Hope for the forgotten...My Unlikely Journey

By Kathryn M Tschiegg

"Hope For The Forgotten" is Kathy's captivating life story intertwined with CAMO's remarkable journey, illustrated with 127 vibrant photos. A powerful narrative that inspires, uplifts, and celebrates triumph over adversity. A must-read for anyone seeking inspiration and hope."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tschiegg Publications
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218285586

Kathryn M Tschiegg

Kathryn M. Tschiegg was born to Robert E. Tschiegg and Mary Jean Weeman on April 30, 1956. She graduated from Orrville High School in 1974. She completed her nursing degree in 1978. Kathy joined the Peace Corps as a Registered Nurse. After witnessing two years of preventable deaths, Kathy returned to the U.S. for the following fifteen years. She worked as an Emergency Room and Surgical Intensive Care Unit nurse at Aultman Hospital. During that time, she was recognized as Employee of the Year and received the Outstanding Alumni Award. But the memories of Honduras continued to follow her, and she became determined to develop a system that would deliver sustainable quality care to the poor of Central America. She returned to college for her business degree, and upon graduation, she founded Central American Medical Outreach, Inc. (CAMO USA) and incorporated it as a 501(c)3 in May 1993. With her goal of bringing health care to the poor, CAMO's Counterpart Model has become a template for successful aid work in western Honduras. She has been recognized by many for her life's work.Awards / Community ServiceProclamations in recognition of 30 years of service given on November 16, 2023, by:President Iris Xiomara Castro Sarmiento President of HondurasGovernor Mike DeWine and Lieutenant Governor Jon Husted, of OhioMayor Robert F. Breneman, Mayor of Wooster, OhioMayor David J. Handwerk, Mayor of Orrville, OhioMayor Anibal Erazo Alvarado, Mayor of Santa Rosa de Copan, HondurasKent State University Alumni Association Distinguished Citizen Award 2022Women of Achievement Award 2014 (Wooster Community Hospital Auxiliary)Honduras Congressional Award 2013 (Congress of Honduras)Real Award 2013 (Given by Save the Children, Gates Foundation, Metronics, and Mascino Foundations) presented by former President ClintonOrrville High School Alumni Award all graduating classes 2010Athena Award Wooster, Ohio 2009Paul Harris Award (Presented by Rotary International) 2005Recognition from Congress of Honduras for outstanding contributions 2003Outstanding Medical Achievement Award (Stark Medical Association) 2003Recognition from the First Lady of Honduras Mary Flores 2002Paul Harris Award (Presented by Rotary International) 1996Key to the City (Santa Rosa de Copan pop. 37,000) Presented by the Mayor 1995, 1997Honorary Merit College of Professional Nurses (Honduras) Presented by the president of the university in 1995Merit Award MADD (Presented by Stark County Chapter) 1993Outstanding Alumni Award (Aultman School of Nursing) 1993Merit of Service Award (Hospital de Occidente, Honduras) 1993, 1995Golden Apple Award (Aultman Hospital) 1992Beyond War Award (For Peace Corps Services) 1987Certificate of Appreciation Peace Corps (Peace Corps Service) 1981

Book preview

Preface

I have often been asked if I ever dreamed CAMO — Central American Medical Outreach, Inc. — would become what it is today. My answer is a clear No. Nor can I imagine what CAMO will be in ten years. What I do know is that the process of making a vision of the CAMO Model a reality has been a puzzle with a thousand pieces. Each piece is a human who has had a profound impact on CAMO. Every one of them has been an important part of the emerging picture, and each of them taught me something. Without them CAMO — and I — would not be what or who we are today. When one piece of the puzzle is missing, the whole becomes much less than intended. To all the myriad people who have influenced my own journey and the successes of CAMO, I am deeply, deeply grateful that you were part of the grand puzzle.

So, when asked if I can imagine the future, again the answer is, No, I can’t. What I imagine is that more people will cross my path, and I have no idea what they will bring or take and how it will influence what the rest of the puzzle will look like. I do know that they will all have an impact upon the future.

I am so grateful to all of you from the past, here in the present, and those to come in the future.

One

Thousands of Miles From Home . . . The Day of Realization

5:00 a.m. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I rolled over in bed, very aware of the hard four-inch foam mattress and the wooden frame it was placed upon. I sat up and swung my feet over the edge of the bed. My feet hit the cool burgundy red ceramic floor. I quickly grabbed my towel and my uniform from the makeshift clothing rack and walked to the bathroom, where a sign hung over the toilet:

If it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down.

A gentle reminder of the shortage of water here in Santa Rosa de Copán, Honduras. 

It was Tuesday, so today was the day water was to be delivered. I hope it would be enough to fill the holding tank. My shower would be short and frigid. Cold water ran over me, and I anxiously counted the days. Only thirty days left in my Peace Corps service in the Hospital de Occidente, a 210-bed public hospital, the largest in the western region of Honduras.

My thoughts shifted to the icy water pouring over me. I tried to imagine taking a long, hot shower one more time in my life. Life was good, but my days were long as one of only six registered nurses serving in this godforsaken hospital.

Stepping out of the shower, I dressed in my white nursing uniform and sat down on the hard mattress. I inserted my feet into the shiny white nursing shoes and then gave my German Shepherd, Jabber, a hug after our morning routine. It had been a long twenty-three months. I did not know whether I could make it another day. This morning, the sun was shining as I began my eleven-block walk to the hospital. I heard the clippety-clop of a thin, small horse walking down the hill as I passed a farmer. He had two big metal containers of milk strapped to the wooden saddle. While he journeyed downhill, I journeyed up the hill. When I passed him, he gave me a big toothless smile. I smiled back as we both continued on our separate ways. My mood brightened.

But as I passed the Parque Central (Central Park), where the shoeshine men were at their designated spot, a feeling of regret and guilt came over me as I remembered Don Jepe, one of the shoeshine men. 

The dew of the morning was chased away by the warmth of the sun. As I was getting close to the hospital, I passed Hotel Elvir. I was looking forward to a banana milkshake at the end of my day. I could count on the owner’s fifteen-year-old son, Juan Carlos Elvir, to be peeking his head around the corner, curious about the gringa, as I would cherish every sip of the cool delight at the end of a long day. Little did I know the importance of the role Juan Carlos would play in my future.

Continuing to walk lost in thought, four blocks later I had arrived at the hospital. Near the entrance, a life-sized weatherworn statue of Jesus with open arms greeted each worker and each patient as they entered the compound. As I swung open the big wooden doors, the smell was the same as it was my very first day: the smell of infection.

I walked through the courtyard of the hospital to the little chapel as I did every single day and I kneeled in the back pew. My prayer was the same.

Please Lord, help me just one more day. Give me the strength to do what I need to do today. 

Finishing my morning prayer, I got up and straightened my uniform. I was ready to confront the rest of my day. On the way to my two wards, I passed Gladys, the director of nursing, and greeted her with a customary kiss on the cheek. Kathy Byrnes, the other Peace Corps volunteer who served in the hospital with me, had finished her service one month before. I missed having her around to share the day’s successes and tragedies, as well as the banana milkshake at the end of the day. 

I was feeling rushed, and knowing today was going to be exceptionally busy, I needed to cover my wards — women’s surgery and women’s medical — and also the wards of my coworker, Cecilia Flores, who was on vacation and who covered pediatrics (children two through nine) and lactantes (babies under two). I did first rounds with Dr. Fausto Cruz and then with Dr. Hilsaca in women’s surgery and then moved to the twenty-eight-bed women’s medical ward with Dr. Hernandez. I was moving quickly to get to the more critical patients in pediatrics and lactantes. 

By 10:30 a.m., I had made rounds with doctors and covered sixty of the adult women patients. Now it was time to see what was happening in the children’s wards. The pediatric ward was full. Malnutrition seemed to be worsening, owing to the failure of crops and an exceedingly long dry season. Most of the children were doing well, their mothers by their sides. 

It was close to lunchtime, and all the children who were able would gather, their tummies ready for a good meal. They lined up and were ready to file into the small dining room with its small, makeshift wooden benches.  Kettles of beans and rice and a stack of tortillas were carried in from the wooden burning stoves in the hospital kitchen. Little plates were filled with eggs, beans, and tortillas topped off with a cup of rice.  The children eagerly dove into the food, licking their plates.

Each day we could see their bellies, bloated from malnutrition, gradually subside. As I watched, I could see the improvement, as food went in the swelling would diminish until finally, I could see their bone structure.

Malnourished children in the feeding room of the Hospital de Occidente (HRO)

 The smiles would come, and the children began to blossom, becoming playful and energetic again. It was like watching a rebirth. The success brought so much joy that it healed my wounded spirit and restored my hope.

By now I was running late. An afternoon auxiliary nurse, who typically would have a sixth-grade education with one year of technical training, yelled for me from the infant ward.

"Seño Kathy, por favor ayudarme!"

I hurried to the side of the open crib, where the nurse and mother were panicking and rubbing the baby. She was not breathing. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was after 1 p.m. The doctors had already left the hospital for the day. I asked the runner to try to find the doctor. We had no phones in the hospital, so we had to send runners in times of crisis.

I started CPR on the baby. I used everything available, meaning my hands, which felt for a pulse, and my mouth, which gave respirations. I placed the stethoscope to her little chest: nothing. I had no ambu bag, some epi, some bicarb, and no lab tests. The only thing I could do was give her CPR, which I performed for what seemed like an hour. One auxiliary nurse helped me, and another comforted the mother. It was over. There was nothing left to do. The baby was dead. The doctor never responded.

I watched the thin Mayan mother in her flip-flops walk over to her belongings wrapped in her towel; she picked up the bundle, tears wetting her stoic face. Anger, grief, and helplessness came over me as I prepared the baby. I saw from her chart that her name was Ana Marie. I glanced at Gladys, who had just walked into the ward. She caught the expression on my face and knew immediately what had happened. 

After giving the mother time with her baby, now it was time to carry little Ana Marie to the morgue. I thought back to my morning and my prayer: Lord, give me strength to make it through today. The walk to the morgue felt long, my arms felt heavy, and pressing Ana Marie against my chest, I felt my heart break.

Morgue where the author brought thirty-one babies in her last month of service with the Peace Corps

The morgue was a cold, small adobe building with a wooden door and one, knee-high cement slab in the middle of the single, dark room. I felt God was small. I started to think about the month, my last in the Peace Corps, mentally counting down. The first week of this month we buried eight babies, the second ten. I kept counting to try to get control and take my mind off of what was happening at that moment. It hit me that we had done this thirty-one times in the last four weeks. Thirty-one children under the age of four had perished in one month.

Emotionally exhausted, I thought, "A just God?"

Alone in the morgue, uncontrollable grief came over me. I wept for all those children. I wondered how at twenty-five I had experienced so many terrible things. How did I get here? Could I endure much more?

A war was raging inside me at the same time the actual wars were raging in El Salvador and Nicaragua. My war felt unbearable. It challenged the core of my beliefs. God had abandoned this baby, this mother, this country. Anger built up inside me as I placed Ana Marie on the cool cement slab beside two other small wooden boxes holding other dead children. How had a girl from a small town in Ohio have ended up here?

Two

Go Play. Tomorrow Will Be Better

No, Mom! Don’t make me go to school!

Even at age seven, I could hardly control my tongue. The thing just seemed much too big for my mouth.

Mom, I pleaded, the kids constantly make fun of me. Everyone is always correcting me. Please Mom, don’t make me go!

No matter how much I fussed or cried, my no-nonsense mother would put me on the bus, where my nine-year-old brother John would sit close to me. He already knew when I would start looking sick and would tell the driver to stop the bus so he could open the door to let me throw up. Naturally, I always sat in the front seat right behind the door for that horrible ride to Kidron Elementary School in Kidron, Ohio. My earliest school days began with the agonizing question: What would happen to me today and how would I make it through one more day? My fear and apprehension always tied my stomach in knots.

Some days the teasing was unbearable, but I could always count on my most loyal friend, Tiny, a Heinz 57 mix of a mutt, to greet me on my return home. Tiny would sit and look at me as if he understood every word I had to say, even look as if he agreed with me. Tiny was there even after my second-grade teacher made me go out into the hall because I could not say my own name to her satisfaction. When I returned home on these hard days, Tiny would come running and jump into my arms.

It’s not fair! I am not a dumb kid! I know what’s going on. I just can’t say it in a way that people understand me. Tiny, you understand, don’t you? You won’t correct me, I would tell him tearfully. Holding Tiny in my arms and petting his head, made it all feel okay. I could survive as long as I had my best friend patiently waiting for me.

I was also blessed with family: Mom, Dad, my two brothers, and my Uncle Larry, who had been eleven when he moved in with us after both my grandparents were killed in a car accident. I knew my family loved me, and they understood me. They never teased me or mocked my twisted pronunciation. By the end of every evening, through their love, I believed that maybe tomorrow would be better.

And yet, the next day, as I got on the bus, the same anxiety would return, and I would think, Who is going to make fun of me today?

The author with her older brother John

As the bus ride from the countryside into the Village of Kidron continued, the feeling would come over me, and my stomach would respond. John was always there for me every morning, and at night, Tiny was there.

As I started fourth grade, I still could not get my tongue to produce words the way everyone else’s seemed magically to work. I couldn’t understand it. I sat at my desk, dutifully copying what the teacher wrote on the chalkboard. I was paying attention to every word.

Suddenly the teacher stopped and asked, Cindy, what is that you’re passing around the class? Please give it to me. Without any thought at all, the teacher unfolded the note and read it out loud. She is so dumb she can’t even talk correctly. We are having a party but let’s not invite her. We do not want her there. Kathy is weird.

The teacher became quiet, but it was too late. The whole class had heard. It was about me. I sat there, picked up my pencil, pressed the tip hard on my notebook, and tears filled my eyes as the piece of paper in front of me became blurred. Was it not enough that I struggled to be understood? Must the teacher now add to my torture? She looked at me, now aware of what she had done, crumpled the note into a ball, and clutched it in her fist as the class laughed. Embarrassment and anger came over her face.

Class, please, passing notes is not allowed, she said sternly. Please focus on the lesson.

Nothing more was said about the note. I felt attacked and helpless. All I wanted to do was flee to my home sanctuary, where I felt safe. I could cry there with no one but Tiny to see.

When I got home, Mom saw I was more upset than usual. She asked what was wrong, and I told her, unable to hold back the tears.

She simply said, It will be okay, and hugged me. Sometimes you just have to forgive people. Go play, tomorrow will be better.

I did as I was told, and the world did seem better by the time I went to bed. The rest of the year the teacher was nice to me and seemed to pay extra attention to me.

The days and years passed, and by the end of sixth grade, as summer came, life had shifted a little. Mom and Dad had been given land by my maternal grandfather (my mother’s parents were the only grandparents I knew). Dad, a great carpenter, decided he would build us a new home. All summer, my older brother, John, younger brother, Billie, Grandpa Weeman, and I worked alongside Dad. By this time, Uncle Larry had moved to Columbus to live and work.

That summer was filled with framing walls, running for tools, nailing down subflooring, and cleaning up at the end of the day. Any way we siblings could help, we did. It seemed to be a new lease on life for me. A different school, too! I was now going to be in seventh grade in a new school system where no one knew me. My speech impediment had improved and was almost gone. People corrected me less and understood me more.

Things were going great until about a month into the new school year. The principal called me out of class and told me there had been an error in my homeroom assignment. From now on, I would be placed with another group of students. I followed him as he led me from the first floor, up to the second, and then into a room I had never seen before.

Looking around, I realized here I was once again with a new group of classmates, and they were like me, branded as slow learners because of things they could not control. I wanted to scream, to run, never to come to school again. I was not dumb or a slow learner! How dare they decide this was where I belonged!

I’m unsure where the words came from, but clearly and without hesitation, I looked at the principal and said, I want to call my mom now.

Because I was so insistent, he agreed. He walked me out of the classroom and to the office, where he dialed the phone. I heard him greet my mother, and then he handed me the phone.

Mom, I was frantic, they are doing it to me again! Through sobs I said, Mom, I am not dumb! I can speak clearly now! Please, Mom, don’t let them put me with the slow learners again! I will not come to school anymore! Please come and get me.

My mother calmly said, Let me speak to the principal.

I stood there trembling, thinking about the boring classes of playing spelling games and finding the words in the dictionary. I could hardly bear the thought of repeating the endless simple tasks that had been given to me in the previous school. The principal was now speaking with my mother in a tone I could not quite make out. What was going on? All that was clear was that whatever my mother said to him, he was not happy. He hung up the phone and, without saying a word to me, led me back to the first classroom.

Mom said nothing about the conversation to me. There are some things you don’t need to know, Kathy, she told me.

I still have no idea what she said.

The outcome was that I was finally in a normal classroom, and none of my classmates would ever know of my previous struggles. As school continued, I held my secret tight. Whenever I saw another student being picked on, all I wanted to do was protect the victim. After all, I secretly knew how it felt, but my classmates would never know why I intervened. I belonged to no group but was liked by each group.

The challenges in the academic aspect of school continued. I had spent my entire elementary education in special classes, so I did not receive the educational base necessary for standardized testing. I played catch-up during high school.

At fourteen, my jaw seemed finally to be large enough for my tongue, which was working a little better. It helped to have four permanent teeth pulled to make more room for my tongue. I longed to be able to communicate without people detecting a problem with my speech, so Sundays after church, I would lock my bedroom door and sit in front of the mirror and practice the words I had pronounced incorrectly during the week. No matter what was going on in the house, I would not leave, determined to have control over my tongue, syllable by syllable. It was a challenge, but I pushed myself, and gradually my practice list became shorter.

My low grades had followed me. During registration for high school, I had to meet with the guidance counselor.

Kathy, she said, your scores are low on the aptitude test, so I am placing you in classes like home economics, gym, and other basic courses. She paused, not considering or realizing that she had just dropped a hammer on my entire future. Your test scores are not high enough for you to consider college. The best that you can do in your life is find a nice man to take care of you, get married, and have children. You are not college material.

Did you know that if the test says that you cannot do something, it must be true? For many decades, guidance counselors told the apprehensive young people sitting on the other side of their desks how they should live their lives. Not surprisingly, I ignored her.

Her advice may have been well intentioned, but it was demeaning. I chose the toughest classes and asked to be placed with the seniors in speech and debate classes. The seniors gave me a hard time, but by the end of the year, I believe they pitied me so much that they began to like me.

One excruciating assignment in speech class was to be a radio announcer and read a short announcement of programs. One of the words was burglary. Standing in front of the class, I tried and tried and tried but could not pronounce the word. The teacher would not let me continue until I said it correctly. I would have done anything to get off that stage. Eventually, and by luck, burglary, with its terribly placed r’s and l’s and g’s, popped correctly out of my mouth. In that moment of triumph, I saw something in the eyes of my fellow classmates. They were trying to say the words themselves; their lips were moving as if to help me. Everyone wanted me to succeed.

I went home that afternoon, sat in front of my mirror, and said burglary, burglary, burglary, burglary, until my tongue had command of the word. Many tricky words were to follow, and I faced each one as a challenge to master. This is how I had made it through high school.

In addition to my classes, I was active in my church’s youth group, even serving as president. My senior year, I was chosen as one of six youths from around the country to fly to Chicago to plan a national conference. Because of my commitment, I missed so many varsity basketball practices that I had to sit on the bench. It was one or the other. Youth conference or basketball, something for which I had spent years practicing. It was an easy choice: I wasn’t going to be a basketball star.

I already knew what I wanted to be: a nurse. I loved helping the underdog. If there was a wounded animal, I was the kid running toward it to help ease its pain. I had been the underdog, and I knew how much support we needed. In nearby Canton, Ohio, the Aultman School of Nursing was affordable for my parents. I would have to pick up part-time work over the weekends, but I could handle that. The challenge was to get accepted.

Once more, I sat in front of the judgement of academia. Mrs. Hartong, the director of nursing, with more gentleness than my prior counselors, said, Kathy, your scores are average, and I do not believe you could finish the studies required to be a nurse.

I argued, What do I need to do to prove you wrong?

We struck a deal. She suggested that I go to a community college and take pre-med courses. If I was able to keep above a 3.4 average, she promised that I would be accepted into nursing the next year.

Ten months