America or Cameroon: Where do I belong?

by Ryan Oliver Hansen

I’ve been in the United States for a few months, attempting to fundraise. This trip has been the strangest visit I’ve ever had. For the first time, I don’t feel at home in my native country. This is something I never expected. I adore America, but strangely, it no longer feels like home.

In my last blog, I wrote about dealing with a little boy’s death from malaria. That was a difficult time and I believed that I was in dire need of a visit to the United States to regain my sanity. The emotional pain was overwhelming. I figured, as I usually do, that things would be better in the USA. When things are bad in Cameroon, America seems entirely utopian.

In addition to the mental turmoil from David’s death, I also had malaria-turned-pneumonia in August and September. I’ve never been sicker in my life. I have had malaria numerous times; to me it’s no big deal. I know how to recognize it and treat it very quickly with minimal discomfort. I didn’t know I had pneumonia, so I kept treating malaria.

Coughing brought up brown (infected) blood. At night I’d wake up, feeling paralyzed with pain in my lower back and legs (I later learned that pneumonia distributes pain from the chest to other parts of the body). One night, the pain was so great that I was writhing in my bed, twisting and turning, until I actually screamed for help around three in the morning. Our African Director, Olivier, and our night guard, Jean-Paul, came in to help me.

I could hardly speak, shaking uncontrollably. I asked them to heat some water to put in the bathtub. For a few moments in the hot water I felt slightly better, but the pain returned. I called my Mom in the United States, hoping for a nurse’s advice. With no legitimate emergency room to go to, I simply had to endure the pain.

Days went by as the sharp pains got worse and worse; the coughing more and more violent. One day a shooting pain down my left arm and leg alarmed me (fearing heart stopping). My Chinese friend Yiewen happened to call me. She came over immediately and we drove around the city, looking for a doctor. Fortunately, my Belgian Doctor friend was in his office.

He gave me a glance and told me that I had advanced pneumonia and gave me a horse-sized antibiotic pill to swallow. But advanced pneumonia doesn’t go away quickly. It wasn’t until weeks later that I felt slightly better.

David’s death stressed me in ways I had never previously experienced. At best, I was getting four hours of sleep a night. Confusion, anger, and shock seemed to entrap me. My emotional state was bad enough to attack my physical state.

I’ve always had secret doubts and fears about Green Eyes in Africa. Would we make it? Could I handle it? What if…what if…what if? But my 30th birthday brought me an unexpected gift: The conviction that Green Eyes in Africa is meant to continue and expand, and that it is my destiny. The transition from 29 to 30 was, for some reason, very profound.
I’ve invested my heart and soul in Green Eyes in Africa. Any attempt to quit or leave this work would be, on my part, an act of cowardice. I hear constant talk of being “happy.” My goal is not to be happy. It’s to have integrity and be true to myself, which is a feeling that’s better than “happy.” Happy seems to come and go—but conviction is something to rely on. I feel lucky to have learned this.