This week we present two more stories from our back catalog about people who experienced epidemics of the past.

Part 1: Journalist Erika Check Hayden travels to Sierra Leone and sees Ebola up close and personal for the first time.

Erika Check Hayden is an award-winning San Francisco-based science, health, and technology reporter. She writes for the science journal Nature, and on a freelance basis for a variety of publications. She is the incoming director of the University of California, Santa Cruz, Science Communication Program. Find her at erikacheck.com or on Twitter @Erika_Check.

Part 2: Richard Cardillo escapes his problems by joining a Catholic mission in Peru, where he becomes a community health organizer.

Richard Cardillo is a 25 year resident of the Lower East Side been an educator for over three decades on two continents and in two languages. He's instructed on all levels from preschool to graduate programs, considering himself still more of a learner than a teacher....but always a storyteller! Rich is a three-time Moth StorySLAM winner and has also participated in three Moth GrandSLAMS . Rich is a passionate bread baker and, yes, has gone to that quirky (scary?) place of naming his 16-year-old sourdough starter. He tries to bake up a new story with every loaf that emerges from his tiny apartment oven.

Episode Transcript

Part 1: Erika Check Hayden

Seeing the babies was the hardest part. It was December 2014 and I was reporting on Ebola in Sierra Leone. I’d arrived at a clinic in the city of Bo in the middle of the country. There were so many sick babies coming into this clinic that the doctors there had created a dedicated ward just for infants who had Ebola. That’s how bad it was. They had their own special tent.

Just before I’d arrived that day, a mother and a baby with Ebola had checked in together, but there was no sound coming from that tent. The whole time I was there, the baby tent was completely silent.

I knew from my own small kids that a healthy child would never lie still and quiet for hours. The next day, I learned that the baby had died. His mother lived, but the doctors were worried that when she found out about her son, she would give up on her own fragile recovery.

At another clinic in a city called Makeni, I met a little boy. He was scooting around the nurse’s station in a rolling walker. He had checked in with his mom and she’d died of Ebola and her family had refused to take this boy in. They were afraid of Ebola. They somehow thought that because the boy had been with his mom when she was sick, he might somehow infect them too. It couldn’t happen, but they wouldn’t take him in and he was an orphan. He had nowhere else to go and so he was living there at the Ebola clinic. It was hard to see. It might be hard to hear about now. Just think how hard it was for that boy and for his family.

Erika Check Hayden shares her story with the Story Collider audience at the Rickshaw Stop in San Francisco, in October 2016. Photo by Christopher Schodt.

At the same clinic, I met a woman in her twenties. She was very pregnant. She didn’t look sick at all, but she did look terrified. I noticed that she was sitting on a bench in the intense afternoon sun, and I wondered why she didn’t move to a nearby bench in the shade. She said that her name was Mabinti. When I met her, she was about eight months pregnant. Just a little bit before then, she’d felt a pain in her abdomen. She wanted to be sure that everything was okay with her pregnancy and so she went to get it checked out at a local clinic, but the nurses there wouldn’t treat her. They were spooked by Ebola.

So many healthcare workers had died taking care of pregnant women with Ebola, because these women often miscarried their babies, and when they miscarry, they bleed a lot. Their blood contains the infectious Ebola virus so these nurses weren’t going to take a chance. They told Mabinti that they wouldn’t see her, that she could go get an Ebola test and if the result was negative, then she could come back and they would take care of her then so she did what they said. She went to get the test.

The problem was that while she waited for the results of the test, she had to stay in this facility that’s called a holding center; that’s where I met her. That’s where you go if doctors suspect you have Ebola or if they know you have Ebola but you can’t get a hospital bed. She was living there in the holding center waiting for the result of her test, side by side with people who had Ebola. So every day that she stayed in this holding center increased her chance that she would become infected with Ebola if she wasn’t already. It’s no wonder that she didn’t go sit on the shady bench because it was occupied by sick people who had Ebola. They were sitting and lying down on that bench. She was terrified for her life and for her baby. I knew that I would have done the same things she had and yet now she was living with this unfathomable daily risk. I really felt for her because my own kids were two and four at that point, and reporting from Sierra Leone was the first occasion when I spent any real time away from them.

Having kids had reordered my world. I had been a journalist for a decade before I had my first child. I reported on all kinds of things and I’d travelled lots of places and then I had my son and then my daughter. I wanted to be with them so I cut way back on work and I tried to squeeze it into a normal forty-hour week. I pretty much stopped travelling. I knew that I was dialing back on my own expectations for my career, and I didn’t know if I’d ever feel the same way again about work.

Then 2014 came and the Ebola crisis hit. As a science journalist who covers infectious disease, I had to get on top of the story so I was reading and reporting, basically trying to figure out why the epidemic had gotten so far out of control. There had been Ebola epidemics before this one where dozens of people or maybe a hundred people had died, but there had never been anything like this where tens of thousands of people got sick and thousands died.

One day, I was reading an article by a nurse who worked for Doctors Without Borders. It’s the medical aid group that cared for a lot of patients in this epidemic. She describes treating a two-year-old girl who died in an Ebola clinic without any of her family around her.

At that time, my own daughter was two. As I read this, I wondered what it would be like for her to be sick and alone in a hospital without me or her dad there to hold her. Later that night, we were playing together in her room before bedtime and I tried to imagine checking her into a hospital knowing that I might never see her alive again. It made me feel hollow inside to know that mothers in Sierra Leone were doing that every day. I started to see what was really so horrible about Ebola. Not that it might make you bleed from the eyes and not that it would very likely kill you, but that it was ripping apart families and neighborhoods and communities and all the social fabric that holds people together.

A few days before I left Sierra Leone, I called Mabinti’s husband to check up on her. He said that Mabinti’s Ebola test result had come back and it was negative so that seemed like great news. Mabinti could go home now, right? But no, there was a catch because by that point she had been living in that holding center for weeks and she was in close proximity with Ebola patients. Now she had to get a second Ebola test just to make sure that she hadn’t become infected in the holding center while waiting for the results of her first test so she was still in the holding center waiting for the results of that second test. She was still in danger.

I came back home and when I got back to my house on Christmas Day, my own kids were happy and healthy and well cared for, just as I knew they would be, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Mabinti and whether she was okay. She’d done the same thing I would have done, but because Sierra Leone is a poor county and because the rest of the world took way too long to respond to the Ebola epidemic, she was fighting to stay alive and to keep her family together while I was helping my kids try on their new Christmas pajamas.

After Christmas, I called Mabinti’s husband again to check up on her. She said that against all odds, Mabinti had survived. Her second Ebola test was negative and she had been allowed to leave the holding center. Then, in February, she had her baby, a completely healthy little girl named Sale. It felt like a miracle. It shouldn’t have to be. Thanks.

Part 2: Richard Cardillo

It’s September of 1980 and it’s six in the morning. I’m in the monastery chapel, like I am every morning at six a.m., and it’s my turn to read the gospel meditation to my seventeen brother monks. I go up to the front, to the lectern, open the Bible and I begin reading, “And Jesus said, ‘In a little while and you will see me no more. And then in a little while you will see me again.’”

I close the Bible. I go back to my pew, kneeling, and have the most profound meditation and reflection. Damn, I want some of that magic trick. Invisibility, going rogue, disappear without anybody knowing where you are.

I have this crazy fantasy. You know, Maria Von Trapp, when she wanted to disappear from the convent, she’d go prancing through the Alps. I wanted to disappear from my monastery and I wanted to go cruising through the Ramble in Central Park, but I didn’t, and I wouldn’t.

I’m twenty-two years old and I've already been five years inside the monastery. It sounds like a prison sentence. “I’m givin’ ya a message from the inside.” But I joined at the tender young age of seventeen. I made this experiment in invisibility at the time. I knew, kind of knew that I was gay and I was so ashamed and so afraid of that I figured I could pray away the gay by joining a monastery. So that’s what I did.

I go through formation. This frustration was lasting a little bit longer than usual, but I wasn’t going to act on it. I was going to stay faithful. I had this pesky little idea that I could just turn things around. I even changed my name in the monastery. I’m Richard. My name is Richard. But beginning in my first year of the monastery and for fourteen years after that I became Brother Mark. That persona took on everything that I wanted to be but knew inside I wasn’t.

And I wasn’t going to act on any of those things. I told you, this pesky little idea which is my vow of celibacy. I made a promise and a vow that I would never ever have any relations with a human being ever for the rest of my life. So I went through with it.

It was hard. I kept channeling the words of Horton, not the saint, the elephant. “I meant what I said and I said what I meant, Brother Mark will be faithful one hundred percent.” And I kept up at it. I finally finished my formation. They sent me out teaching to an all boys’ Catholic high school in Harlem. I was going through the motions, but it just didn’t feel authentic at all and these crazy feelings wouldn’t go away. So I figured I had to petition my superiors to get something more difficult, more drastic because this self-imposed conversion therapy just wasn’t working.

So I told my superiors I needed something tougher. About a week after that, I got a knock on my cell door, not a prison cell, but it felt like that, knock on my cell door and he came in and he said, “Brother Mark, do you speak Spanish?”

I said, “High school Spanish.”

He said, “Well, I think you better start learning it because we’re transferring you to the missions in Peru.” All of a sudden, I became a missionary.

After some intense language study and some intense liberation theology, I was assigned to teach in this remote shanty town of a village, which was on the outskirts of Lima, Peru. This was a time when the country was just falling apart. They were in the hands and the grip of terrorist violence. There was no sanitation, health was horrible, the economy was in a collapse, there was hyperinflation and I was assigned there.

So I show up and all of a sudden I meet this community organizer who’s the same age as I am, I’m twenty-seven. Gonzala. And Gonzala wrangles me into starting an orphanage for all the kids who were coming to the capital city for a somewhat better life.

So I said, “Okay, we’ll give it a try, but I’m just not gonna be good at this.”

And she guided me through it. She guided me. She was a consummate person who let me know at any given time if my privilege was showing. For instance, I'll give you an idea.

She told me, “I see you every morning when you go out and these women that are carrying their babies and they're in the papooses. And you just go up and you're like a politician, ‘Hey, baby, how are you? What is the name of your baby? Can I hold your baby?’” She said, “Don’t pay attention to the baby and don’t ask for the baby’s name.”

I asked her, “Why not?”

Richard Cardillo shares his story with the Story Collider audience at Union Hall in Brooklyn, NY in May 2017. Photo by Nicholas Santasier.

She said, “Fifty percent of the babies die here before the age of one. The mothers don’t name that baby until they know that baby is going to flourish, so don’t ask for the name of the baby. They'll just call that baby Nene. Call it Nene.” So I learned.

She was also the consummate community builder in that orphanage. Obviously, we didn’t know the birthdates of any of the kids in that orphanage, but on every one of their saint’s days or their name days, Gonzala would make a very special cake for each boy or girl and she‘d decorate the top of it with something that symbolized their specific personality. If it was a shoeshine boy, she’d put a picture of a shoe on top of the cake. If it was somebody who was interested in music, she’d stencil in panpipes and a guitar. So she just really had these kids eating out of her hands but built up community like I couldn’t believe.

About six months after we started the orphanage, I was also asked to become the community health organizer for my village. There was no clinic, there was no hospital within hundreds of miles so I was in charge. I took this crash course in all things rural medicine. My bible was this book called Where There Is No Doctor.

I learned how to do very basic things, fix bumps and bruises, how to get somebody’s fever down. I could even learn how to give stitches to people. It was amazing. But the one thing I had no control over were all the diseases connected to poverty, these kids were coming down with dysentery, giardia, all different kinds of intestinal things, diarrhea, and I just could not get anywhere with that. It was frustrating.

Only about eight or nine months after I took over that job, I was hit with a really big piece of misfortune in my life. I contracted cholera. It probably was the most debilitating disease or incident that ever happened in my life. I knew that I was just wasting away.

It’s funny, I tell stories now all over the place, different slams and different shows, and I’m getting very used to that. There's usually the requisite poop story. Everybody has their one poop story that they got to tell. I guess this is my requisite poop story, but I just can’t tease out any humor from it.

But there I was and I felt my body just collapsing. I couldn’t leave the bathroom because it was incessant diarrhea of just liquid. I had lost fourteen pounds in two days. My skin was tightening, my eyes were turning yellow, I was literally disappearing.

The State Department kept good tabs on everybody who was in the country who was a gringo and they found out about me. They sent an ambulance right away to pick me up and put me right into a hospital, the best in the nation right in the capital of Lima. They automatically put the rehydration IV in me and I was fine after twelve hours. There was some bed rest and then, after five days, I was out of there and I was taken back to the village.

There was a sign there: “Bienvenidos Hermano Marcos.” I felt very, very good. There was a lot of fanfare for me. But within a short amount of time of going back and saying, “yes, I am cured,” I got the horrible news that in my five-day absence forty-five children had died of cholera.

I lost it. But I had to contain myself. I felt, for the sake of the people, I have to hold it together. And I talked to one of the elders. I said, “How could this happen? I got better and they didn’t.”

He said, “Oh, hermano, facil.” It’s easy to know why.

I said, “Well, why? Why did that happen?”

He said, “Porque tu eres lo que eres y nosotros somos lo que somos.” Because you are who you are and we are who we are, and that’s when I learned about privilege.

That’s when I felt really lousy. That’s when I knew that I had to start taking steps to turn things around. It was amazing. I knew that privilege was something in me not only for my health but the things that I could hide, and I was hiding my sexuality. It’s probably what got me into that country in the first place so I knew that I had to turn that around.

It’s kind of that day that I made the decision that I was going to spend the rest of my life advocating and being an ally for people who couldn’t be who they were because of their race, their gender, their gender expression, their sexuality, their sexual orientation, their religion. It didn’t matter. I wanted to be the advocate so people could be who they were. That was the lesson I learned in Peru.

There comes a time when you're a missionary. They teach you about this. There's a saying. When you're working with people from a different culture always go where you're really, really needed but not really wanted. And only stay until you're really, really wanted but not really needed. So I knew it was time for me to go to live with my true self.

I went back to the United States. I eventually left the monastery. I lived as a gay man, got into a partnership with my partner of eighteen years and I kind of never strayed from that idea of being this advocate for other people.

Richard Cardillo shares his story with the Story Collider audience at Union Hall in Brooklyn, NY in May 2017. Photo by Nicholas Santasier.

In 2015, at the behest of the Ministry of Education in Peru, I was invited to go down to help the Ministry of Education put together an anti-bullying program all around the country, and I was going to be there for ten days. It was my first time back in the country since I had left, and I said, “This is gonna be great.”

I found a different country. The roads were built, health was better, the economy was in good shape, still pockets of poverty but people were doing pretty good. I wanted to make it a point to look up Gonzala, and I found her. I knew I would.

So we spent a day together. She had married and had children of her own through the years and I just loved reminiscing with her about the orphans that we took care of. And I used that time to ask her and to come out.

I said, “Did you know at that time that I was gay?”

She says, “You know, I always thought that, but I wanted to respect your desire to be hidden. In fact, do you remember what I taught you about those women with their babies, that they don’t name their babies until that baby can flourish?”

I said, “Yeah.”

She said, “Hermano Marcos wasn’t ready to flourish. Richard is ready to flourish.” And I was just so thankful.

I go back to my hotel room. The next morning I get this call from the front desk. Somebody left a parcel for you. I said, “This is great. Somebody left…” I thought it was a gift or something. I go down there and I see the box and I knew what it was right away. I looked at that box and it was Gonzala’s cake boxes.

So I said, “She made me a cake.” I open up the cake box and I look at that cake and indeed it was a cake from Gonzala decorated on the top with a rainbow flag.

Forty-five years earlier, I had said those words from the gospel, “In a little while you will see me no more, and then in a little while you will see me again.” I felt that I had come full circle and I could finally go about the business of being seen again. Thank you.