I’ve armed myself in sea gull compression socks this morning…We’ll be near the Black Sea again so they seem appropriate.

In the back seat of the van with Nastea and Roma, I observe my team and see that there is not a lick of fear in any of us. I comment on this as we head to Mykolaiv (“nee-koh-lie’-iv”, in Ukrainian “Микола́їв”), a frontline in the war in Ukraine. Nearby Kherson, 36 miles (68 kilometers) southeast of Mykoliav, is currently held by the Russians. “The Ukrainians took back Mykoliav seven weeks ago,” Bob, our CERT leader, who sits in the front with Aniel and Doyna, says.

The Ukrainians are waging a fierce offense right now to retake Kherson and a fierce defense to keep Mykoliav.

From my vantage point in the van, I can look to the seats in front of me and see all of us. I continue my pondering aloud as I take in my companions, “It’s like supernatural fearlessness.” In response, heads nod in agreement. Quiet determination and purpose are redolent in the van. This, after all, is the chief reason we are here, to help a people at war. I doubt fear, had I not mentioned it, would have entered anyone’s mind.

The sun is bright. The land is a bit hazy and beautiful as we head the two hours east from Odessa to Mykolaiv Oblast (Region or District) and this important city in Southern Ukraine, a key transportation hub (with sea port, commercial port, river port, highway and railway junction, and airport.¹) It is also considered the main ship building center on the Black Sea. No wonder the Russians are lusting after it.

I think Kathleen, Ginger, DJ, Nastea, and Roma have fallen asleep. Bob and Aniel in the front - and I - are the only ones awake it looks like. (We left a lot earlier this morning to account for the long drive and in anticipation of the likely forced stops by Ukrainian military.) Pastor Igor, our host, and Alexei, the pediatrician, are in the van in front of us carrying supplies for the people at the frontline. Igor keeps in close contact with the churches in Mykolaiv and has organized this medical clinic (and all our medical clinics) with a pastor there. He’s a total badass on these roads, passing cars with a hair’s-breadth to spare! I say this out loud and hear chuckles from my team at calling a venerated man of God such a term. But Pastor Igor is a badass, just look at him! And, I ponder him and his supplies and his literal racing into this war zone and I think, “His driving is the least of his badassness.”

I think Aniel said we just made it to Mykolaiv Oblast (sort of like a county or jurisdiction in America). Military teams are checking vehicles. A soldier motions us to stop and heads toward us…

It’s going well. The soldier who is checking our van speaks excellent English and checks all of our passports. (How important it is to have my passport with me at all times!) I think he may have been clued in to who we are by Pastor Igor ahead of us. He sends us on our way.

There are military personnel everywhere.

Little protective bunkers. Lots of camouflage-painted tires.

[Photos are taken cautiously and we have been told not to post at any time while in Ukraine and to turn off all GPS coordinates on our photos.]

A man sweeps the leaves from the road. An act of subterfuge.

Stacked black tires on the corners of many intersections.

An ambulance, lights flashing, on the bridge.

Sandbags on the bridge. Bridges are out-in-the-open things, aren’t they? Intrinsically vulnerable. And they fight by communicating. They, in and of themselves are tremendous tools of war, conduits for supplies and food, sweaters and jackets for winter, generators hopefully, ambulance personnel, teams from America coming to listen to a few hearts and give a few medicines…

Bridges are key…and targeted…

There’s an electric tram carrying a few passengers. Electric tram…Not all electrical resources destroyed, thankfully.

Everyone with me is now awake and silent and watching.

A man looks at his phone, the only person sitting outside at one of the tables of a green-umbrellaed patio.

Flowers, pink and white, growing on a little, seemingly innocuous plot of land on the right.

A modern black and white apartment building.

A bombed building on the left.

And, another.

Those buildings, Aniel says, were a military academy and barracks. The Russians pinpointed direct hits. Deliberate pinpoint accuracy. Three hundred people perished.

“This is as far as Russian tanks made it into the northern part of the city but Russian missile attacks are still happening here 2 or 3 times a week,” Bob adds.

Almost immediately, an apartment complex on the right. A shopping center. Direct missile hits. Devastated. Gone…

After passing the destroyed shopping center, we turn onto a small street. Nearby walls are pock-marked and Bob explains this is evidence that the Russians are using fragmentation bombs.

(And civilians. And American medical teams…)

As we drive slowly along this street, on our right we see people queuing and filling bottles and jugs with water. The Russians have bombed the electrical grid in Mykolaiv, Aniel explains. And, without electricity, the water pumps here are useless and the water is contaminated. Of course electricity equals water, I think, realizing I’ve never considered this before and have never had water be contaminated or not flow immediately from my tap when I turn it on. I see a big banner with “Samaritan’s Purse” displayed near the water supply lines. This organization, with whom I’d like to work one day soon, came in it looks like and helped the people of Mykolaiv dig a new well here at this church we’re passing and pumps and water lines are set up for the people to collect this most fundamental of necessities.

This unlikely metal and rubber-hosed oasis is actually the entrance to the church where we’ll spend our day and conduct our 4th medical clinic.

We’ve just arrived and I already know I’m not going to want to leave. There are patients even now lined up to see us. The first woman, with curving spine, struggles to climb the few steps to the entrance with her cane. Another woman tends the small flower bed just inside the grounds near the sidewalk where the people wait their turn for water.

We walk into the church and get settled.

One of us notices what looks like a bullet shot to one of the windows. Shrapnel from a fragmentation bomb?

There’s no fear. Quite the contrary. I want to stay here. I don’t want to eat lunch, I don’t want to go back to Odessa. I want to do an extra-long clinic day here, ten hours at least. I’ve only seen humanity in brief so far, but I am smitten and want to provide everything our patients will need for their health and to brave the bombs and, worse, the long and cold and likely electricity-less winter. I want to feed them. I want to hold them. I want to keep them safe. I quell tears at my powerlessness to do any of this.

Alas, we’ll have perhaps 6 hours here. We’ll see maybe 20 or so souls, plus those who need reading glasses. Maybe a few more. I don’t have any electricity or a generator or water or food. So, what I shall concentrate on with everything in me is using what I do have: a stethoscope, an otoscope, arms to hold for a few moments, a true smile to share, a prayer to give. There’s warmth in that, there has to be, lasting warmth, winter-long warmth. And, Ginger brought toothbrushes! (I wish I’d thought of that!) We’ll give all those away today. And I will love the people with everything in me while they’re in front of me and while I’m here and maybe in some way that will carry them through to the very end of the war. Some way. Love can do that, right? Right?

There’s a plastic water bottle on the table near where we are to sit, next to the copy machine. Within the bottle someone has placed a small collection of flowers. Dark ruby chrysanthemums from the garden plot outside by the looks of them. I stare hard at them for a long while.

Flowers are important, I realize. Never in my life until this moment have I understood just how important. A flower growing in a war zone, and then cut and placed on a table, purposely placed out of the way of the Americans coming to help, but placed there nonetheless, can contain all measure of rebellion and hope. Flowers are life and beauty and that carries intrinsic power. Another shaking fist in the face of the insensible.

I turn to Ginger - Dr. Vaughn - and say, “I don’t want to leave. We just got here and I’m already dreading leaving.” She, with now thirteen medical missions and forty countries and six continents under her belt says, “These trips are always too short.” And, I hear a tinge of sadness in her words. (When she told me the number of continents she’s been to and I mentioned I too long to visit Antarctica, she said, “Ah, you assume that is the remaining continent for me to visit - it isn’t - Australia is,” and she smiles.)

I sit with Ginger at our table (Alexei, again will be assisting with triage), and I tell her something I’ve been pondering for a few days. On that home visit I made on Clinic Day 1, I did a fair amount of teaching of the gentleman who was unable to walk and his wife, on infection-control measures and techniques for ensuring proper and safe placement of his urinary catheter. Back home, prior to this trip, as Ginger was purchasing supplies, she had had the foresight to buy a small bottle of Betadine (povidone iodine) for sanitizing and fully cleansing skin. She handed me the bottle to take with me to the couple’s home after we had discussed the case, as I prepared to leave for their house a second time with more supplies. We decided to use viscous lidocaine, normally used for mouth ulcers and sore throats, as the numbing agent to help insertion of the catheter. I had brought lots of the lidocaine but wasn’t sure it was appropriate for orifices other than the mouth, having never used it for such in the ER or Urgent Care Center and Ginger encouraged me to use what we had on hand, as it would work just fine even if not indicated on the label, a big important lesson. And so I did use it and it worked like a charm and I was able to teach my patient’s wife how to use it along with the cleansing of the catheter with the Betadine. He had only the one catheter at the time (but my patient’s wife told me her daughter, a nurse, could buy another, so the patient would have two catheters in total) and it needed to be changed every month to prevent infection. (It had been quite a bit longer than that since its last change.) Normally, in America, and other countries with abundant supplies, the catheter would be tossed after removal, deemed used and contaminated. This had always been my practice and philosophy, too. But, in this case, this catheter at least at this time, was the only one available and precious. And, living without one was not an option. So Ginger talked me through the cleansing of the catheter with the Betadine, making sure it was absolutely clean prior to the wife or daughter re-inserting it. And, because of that little bottle of Betadine, we could be fairly certain the catheter would be as clean and as safe as possible to reuse. (And, I gave him antibiotics for a presumed current infection and for future use, too.) [Note to self: Next trip, bring urine dip sticks to check for infections, urine glucose, ketones, etc.] As we sit here in Mykolaiv and wait for our first patients, I turn to Dr. Vaughn and I say, “That bottle of Betadine will very possibly save that man’s life, Ginger, by preventing further infections. That man’s life is going to be better and probably longer because of you and that little bottle of Betadine.”

Ginger pauses, hearing me, and then looks me in the eyes, and replies, “Don’t make me cry. We just got here.” And, we smile and I swallow the myriad emotions trying to surface, and we get to work.

Roma is my interpreter again today and Nastea is helping Ginger. They are smiling. Helpful. Wonderful.

There’s a bunch of words arranged decoratively on the wall near us. Nastea translates them for me.

It’s a little chilly inside the building as the doors are left wide open for the people to come. I barely notice the cold.

Stacked along one entire wall and part of another are boxes of food rations from the World Food Programme³:

I think, “A little bottle of Betadine and boxes and boxes of food for a community targeted for destruction, they are both alike - they are both lifesavers. In logic tests back in school, these two would never be associated, but here they are both lifesavers.” And I hope the boxes never have to be opened, never have to be used, and that no one here is ever hungry or has to rely on these foodstuffs for survival. And, almost immediately I pray nothing destroy this vital nourishment. Just in case it is needed.

Our room is filling with Mykolaiv residents waiting to see us. There are many women and a just a few mostly older men. The younger men are gone to war, many of them. How many mothers (and fathers) here are waiting for news from the front about their child or children? Or grandchildren?

My first patient, Tamara, is the woman with the shuffling gait and cane who battled the stairs as we were first arriving in order to sit here with me now. She’s pale with a grimace that grips my heart.

She tells Roma and me that she’s got a headache and has been falling a lot. Her back hurts. She is on levodopa and pramipexal. Ah, the medications confirm suspicions - Parkinson’s. Knowing the likely worsening of stability and balance in this precious woman’s future, my heart sinks. A cane is no longer at all sufficient for her. She needs a walker and immediately. I head to Aniel. “Is there a place around here where we could buy a walker for my patient?” He shakes his head no. I then head to the pastor of the church and, with Roma interpreting, ask if he might know where I might find a walker? His eyes light up. “I think I may have what you need,” and he hurries off around the church. I go back to my patient and address the back brace she’s using, we readjust it, her back feels better. Good. The pastor comes up to us, “Can you check outside with me?” I follow him outside and I can almost hear angels sing as I gaze upon the perfect walker for Tamara! The pastor has cleaned it off and it is ready for use! I hug him, rush back into the church, finish giving medicines and instructions to Tamara and then Roma and I lead her outside and present her with the walker. She stands in absolute wonder. I could cry at her expression but instead, Roma and I and the pastor huddle around her, loving her, loving her, and smile big. We instruct her on how to use it and she gives us a faultless return demonstration. The expression on her glowing face warms my heart. This is not the same woman who haltingly, painfully walked in here just a little while ago. She has hope, I can see it! And her smile of gratitude…well, I hug her tight and try to keep my tears at bay, not wholly successful. Our faces speak volumes and I see tangible evidence once again of how a smile and love can transcend every language barrier. Please, God, don’t let Tamara ever fall again. Keep her safe in every way.

With my trusty journal nearby and no phone (I have somehow left it in Odessa - not sure how that was possible - Nastea and Roma generously offer to take photos for me and send them to me), I write the names of my patients, starting with Tamara and continue:

Anna, 86yr old. Oh, Anna. She is beautiful. I fall deeply in love. I think, “You are a classic beauty from Ukraine with your hair in a spotless kerchief and your woolen skirt. You have seen much. You are strong.”

She says to Roma and me that her legs have pressure and hurt. I look at her legs and see bulging varicosities. She grimaces as she shows them to me. I take off my compression socks and hand them to her. I cannot perform surgery on her legs to take away the varicosities but I can give her socks to help relieve a bit of the pressure. I hope she likes seagulls! The look of surprise as I hand her my socks is ever recorded on my heart. Sacred surprise.

She is taking something for her heart, Cardiomagnyl, which I have learned is aspirin with magnesium hydroxide. Good. And she tells us she had a chest xray two weeks ago and was diagnosed with bilateral pneumonia. She pulls out a box I recognize as the antibiotic azithromycin or a “Z-pack” in America. Okay. I listen to heart and lungs. A mildly irregular cardiac rhythm. No shortness of breath, but crackly lungs in the back, vestiges of the pneumonia. I give her Augmentin (amoxicillin-clavulanate) as a second course of antibiotic and ask if it’s possible for her to follow up with her doctor in two weeks to make absolutely sure her lungs are healing up. She nods that she can. Good, another physician who hasn’t had to leave to fight or go to the front to care for the soldiers. The people in this community need care, too! Anna thanks us and says she is going to her house for something and will be back. I think, “Anna, you are 86yr old and recovering from double pneumonia not completely healed! Mightn’t it be better to go home and rest?” But, I have learned to respect determination when I see it. Anna leaves and returns with a “natural salad” for me, three jars (“for Father, Son, and Holy Spirit”) she’s made herself. I receive these with deep gratitude but cannot help think, “The winter is coming, Anna. Warmth, water, food, none of it is guaranteed. You NEED this natural salad which you are so generously giving me.” She has walked back to her home and walked back here, waited patiently while I saw other patients, and then gives me these jars of I’m sure delectable jarred tomatoes and other vegetables. I am deeply, deeply humbled, more so than at any other time in Ukraine thus far. Anna was born in 1936. This war is not her first rodeo. Indeed, she has seen much in Ukraine. How I would love to sit with her and ask her her life’s story. Instead, I take her natural salad, made with her own hands, and sincerely thank her and hold back the tears.

Nadja, from Bulgaria. A knee that hurts.

Anatoly, with diabetes and blood pressure (BP) concerns.

Tatjana at just 59yr, has extremely high BP. (Hypertension, aka high BP, is so ubiquitous that I am more surprised when I don’t see it in patients. How can people not have high BP here? Would I have high BP if I lived here? Wouldn’t be surprised.) A liver stone after her gallbladder with gallstones was removed. Aaakkk! No more stones allowed! Ah, thankfully, her last ultrasound showed the liver stone was gone. I love that she was able to have an ultrasound. Medical infrastructure still remains somewhat intact in this war zone.

Oleg, 55yr old, with a gastric ulcer and a lot of discomfort. I give him omeprazole (a proton pump inhibitor, not my favorite, I prefer a histamine-2 blocker like famotidine, or Pepcid, as first line for hyperacidity and gastric protection, but we haven’t any [Note to self: Next trip bring a few large containers of famotidine]) and we discuss foods to avoid and elevating the head of the bed at night when symptoms are particularly active. I hate recommending to patients not to drink coffee as I love it so very much, but I do tell him this. And chocolate can also cause worsening symptoms, I inform regretfully. (I learned very fast there is so much good chocolate in Ukraine!)

Natalia, a fatty liver and high BP. We discuss avoiding acetaminophen (paracetamol in Ukraine) as her liver may not be functioning well enough to metabolize this particular medication. I advise sticking to ibuprofen for pain and we address her BP with medications.

It’s lunchtime but I don’t want to stop seeing patients. Ginger and D.J. have gone to eat but I keep going. When Ginger returns she gently prods me and says, “You really ought to see what they’ve prepared for us, have some lunch, and see where we’re eating. It’s in an old train car!” And, so I walk out to an ancient-looking compartment and though it does look like an old train car, I am informed inside that it’s an old logger cabin, on the church grounds! There are ladies inside using the tiny kitchen to prepare a beautiful feast!

As I walk back to rejoin Ginger after lunch, somewhere not too far-off I hear a bomb explode…and returning to the church, the queue for water continues at the “community well.”

I return to my seat and Roma joins me with his ever-present smile and kindness.

Tatanya, mid-60’s, heart stuff. She had an electrocardiogram (ECG) a month ago. Good. She was diagnosed with angina pectoris and does have nitroglycerine (NTG). Good, again, because that is one of the meds we are not carrying. Her back hurts. I detect a heart murmur and an abnormal heart sound (a split S1) and wonder about a bundle branch block and/or valvular issue. Fortunately, a cardiology appointment is possible. I write down my findings, Roma translates them, and we hand her the paper and ask her to see the cardiologist again soon, next week or the week after that. We give her specific education on how to correctly use the nitroglycerine: one tablet sublingually - SL, or under the tongue - at onset of chest pain, if not completely gone in 5 minutes take another tablet SL, and if chest pain is still not completely gone in 5 more minutes take one last tablet; if chest pain remains after three tablets taken in five-minute increments, an ambulance should be called; take no more than 3 tablets. (Will an ambulance come if called? What are alternatives? I haven’t a clue.) I wish I had an ECG but, really, would it change much in the way of treatment? I think an ECG might possible be helpful if she were actively having a heart attack, or MI (myocardial infarction), but she has no chest pain at present so I’m okay with instructing on NTG and letting her go with forthcoming cardiology appointment.

Galina, rheumatoid arthritis. We have loads of prednisone and I put her on a month-long slow tapering course. We discuss side effects of long-term use of prednisone. I give her extra for future flares of the arthritis. I pray for her.

Svetlana, history of toxic goiter. Chernobyl. (We have seen a number of people from Chernobyl with thyroid problems, including thyroid cancer and thyroid surgery.) She is now hypothyroid. I can’t believe it but when I ask Kathleen if we have levothyroxine (thyroid medicine) she answers that we have plenty! I feel so relieved. We can give her enough to get her through the winter! Svetlana is so very grateful!

Djalivlov, from Azerbaijan. Fought in the 1992 war.

He has smoked a pack a day for the last 30 of his 52yr. He wanted to fight for Ukraine but was told his heart and lungs were not strong enough to do so. He’s been battling shortness of breath for about two years. A week ago, he had a “kicked-in-the-heart” sensation. It’s been happening a few times a month for the last 5 years. It’s getting worse, happening more frequently, but not at the moment. I still have no ECG. [Note to self: Purchase an electrocardiogram app by the next trip.] How does one go about discussing smoking cessation in this situation? This man knows war and is living it for a second time in his life, two times too many. Normally, it would not be difficult, a respectful but frank discussion: “The choice is basically stop smoking and live or continue smoking and die much sooner than you’d like.” But, in Djalivlov’s case, I’m hesitant. How can I ask this man whose lungs and heart are admittedly sick but who is also likely deriving some measure of comfort from smoking at this time to stop smoking? How do I - how dare I - try to take away any comfort from anyone in Ukraine right now? As I ponder this, I think, would I tell someone living in Ukraine’s war zones who is addicted to alcohol or heroin to stop using? I honestly don’t know. Wow. And, would it help one iota if I did encourage them to stop? Which is worse, oblivion via alcohol or drugs, and possible death from these substances, or exploding bombs in your city and possible death from living in a city actively at war? What are usually normal, direct - and correct - discussions regarding addiction are tripping me up big time right now. I gently look Djalilov in the eyes and discuss his Ukrainian wife and his children. I tell him I hear wheezes in his lungs which isn’t a normal finding and I tell him I see that he wants to stay strong for his family. I present the dangers of smoking: the possibility of death or extreme disability due to stroke; incurable lung disease; heart disease; warning signs before a heart attack, which is likely what’s happening to his heart right now; I remark on how young he is to have a sick heart and lungs and that it’s likely related to smoking and, admittedly, stress; and I say that his symptoms will likely not improve if the smoking continues but that I understand that stopping smoking right now may simply not be an option. I underscore the seriousness of his intermittent chest pain and ask him to see a cardiologist no later than next week and he tells me he will. (Many physicians, including specialists, have left the area to fight or treat soldiers, but some do thankfully remain local.) I give him an antibiotic and prednisone for his lungs and aspirin to help keep blood flowing throughout his brain and heart and all his other blood vessels. Hopefully. And, he allows Roma and me to pray for him and his family.

[I wonder, how much do AED’s (Automated External Difibrillators - used to shock hearts back to a normal rhythm from a lethal one) cost? Might I bring one or more next time? Teach on how to use them? Maybe I can fundraise for them or request a donation from a manufacturer. These could save countless lives here, I think.]

We have prayed for every patient we’ve seen, Roma and I. And, many have allowed us to have a photo with them.

This afternoon, Roma, irrepressibly joyful and thoughtful, says to me, “Renate! Your feet! You don’t have any socks on!” (After I gave Anna my socks, I just slipped my bare feet back into my clogs. I have not noticed up to this point but now that I think about it, my feet are very chilly!) He jumps up and leaves the table for a few minutes and then returns with a blanket which he places around my cold feet. It is the kindest of gestures and I feel tears brimming at his generous heart toward me. I thank him profusely. The blanket feels ever so good around my icy feet. He says in response, “I should have thought of this A LOT sooner.” No. Thank you for thinking of it at all, Roma.

I don’t want to leave but it’s time to go. After a group photo and a prayer by the pastor of the church, we drive away and my heart is so very sad at this leave-taking.

Many of the patients have stayed to thank us and wave good-bye. Every one of us waves back even though the van windows are too dark for the people to see us.

As we drive away, Ginger and I both start haranguing Bob, our CERT Leader, about when we can return and can we stay a good two or three days in Mykoliav next time? Aniel discusses the coming winter and how difficult to near-impossible it will be to bring a team in through the cold, ice, and snow. So we ask when can we return. Bob thinks it over. Springtime, he says.

I am so glad I believe that prayer is powerfully real and really powerful. Otherwise, my heart would simply shatter at leaving this war-torn city. It does a bit even so.

During the day, while we were seeing patients, Aniel explored the nearby bombed shopping center and apartment building we had passed on the way in. He takes us there now. He struck up a conversation a few hours ago with people nearby who told him that three Russian bombs hit here. The first was a direct hit of the shopping center and we can see how it dropped inside the building and decimated the floors on three levels, leaving the walls standing, creating an unobstructed tower with exterior walls intact but no floors inside. The other two bombs landed close to the first and the concussion destroyed the rest of the shopping center and part of the apartment complex next door. As Aniel explains, we walk up to two well-defined and massive bomb craters in the ground roughly 20 feet, or 6 meters, across just outside the two buildings. These bombs didn’t hit the shopping center or the apartment complex but the buildings are no less destroyed than if they had been hit directly. In that moment, I understand deep to my marrow that bombs are designed for innate maximum destructive and life-taking impact, direct hit or not. It’s ghastly engineering genius. I hate it.

We are somber as we explore the wreckage. My thoughts are likely shared by all the others yet we don’t voice them. But, Aniel can sense our hearts and says, “I was told no one died in this attack, no one in the shopping center nor in the apartment building.” I can almost see our collective sighs of relief.

And, still, I don’t want to leave.

I am not sure of the level of good I have done today. In the grand scheme, have I made much of a difference? I think of the souls we left standing in their coats at the water lines waiting their turn. It is merely briskly cool today with jackets and coats sufficing. But if there’s no power or heat, then blankets like the one Roma used to warm my feet today will provide very little comfort - not to mention life-saving warmth - to Mykoliav in the bitter winter months ahead. Bob says that even though many from Mykoliav have fled the constant bombing, the older people and those without enough money to leave are still here. If power is cut here even more severely many people who are unable to leave will die here this winter. Perhaps some whom we have seen today.

I think of those flowers…Maybe my smile and my love and my holding them have helped in the same way the flowers do?

And, the pastor, who is so grateful for us and is choosing to stay here on the frontline with the people through the winter, perhaps he helps like the water lines do.

Equally necessary, flowers and water, I think.

And, as we drive the two hours west back to Odessa, Doyna our behind-the-scenes organizer, plays us a video showing a Russian commander proclaiming the Russians are coming for Mykoliav in the next few days.

I pray the fearlessness of Anna, my Anna, for everyone living in Mykoliav. And I pray warmth. And water. And food. I pray that Tamara not fall, that her new walker keeps her alive. I pray a normal BP for Anatoly, Tatjana, and Natalia. I pray that Oleg’s gastric ulcer does not worsen or become life-threatening, that it heal completely. I pray for Djalivlov from Azerbaijan, that his heart and lungs get well and that his family will not ever face war without him.

And, I pray for peace.

UPDATE: 31 December 2022. I learned today from Bob, our CERT mission leader, that a missile strike was launched against Mykoliav today by the Russian military. Many were wounded and several people died.

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