I am thinking about the heart tonight, don’t know why.
Most of us have dissected the heart, whether dissecting the frog heart in 8th grade biology, or the human heart in 1st year medical school. If not touched one, you have for sure seen pictures of a beating heart - the beefy, fleshy organ that squiggles like jello as it makes its lub-dub sound.
The heart is really a bunch of bloody lakes and streams. The lakes, our life blood, are inside the chambers, squeezing from one chamber into the next, then dumping into the body. The streams, the coronary arteries, are the life-blood of the heart.
Lakes are bigger, stationary, important, some might think, streams are smaller, flowing, more intimate. Lakes and streams are made up of the same stuff, water and minerals, but behave quite differently. We humans are also made of the same stuff, yet we too, behave differently. Some people see themselves as important, lakes, some just naturally flow, interconnect with one another, streams. Lakes and streams. Which am I today, and you, which are you?
I was thinking about the heart tonight and almost meditating, for sure visualizing it in my chest. I put my hand over my heart and held it there for a long time, connecting my image of a heart, with my real heart.
I thought about our expressions “ my heart was melting”, “my heart is full “, “you have broken my heart”…….lakes melt, streams are full, dams hold lakes in place and break……..
My heart is full of joy tonight.
flowing stream, steady lake,
intimate stream, powerful lake.
I love my heart, and I can’t decide whether I’m a lake or a stream?
G
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Bear
On the journey to Sukhumi two weeks ago, I was no longer human, but merely a package on the Georgian Pony Express. The "pony" was loosely called a transport device (TD). More appropriately, I liken it to a torture device (TD).
There is a cable in the back seat of the TD and it fit perfectly on T-10 (that’s thoracic vertebra #10). The cable and my T-10 had 9 hours of intimate contact. My back will tell you the trip was 900 hours, but my back just likes to complain when it has been mauled.
The packages, whether they are square and corrugated like boxes , or soft and voluptuous like me, it mattered not, they were all treated the same, with expediency, tossed from one TD to the next, ker plop. Heave ho! And off you go!
Over the course of the 9 hours, there were 3 drivers. We would arrive at a check point, and transferto the next TD (all TDs had the same cable that fit in the same location on my back).
The borders are 'unstable', even though there is no active war-faring, Russian presence is visible. Tanks at major crossroads and at the borders. It is no nonsense travel here. The drivers are scared, the "packages" are just miserable.
The second driver of the day stopped at a little village where we ate lunch. In the parking area was a cage, a cage with a bear. The driver pointed over to the cage and said “Zoo”, in jest. The bear was sleeping. The driver says “sleeps all time”. I walk over to see the bear. As I approach, I notice a large hole in the wire mesh in the corner, indicating that probably at some point the bear chose to eat what was OUT of the cage instead of what was put IN the cage. So I approach with respect. Others walked by, and said, “bear sleep all time”. I could see respirations as his chest rose and fell, and lovely brown fur and a touch of silver mixed in. He was not dead, definitely asleep.
I walked up to the sleeping bear, and observed the sadness of this lovely caged animal, contained, for humans to gawk at will. It was chilly, we had already been through a blizzard and it was no longer snowing but wet, cold. I would be curled up sleeping if I were a bear too.
I said, in a corny southern accent, “Howdy Pardner, how ya doin’? Becha ain’t seen the likes of me round these parts in a coons age.”
His (I don’t really know if he was a he or a she) ear twitched. Life!!!! I stood and visited with THE BEAR a bit longer, telling him what I was doing, where I was going, and that I was very glad to meet a Russian Bear - (he looked just like those bears in the Russian circus - longer snout than our black bears or grizzlies). It was a one-way conversation , but very pleasant none the less. At least he wasn’t spewing some Abkhazian garble that I couldn’t understand. He was peaceful, and that made me peaceful.
And then, slowly, THE BEAR opens his sleepy eyes, and directs them to me. He knew exactly where I was, he did not need to lift his head. And I said, “ thanks for acknowledging my presence. Isn’t it true, we all have our burdens? I have my travails, the TD, you have yours, the cage. It is the nature of life. And when we share our burdens with one another somehow they seem to be lessened.”
He stared at me for a long time, his ear twitched again. I took that as a “Yes, I agree, we find comfort in the strangest places, with the strangest company sometimes. Journey well, crazy american babooska girl, I will see you on your way back.” His eyes closed.
I took minor offense at being called a babooska girl from the bear, but I understand my hair is graying, and so, fine, I’m a babooska girl.
He’s a babooska bear. And a very nice one.
The bear was the surprise gift on that otherwise grueling journey.
Genie
(any good novel, I hear The Kindly Ones is good.) I'm almost finished with all my reading materials. I will welcome any book.)
There is a cable in the back seat of the TD and it fit perfectly on T-10 (that’s thoracic vertebra #10). The cable and my T-10 had 9 hours of intimate contact. My back will tell you the trip was 900 hours, but my back just likes to complain when it has been mauled.
The packages, whether they are square and corrugated like boxes , or soft and voluptuous like me, it mattered not, they were all treated the same, with expediency, tossed from one TD to the next, ker plop. Heave ho! And off you go!
Over the course of the 9 hours, there were 3 drivers. We would arrive at a check point, and transferto the next TD (all TDs had the same cable that fit in the same location on my back).
The borders are 'unstable', even though there is no active war-faring, Russian presence is visible. Tanks at major crossroads and at the borders. It is no nonsense travel here. The drivers are scared, the "packages" are just miserable.
The second driver of the day stopped at a little village where we ate lunch. In the parking area was a cage, a cage with a bear. The driver pointed over to the cage and said “Zoo”, in jest. The bear was sleeping. The driver says “sleeps all time”. I walk over to see the bear. As I approach, I notice a large hole in the wire mesh in the corner, indicating that probably at some point the bear chose to eat what was OUT of the cage instead of what was put IN the cage. So I approach with respect. Others walked by, and said, “bear sleep all time”. I could see respirations as his chest rose and fell, and lovely brown fur and a touch of silver mixed in. He was not dead, definitely asleep.
I walked up to the sleeping bear, and observed the sadness of this lovely caged animal, contained, for humans to gawk at will. It was chilly, we had already been through a blizzard and it was no longer snowing but wet, cold. I would be curled up sleeping if I were a bear too.
I said, in a corny southern accent, “Howdy Pardner, how ya doin’? Becha ain’t seen the likes of me round these parts in a coons age.”
His (I don’t really know if he was a he or a she) ear twitched. Life!!!! I stood and visited with THE BEAR a bit longer, telling him what I was doing, where I was going, and that I was very glad to meet a Russian Bear - (he looked just like those bears in the Russian circus - longer snout than our black bears or grizzlies). It was a one-way conversation , but very pleasant none the less. At least he wasn’t spewing some Abkhazian garble that I couldn’t understand. He was peaceful, and that made me peaceful.
And then, slowly, THE BEAR opens his sleepy eyes, and directs them to me. He knew exactly where I was, he did not need to lift his head. And I said, “ thanks for acknowledging my presence. Isn’t it true, we all have our burdens? I have my travails, the TD, you have yours, the cage. It is the nature of life. And when we share our burdens with one another somehow they seem to be lessened.”
He stared at me for a long time, his ear twitched again. I took that as a “Yes, I agree, we find comfort in the strangest places, with the strangest company sometimes. Journey well, crazy american babooska girl, I will see you on your way back.” His eyes closed.
I took minor offense at being called a babooska girl from the bear, but I understand my hair is graying, and so, fine, I’m a babooska girl.
He’s a babooska bear. And a very nice one.
The bear was the surprise gift on that otherwise grueling journey.
Genie
(any good novel, I hear The Kindly Ones is good.) I'm almost finished with all my reading materials. I will welcome any book.)
Rain Game
Every child has misbehaved in choir, at least once, and probably lots of times.
Last night the all-night-rain reminded me of a naughty children’s choir.
At one point the ‘rain-children’ were crescendo-ing off beat, singing louder, and louder and louder until the poor conductor finally shouted, with a clap, “STOP”!!!!!
And for a moment the children become docile. Soon the conductor gracefully lifts his finger from his lips in the familiar ‘silence’ gesture. He is ready to expand the melody, with arms flowing, the children giggle, and sing in perfect rhapsodic harmony, but before the conductor has a chance to offer the next guidance, the children giggle again and break into raging Russian discordance.
The song-game goes on for hours, the children tireless in their mischief. The conductor, you can tell, is flustered at first, then gives in lovingly to the rain-game. He begins wielding his arms in wild motion, no rhythm, no rhyme, no reason. The children stop laughing to watch his tirade.
What’s the harm he says, let’s have fun tonight! Tomorrow our practice will be serious.
The rain-children exhaust themselves, the thunder-conductor too. They all fall asleep with a whimper.
I awoke refreshed this morning.
g
Last night the all-night-rain reminded me of a naughty children’s choir.
At one point the ‘rain-children’ were crescendo-ing off beat, singing louder, and louder and louder until the poor conductor finally shouted, with a clap, “STOP”!!!!!
And for a moment the children become docile. Soon the conductor gracefully lifts his finger from his lips in the familiar ‘silence’ gesture. He is ready to expand the melody, with arms flowing, the children giggle, and sing in perfect rhapsodic harmony, but before the conductor has a chance to offer the next guidance, the children giggle again and break into raging Russian discordance.
The song-game goes on for hours, the children tireless in their mischief. The conductor, you can tell, is flustered at first, then gives in lovingly to the rain-game. He begins wielding his arms in wild motion, no rhythm, no rhyme, no reason. The children stop laughing to watch his tirade.
What’s the harm he says, let’s have fun tonight! Tomorrow our practice will be serious.
The rain-children exhaust themselves, the thunder-conductor too. They all fall asleep with a whimper.
I awoke refreshed this morning.
g
THE COOK
All MSF missions have a cook. Because of the expectations regarding a rigorous workload, they try to minimize distractions such as cooking. I like this. I’ve enjoyed having a housekeeper/cleaner in the past, never a cook.
There are approximately 10 expats (managers, head of mission, doctors,nurses) and 30 national staff (nurses, social workers, drivers, translators, logisticians, pharmacist, cook…etc) that break bread together.
Let me introduce you to Svetlana, THE COOK.
Svetlana stands 6’2”, weight 275, perhaps 300. No fat on this body. Strong as an ox, stronger. One bosom is the equivalent of my entire thorax and abdomen. The both of them dominate her presence.
Svetlana doesn’t speak, she Announces, Commands, Delivers, not with confidence, but with Supremacy, Authority, MIGHT. Svetlana doesn’t do things, SVETLANA IS.
Her tone isn’t loud, it’s Booming, Roaring, Clamorous.
She doesn’t walk, she walks with Acceleration, Velocity, Readiness.
Today I was Svetlana’d.
Innocently, with chuckles from the expats who have been here for a while, I volunteered to create the menus for our evening meals to carry my load. Everyone takes a duty or house chore, family-style. Recall, we are 10 folks all from different countries, all wanting a bit of evening comfort food, that suits our unique tastebuds. With a judge and jury, an arbitrator, 6 hours, 8 drafts, and a collection of mafia money (for those special items) , deciding on a menu is really quite easy I have discovered.
During the work week Svetlana creates the lunch menu, prepares and cooks it. We partake with all the staff in a shack, with a kitchen, behind the office. Svetlana also prepares the dinner, from our harmoniously (HA!) created menu, delivers it to the expat house, which we then heat up and eat in the evening. We cook for ourselves on the weekends.
I was walking to the pharmacy today to conduct a quarterly inventory, a curious job in a cold garage, with years of dust, grime and utter chaos, nasty inventory cards, lots of errors, a real gem of a job.
You know how a man or woman will gently grab his/her partner, locking arms, holding one another close?
Well, Svetlana comes walking up behind me, with speed and intention, and puts me in a bosom-lock, pulling me close to her, literally sweeping me off my feet.
I thought, I’m not going to die from landmines, car bombs, gunfire, disease, but by the hands of THE COOK. Right here in broad daylight. I was thinking “what have I done?” What atrocity have I committed? My family loves me, my precious granddaughter needs me, I must plea for my life, I must beg forgiveness. But no time to think really, just be swept away by the torrent of decisiveness from THE COOK. My heart rate is now 120 bpm (beats per minute) (my usual is 50-60).
“INGA”, Svetlana shouts (Inga is my translator, and constant companion, except when she mysteriously disappears several times a day, which I have figured out is for my own learning opportunity - I must sink or swim with Russian-speakers on my own). “INGA“, Svetlana bellows. And up the stairs we ascend in the unrelenting bosom-lock. I am able to touch-down on the steps with my feet only twice.
.
Inga is sitting at the desk and casually turns, and says, what I presume is something like, “What’s up Svet?” Svet doesn’t smile, but fires off linguistic bombs. I look at Inga. Inga says “she wants to talk to you about the menu”. Recall, I create the menu, I write in English and then a translator will translate to either Russian, Abkhaz or Georgian, depending on the situation. HR is now 100bpm. I cannot possibly die because of the menu, can I? It won’t be cold-blooded murder at the compound, just a chastising for poor menu choices, I think.
Svet doesn’t ask me to sit, however she sits like an elephant sits ready to receive unwelcome riders on its back, with disgust, grunting, "intolerable humans".
I then sit so she will not think I am attempting to challenge her authority. No smiles, no eye contact. She blasts again, Inga looks calmly at me and says she wants to know how many Abkhaz yogurts you would like, you did not specify. She also wants to know if you want red, green or white onions chopped for your pizza next week. HR 90 bpm. I answer, “6 yogurts, and white onion is good”.
Yet another linguistic blast is hurled. Inga translates “would you rather have cabbage salad with the walnut-stuffed capsicans, instead of lettuce and tomato, I think it is better?” HR 80 bpm, “Sure”, I say.
She says, “are you sure this is enough food?”
I want to say, are you asking is this is enough food for a heard of elephants or for 10 humans, but instead I say “yes, thank you, I believe it is plenty, but I will let you know at the end of the week.”. HR70 bpm. No smile exchanged.
Up, the elephant stands, a quick glance at me, a nanosecond of eye contact occurs between us.
A Final Blast, and she turns her strong constitution toward the exit.
Inga says, “Svet likes your menus”. And then she says, and she likes you. A lot!
THE COOK departs in brisk, commanding paces, back to her kitchen-kingdom.
HR 60 bpm.
genie
There are approximately 10 expats (managers, head of mission, doctors,nurses) and 30 national staff (nurses, social workers, drivers, translators, logisticians, pharmacist, cook…etc) that break bread together.
Let me introduce you to Svetlana, THE COOK.
Svetlana stands 6’2”, weight 275, perhaps 300. No fat on this body. Strong as an ox, stronger. One bosom is the equivalent of my entire thorax and abdomen. The both of them dominate her presence.
Svetlana doesn’t speak, she Announces, Commands, Delivers, not with confidence, but with Supremacy, Authority, MIGHT. Svetlana doesn’t do things, SVETLANA IS.
Her tone isn’t loud, it’s Booming, Roaring, Clamorous.
She doesn’t walk, she walks with Acceleration, Velocity, Readiness.
Today I was Svetlana’d.
Innocently, with chuckles from the expats who have been here for a while, I volunteered to create the menus for our evening meals to carry my load. Everyone takes a duty or house chore, family-style. Recall, we are 10 folks all from different countries, all wanting a bit of evening comfort food, that suits our unique tastebuds. With a judge and jury, an arbitrator, 6 hours, 8 drafts, and a collection of mafia money (for those special items) , deciding on a menu is really quite easy I have discovered.
During the work week Svetlana creates the lunch menu, prepares and cooks it. We partake with all the staff in a shack, with a kitchen, behind the office. Svetlana also prepares the dinner, from our harmoniously (HA!) created menu, delivers it to the expat house, which we then heat up and eat in the evening. We cook for ourselves on the weekends.
I was walking to the pharmacy today to conduct a quarterly inventory, a curious job in a cold garage, with years of dust, grime and utter chaos, nasty inventory cards, lots of errors, a real gem of a job.
You know how a man or woman will gently grab his/her partner, locking arms, holding one another close?
Well, Svetlana comes walking up behind me, with speed and intention, and puts me in a bosom-lock, pulling me close to her, literally sweeping me off my feet.
I thought, I’m not going to die from landmines, car bombs, gunfire, disease, but by the hands of THE COOK. Right here in broad daylight. I was thinking “what have I done?” What atrocity have I committed? My family loves me, my precious granddaughter needs me, I must plea for my life, I must beg forgiveness. But no time to think really, just be swept away by the torrent of decisiveness from THE COOK. My heart rate is now 120 bpm (beats per minute) (my usual is 50-60).
“INGA”, Svetlana shouts (Inga is my translator, and constant companion, except when she mysteriously disappears several times a day, which I have figured out is for my own learning opportunity - I must sink or swim with Russian-speakers on my own). “INGA“, Svetlana bellows. And up the stairs we ascend in the unrelenting bosom-lock. I am able to touch-down on the steps with my feet only twice.
.
Inga is sitting at the desk and casually turns, and says, what I presume is something like, “What’s up Svet?” Svet doesn’t smile, but fires off linguistic bombs. I look at Inga. Inga says “she wants to talk to you about the menu”. Recall, I create the menu, I write in English and then a translator will translate to either Russian, Abkhaz or Georgian, depending on the situation. HR is now 100bpm. I cannot possibly die because of the menu, can I? It won’t be cold-blooded murder at the compound, just a chastising for poor menu choices, I think.
Svet doesn’t ask me to sit, however she sits like an elephant sits ready to receive unwelcome riders on its back, with disgust, grunting, "intolerable humans".
I then sit so she will not think I am attempting to challenge her authority. No smiles, no eye contact. She blasts again, Inga looks calmly at me and says she wants to know how many Abkhaz yogurts you would like, you did not specify. She also wants to know if you want red, green or white onions chopped for your pizza next week. HR 90 bpm. I answer, “6 yogurts, and white onion is good”.
Yet another linguistic blast is hurled. Inga translates “would you rather have cabbage salad with the walnut-stuffed capsicans, instead of lettuce and tomato, I think it is better?” HR 80 bpm, “Sure”, I say.
She says, “are you sure this is enough food?”
I want to say, are you asking is this is enough food for a heard of elephants or for 10 humans, but instead I say “yes, thank you, I believe it is plenty, but I will let you know at the end of the week.”. HR70 bpm. No smile exchanged.
Up, the elephant stands, a quick glance at me, a nanosecond of eye contact occurs between us.
A Final Blast, and she turns her strong constitution toward the exit.
Inga says, “Svet likes your menus”. And then she says, and she likes you. A lot!
THE COOK departs in brisk, commanding paces, back to her kitchen-kingdom.
HR 60 bpm.
genie
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Humanitarian Aid in a Seaside Town
I have not told you about the town Sukumi(pronounced Soo Coo Mi). If ever there was a mix of abandoned ghost town and luxury seaside resort, this is it.
The WAR, and that means the brutal extended war in 1992-1993 between Georgia and Abkhazia, resulted in the population shrinking from 800,000 to now 150,000 persons. The war brought bombings, looting, deportation of Georgians. Houses were marked, like the Jewish homes in WWII, and led to all Georgians fleeing or being killed. Many others left either in support of or in protest to the plight of those being displaced, not to mention raw fear of being caught in the crossfires. Fleeing a war zone, rational.
But in doing so they leave behind home, belongings, history, neighbors. Once mundanities of life, those realities became treasures. They went to camps, deplorable camps, for displaced persons, they went to relatives in Armenia, Russia, they went where fate would place them.
Now, the Russian mafia has claimed many of those homes, declaring that after 10 years of unoccupied status, the building could be claimed. These buildings are being cleaned out, renovated, and turned into rentals for wealthy Russians to come in summer.
The elderly could not leave in 1992 - the family car was too full of children, food. Many refused to go, "this is my home, I will die here", "I will not go because I am just a mouth to be fed", "the war will be over and my family will return", "I have no car or money to leave",whatever reason.
10 years later those elderly still cannot leave, they are bedbound, starving, confused, de-humanized. The Local Red Cross(LRC) is trying to address needy, but simply can't do it all. The International Red Cross has pulled out, and there is no budget. There is a local clinic with doctors that used to do home visits, but resources are limited, and there is "more important " work to do. MSF has filled a gap for many years. There used to be 18,000 identified frail and vulnerable across Abkhazia. Now we are treating only those in Sukumi and another area close by. Several hundred patients, most have died despite our efforts. We provide food, heaters, wood for fires, slippers, a winter dress and a summer dress to the women, pants for the men. We provide in home medical care bringing medicines, a good heart, and a recognition that most illnesses cannot be properly diagnosed or treated. For those able to be transported, and are willing to go, we take them to Tbilisi, Georgia 9 hours away in a treacherous drive across mountains in the back of a TD transport Device. Border crossings are risky.
Transport is a problem. The drivers only work 4-5 hours a day, and smoke and play chess the remaining time. They often just refuse for what reason it is not apparent. It is not safe to drive without a local driver.
So, this program called HAP or Health Access Program is attempting to transition back to the Local Ministry of Health, and use the resources they have, the LRC, the local clinics. This will be hard, because the care, the attention will inevitably change. I am in charge of the transition plan, and maintaining the current program while doing so.
I'll tell you more as time goes on, about the program and my work with this program the the Tb patients.
But for now, know that I live in a remarkable, stunningly beautiful seaside resort town, has been.
It is springtime, the flowering trees are blooming, the tiny snowdrops pop up in the most unlikely places, amongst the rubble, and decay. The irises standout among the rust and piles of concrete.
The sun shines on the harsh and the humane. It doesn't matter. Neither do I.
My love, (tube of Bert's Bees lipstick, Watermelon color. Mine was stolen! Whoever did so is happy). I am happy today
genie
The WAR, and that means the brutal extended war in 1992-1993 between Georgia and Abkhazia, resulted in the population shrinking from 800,000 to now 150,000 persons. The war brought bombings, looting, deportation of Georgians. Houses were marked, like the Jewish homes in WWII, and led to all Georgians fleeing or being killed. Many others left either in support of or in protest to the plight of those being displaced, not to mention raw fear of being caught in the crossfires. Fleeing a war zone, rational.
But in doing so they leave behind home, belongings, history, neighbors. Once mundanities of life, those realities became treasures. They went to camps, deplorable camps, for displaced persons, they went to relatives in Armenia, Russia, they went where fate would place them.
Now, the Russian mafia has claimed many of those homes, declaring that after 10 years of unoccupied status, the building could be claimed. These buildings are being cleaned out, renovated, and turned into rentals for wealthy Russians to come in summer.
The elderly could not leave in 1992 - the family car was too full of children, food. Many refused to go, "this is my home, I will die here", "I will not go because I am just a mouth to be fed", "the war will be over and my family will return", "I have no car or money to leave",whatever reason.
10 years later those elderly still cannot leave, they are bedbound, starving, confused, de-humanized. The Local Red Cross(LRC) is trying to address needy, but simply can't do it all. The International Red Cross has pulled out, and there is no budget. There is a local clinic with doctors that used to do home visits, but resources are limited, and there is "more important " work to do. MSF has filled a gap for many years. There used to be 18,000 identified frail and vulnerable across Abkhazia. Now we are treating only those in Sukumi and another area close by. Several hundred patients, most have died despite our efforts. We provide food, heaters, wood for fires, slippers, a winter dress and a summer dress to the women, pants for the men. We provide in home medical care bringing medicines, a good heart, and a recognition that most illnesses cannot be properly diagnosed or treated. For those able to be transported, and are willing to go, we take them to Tbilisi, Georgia 9 hours away in a treacherous drive across mountains in the back of a TD transport Device. Border crossings are risky.
Transport is a problem. The drivers only work 4-5 hours a day, and smoke and play chess the remaining time. They often just refuse for what reason it is not apparent. It is not safe to drive without a local driver.
So, this program called HAP or Health Access Program is attempting to transition back to the Local Ministry of Health, and use the resources they have, the LRC, the local clinics. This will be hard, because the care, the attention will inevitably change. I am in charge of the transition plan, and maintaining the current program while doing so.
I'll tell you more as time goes on, about the program and my work with this program the the Tb patients.
But for now, know that I live in a remarkable, stunningly beautiful seaside resort town, has been.
It is springtime, the flowering trees are blooming, the tiny snowdrops pop up in the most unlikely places, amongst the rubble, and decay. The irises standout among the rust and piles of concrete.
The sun shines on the harsh and the humane. It doesn't matter. Neither do I.
My love, (tube of Bert's Bees lipstick, Watermelon color. Mine was stolen! Whoever did so is happy). I am happy today
genie
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Not So Comforting Comforter
I am going to complain, so skip this one if you want. The Caucasian Cooties are one thing, the gal dern bed covers are another.
Night after night I am in a wrestling match with this impossible"comforter". Comforter my a__.
It moves. Constantly. All night long I am in a leg-lock," joe-jitsuing" with this guy.
It is old, like every thing else in this place, and lumpy and it crawls. The lumps migrate to the edges, weigh them down and then cause the covers to crawl. It is very annoying. It is cold, the night noises are unfamiliar, and then to be constantly trying to outwit my covers is down right insane. I want tame, gentle, soothing, soft, luxurious well-behaved covers. It's all I ask. But it ain't gonna happen.
To whom should I escalate this complaint? My friends. You will pity me won't you?????
So I will continue on my nightly weight loss program and somehow I am going to get smarter. I thought about tying the vicious devil to the bedposts, but of course there are no bedposts.
I'm thinking about sending it to Emily Post School of Good Bedcover Behavior. If it does not pass which I doubt it will, I'm going to have it arrested by the Russian police, or even worse the Abkhazian militia. Now that's serious. I really hate to threaten, or to retaliate, but it is necessary. I mean this is not a preemptive strike, the covers assaulted ME FIRST.
Thugs, mafia. Tomorrow I will learn the Russian word for f'ing comforter, maybe it doesn't understand English, and if I threaten it, it will behave.........
Before going to bed tonight, I ask, in your prayers, you say "Thank you Spirit for nice covers, and may Genie's comforter be nice to her."
Nighty night.
Night after night I am in a wrestling match with this impossible"comforter". Comforter my a__.
It moves. Constantly. All night long I am in a leg-lock," joe-jitsuing" with this guy.
It is old, like every thing else in this place, and lumpy and it crawls. The lumps migrate to the edges, weigh them down and then cause the covers to crawl. It is very annoying. It is cold, the night noises are unfamiliar, and then to be constantly trying to outwit my covers is down right insane. I want tame, gentle, soothing, soft, luxurious well-behaved covers. It's all I ask. But it ain't gonna happen.
To whom should I escalate this complaint? My friends. You will pity me won't you?????
So I will continue on my nightly weight loss program and somehow I am going to get smarter. I thought about tying the vicious devil to the bedposts, but of course there are no bedposts.
I'm thinking about sending it to Emily Post School of Good Bedcover Behavior. If it does not pass which I doubt it will, I'm going to have it arrested by the Russian police, or even worse the Abkhazian militia. Now that's serious. I really hate to threaten, or to retaliate, but it is necessary. I mean this is not a preemptive strike, the covers assaulted ME FIRST.
Thugs, mafia. Tomorrow I will learn the Russian word for f'ing comforter, maybe it doesn't understand English, and if I threaten it, it will behave.........
Before going to bed tonight, I ask, in your prayers, you say "Thank you Spirit for nice covers, and may Genie's comforter be nice to her."
Nighty night.
GRUD
You know how as kids we mixed crayons together to make new colors, and would make up new names, like rellow(red and yellow)? So it is with nature.
Colorodans know the color of of aspen trees and snow, the frosty color, seen from a distance while skiing. Beautiful. The frosty gray is a different color here. The ash and chestnut tees are dark, and the frost looks very different, more amber, lovely.
There are other colors, ones I've never seen before, even while mixing crayons. Abkhaz colors. The one most disturbing I call GRUD. It is gray and mud. I could call it MEY ( mud and gray), but that sounds much too pleasant. Grud makes me sad and mad. It is made of despair and blood. Grud is an unnecessary color. No one needs grud in their town, or in their lives.
Grud smells. The stench is frightening. It is beyond squalor, beyond revolting, repugnant.
I am a geriatrician, no stranger to bad smells, they come with the territory. No baby fresh fragrances on my exam table or in the nursing homes.
Today my experience of color went beyond grud. Gray, mud, anger, despair, blood were only the top layer. No utterances are sufficient to translate the experience, the reality of this 'living being' in the same universe as you and me.
There was not a reason to ask how? Why? How long? Just advance to the bed of this barely living being, then greet, pray, work. Depart. Find my sanctuary, my little room, and sob.
I will be returning next week, and the week after, until this being no longer breathes grud any more.
God help us all, pity us all.
Colorodans know the color of of aspen trees and snow, the frosty color, seen from a distance while skiing. Beautiful. The frosty gray is a different color here. The ash and chestnut tees are dark, and the frost looks very different, more amber, lovely.
There are other colors, ones I've never seen before, even while mixing crayons. Abkhaz colors. The one most disturbing I call GRUD. It is gray and mud. I could call it MEY ( mud and gray), but that sounds much too pleasant. Grud makes me sad and mad. It is made of despair and blood. Grud is an unnecessary color. No one needs grud in their town, or in their lives.
Grud smells. The stench is frightening. It is beyond squalor, beyond revolting, repugnant.
I am a geriatrician, no stranger to bad smells, they come with the territory. No baby fresh fragrances on my exam table or in the nursing homes.
Today my experience of color went beyond grud. Gray, mud, anger, despair, blood were only the top layer. No utterances are sufficient to translate the experience, the reality of this 'living being' in the same universe as you and me.
There was not a reason to ask how? Why? How long? Just advance to the bed of this barely living being, then greet, pray, work. Depart. Find my sanctuary, my little room, and sob.
I will be returning next week, and the week after, until this being no longer breathes grud any more.
God help us all, pity us all.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM
Dearest Sam, March 20th, ABKHAZIA,
Never a more cherished gift than you, when you came on this first day of spring, so tender and tiny and treasured. Never a more blessed beginning than the sweet days of March, the 88th year of last century.
But today the gift you bring is even more cherished, because the little soul who came to bless my life that beautiful spring day, whom I didn't know, is now a man I know well, who will forever bless my life, and those of so many others.
I am mother. You are son. Whatever, whereever, however we live our lives, these simple stones of truth are ours. And however our lives diverge, we meet in the meadow of mothers and sons, frolicking in wonder and blessedness.
I am happy for your journey. Yesterdays and tomorrows. YetI celebrate not the past nor the future, but this moment. Becuase, in truth, that's all that matters. And in this moment, I know of no more wonderful truth than that I love you.
I carry your bravado and your tenderness with in my journeys. I will use them to protect and to open my heart to others. I carry your wisdon, that of a 21 year old man, bold and brave, going into the world seeking , exploring, making a path only ONE can trod. I carry your anticipation of the unknown, the delicious destiny that is just out there, beyond your sight, my sight.
I don't give you words of advice this day of your manhood. I receive all of what I have given you, I take it into my soul, and let it bless me as I know it has blessed you.
Never a more cherished gift than you, when you came on this first day of spring, so tender and tiny and treasured. Never a more blessed beginning than the sweet days of March, the 88th year of last century.
But today the gift you bring is even more cherished, because the little soul who came to bless my life that beautiful spring day, whom I didn't know, is now a man I know well, who will forever bless my life, and those of so many others.
I am mother. You are son. Whatever, whereever, however we live our lives, these simple stones of truth are ours. And however our lives diverge, we meet in the meadow of mothers and sons, frolicking in wonder and blessedness.
I am happy for your journey. Yesterdays and tomorrows. YetI celebrate not the past nor the future, but this moment. Becuase, in truth, that's all that matters. And in this moment, I know of no more wonderful truth than that I love you.
I carry your bravado and your tenderness with in my journeys. I will use them to protect and to open my heart to others. I carry your wisdon, that of a 21 year old man, bold and brave, going into the world seeking , exploring, making a path only ONE can trod. I carry your anticipation of the unknown, the delicious destiny that is just out there, beyond your sight, my sight.
I don't give you words of advice this day of your manhood. I receive all of what I have given you, I take it into my soul, and let it bless me as I know it has blessed you.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Gifts
Some of you have asked if you can send me something, and if so how to do it, where, when, etc.
I have a PLAN. And for those ready for the adventure of sending via MSF mail, here's THE PLAN:
First of all WHAT do you send? there are two options:
1) Every so often, I will write about an item on the blog, on the last line, beside my signature, something like
"love you lots, roll of Charmin", or "see ya later, 32 bars of dark chocolate", etc.
Next to the words I will put either one star* (would love to have this - Charmin*) or
two stars**(am desperate, likely to perish if I don't have this - chocolate**). Simple enough.
2) You can surprise me
Secondly, How much to send?
MSF makes it quite clear the limit is 2 pounds, absolutely no more and preferably less. So, no 32 bars of chocolate**. Shucks. Small packages are great. No restriction on the number of packages, but here's the catch: every package will have to be carried to me by an MSF staff coming from Paris - it's called MSF MAIL.
So, here's how it works:
You package an item and address it to:
Doctor Genie Pritchett
Sukhumi, Abkhazia
Medicins Sans Frontieres
8 rue Saint Sabin
75011 Paris France
What happens to the package?
It will go to Paris, it will be opened in the mailroom at the MSF office. Every package is opened for security purposes. It will then be put on a shelf for other items going to Abkhazia and when the next person goes to Tbilisi Georgia, the package will accompany that person, in their carryon backpack or in their checked luggage. It will come to the MSF office in Tbilisi. Then once a week there is an MSF transfer from Tbilisi Georgia to Sukhumi Abkhazia and it will go via car with another MSF person. At the border the package will be transfered from a Georgian MSF car and person to an Abkhaz MSF car and person to be driven to Sukhumi, as long as there are allowed border crossings, which has not been a problem for the past few months. It will go to the MSF office in Sukhumi.
When I show up the next morning, someome will hand me the package and I will go WHAHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! and ravenously rip the package open and sing the national anthem and jump up and down until I am told SHEVACHEROT. (stop)
So, how will you prevent sending duplicates, ie all of you sending me Charmin instead of chocolate?
I have asked Ballard to create a little spreadsheet and it will include the following items:
Item
Date sent from USA
Date Arrived in Abkhazia
Person
He will figure out how to post it on the internet. It is beyond my computer-capacity today. You can look on the spreadsheet, fill in the item, date sent and your name, and I will fill in date arrived in abkhazia.
We can see whose item takes the least and the most time!!!!!! A game. A miracle.
So all those interested, LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!!!!!!
May the best man, woman, child win!!!!!
I love you all,
a small, pocket-sized English-Russian dictionary**
and more thanks than I can say in the space remaining.
gp
I have a PLAN. And for those ready for the adventure of sending via MSF mail, here's THE PLAN:
First of all WHAT do you send? there are two options:
1) Every so often, I will write about an item on the blog, on the last line, beside my signature, something like
"love you lots, roll of Charmin", or "see ya later, 32 bars of dark chocolate", etc.
Next to the words I will put either one star* (would love to have this - Charmin*) or
two stars**(am desperate, likely to perish if I don't have this - chocolate**). Simple enough.
2) You can surprise me
Secondly, How much to send?
MSF makes it quite clear the limit is 2 pounds, absolutely no more and preferably less. So, no 32 bars of chocolate**. Shucks. Small packages are great. No restriction on the number of packages, but here's the catch: every package will have to be carried to me by an MSF staff coming from Paris - it's called MSF MAIL.
So, here's how it works:
You package an item and address it to:
Doctor Genie Pritchett
Sukhumi, Abkhazia
Medicins Sans Frontieres
8 rue Saint Sabin
75011 Paris France
What happens to the package?
It will go to Paris, it will be opened in the mailroom at the MSF office. Every package is opened for security purposes. It will then be put on a shelf for other items going to Abkhazia and when the next person goes to Tbilisi Georgia, the package will accompany that person, in their carryon backpack or in their checked luggage. It will come to the MSF office in Tbilisi. Then once a week there is an MSF transfer from Tbilisi Georgia to Sukhumi Abkhazia and it will go via car with another MSF person. At the border the package will be transfered from a Georgian MSF car and person to an Abkhaz MSF car and person to be driven to Sukhumi, as long as there are allowed border crossings, which has not been a problem for the past few months. It will go to the MSF office in Sukhumi.
When I show up the next morning, someome will hand me the package and I will go WHAHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! and ravenously rip the package open and sing the national anthem and jump up and down until I am told SHEVACHEROT. (stop)
So, how will you prevent sending duplicates, ie all of you sending me Charmin instead of chocolate?
I have asked Ballard to create a little spreadsheet and it will include the following items:
Item
Date sent from USA
Date Arrived in Abkhazia
Person
He will figure out how to post it on the internet. It is beyond my computer-capacity today. You can look on the spreadsheet, fill in the item, date sent and your name, and I will fill in date arrived in abkhazia.
We can see whose item takes the least and the most time!!!!!! A game. A miracle.
So all those interested, LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!!!!!!
May the best man, woman, child win!!!!!
I love you all,
a small, pocket-sized English-Russian dictionary**
and more thanks than I can say in the space remaining.
gp
Buffs, Longhorns, BlueDevils
Dinner tonight with UN ex-military-peace-keeping envoys. Both here to mitigate, negotiate and pontificate with NGO (non-governmental organization) workers like me, the curiosities of the Russian, Abkhazian, Georgian "mess".
So here is the military-political-cultural scoop from as close as I will ever be to 'the source' in 100 words or less:
Russia set the stage by constructing railways in Abkhazia (and other activities) as early as last spring. Condoleza Rice, (remember her?) pleaded with the Georgians "don't take the bait the Russians are putting in front of you". The Georgians did not listen, and escalated minor skirmishes with the Russians in Abkhazia and South Ossetia late last summer. "These are Georgian territorities so stay away", Georgia said. Russia retaliated (all out nasty war as you recall) and made it appear as if the Georgians started the whole thing.
Georgia lost, against the Russian 'might'. Russia claims Abkhazia's independence, but really Abkhazia is dependent on Russia for economic, military and infrastructure development which is what Russia wants. Simple enough.
The curiosity according to UN lies in the lack of Russian accountability for their actions. No repercusions, no hand slapping, no sanctions from anyone (suggestions from the UN were banning them from the G8, freeze bank holdings.......).
Russian is likely to 'keep doing what they have been doing', ie keep areas such as Abkhazia and South Ossetia destabilized so that Georgia is unable to join NATO ( NATO will not allow any new members to be involved in border conflicts). This will ultimately collapse their ecomomy which was beginning to flourish prior to the war last summer.
In response to my question" how do you sort out the cultural curisosities, such as so many Abkhazians that are part Russian, part Georgian?".... like a cinnamon roll, once it is baked, it's hard to distinquish the individual ingredients.
The response was clever.
A few minutes before I posed the innocent question we talked about where we were from, sports, family and on and on......
Oleg, a Russian who immigrated to New Jersey with his family, went to the Air Foce Academy and now works for the UN and Mike, who grew up in Carolina, has a house and family in Hawaii and also works for the UN, said:
"So you say you are from Colorado but in truth you grew up in Texas, and if you had to choose you would choose the Longhorns over the Buffs in football, but really your allegences are with the Blue Devils in North Carolina, but for basketball". "Yes indeed" I say. Its sort of like that in Russian, Georgia and Abkhazia. A great big cinnamon roll. You want some?
We all self-define ourselves based on choices, and sometimes those choices are based on legacy or heritage or economic constraints and sometimes the choices are based on CHOICE alone. Some people have greater ability to choose because they CAN CHOOSE. Others self-define because they really don't know they have a choice, or they don't really have a choice because they are stuck with who they are and where they are economically, politically, geographically. A harsh reality in much of the world.
For me, the profound truth of who I am, who I can be and how my ability to choose and THAT I choose was made more clear tonight.
Choice, whether one can choose and then will choose often determines politics.
Hummmmm
Nighty night loved ones, g
So here is the military-political-cultural scoop from as close as I will ever be to 'the source' in 100 words or less:
Russia set the stage by constructing railways in Abkhazia (and other activities) as early as last spring. Condoleza Rice, (remember her?) pleaded with the Georgians "don't take the bait the Russians are putting in front of you". The Georgians did not listen, and escalated minor skirmishes with the Russians in Abkhazia and South Ossetia late last summer. "These are Georgian territorities so stay away", Georgia said. Russia retaliated (all out nasty war as you recall) and made it appear as if the Georgians started the whole thing.
Georgia lost, against the Russian 'might'. Russia claims Abkhazia's independence, but really Abkhazia is dependent on Russia for economic, military and infrastructure development which is what Russia wants. Simple enough.
The curiosity according to UN lies in the lack of Russian accountability for their actions. No repercusions, no hand slapping, no sanctions from anyone (suggestions from the UN were banning them from the G8, freeze bank holdings.......).
Russian is likely to 'keep doing what they have been doing', ie keep areas such as Abkhazia and South Ossetia destabilized so that Georgia is unable to join NATO ( NATO will not allow any new members to be involved in border conflicts). This will ultimately collapse their ecomomy which was beginning to flourish prior to the war last summer.
In response to my question" how do you sort out the cultural curisosities, such as so many Abkhazians that are part Russian, part Georgian?".... like a cinnamon roll, once it is baked, it's hard to distinquish the individual ingredients.
The response was clever.
A few minutes before I posed the innocent question we talked about where we were from, sports, family and on and on......
Oleg, a Russian who immigrated to New Jersey with his family, went to the Air Foce Academy and now works for the UN and Mike, who grew up in Carolina, has a house and family in Hawaii and also works for the UN, said:
"So you say you are from Colorado but in truth you grew up in Texas, and if you had to choose you would choose the Longhorns over the Buffs in football, but really your allegences are with the Blue Devils in North Carolina, but for basketball". "Yes indeed" I say. Its sort of like that in Russian, Georgia and Abkhazia. A great big cinnamon roll. You want some?
We all self-define ourselves based on choices, and sometimes those choices are based on legacy or heritage or economic constraints and sometimes the choices are based on CHOICE alone. Some people have greater ability to choose because they CAN CHOOSE. Others self-define because they really don't know they have a choice, or they don't really have a choice because they are stuck with who they are and where they are economically, politically, geographically. A harsh reality in much of the world.
For me, the profound truth of who I am, who I can be and how my ability to choose and THAT I choose was made more clear tonight.
Choice, whether one can choose and then will choose often determines politics.
Hummmmm
Nighty night loved ones, g
Bed Fellows
For 35 years I have shared comfort, wonder and surprise with my good bed fellow.
This morning a new expierence to ponder from new bed fellows.
You would have thought I would have waited to get to know the caucasian male species a bit better than jumpin' into the sack right away, but what the heck, it was HIS bed after all, or should I say THEIR bed I was sleeping in.
Yes, multitudes of males. Smaller than visible, but larger than microscopic, barely felt, were the wee little lads, having a party, not quite as loud as the party going on upstairs, but definately more remarkable - no markable on my skin. To no surprise this morning there are wee little bumps, I now refer to them as "love-bumps" on my not so discreet anatomy.
Be they mites, lice, Georgia-bugs, or Caucasian cooties, I've got 'em, or maybe I should say they've got me.
We will have to establish a perestroika today, as the russian-georgian invasion has just become quite personal. I believe this will be a territorial skirmish I will have to wage without assistance of military might.
A good scrub a dub dub is my armour today!!!!!!!!!!
This morning a new expierence to ponder from new bed fellows.
You would have thought I would have waited to get to know the caucasian male species a bit better than jumpin' into the sack right away, but what the heck, it was HIS bed after all, or should I say THEIR bed I was sleeping in.
Yes, multitudes of males. Smaller than visible, but larger than microscopic, barely felt, were the wee little lads, having a party, not quite as loud as the party going on upstairs, but definately more remarkable - no markable on my skin. To no surprise this morning there are wee little bumps, I now refer to them as "love-bumps" on my not so discreet anatomy.
Be they mites, lice, Georgia-bugs, or Caucasian cooties, I've got 'em, or maybe I should say they've got me.
We will have to establish a perestroika today, as the russian-georgian invasion has just become quite personal. I believe this will be a territorial skirmish I will have to wage without assistance of military might.
A good scrub a dub dub is my armour today!!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I am an OXKEY
An Oxkey is a beast of burden, something between an Ox and a Donkey.
Yes, I have left gay Pareeeeeee, and am now in grey Tbilisi.
With the extra 40 pounds of stuff on my aching back.
The grey skies of Paris matched the beautiful grey rooftops of the French architecture, you know, every glorious building in Paris.
The grey in Georgia is different, it is set in a backdrop of ranshackeled buildings, and skeletons of buildings that have been dead and unfortunately not gone for years.
There is 'spring green' landscape here, the kind of green that is dotted with winter brown. Sort of like a teenager with acne, some beautiful fresh skin, some yucky skin that will soon go away and give way to a youthful 'spring face'.
The mountains are WOW. In this grey-mist day they are ancient, strong, mysterious. Like everything they will change.
I am happy, getting ready to go for dinner with a team member.
So, I have arrived safely at this destination. I will be here for another few days, then to Sukhumi, my final home.
God bless each and every one of us today, all over the world.
Love, genie
Yes, I have left gay Pareeeeeee, and am now in grey Tbilisi.
With the extra 40 pounds of stuff on my aching back.
The grey skies of Paris matched the beautiful grey rooftops of the French architecture, you know, every glorious building in Paris.
The grey in Georgia is different, it is set in a backdrop of ranshackeled buildings, and skeletons of buildings that have been dead and unfortunately not gone for years.
There is 'spring green' landscape here, the kind of green that is dotted with winter brown. Sort of like a teenager with acne, some beautiful fresh skin, some yucky skin that will soon go away and give way to a youthful 'spring face'.
The mountains are WOW. In this grey-mist day they are ancient, strong, mysterious. Like everything they will change.
I am happy, getting ready to go for dinner with a team member.
So, I have arrived safely at this destination. I will be here for another few days, then to Sukhumi, my final home.
God bless each and every one of us today, all over the world.
Love, genie
Friday, March 13, 2009
SHOES
Never underestimate the wiles or giles of a woman on a mission!
My last night in Paris, hopefully not my last, but if it is, it will be the best.
Mom, you will be so proud of me!
This afternoon, after arranging for the multitude of tasks that must be accomplished at customs tomorrow, including carrying 2 laptops (I'm not kidding), extra checked luggage, medicines, a labeler???????, expats personal mail to be delivered to Georgia....... I recognized this was my last night, and I have NOTHING to wear.
I was OK wearing pants to the opera, but somehow, I knew I NEEDED a dress tonight!
So, I just HAPPENED to find a second-hand shop and for $10 I got a black skirt, with a VERY long slit up the side, and for an extra $10, I got two pairs of shoes. You ask why????? I couldn' t decide, so I didn't, until I walked part way back to the hotel, and realized one pair was JUST NOT RIGHT, and besides they didn't quite fit.
I left the shoes on the sidewalk for some woman to have a surreal experience. A FREE PAIR OF SHOES, just sitting in front of her!!!!!!!!!!
And, now I am on my way to a Thai restaurant (that I was told was incredible).
And so in honor of a friend who loves Thai and frequently goes to a local Thai restaurant on a Friday night, and all other adventuresome spirits this Friday night, WHAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
I'm going out, an unescorted woman ( at least for now) in Paris, with a sexy skirt, fabulous shoes worth about 5 bucks, and a song in my heart!
OK, so really,
au voir,
genie
My last night in Paris, hopefully not my last, but if it is, it will be the best.
Mom, you will be so proud of me!
This afternoon, after arranging for the multitude of tasks that must be accomplished at customs tomorrow, including carrying 2 laptops (I'm not kidding), extra checked luggage, medicines, a labeler???????, expats personal mail to be delivered to Georgia....... I recognized this was my last night, and I have NOTHING to wear.
I was OK wearing pants to the opera, but somehow, I knew I NEEDED a dress tonight!
So, I just HAPPENED to find a second-hand shop and for $10 I got a black skirt, with a VERY long slit up the side, and for an extra $10, I got two pairs of shoes. You ask why????? I couldn' t decide, so I didn't, until I walked part way back to the hotel, and realized one pair was JUST NOT RIGHT, and besides they didn't quite fit.
I left the shoes on the sidewalk for some woman to have a surreal experience. A FREE PAIR OF SHOES, just sitting in front of her!!!!!!!!!!
And, now I am on my way to a Thai restaurant (that I was told was incredible).
And so in honor of a friend who loves Thai and frequently goes to a local Thai restaurant on a Friday night, and all other adventuresome spirits this Friday night, WHAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
I'm going out, an unescorted woman ( at least for now) in Paris, with a sexy skirt, fabulous shoes worth about 5 bucks, and a song in my heart!
OK, so really,
au voir,
genie
THE STAMP
I am a doctor, for Pete's sake, and I am used to being the one doing the comforting, officiating news kindly, be it good or bad news.
Today, I was the comforted, vulnerable, listening one.
She, the doctor, crafted just enough well spoken accented words to to explain, "all's well". The liver, kidney tests are fine. I have antibodies to measles, hepatitis A&B ( good), HIV negative (good), blood type AB positive........
What caused me to flinch was THE STAMP.
The kind of stamp you pneumatically press down on the paper, and leave a seal, official, firm.
The Date, vendredi 13 Mars 2009
The Place, Institute Pasteur
The Result, THE TRUTH.
I was taken aback by this gentle doctor, she seemed not that different from my usual doctor-demeanor, kind, comforting, but when she pressed THE STAMP, it was with force, quick, clean, final, like a sword. A master at her craft, practiced. She had me in a trance, infact I didn't feel a thing. The stamp was of course not on my body, it was on the paper I now carry with me, but the stamp was as powerful as any vaccination I have ever received.
"You Are Well, You Are Protected" said The Stamp.
Her handshake, (unlike my "goodbye" to patients which is often a hug), was not like The Stamp. It was as I expected soft, kind, officious. A signature of The Visit, a confirmation of The Truth.
But the "thunk" of THE STAMP still vibrated in my soul.
Her parting words were, " wear a mask".
She did not say motheringly "don't forget to wear a mask" or "remember, wear your mask to protect yourself", she simply, quietly, clearly said " wear a mask".
And then she said, "have a good mission".
I will be, I am already, a better doctor, of that I am sure.
AND, tomorrow morning I leave the Paris hotel that has been home these past 8 days at 5am to depart on an early flight to Tbilisi, Georgia.
STAMPED papers in hand, ready for what lies ahead.
Au revoir
Dr. Genie
Today, I was the comforted, vulnerable, listening one.
She, the doctor, crafted just enough well spoken accented words to to explain, "all's well". The liver, kidney tests are fine. I have antibodies to measles, hepatitis A&B ( good), HIV negative (good), blood type AB positive........
What caused me to flinch was THE STAMP.
The kind of stamp you pneumatically press down on the paper, and leave a seal, official, firm.
The Date, vendredi 13 Mars 2009
The Place, Institute Pasteur
The Result, THE TRUTH.
I was taken aback by this gentle doctor, she seemed not that different from my usual doctor-demeanor, kind, comforting, but when she pressed THE STAMP, it was with force, quick, clean, final, like a sword. A master at her craft, practiced. She had me in a trance, infact I didn't feel a thing. The stamp was of course not on my body, it was on the paper I now carry with me, but the stamp was as powerful as any vaccination I have ever received.
"You Are Well, You Are Protected" said The Stamp.
Her handshake, (unlike my "goodbye" to patients which is often a hug), was not like The Stamp. It was as I expected soft, kind, officious. A signature of The Visit, a confirmation of The Truth.
But the "thunk" of THE STAMP still vibrated in my soul.
Her parting words were, " wear a mask".
She did not say motheringly "don't forget to wear a mask" or "remember, wear your mask to protect yourself", she simply, quietly, clearly said " wear a mask".
And then she said, "have a good mission".
I will be, I am already, a better doctor, of that I am sure.
AND, tomorrow morning I leave the Paris hotel that has been home these past 8 days at 5am to depart on an early flight to Tbilisi, Georgia.
STAMPED papers in hand, ready for what lies ahead.
Au revoir
Dr. Genie
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
OSCE
Probably you don't know what OSCE is either.
I had planned to talk about my assignment today-think of that!
You ask "Does Genie actually remember she is on this journey to work, not to go to the opera, and walk aimlessly around paris?"
But in the first sentence of a monthly report from Abkhazia, it read "Russia has blocked extension of the OSCE mission's mandate........." and so I thought who is OSCE?
I read further, "Jan 21 - meeting with Knut Vollebeck, High Commissionner of OSCE for national minorities. On that occasion, issues of delivering passports........."
I have to find out what OSCE is, and PACE, and other such mysteries;
I now know:
OSCE is Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, an ad hoc organization under the UN whose mission is to be a primary instrument for early warnings, conflict prevention and crisis management. We, MSF, work closely with OSCE in the region where I will be stationed.
PACE Parlimentary Assembly of the Council Europe. A representative has been in the region, and will be there again this week overseeing border security and critical issues related to displaced persons.
Now you know about what I know.
Briefly, the reports I read speak of tense "handoffs" at borders ( I will be a "handoff" in a few days, at a bridge, from one car to the next car, between two places, Georgia, Abkhazia). Political jostlings, murders of leaders in restuarants in Sukhumi, criminals released ( for divisive purposes), staff morale low......."the aid coming into the area must be used for huamitarian purposes, not political purposes".
There is the actual work, that you and I will know more about soon, but for now THE CONTEXT into which I will be headed is grim. I am not there yet, but from this desk in Paris, PEACE seems like such an important banner to hold.
Many of you have given me symbols of protection, good luck pieces, prayers..... to each of these and those in addition that I don't know about, thank you, merci beaucoup.
genie
I had planned to talk about my assignment today-think of that!
You ask "Does Genie actually remember she is on this journey to work, not to go to the opera, and walk aimlessly around paris?"
But in the first sentence of a monthly report from Abkhazia, it read "Russia has blocked extension of the OSCE mission's mandate........." and so I thought who is OSCE?
I read further, "Jan 21 - meeting with Knut Vollebeck, High Commissionner of OSCE for national minorities. On that occasion, issues of delivering passports........."
I have to find out what OSCE is, and PACE, and other such mysteries;
I now know:
OSCE is Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, an ad hoc organization under the UN whose mission is to be a primary instrument for early warnings, conflict prevention and crisis management. We, MSF, work closely with OSCE in the region where I will be stationed.
PACE Parlimentary Assembly of the Council Europe. A representative has been in the region, and will be there again this week overseeing border security and critical issues related to displaced persons.
Now you know about what I know.
Briefly, the reports I read speak of tense "handoffs" at borders ( I will be a "handoff" in a few days, at a bridge, from one car to the next car, between two places, Georgia, Abkhazia). Political jostlings, murders of leaders in restuarants in Sukhumi, criminals released ( for divisive purposes), staff morale low......."the aid coming into the area must be used for huamitarian purposes, not political purposes".
There is the actual work, that you and I will know more about soon, but for now THE CONTEXT into which I will be headed is grim. I am not there yet, but from this desk in Paris, PEACE seems like such an important banner to hold.
Many of you have given me symbols of protection, good luck pieces, prayers..... to each of these and those in addition that I don't know about, thank you, merci beaucoup.
genie
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Shower
Not the weather, the one in the toilette.
The weather is more like the parisean "cloud-hands" wringing every last little eensy-beensy drop out of themselves. Drippy, writhing. Who cares
Showers in europe have hand held shower heads, with floppy tubing. I have one in our european-like shower at home. The curiosity is that in my little hotel bathroom the thingy on the wall to hold the handheld shower head is not RIGHT. I am sure it is upside down, or else houdini is the only one capable of figuring out how to get the showerhead to stay in a position where the water is pointed DOWN instead of UP.
So, I have figured out how to make this work for me. While sudsing up and shampooing, I put the showerhead and flimsy tubing between my legs. ( I guess I could turn off the shower while doing so, and then turn it back on when rinsing, but that wouldn' be any fun, given what I have discovered).
I now understand the goofiness and the burden of having a droopy thing between ones legs.
I am so glad to be a girl most of the time. But these brief moments in the shower of being a "sort-of boy" are really quite enjoyable.
For you gals, I highly recommend you try this, if you havn't already! Noone will ever know!
The Pequod
Yesterday, 10 hours of wonderful pavement pounding from Bastille to the Arc dè Triomphe and back to Bastille, with lots and lots of diversions to gallariès.
One picture in a small gallery took my breath away. I sat and caught my breath for 30 minutes while gazing. It was abstract, but clear as could be to me there was a ship, the Pequod, and next to it a whale, THE WHALE. Having just finished Ahab's Wife, or the Star Gazer by Sena J Naslund, a remarkable novel, a must-read, I am filled with oceans and whaler ships, love and loss, wisdom and pure delight.
And there in front of me was a large, exquisite painting , the embodiment of the novel, in one piece of art.
I am still enjoying the "banquet of beauty".
The weather is more like the parisean "cloud-hands" wringing every last little eensy-beensy drop out of themselves. Drippy, writhing. Who cares
Showers in europe have hand held shower heads, with floppy tubing. I have one in our european-like shower at home. The curiosity is that in my little hotel bathroom the thingy on the wall to hold the handheld shower head is not RIGHT. I am sure it is upside down, or else houdini is the only one capable of figuring out how to get the showerhead to stay in a position where the water is pointed DOWN instead of UP.
So, I have figured out how to make this work for me. While sudsing up and shampooing, I put the showerhead and flimsy tubing between my legs. ( I guess I could turn off the shower while doing so, and then turn it back on when rinsing, but that wouldn' be any fun, given what I have discovered).
I now understand the goofiness and the burden of having a droopy thing between ones legs.
I am so glad to be a girl most of the time. But these brief moments in the shower of being a "sort-of boy" are really quite enjoyable.
For you gals, I highly recommend you try this, if you havn't already! Noone will ever know!
The Pequod
Yesterday, 10 hours of wonderful pavement pounding from Bastille to the Arc dè Triomphe and back to Bastille, with lots and lots of diversions to gallariès.
One picture in a small gallery took my breath away. I sat and caught my breath for 30 minutes while gazing. It was abstract, but clear as could be to me there was a ship, the Pequod, and next to it a whale, THE WHALE. Having just finished Ahab's Wife, or the Star Gazer by Sena J Naslund, a remarkable novel, a must-read, I am filled with oceans and whaler ships, love and loss, wisdom and pure delight.
And there in front of me was a large, exquisite painting , the embodiment of the novel, in one piece of art.
I am still enjoying the "banquet of beauty".
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Confessions, Next Life, Fever
Confessions
So I spent my perdiem, 5 of the 8 days anyway, on Opera tickets.
I can eat Cliff bars. I can't enjoy Werther at the Opera Bastille next month.
So I wander aimlessly through the streets, seeking nothing, breathing everything, exhaling contentment.
So I devour crepes, sip dark cafè, smell Parisiene parfume on beautiful women, fresh bread.
So I am boasting on this good fortune,
I confess.
Fever
Not me, everyone, everywhere, the Pariseines.
Busying about, brisk-paced, shopping bags brimming, passionate kisses, fevered in these sun-filled early days of spring.
The cold rain has paused, and so the intent to sieze the sunshine.
Let the fever penetrate the pregnant blossoms of the flowers, so they like the fever will break.
Let the fever live, so the winter can die. Let the fever break into spring.
My Next Life
In my next life I will be a crepe, a chocolate, banana crepe, warm, soft, thin, with the most delicious insides imaginable.
Someone will handle me with desire, and consume me slowly, reverently, and voilà, I am transformed.
Yes, a crepe I will be, and someone will say in a silly voice
"I think that I shall never see a crepe as lovely as she".
Genie, March 7
So I spent my perdiem, 5 of the 8 days anyway, on Opera tickets.
I can eat Cliff bars. I can't enjoy Werther at the Opera Bastille next month.
So I wander aimlessly through the streets, seeking nothing, breathing everything, exhaling contentment.
So I devour crepes, sip dark cafè, smell Parisiene parfume on beautiful women, fresh bread.
So I am boasting on this good fortune,
I confess.
Fever
Not me, everyone, everywhere, the Pariseines.
Busying about, brisk-paced, shopping bags brimming, passionate kisses, fevered in these sun-filled early days of spring.
The cold rain has paused, and so the intent to sieze the sunshine.
Let the fever penetrate the pregnant blossoms of the flowers, so they like the fever will break.
Let the fever live, so the winter can die. Let the fever break into spring.
My Next Life
In my next life I will be a crepe, a chocolate, banana crepe, warm, soft, thin, with the most delicious insides imaginable.
Someone will handle me with desire, and consume me slowly, reverently, and voilà, I am transformed.
Yes, a crepe I will be, and someone will say in a silly voice
"I think that I shall never see a crepe as lovely as she".
Genie, March 7
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Dancing
Life is really dancing after all, right? Steps, missteps, learning to pause, then swinging feverishly.
The great news is I am to remain in Paris for another 8 days, with free time to explore and consume all the chocolate I can, in good conscience. The not-so-great news is NO FRENCH WINE. The reason for no wine is rather complex. I`ll explain.
2 days before my departure I received word that my Quantiferon test was positive. Interpreted, simply, I have had exposure to the tubercule bacillus (Tb). I do not have active Tb, I am not contageous, I am not sick. My immune system has had a close encounter with Tb, probably while I was in Niger 2 years ago on another humanitarian aid mission. Exposure to Tb is a risk for all healthcare workers, even in the US, with 1-3% testing positive during a career, without going to Africa, Abkhazia.
I consulted with a Tb specialist and started on prophylaxis (preventive medicines for future active disease) the day I left for my assignment. There was no reason to change my plans.
All MSF France workers ( I work for France now) going into areas with multidrug resistant Tb are required to go to the Pasteur Institute. My meeting was yesterday afternoon. The specialist required that I obtain tests in addition to the ones I have already had, to start on even more meds, and to remain in Paris for another 8 days to repeat tests before going into the field. Different doctors, different protocols, same goal, to protect me first of all so that I might be of service to others.
The meds are hard on the liver, hence NO WINE. I am sure that Paris without wine will be even more glorious. My per diem of 25€ ( approx 32dollars) will allow for delicious bruchetta, chocolate, and regular trips to cafes all over town.
So, any friends, family who wish to join me (free lodging in the tiny hotel Paris Voltaire) are warmly invited to sit at the cafes with me.
And so, as are most dances, with twists, turns, deliciously slow moments, and wildly wonderful moments, I am dancing this one in Paris. What dance to move me into new spaces, new places, is yet to come.
Bonjour, genie
The great news is I am to remain in Paris for another 8 days, with free time to explore and consume all the chocolate I can, in good conscience. The not-so-great news is NO FRENCH WINE. The reason for no wine is rather complex. I`ll explain.
2 days before my departure I received word that my Quantiferon test was positive. Interpreted, simply, I have had exposure to the tubercule bacillus (Tb). I do not have active Tb, I am not contageous, I am not sick. My immune system has had a close encounter with Tb, probably while I was in Niger 2 years ago on another humanitarian aid mission. Exposure to Tb is a risk for all healthcare workers, even in the US, with 1-3% testing positive during a career, without going to Africa, Abkhazia.
I consulted with a Tb specialist and started on prophylaxis (preventive medicines for future active disease) the day I left for my assignment. There was no reason to change my plans.
All MSF France workers ( I work for France now) going into areas with multidrug resistant Tb are required to go to the Pasteur Institute. My meeting was yesterday afternoon. The specialist required that I obtain tests in addition to the ones I have already had, to start on even more meds, and to remain in Paris for another 8 days to repeat tests before going into the field. Different doctors, different protocols, same goal, to protect me first of all so that I might be of service to others.
The meds are hard on the liver, hence NO WINE. I am sure that Paris without wine will be even more glorious. My per diem of 25€ ( approx 32dollars) will allow for delicious bruchetta, chocolate, and regular trips to cafes all over town.
So, any friends, family who wish to join me (free lodging in the tiny hotel Paris Voltaire) are warmly invited to sit at the cafes with me.
And so, as are most dances, with twists, turns, deliciously slow moments, and wildly wonderful moments, I am dancing this one in Paris. What dance to move me into new spaces, new places, is yet to come.
Bonjour, genie
Monday, March 2, 2009
I awoke this morning in a New York hotel where I walked down the hall to the shower, noticed the necklace Sam gave me was not on my neck. Back to the room.... there it was on the floor. The chain was broken with the tiny diamond "G" intact. I was sure this was the first indication that I am shedding some things. Not really a loss, but a reminder of what's to come. Changes.
Later after walking to the MSF office for my first briefing with the snow blowing wildly, I stepped in a puddle of slush, dropped my backpack (don't ask), arrived covered in frozen slush-snow. Tolerance.
I ran into Rob, a fellow that I met during orientation last fall. He too is going on his first assignment, to Darfur. He was holding up a lovely Smartwool sweater, and said, "this will just fit you, it shrunk in the washer last night, and it will do me no good, enjoy". And so, I shed one precious item, and pick up another. Maybe that's what we all do every day. Loss and gain, old and new. Open.
Turns out Rob isn't going to Darfur after all. Because of the anticipated announcement this week regarding the criminal court tribunal there will be no MSF folks going, for now. So, after a couple of hours, I hear he is headed to Nigeria, a meningitis outbreak. Patience.
For all the incredible love and support over these past few weeks, I say WOW and thanks.
I go with all the stuff that a person can possibly want..... chocolate, extra socks, good reading, iPod with good music and poetry read by loved ones, more love than anyone could ever ask for, and a new sweater.
Bless us all, genie
Later after walking to the MSF office for my first briefing with the snow blowing wildly, I stepped in a puddle of slush, dropped my backpack (don't ask), arrived covered in frozen slush-snow. Tolerance.
I ran into Rob, a fellow that I met during orientation last fall. He too is going on his first assignment, to Darfur. He was holding up a lovely Smartwool sweater, and said, "this will just fit you, it shrunk in the washer last night, and it will do me no good, enjoy". And so, I shed one precious item, and pick up another. Maybe that's what we all do every day. Loss and gain, old and new. Open.
Turns out Rob isn't going to Darfur after all. Because of the anticipated announcement this week regarding the criminal court tribunal there will be no MSF folks going, for now. So, after a couple of hours, I hear he is headed to Nigeria, a meningitis outbreak. Patience.
For all the incredible love and support over these past few weeks, I say WOW and thanks.
I go with all the stuff that a person can possibly want..... chocolate, extra socks, good reading, iPod with good music and poetry read by loved ones, more love than anyone could ever ask for, and a new sweater.
Bless us all, genie
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