don’t get it. They don’t understand the compulsion to go there and the stickiness of wanting to stay. There is no allure to being there. No magical beauty that ties you to Ukraine. No amazing food, culture, architecture, luxurious accommodations, attractions, music, art, visitors Bucket List items for natural, manmade or otherwise wonders of the world. There are indisputably familial ties. Ancestral influences, but for those of us lacking that it is inconceivable anyone would go there wanting/willingly, and even more unfathomable that you would go back.

But, disaster, plight, travesty of any kind serves a void. A place of emptiness that can be filled of one’s own accord. You can become the answer to your own prayers, and fill a need not challenged by candidates en mass. There is a motley crew, and I use that term appropriately of volunteers cycling in and out of Ukraine. A small collective of die-hards who cross in and out with such frequency that the obvious realities of Ukraine have been dissolutioned/diluted away. There is a missing reality to their opinions and observations of living inside Ukraine while it is at war and the rest of our impressions of how that might feel. They have consciously, or, subconsciously decided to overlook it. They are able to let the air raid sirens come and go without pause. They work, live, fulfill purposes inside a country that I think has swallowed their self-preservation skepticism. I say that not as a point of judgement or contention, I say that as a character trait I now understand, identify with and consider re-succumbing to. I am debating what ‘going back” might look like. I am talking, tip-toeing, back into getting closer to that war, again.

There is unfinished work there. Nagging, gnawing, imprisoned memories of stories merely witnessed and not truly improved upon. There is need. That yearning, compulsion, despair in knowing, need is like its own addiction. The secret-shameful kind you cannot rationally explain away to those not bitten by it. The one insane thing that keeps that core group of crew, all running from something unmet at home, into a place full of so much stress and chaos. It is the explanation to too much of the fuels they consume in rabid proportions; Coka-Cola in liter jugs, chocolate, cigarettes, adrenaline. The diet of no sleep, no real meals, no real time off, no slowing in the tidal waves of need/requests/cruelty/neglect/abuse/injuries/devastation is a recipe for suicidal decisions. Why would any of us want to go there? Want to go back there? And not be able to explain it to others? I’m going back someday. Maybe not this month, next month, or (good Lord not while Russkies still traipse about pillaging and plundering), but I now understand the affliction, and the quiet shame in admitting there is a problem with that.

For all of the haunting, the nagging, the pulling apart the insides in silence I thought my one last act to gain some closure might be to get the animals I could back to a place where I could provide a happy ending from the perpetual purgatory. Even that has been met with resistance to the place of impossibility. The CDC won’t have it without lying. The adrenaline junky with the ego so fierce his temper is the only fuel he can’t medicate away, and the vet who wants to work for a paying client at the cost of a caged pet still in purgatory and I am here ruminating. Still. Compartmentalizing to the point of justification in some small, albeit unsuccessful, attempt to quiet the faces and break the bonds of the chains I cannot excuse away as kindness.

I need to stop... although I am not sure that it's not just contrition.. find another task to throw my heart into.. see if I can resurrect a soul I am not sure I left behind in Ukraine. 

For more information on the people and pets of Ukraine please see my previous blogs. To all of those struggling to find answers within the challenges of the places their heart strings lie I hope you find peace there, even if the world around you cannot.

The Common Goal

There is no argument that the focus of everyone's immense efforts here is the animals. 

Me, and the compound kitty, Mitsi.. I do LOVE her!

To have such a strong common goal is the only way this many craggy, crazy people, all deprived of sleep, food, warm comfortable beds and all of the amenities associated with running water, AND, being from all corners of the UK, (and me the single American), could coexist together for weeks on end. Life here is complicated, and full of tragedies. People are trying to live normal lives, but, it is obvious that isn't possible here. Because of the poor living conditions, the overarching fear of air raids, bombs, and all of the insecurities war can present it is difficult to lose your way if you don't have a common goal and purpose. It is the glue that keeps us cohesive. If we didn't have this I am sure all of the ragged edges of all of the hardships would crack us. I am also sure that I am the person who fits in the least here. (I think I am proud of that.)

The depth and width of the pet dilemma that is here is oceanic. Mind boggling. This is a country that has very few frivolities. Dogs roam. Cats roam. People trudge in ratty clothes, and everyone sweeps bent over, scoliosis, kyphosis, nose to the dirt, sweep, sweep, sweep. An old country, old people, old stories of war, a country of tales of having been claimed by others, broken away from them, the castaway step-child and the weight of the world with whom you never know who you will saluting to lives here. These people have so much to manage already that the pets, the kind animals, are stepped over and passed by. To be honest there is probably no way to even begin to suggest an end to this mess. As the war drags on the problems deepen, intensify and coalesce. The lesion this began as has become a metastatic cancer of a wound that never received adequate treatment to begin with. How do we try to end the plight of these animals when we started at accepted indifference?

The animals here, at the compound I stay at, were all extracted (the term they all use) from the streets and abandoned shelters after they lost their residencies to the bombs that their homes became Russian targets of. They are all scarred. Some with obvious wounds, others with anxiety based fear so deeply embedded you don't want to know the source, or, excise the reason. You just assess, be kind, exude confident optimism and take small steps one heartbeat at a time. I am a fixer. I am wired to examine, dissect, treat, cure, and claim victory. here, each of these must be set aside. Reduced, and simplified to simply what I can do in the right here, presently, now. I will go mad, abandon the cause if I try to practice medicine like I do in my well controlled, everything accessible home. There are almost no spayed or neutered animals here. I assume with every tragic life threatening ailment that they come to me with they are also passing it forward to the half dozen offspring within them. Great, the problem multiples as I gaze upon it. There is no end. No finishing point.

The dogs here at the compound came from a shelter in Alexandria Ukraine. The shelter before the war used to run with a capacity of about 40 dogs and cats. When the war hit the numbers surged to 400. When the staff could no longer manage the animals and the war they reduced the care to feeding alone. No cleaning and no exercising. When the threat of further invasions and insecurities presented the shelter staff had to make an even more perilous decision. They opened the cage doors so the pets would not be left to starve. The group when in weeks ago to find many of the animals set free from their cages. The scene they came upon was about 150 animals alive the rest in some form of eaten. It is what we would all be faced with if 5 weeks went by without food or water. The weak, gentle and submissive were not who were left to rescue. Most of these dogs are German Shepherds. All are thin, matted, and apprehensive of humans. this is what war looks like. The war of abandoning human kindness and compassion. It is the face of people we should never be reduced to become. It is also why I am here.

I wonder if as the days pass that I won’t grow more indifferent to this place then desiring to stay and help? It is the same dilemma I face at home as a veterinarian. Do I give up as others have to save my fragile soul, or provide it with barricades shrouded in tattered clothes and fight on?

The Announcement.

Two weeks ago I broke it to my husband. I confessed that I wanted to go to the Ukraine, and do something. Something meaningful. Something needed. Something impactful. I had reached the place where I couldn't tolerate myself as an idle observer any longer. I didn’t want to feel helpless, mute, and privileged on the sidelines. Be the American so comfortable that other peoples issues didn’t take space, or deserve time to contemplate. The world is a mess more often because people sit by quietly and let it pass. How can so many people just watch? How do you not put yourself in their shoes and act? It is what oppressed victimizes. It is why oppressing persists. People let it. Specifically other people who know it to be such.

My husband reacted the way anyone who loves someone else would. He resisted. He challenged me to not put myself in the danger that wasn’t mine to defend. He reminded me how dangerous the life of the people over there is. How my life has obligations here, at home. I help the animals at my home. There is legitimacy and purpose here. And yet I still felt like a hypocrite; complaining about the atrocities to humanity because of the actions of a bully who needed to be punished. I was picking sides. I always do. I always root for the underdog. Vote for the newbie, never the incumbent. Where there is power there is too often corruption. Let that power last long enough and the rot of greed, arrogance, and entitlement metastasizes. Putin has become a plight. People are dying in war crimes while the USA strategizes how to help and not look obvious. We fear reprisal more than we fear the shame of watching it happen to others.

My husband texted me the worst thing anyone could have said to me; “you aren’t ready for this.” His less offensive doctrine to “I won’t let you.” The former incited a fire the latter would have laughed at. He knew from my long list of accomplishments that were never mine to proclaim for myself, that the last thing you tell me to not do is the first thing I will prove can be done. A source of pride that has cost me decades of doing something I never had my heart in to begin with. I have college degrees I never wanted based simply upon a threatening dare.

Telling me I am not ready? Like there was a university degree program I missed? Needed a certificate for? What the…? Ready? Who is ever ready to defend their belief of good should prevail over bad? A clergyman? Ready to travel? Yes. Ready to help animals? Umm? Always, yes? Ready to land near a war zone? Maybe..?

As composed as I could sound I replied, “I would rather die doing something I believe in, then wait for cancer to come find me and die with a list of things I wish I had done.”

I broke the news to the clinic a few days ago. The majority of the staff understand this. They understand me. They are supportive and inquisitive.

They cheer, and beam with enthusiasm. ‘Aren’t you excited? Are you scared?” always these two questions and always in tandem.

I still struggle and pause with a reply. I am a terrible liar. Worse I am hesitant to be transparent. It just doesn’t play back as plausible out loud.

I am not excited, nor, afraid. I am compelled. It is the most honest way to describe it. I'm not maniacally obsessed to go someplace people are fleeing from. I am not an adrenaline junkie who loves skydiving and roller coasters (I wouldn’t be brave enough for either), but, I am needed, and I can go. I have the passport, the vaccine card, the skillset and the experience to be gone for long periods of time, alone, far away, and perform a task. They need me, I can help, so, I am going. That’s all. Remove the emotional burdens of feelings,, maybe that’s my key? The autopilot every vet goes to when you do a surgery. You just go,,, one little step at a time. Push the emotions, all of them, to the back of your mind and jump in, do it.

My day to day life as a veterinarian in private practice is a bar maids soaked towel of feelings. Drowning, quick sand feelings. Feel a lot for the abused, neglected dying kitten, then try to swallow the feelings of intense hurt when a client talks down to you as the person “who does what they tell me they want me to do.” (Insert euthanize a pet that doesn’t fit their lifestyle any longer). Too often these scenarios are both the same case. People can kill you with their cruelty. Feelings hurt as much as they heal. We don’t get to choose how they are handed to you. Going away to a place I have never been to help animals without clients to tell me how I am supposed to treat them is bliss. The cruelty of war, the neglect of all human kindness being a luxury war wont permit is bare bones medicine. That’s adrenaline that feeds the soul. that’s where I want to be. At least for a little while. That’s compelling.

I am booking tickets tomorrow for Northeastern Romania. I will leave next week. There is a small group of people there already. They travel daily into the Ukraine to help move out the animals left behind. I will be there to help in anyway I can. I will post more as the journey unfolds. It is takes two days to travel. We stay in a makeshift warehouse kept warm by space heaters. There is no running water, bare bones electric and a narrow window that these abandoned starving animals have to find safety. Hundreds of dogs and cats have been extracted and taken back into Romania into an ever growing city of portable shelters. It is a humanitarian crisis of epic proportions. Unlike a natural disaster which strikes and then vanishes after it passes through this has no end in sight. This just compounds the need and direness.