A lot of work, but the good karma was worth it

From behind my mask, I took it all in.

Have you ever seen the upper lip of an 8-year-old cut in half from

the inside out?

The visual is still etched in my mind as the surgeon’s knife cut

through skin like clay. Forget the smoke rising from the infected

scar, or the leaking bloody trash bag under our lunch table in the

hall. Or the gray ooze that poured from a cyst as it came out from

over a woman’s eye. Or the football-size mass above the buttock of

elderly man that shook like jello. Or the hourlong screaming from a

boy who struggled violently in the arms of Janet Collins when he

awoke from long surgery.

She never lost patience except to complain about the lack of

medications that would prevent the lengthy outburst. The only

restraints being her hands and comforting voice.

I watched surgery after surgery with unlimited access day after

day. With no public relations agent looking over my shoulder, it was

like driving through L.A. at rush hour with no one on the road except

me. I could shoot what I wanted and was free to move within the

hospital.

This was a fast-paced story, and it couldn’t be done any other

way. No one was waiting around and posing or waiting for me. It was a

very refreshing working condition. It was amazing, to say the least.

It was refreshing to see how the team worked without the

regulations I was used to in an American hospital. Like when Kathy

Fodor scrubbed two patients at one time. She did it on instinct, out

of need to keep up with the work load as the doctors laughed next to

her.

At home, she wouldn’t have able to do that, and I wouldn’t be able

to shoot it. Jane would never be able to sit on the bed with patients

to comfort them, something that came naturally to her and something

that made her into a person, not just someone in the photos. It was

nice to see everyone working hard, free to practice their jobs.

At first, I would look away from the surgeries when they got

“gross.” But soon it was the surgeons’ work I stared at, not the

human flesh.

Once, I was eating a sandwich and had no problem watching the gray

ooze that emerged from a lump over the eye of a woman whom Dr. Robert

Burns was working on. I was just curious about how he approached and

explored the alien mass, how he dissected and removed the unwanted

blob. I had come a long way and felt like a premed student with my

scrubs and all. If the team of medical doctors and nurses could do

it, I would have to do it, too, for any kind of success. I could not

be squeamish.

I was amazed at how the doctors would arrive at a conclusion on

how to approach a surgery. Listening to them decide on a problem is

how everyone should try it. Put your ego aside and go with the best

answer regardless of rank and file.

And then Denise Cucurny’s exhaustive translations of all the

dialogue. After listening to her, I realized I needed to learn

Spanish. After watching her organize all the forms, schedules and

Post-it notes, I learned how easy it could be for me to organize my

own paperwork at home if I just dove into it without worrying about

the outcome. Because it always did come out OK.

It was a well-oiled machine, this group. Nurses Collins, Virginia

Burns and Fodor are the kind of people you would want to have taking

care of you. They are the surgeons’ third hands.

Virginia Burns was a pro who would do anything to help someone,

except me. She was hardly in any pictures, which I noticed when I got

home. She must have been camera shy or worked on different cases or

was hiding from the camera. Listening to Fodor over the course of two

weeks, I learned how gracious, caring, funny and hard-working someone

could be. She listened and cared about everyone. Collins’ patience

was amazing. She often had to stay later than the rest of the group

to make sure a patient was well cared for before she left. The nurses

were first to arrive and last to leave.

I found myself frustrated many times. They needed WD-40 lubricant

and duct tape more than anything. I couldn’t be a casual observer all

the time, so I helped in other ways, sort of becoming part of the

story I was covering. We all do it eventually -- again, something I

would never do at home.

After Julia Salinas’ painful ordeal on the last day, she lay on

the table by herself alone, staring at a dull, dimly lighted ceiling.

I had to do something. I offered her a soda, and she guzzled it down.

Her eyes lighted up and her expression came back.

She sat up. I gave her another one, and her dad fed it to her

through a straw. Her big eyes a little more clear, she looked at me

and all of a sudden straightened her hair, concerned about how she

looked to the camera-toting doctor (me). Her parents couldn’t speak

but laughed because I had taken the drinks from a case set aside for

the doctors and nurses.

I asked Fodor to make me a glove balloon for “machete girl,” Maria

Aukaush, who carried it all over the hospital for two days. The only

time I saw her laugh. Yu Pirush, our Indian patient, complained

through an interpreter that he was starving and hadn’t eaten for

days. I sneaked him the goat cheese sandwiches we were all sick of,

and he smiled and kept repeating “Ashuar, Ashuar” the name of his

jungle tribe. Again a huge smile followed, and a handshake.

It was apparent after the first few days that I was working with

real pros, despite the light-hearted approach. People who have fun at

work but can be pinpoint serious. They cared about what they were

doing and how they did it.

Dr. Larry Nichter could talk surfing and cameras like he was on

the beach, but when his hands went to work he was all business and

would draw a crowd around his table when he began to work. It was

this way for both doctors. Robert Burns would talk about wonderful

food and music and travels, and the next moment be deep in open scar

tissue.

Just regular guys with incredible skill and smarts.

Robert Burns had a way with words. He always thought about what

was best for the patient. He would be doing a procedure and explain

the reason for it. It was always an answer that explained how the

patient would benefit as a result of the surgery. Forget any agenda,

it was about the patient.

On this trip, I was reminded never to assume anything, and nothing

is what it seems when you travel.

On one occasion, I thought we were getting back on a truck that

gave us a ride deep in the jungle. We didn’t, and the truck drove off

with my backpack full of gear, up a road with no ending. No cell

phones in the jungle, and no way to chase down the truck. And where

was it going? It wasn’t even supposed to be there. I cursed my lapse

of concentration and was a bit mad at myself.

I forgot about the backpack on the truck when a case for the

doctors appeared right on the jungle path and I started making

pictures. I was excited -- we got to screen a case after all, since

we missed our opportunity to have a clinic in the jungle because of a

communication mix-up.

I felt foolish, angry at myself and felt like walking alone. I

walked ahead of the group.

I eventually caught up with Cucurny, our trip coordinator, who was

ahead of me. We discussed the possibilities of how I might get the

pack returned. All ideas were longshots. We had to fly out on a bush

plane in a half hour, and missing the plane meant sleeping in the

jungle and no way to tell anyone exactly where we were.

We couldn’t risk the mission by getting stuck in the jungle. Our

first day of big surgery was the next day. We had to make our

connection or risk the mission.

Luckily, the primary digital cameras and digital video camera I

was using were on my body. I tried to take inventory of things lost.

The pack was full. I gasped when I thought about where my passport

was -- it was in my pocket.

I looked up in the sky and down at the ground and patted it down

in my pocket thanking “el hombre.” I figured at that point I was

lucky. I could lose the bag, but it had lots of sentimental value. I

was bummed. I was still disappointed and repeated “I thought we were

getting back on, I thought we were getting back on” to who ever would

listen. But it was so hot, it was hard to think too much. I sulked up

the road, talking about my options to Cucurny, who was exhausted. I

had more than an hour to think about it as the group paced up the

road sweating. It was like we were in a tropical glasshouse. I was

sweating through everything.

About this time, nurse Fodor caught up to me. A woman used to

picking up people’s spirits, she didn’t say anything but walked with

me as if to say, “I feel your pain, but forget it!” She calmed me

down without saying a word. Having an attitude with her or anyone

else for that matter would get me nowhere, especially since there was

nothing I could do. I decided to quit sulking and forget the bag and

talk about what it might mean to whoever got it. The perfect person

to chat about the subject. We made light of it, and I considered the

bag gone.

I pictured the kids in the back of the truck going through the

pack and pulling out each item and inspecting it. Finding the film

cameras and laughing or fighting over them. Looking through the lens

like a telescope and making faces into it.

Maybe pulling at the straps and dropping them a few times. I

pictured the young men studying the leatherman and paramedic scissors

tool and arguing over who would get them when they discovered what

the tools could do.

Those were probably the most useful items. When they figured how

strong the paramedic scissors were, they would cut jungle brush with

them instead of hacking with their machetes.

Trimming a trail instead of hacking one. Hopefully, the kids would

not eat the malaria pills like candy. But they might drink my water.

And I was dying of thirst.

I started to laugh a little but was still bummed and shaking my

head at the loss.

Then Fodor said, “maybe someone dropped it off at the airstrip or

something.”

She had hope. I was losing mine. After exploring all the options,

this simple idea was not even thought of. Cucurny explained she

thought the road passed by the airstrip. It did.

When we approached the air strip, there was one girl standing

there, something heavy on her shoulder. “Oh please,” I thought. Fodor

moved ahead and said, “I think that’s it,” gritting her teeth. I knew

it was. They couldn’t have anything that heavy out here.

The little girl looked at me and put the pack down. My Quicksilver

backpack was intact. I envisioned those kids ruining my stuff. But

that wasn’t the case. It was actually guarded by this little girl.

She told Cucurny in Spanish, “You left it on the bus.” I thought the

worst, but got the best.

Karma does work. It must be, since I found a woman’s wallet on the

street in Laguna and tracked her down and returned it. Green card

intact. Maybe this was my thanks.

It was a ton of work when we got there and a ton of work when I

returned. How do you tell this puzzle of a story. There were so many

pieces. How do I explain the drama of the baby being saved? How do

you capture everything when there is so much to capture? I guess you

can’t catch all the fish.

I guess that’s what will keep me coming back. I hope this project

made sense to all who read it. It seemed chaotic shooting it and

organizing it. Lots of parts made it happen. Just as it should be.

Go, Ashuar!

* DON LEACH is the Pilot’s chief photographer and may be reached

at (949) 574-4265 or by e-mail at [email protected].