On The Ground In Liberia

It was bound to happen sooner or later--I would be sent someplace I didn't want to go.  Life in the foreign service is never predictable.  That's why, in early October 2014, I was asked to leave Banjul and help out a neighboring post.  I wasn't so much asked as "strongly advised."  That place happened to be Liberia--the heart of the Ebola crisis.  Ebola--the mere mention of that word creates a chill.  And my family was no exception.  The day after I shared the news, my Mom sent me a heart-felt email making me feel guilty for even considering such an idea.  She used her "Mother card" to remind me of my role as a Mother.  My Mom sends emails once in a blue moon--usually when some distant relative dies.  I didn't think that was a good sign.  I never even get the chance to tell my son; he found out through the rapid-fire grape fine that seemed to spread around the globe in record time.  He called me--I mean that in itself is nothing short of a small miracle.  Don't get the wrong idea--he's always happy to talk to me, but I do the calling.  He phoned me when I was in London and we talked for 30 minutes.  He tried earnestly to talk me out of going to a place in the world where people were dying by the hundreds.  He seemed to end our call with the realization that he couldn't talk me out of doing such a crazy thing but knowing full well he couldn't stop me either.  It was probably much the same way I felt when he went to India the summer after college with nothing more planned than a book and a pillow in his backpack.  He not only survived, but counts that adventure as one of the most defining periods of his life.  I hope the same will happen to me.  

After three inter-continental flights in the span of six days, I arrived in Monrovia the evening of Nov. 24.  I actually had to look the date up in my passport-