I was medically separated from the Peace Corps on November 13th, 2012. In many ways it was absolutely devastating. I had been fighting to stay in Tanzania, putting up with fainting spells and chronic vomiting, all because I wanted to be there for my school. For my students. For the other volunteers who felt like family. I wanted to stay, to be like the volunteers I met who had made it through all 27 months. Yes, I was worried about my health, but I was also hopeful I could fix myself, or that somebody could find the answer to my gastroenterological woes. At the same time, I felt guilty. I never lied to the doctors about how sick I was. I could have left-out more details, maybe neglected to call when things were worsening, or exaggerated how much I was able to eat and drink. But I didn't--I told the truth, and in doing so, wound up costing myself my service. The way had I figured, I didn't need to quit, because if I needed to be sent home, I would be sent home. In the end, I was given two months to suffer before they ultimately did make that call for me.
Being medically separated was not the outcome I wanted, but I must say in a certain sense it was relieving. I had spent two months being terribly sick, unable to get proper medical assistance or answers.
Honestly, it was exhausting.
Not being able to eat properly made me irritable and impatient. Being sick and far from home made me long for American comforts and mommy-hugs. Waiting weeks for a package to arrive with supplements from America was beyond frustrating, especially since I knew that many of the PC staff thought they wouldn't help anyway. Moreover, my inability to quit--my feeling that I could never be the one to end my service--made me question just how far I'd go to fulfill my Peace Corps dream.
Part of me really hoped that I would get my chance to get better back home. I pleaded with the doctor; I asked to be granted 45 days of medical evacuation, a chance to go home, get better, and come back again. When the decision was made, I was angry that I wasn't given the 45 days--it felt unfair. It felt like they were giving up on me. Not me as a liability case, but me as a person. I cried, I whined, and I complained to my fellow volunteers. Nonetheless, part of me also wasn't sure if medical evacuation made sense anyway. I asked myself: What if I didn't get better? What if I did regain my health just to get sick again once I came back? What if my body just can't recover from the parasites and bacterial infections that come with living in Africa?
I was disappointed by the decision, but I was relieved to have an answer. I no longer had to wonder if I'd be staying, where my new site would be, and if I could get the proper supplements, pills, or tests in Tanzania. I had my answer: I was done. I could go back to taking hot American showers and wearing jeans. I was going home.
At first I was really optimistic. I was excited to get American medical care. I was happy to be going back to my family. And, despite everything, I kept telling myself that there were so many opportunities out there--that I would find something new, amazing, and fulfilling to do with my life. I accepted that it was time for me to go home. I knew that I couldn't continue on in Tanzania being weak, sick, and frustrated. It was time for answers, and time to regain my health.
Then the depression hit. I was back home, with my parents, stuck in a position I told myself I would never be in again. It wasn't that I hated being home, or that I don't love my parents. My house is awesome, my town is quaint, and my family is beyond loving. Needless to say, I just felt lost. I felt like a car stuck in neutral. I was trying to be happy, optimistic, and brave, but part of me felt like it had died. I was right back in Blue Hill, without a direction, goals, or a real plan. I was going nowhere, and I had no idea where I wanted to go. Health-wise, I was slowly improving a little, but in certain ways my health got even worse once I was home. My hair began to fall out in handfuls. I started experiencing lower GI issues that I hadn't dealt with in months. My headaches became unbearable. I was worried. I was frustrated. And I suddenly realized that all that medical care I had dreamed about just wasn't going to happen. I didn't have health insurance, and I didn't really like the AfterCorps plan. Plus, I just couldn't blindly trust that FECA would cover thousands of dollars of medical testing. I could hear them now. "You had preexisting stomach problems." "This sickness is not related to your Peace Corps service." "We won't pay." So I worked with my homeopathic doctor from back home, and hoped things would improve, but never got any endoscopies or specialized tests for inflammatory conditions or diseases.
After a week or so at home, I began applying to fellowship programs in the hopes that I would have a direction again. I felt excited by the idea of teaching, but really I think I just needed to feel like I still had a purpose. I had long dreamt of a career in International Relations, and that dream had suddenly died. I accepted that I would be stuck in America for the foreseeable future. No more thoughts of diplomacy abroad--I told myself that I needed to learn to think more domestically. I signed my AT&T contract with the notion that I wouldn't be leaving the States for at least two years--good bye foreign affairs, hello domestic politics.
Over time my health began improving slowly. I could eat more food, drink more water, and my esophagus finally was getting a well needed break. I decided that I was well enough to fly the coop. I knew that I needed to go somewhere, but I didn't want to take a job that would interfere with my fellowship opportunities. Honestly, I also just didn't really want to take a serious job--I wanted to have fun. I wanted to figure myself out. I wanted to get my passion back--have a real direction again that I felt sure about. So, I turned my sights to Jackson Hole. For years I had wanted to be a ski-bumb, if only for one season, and I was excited by the prospect of seeing the West. It would be a new adventure, one that would allow me to do one of my favorite things in the world: snowboarding. I have always loved flying down the mountain--it is one of the few things I can feel 100% happy doing--and it seemed like the perfect time to go try my luck in a mountain town. Plus, because my boyfriend had also come back home from Tanzania and moved out there, it felt like maybe things would work out for us if I took a chance and moved far away from home. So I did the most spontaneous thing I've ever done in my life. I bought a car, packed my stuff the next day, and headed south.
True to my Type-A personality, I didn't just go. First I hit up an interview for NY Teaching Fellows before heading across country. I was hesitant about going, but I went to the city, caught up with some Smithies, and enjoyed some of New York's allergy-friendly dining options. I figured as long as I was trying to get back on track, it would be okay if I didn't have much direction for a little while. And with that in mind, I headed West.
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I have now been in Jackson for 3 1/2 months. Even though I haven't really ended up living the "ski-bumb" lifestyle, I did get to go snowboarding every weekend, while still doing two jobs that seem worthwhile. I have been working as the Executive Assistant at a construction company, and pre-school teacher/after-school assistant at one of the Teton Valley Science Schools. Both jobs feel very legitimate to me. I'm running an office, that has to be a valuable experience right? I figure it doesn't matter that I don't want a career in construction--I'm building skills, that's what counts. Plus, I'm still working with kids, keeping my feet rooted in schools, all while living in a beautiful location. It isn't the ski-bumb life I imagined, but I'm too much of a perfectionist to completely let go of the 9-5 workload.
In any case, I have been facing ups and downs in multiple facets of my life, especially with my Subaru. I'm happy I came out here, though things haven't been easy. So, in regards to getting over the loss of my PC dream, I will say the following:
It is hard when a dream dies. It hurts. It feels personal.
It is hard not to feel betrayed. To feel abandoned by the Peace Corps, discarded even.
It is even harder not to want to go back.
I think about reapplying all the time. I feel like my commitment hasn't been fulfilled--I WANT to fulfill it. I could go back, I could help people, I could finish what I started! But part of me doesn't want to go back. I don't want to face the heartbreak if I can't stay healthy abroad--and I wonder if they'd even let me return. I am a lot better now, but I am still not exactly "healthy". Stomach pain? Intestinal issues? Vomiting? I still struggle with all of those things, I just can manage them now. I can run 13 miles on the elipticross trainer and still have energy to spare. But do I think I've really solved my problem? No. I rarely feel well, and sometimes I get sick for no real reason. Can I drink a liter of water in an hour now? YES! But, I still am not where I'd like to be health-wise. I need testing. I need doctors who think outside the box. I need dietary guidance and supplements. Unfortunately, I only have access to some of those things, so I doubt without a concrete diagnosis of why body is the way it is, they'd let me go back to Tanzania. I know that I could go back and be okay--I'd bring supplements, and be sure to be in charge of my own food and water whenever possible. I think I could do it-- I just don't know if the government will share that sentiment with me.
But I still hope. Even now, as I'm typing, part of me just wants to get back on a plane and try again. I want to plead, I want to beg, I want to get another shot even if the staff in TZ have their doubts.
Letting go isn't easy. Feeling like your life isn't over post-PC isn't easy, either. It's hard to find the good sometimes. To know which direction to go, or even want to make plans anymore. Nonetheless, I'm trying. I have been thinking a lot about what I want to do, and in doing so, I've realized I'm not ready for a teaching fellowship in an inner-city school right now. Maybe in the future that will be a good option for me--but when I put my time into something, I want to be sure I have the energy and passion to keep me going. Right now, I'm just not ready to commit five years to NYC Teaching Fellows. I received the offer, and I appreciate it, but it just isn't the right fit. Instead, I'm setting my sights on graduate school. I have a true interest in International Education Development/International Education Policy, and I want to explore that road. It combines my interests, there is room for growth, and it's something new, exciting, and promising.
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Dreams aside, for now I'm working in Jackson, WY. My friends all think I'm in Colorado or Wisconsin half the time. And everyone keeps asking when I'll be coming home or getting a move-on with my career. I don't know how long I'll stay here, though I am definitely setting up things for the summer. Waitressing is going to be added into the mix. Work, work, work, and hopefully some GRE studying and fitness training are going to dominate my summer.
Things have been very up-and-down, but I'm hopeful that I'll smooth out the bumps in the road. For now, I guess time will tell! Plus, I just can't wait to see Jellystone :)
