Ascendancy

Chapter 1

Finally, when I saved up a good amount of money, I began my dream of serving overseas. And while it hasn't been a joy ride, the feeling of truly helping people is definitely worth the struggles. Results are slow when dealing with PTSD or extreme depression, but I have been seeing improvements in my patients after the nine months of being here; which seems like a long time after I think about it.

After meeting with five more patients, I head over to a family's tent to share dinner with them. The family's father was a patient of mine; he tried suicide. Going all the way to the desert, he had no food or water, and wandered far from camp; desperate because of his children's' and wife's despairing conditions. One of his kids saw him leave and a three day search commenced, and ended with finding him dehydrated in the blaring Sudanese heat. After the father was brought back to health, he became mine to take care of. And grueling months of sessions finally lead to a breakthrough when he saw his kids laughing and playing; it's not that it was entirely unusual for them to be giggling, but something inside him untwisted and a new man broke through.

So thus, I joined them often for dinner, gratefulness on everyone's faces each time I came near. Tonight we supped on boiled water with a bit of dried meat and beans in it; a poor excuse for soup. But tomorrow always holds the opportunity for a supplies truck to come in, and with that, possible fresh fruits and vegetables.

As I sit on my mat, eating by these brown beauties, surprisingly enjoying and gobbling down my stew, fulfillness abounds in my heart. If I can help them, these people in possibly the worst situation you could imagine, who can't I help?

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The next morning is almost identical to yesterday: a breathless run, a catnap, then my patients. When all is suddenly interrupted.

Jostling and banging its passengers, a jeep and truck plow into camp, and with it come hundreds of rejoicing cheers. "Food! Food!" Is screeched from every far corner of this camp-city and it's almost deafening. The UN volunteers hop down from their cars and immediately open the back of their large truck with a bang. A few are put on crowd control, pushing back the Sudanese from the multitude of supplies and food. Hands, arms, and even feet, can be seen squirming through the barricade of volunteers.

Rushing over, I shout, "Back up everybody! Form a line to the hole!" The hole is what we call our supplies storage; a large, slanting hole in the ground that is covered with a tarp and wood. A few listen to me, and begin forming a rudimentary line to the hole, but most are still fighting towards their much wanted and needed supplies.

I stand next to Mumbada, ready to help with anything I can, when a red haired women wearing expensive sunglasses and a brown leather jacket, roughly takes my arm and pulls me aside. "Where's your tent? We need to talk." Well, that's a little insulting. All she had to do was ask politely.

"Whats this about?" I question, yanking my forearm out of her clutches to push a strand of brown hair out of my face. "Are you with International Psychiatric Aide?" Seeing her raised eyebrows beyond her large sunglasses, I answer my own inquiry, "I guess not. Follow me."

Glancing around, the women purposefully follows me, like a spy on a mission. Flipping open my flap, I gesture to my grand living-room/dining-room/ bedroom/kitchen. "Nice place." She says sarcastically. "The best money can buy." Is my reply.

I plop down on a mat, and gesture for her to join me, but the women declines. Pulling off her sunglasses and revealing an austere face, she says. "Let's get down to business." Which automatically brings to mind Mulan, but I resist the urge to sing, saying rather, "What business?"

"You are supposedly one of the best PTSD Psychiatrists in the world, am I correct?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd say that."