I saw quite a few tears last night, and not all of them from tear gas. 

One woman, shivering as much from emotion as from the bitter cold said “I don’t know what this all means,” when I asked if she was all right.

A young woman, leading the chant shouting over and over ”Black Lives” as the crowd answered ”Matter” had tears running down her cheeks as she tried to keep her voice from breaking. 

And a man toward the back filming with his cell phone, his eyes were shining too. 

This is what it feels like when the news comes home, when the tension and pressure of a strained relationship between a community and authorities charged to protect - years…decades of tension - comes to a head.

My parents are much better morning people than me. 

This last weekend was quite difficult, saying goodbye to the lovely Laurie Vock, an amazing neighbor and woman who was like a second mother, who gave so much to Windom and those around here. It was a dark day, but knowing that she didn’t suffer from the cancer long was a comfort. 

The end of a day, or era, or life, seems to slip away so quickly and easily, while welcoming (though welcoming never seems to be the right word) a new day, era, or path, can be like pulling teeth. But with that change, just like each new breath, is unavoidable, and the change that is like oxygen, will bring new life if we only let it. 

Mourning. Neighbors, always just across the driveway.

Morning mom.

Morning dad.

Morning.

Many people often ask me, “How can you be a photojournalist an an RN? Don’t you know what you want to be? Those are two totally different careers.” Yes they are. But I see nothing wrong with doing the two - it keeps me centered, exercises a different part of my brain, and informs many of the stories I choose to do as a photojournalist. Many of the things I care deeply about are health related, and often in conflict, it is the vulnerable and those in poor health who suffer the most. 

I just finished a ventilator training course. We spent the afternoon talking about PEEP, PIP, CPAP, SIMV, A/C, and dozens of other settings that help keep someone, who for one reason or another can’t breath on their own, alive. In the event of a loss of power, there is an internal and external battery, as well as a car-style battery pack to keep the patient breathing (this is home care, not the hospital :) ). It gives about 20 hours for the nurse to find power. How likely is it that in the USA, there is going to be a situation where you’ll use all those 20 hours? Unlikely. But a necessary back up. 

Over the summer in Yemen, I went to a number of hospitals, who are severely short on not only supplies and medicine, but on power. Nearly all power grids have been damaged or destroyed - and as far as I know, Sana’a hasn’t had an hour of power since I left over a month ago. Imagine a hospital without electricity! Normally, they would (and still do) rely on generators, but an air and sea blockade has created huge shortages in fuel. I asked an Intensive Care nurse, one of two in an ICU ward with nearly ten patients, running between suctioning what happens when the power goes out, and if their fuel is gone. “Well, so many people need vents here, but we have only a few. If the power goes, there is nothing we can do. They die.”

Imagine your only lifeline stopped working right in the middle of a breath. People in Yemen don’t have the luxury of 24 hour power grid with backup, or sophisticated emergency response systems. When one thing goes down, everything collapses. And as the humanitarian situation continues to worsen, so does health care, and civilians will continue to die - not only from physical conflict, but for the simple fact that there is no power, no petrol, and no back up.