Omar commented almost apologetically on his own condition - living with colostomy bags and a catheter for five years since a motorcycle accident that crushed his pelvis - when Dr. Ranjit Pullarkat asked him why he’s here this Monday morning for surgery at Hospital Santa Teresa.

Noting the look of weary discouragement on Omar’s face - Dr. Ran, as his colleagues call him, responded gently, “Let me assure you, Omar - I wouldn’t be doing this surgery if I didn’t think it would make life better for you.”

This conversation, translated by Nancy Hartzenbusch in her beautiful Argentinian Spanish, seemed to comfort Omar. On hearing this assurance, Omar tried to smile, although weakly.

Dr. Ran has the kind of eyes that can only be described as piercing, and it is with these eyes that he looked directly into Omar’s face, gave his hands a squeeze, and headed to the surgical wash-up area. Soon, we rolled Omar into the operating room. A scrub nurse chased a fly, going after it with a sterile surgical towel. During typical surgeries, a lot of these small blue towels get used - one way or another.

Starting with our anesthesiologist Ananth, our surgery team went to work. Under Dr. Ran’s direction, the operation - a colostomy reversal, (in surgical lingo, a “takedown”) - went well. After about two hours, Omar was in the post-anesthesia care unit - PACU - where we monitored his vitals. He was looking pretty good.

As with many Hondureños, Omar’s reserve of strength runs deep.

Pretty soon, after gentle, persistent encouragement from Julie and Kathleen on our PACU team, Omar began to open his eyes. Ananth removed his endotracheal tube, assuring him that all was well; his operation was a success. He was still too foggy to grasp the fact that his life has just passed a major turning point. In Omar’s case, such comfort could not have come soon enough.

We gave him apple juice to sip and one of Julie’s teddy bears to hug (even 47-year-olds find teddy bears comforting), before steering him down the hall to where his wife was waiting. The tired worry on her face gave way to a look of relieved caring. Julie reviewed with her Omar’s supply of pain medications.

I didn’t get to see Omar again until Friday, our last working day in Honduras. Lying on a narrow cot in a small room crowded with four other men also on narrow cots, Omar looked restless - a good sign. Because it’s a warm day, all the windows have been flung open. Towels and patients’ clothing hang from every window frame, drying in the breeze.

To be comfortable, Omar had covered only his midsection with a threadbare towel his wife brought. Kneeling down on the floor next to Omar, Dr. Ran chatted with him about how well he was doing, and what to expect in the coming year. Rudy, the Brigade’s physical therapy team leader and a native of El Salvador, translated.

Omar’s urinary catheter, sorry to say, will be permanent, so extensive were his injuries, but his takedown was already working. Omar had little feeling in his pelvic floor, however, and he’ll be in diapers a good while yet, perhaps months. Rudy kneeled beside Omar, palpating his abdomen, and evaluating his muscle tone. They talked about what Omar can do to regain strength, and above all - the importance of not giving up.

As we departed, Rudy looked far down the hall and told me, “Omar has a long road ahead of him.” As I consider that Omar lives in Choluteca, five hours away from Comayagua (four hours by bus plus a final hour on foot), it will be amazing if he is ready to head home the next morning according to plan. Of course, that isn’t the road Rudy meant. Omar’s recovery will require all the patience and determination he’s got. Still, I think to myself that Omar’s long road ahead wouldn’t be open to him were it not for the volunteers of the VHC Medical Brigade.

As Rudy and I made our way to Santa Teresa’s front entrance, past a stray dog and scores of patients in untold misery, I remember something Julie said to me yesterday. “These patients are the poorest of the poor. They feel like nobodies. Nobody listens to them or takes them seriously. While they’re in our care here, I want to make them feel special. I want us to treat them like royalty.”

Anyone who’s worked with Julie knows she takes this level of caring to heart. No patient ever forgets her; she’s the bringer of Teddy Bears, immense personal kindness, and encouragement. And when I recall the sight of Rudy and renowned surgeons like Dr. Ran down on their knees to comfort “the least of these,” I feel I’m mingling with guardian angels. It makes me feel like I could fly. It’s good to be part of this effort.

Story provided by Larry Mann, VHCMB Volunteer