COS

During the first week of September, Peru 18, which consists of Environment, Water and Sanitation, and Health volunteers had our final medical checks and Close of Service conference.  

The medical checks were intense.  I was poked, prodded, drained, swabbed, drilled, measured, and injected.  At one point, I was walking to the local lab with a purse full of my friends’ stool samples and thought that if I ever were to get robbed, that would be the time.  Despite the invasiveness of those two days, it felt good to be thoroughly checked out after two years of poor nutrition, questionable decision-making, and the touchiest digestive system this side of the equator.  It turns out that I’m almost perfectly healthy.  The only noteworthy discoveries were a slightly concave sternum, hemoglobin levels of a sherpa, and naturally, some resident giardia. 

The conference itself was unremarkable.  Lots of information about paperwork, logistics of getting home, and most importantly, how and when I’ll be getting my fat stacks of a readjustment allowance.  In true sierra lady style, I brought my knitting to keep from falling asleep.

For some reason, it didn’t occur to me before the trip that this would be the last time I’d see many of my friends, and it would certainly be the last time we were all together.  We stayed up late every night catching up, sharing stories and crappy beer and boxes of wine.  When the week ended and folks started to trickle away to their sites, it hit me right in my dented sternum that this was the end of a singular experience in my life.  I didn’t see my volunteer friends all the time.  Some I hadn’t seen since the previous December when we were all in Lima.  But, those rare times when we were together, it was like we’d never been apart.  We’ve only known each other two years, but we’ve formed intimate and understanding relationships the likes of which I don’t know if I’ll have again.  They saw me miserably sick, dismayed, furious, frustrated, bitter, and elated.  We speak the same atrocious Spanglish with a dab of Quechua thrown in to each other.  They’re the people I call when something falls apart despite my best efforts, or succeeds beyond all reason.  They reflect my every idea and emotion back at me because they’ve had them, too.  We’ve created the kind of friendships that are formed when people go through hardships together and support each other. 

Now it’s almost over.  I looked forlornly out the window, alone on my bus ride back to site.  I’m excited to get home to my family, my old friends, and all the comforts of America.  But I won’t be going back the same, and even though my service has been difficult beyond imagining at times, there are irreplaceable things I’ll be leaving behind.  So it goes.