I am saddened by a death that happened recently. A friend close to me. My first friend in Sukhumi in fact. The friendship that somehow helped me to connect with something familiar, something joyful, something simple as I was learning my new rhythm of life. Jena was the cocker spaniel next door. Every day coming and going, Jena was waiting with a smile, she had a big grin on her face, and that tail. I’ve seen lots of waggin’ in my days, but none ever so happy as Jena’s. Her tail was short and fast. “HI, I AM SO GLAD TO SEE YOU” her tail said every time I walked to the house. Although the tail didn’t need words. Jena knew I would rub her belly, she knew I would give her time and attention. She could count on me. I could count on her for a smile and a wag. Each of us were comforted by the other. Jena’s family includes 3 little people under the age of 5, a “mother and father”, a mother-in-law, and various other folks that are related but who knows how.
I could talk to Jena and she understood. The family on the other hand doesn’t understand my Russian nearly as well as Jena understood. I practiced my lessons with Jena. She would smile, but not laugh, at my bad pronunciation. She was very patient and was ready again and again for my fledgling efforts to pronounce multiple consonants in a row: zdr, pyt, zhahl, tahch…….. These, of course, are the English translations of the Russian letters, the Russians have their own alphabet, and they have consonants we don’t have, and in my humble opinion, shouldn’t have. Jena really liked it when I spoke English. She was coming along quite nicely with her English lessons.
I went to the beach for the first time. I swam in the brisk, or some might say ICY COLD Black Sea that day. It was exhilarating. It was a beautiful afternoon. The sand was warm and the water was cold. I came home and Jena was lying too still. Her little tail acknowledged my presence, but barely. “Hey Jena, kak vas?” how are you (in Russian), I said. Tail wiggled ever so slightly. She always stood to greet me. That day she didn’t come or stand. She laid still, breaths even and shallow. No signs of trauma. I sat with her late into the evening. Other family members came and sat. No one spoke. It was a quiet, peaceful evening. After everyone had gone to bed, I came out again and sat with her long after dark. I cried. I placed a fresh rose given to me by a patient, at her side. Her breaths even more shallow.
The next morning she was breathing her last. I gave my tearful farewells to Jena and her tail. I think maybe they were conjoined, her tail and her, living two separate but synergistic, sympathetic lives. I will miss them both. They were my best Abkhaz friends. Jena and her tail knew me. They accepted my ways, and welcomed me. I know Jena will go meet her family in doggie-heaven, and all will be well. I went home at lunch that day, her absence was painful, her little body was gone.
God bless little Jena and all little dogs that find wonderful ways to enter our hearts.
While visiting one of our patients two days later, I saw a new litter of puppies. Stumbling, shining, yearning little pups wondering where their mom’s tits were. I thought about bringing one back to give to Jena’s family, but I didn’t. I figure that is a family decision, not a friend of a friend’s decision.
As it turns out, today there was a cute little bunny hopping around at Jena‘s place. The little girls, Marisha, and her sister, whose name I have yet to master, were happy, playing with the new family pet. We will all miss Jena, maybe me more than the little girls. I think and write and ponder, they play. That’s the way it should be.
Life and death and new life.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
What's it all about?
I haven’t actually told you what a “typical” day looks like for me. And like you, there is no “typical“, but here is a sketch of one day, many others are similar.
When the birds start to sing around 6ish, I am aware of their “alarming” wonder. Truth is, they are not alarming at all, they are “wake-up-ing” wonderful sounds that provide natures alarm, better than an electronic buzzzzzzz or smooth jazz. Usually my thoughts wake me up from those wonderful early morning moments when the dreams of the night still have some imprint but are quickly fading and there is that lingering question, “why did I dream that?” According to ancient lore all dreams have meaning, we just have limited time or inclination to ponder or make-believe a meaning. Some mornings, in this distant place, with few stresses other than to show up at work, I ponder a while. Last nights dream was particularly “ponderable”. Maybe I’ll share it with you some day, maybe not.
The bedspread that has given me such misery has been relegated to a new role. Instead of the honor of covering my bones and flesh and assisting me with nightly dreams, it sits on the floor, folded in half-lengthwise, rolled up. It is my morning stretch mat. I have made peace with the spread, because as a mat, it is fine. I have put a cover on it, a seaside print, with palm trees. I have no particular stretch routine, instead I make up a new routine every morning, based on what my Abkhazian-stretch-needs-for-the-day seem to be. After stretching I shower.
I use an old stove coffee maker to make coffee, which for me is a little coffee in a lot of milk. No one else will go near the “dirty milk” especially my Italian doctor colleague Rossella.
Rossella is smart, young, we spend a lot of time together outside work because we enjoy one another’s company, but on the matter of coffee, we differ. She keeps trying to convince me to make REAL coffee, the kind that is dark, robust, thick, REAL Italian coffee. She says I should make real coffee, pour myself a little bit and add hot milk. She could have the remainder. Rosella is a get-up-at-the-last-minute- morning person, so if I would cooperate she would get to have her coffee made (by me) since I would only take a small amount and leave the rest for her. Perfect. Except, I want to make the little bit of coffee I drink, the way I want to make it. So THERE. We laugh, and occasionally I make it HER way and sometimes I make it MY way. Today, being Sunday, I made it MY way. I like watery coffee with lots of milk, YUMMMMM.
On the weekends Rossella and I go to the market and a bakery which happens to be next door(not good for the perpetual diet every woman in the world is on). But heck, it’s the weekend, and the bakery has a good, not too sweet, apple cake. We each buy one piece, 25 rubble, it is our weekend splurge. This weekend we have “the big wigs” in town for the mid-year budget review and program planning for the remainder of the year. I baked a coffee cake myself instead of going to the bakery because the bakery was closed, for some reason.
The market is crazy, busy with smells, sights that stimulate all senses. I take a backpack for carrying groceries. One day a gypsy stole my new prescription eyeglasses out of the back pack. It was one of those, crowded jams of people, where everyone is pushing to get to the next stall through the morass of people;there is lots of body contact. A perfect spot for a thief to execute their craft. I now carry my old, outdated prescription glasses (I brought in case of a disaster like this) in a more secure place. Fortunately, nothing else was taken. My glasses will be a huge disappointment back at the gypsy camp. One eye has had laser surgery, the other has not, so the prescription is bizarre. Oh well, the glasses were probably entertaining for a few minutes and now sit in a rubble pile. It is what it is.
During the workweek, I commute approximately 62 paces via foot across the street to the office. Some mornings I go early, fetch firewood, and make a fire in the fireplace in my office. It is nice for staff to come in and have a large blazing fire to warm themselves. I, of course, do it for my own pleasure as well. Some mornings I get on the internet for a couple of minutes to see if anyone has written me a note. Many mornings the internet is not working. Today, Sunday, it has rained all day. The internet does not work when it rains. That’s good. An excuse to ponder instead of focus on reports.
Work is a combination of patients and paper work, negotiations, compromises, planning, meetings, thinking. I like all. We work most days from 8:00 until 5ish. Most of the expats stay another hour or so to finish up work that is best done in solitude. Sometimes I go to the sea, then come back to the office. My office has a door that opens onto a little porch with nice trees, the trash pile, the chicken coop, the wood pile and a path to the shack where we eat lunch. It is a fantastic office that I share with all the HAP team members. Fortunately I have worked in hospitals, clinics, nursing homes where there is no privacy, quiet spaces. I don’t like it, but I can concentrate with distractions, other persons yammering….. You might see me mouthing words while I am thinking, it seems to help. Remember, I am working with Russians, Italians, French, Japanese, Armenian, Australian - there is no end to distractions and talking.
Right now I am preparing to handover the social component of HAP (Health Access Program). We are not going to close the whole program. After a visit from a Board Member in Paris, and in part due to my recommendation, we are going to keep the medical component of the Health Access Program and handover the social part to the Local Red Cross. Another day I will tell you about the curiosities involved in this handover. The political and security discussions, best left unspoken for now.
I am pleased the program will survive. This is good, needed work. The Abkhaz government is busy with many other priorities, like trying to create an independent country, generate revenue to survive their nascent status, and manage the little bit of funding that comes from Russia. They are unable to attend to their elderly. I am hopeful the Local Red Cross is able do the work. MSF has provided care for 15 years, buying and delivering food, assisting individuals with pensions, transporting those in need to the hospital, visiting the isolated, assessing needs, providing wood in the winter and heaters, blankets, house dresses, socks, minor home repairs. If the social needs are not met, it makes no difference that medical needs are met. Hunger will preempt patients interest in their high blood pressure every time.
Lunch is a shared event with all the staff in a shack behind the office. This is where Sveta reigns. She and I see ‘eye-to-eye’ now or better said ‘eye-to-boob’, her being much taller than I.
There is a team that works exclusively with Tb patients in the hospital, the prison, at their homes in remote ambulatory points. There are also administrative folks - the field coordinator, the bookkeeper, the logistician. There are house and office cleaners, Shamile, the all around fix-it guy. I have Russian lessons on Tues and Thurs eve. Dinner is expats sharing recipes and a willingness to try whatever is in the fridge, a mix and match of food and good conversation.
I write on the weekends mostly. I have little scraps of paper with images, words, thoughts and a few ink markings on my hands where I have “taken notes”. I use these scraps, this rubble to compose a new blog. I have a lot more notes than ever get written on the blog.
At night I read. I have read some good books. Here are my favorites so far:
Ahab’s Wife - don’t remember author -
The Enchantress of Florence - Salmon Rashdee
The City of Your Final Destination - Peter Cameron
Charlotte Gray - don’t remember author
The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
STIFF, The curious lives of human cadavers - Mary Roach
I have now received 4 packages:
First one was from Barrett and Diedra Travis 4 weeks ago- whahooooo a Russian dictionary (although, unfortunately my old prescription glasses are so bad, that I have a hard time reading the small print). The other handy Russian study tools are fantastic, and my first installation of chocolate.
The next package was from Janae - A fine piece of artwork from Maryn and chocolate.
The next package was from Annelle Mook - A card and chocolate.
And on May 22nd I received a mothers day package from Maryn - another beautiful painting and some Burts Bees goodies, foot cream, lipstick, lemon cuticle cream and chocolate.
I am very thankful for these gifts. When the transport car comes on Thursdays everyone is secretly wishing for a package.
I know others of you have sent packages. Maybe they are being transferred by donkey, or pig. Maybe they will arrive someday.
A favorite time of the day is walking back from the sea, hearing and seeing the little canal in front of my house. The water is flowing from the mountains. Most days the water is shimmering with a peach-colored streetlight reflection(when there is electricity) and the little trickle sound of the water is sweet. It is a color and a sensation that somehow touches me, makes me feel tender and fluid and quiet and content. Truth is there are so many places, so many moments that are full of awe.
I will take them as they come. Savor and let them pass.
Pleased for the next and the next moment.
I am ready to put the computer away and listen to the incessant rain.
Good evening all
My love,
g
When the birds start to sing around 6ish, I am aware of their “alarming” wonder. Truth is, they are not alarming at all, they are “wake-up-ing” wonderful sounds that provide natures alarm, better than an electronic buzzzzzzz or smooth jazz. Usually my thoughts wake me up from those wonderful early morning moments when the dreams of the night still have some imprint but are quickly fading and there is that lingering question, “why did I dream that?” According to ancient lore all dreams have meaning, we just have limited time or inclination to ponder or make-believe a meaning. Some mornings, in this distant place, with few stresses other than to show up at work, I ponder a while. Last nights dream was particularly “ponderable”. Maybe I’ll share it with you some day, maybe not.
The bedspread that has given me such misery has been relegated to a new role. Instead of the honor of covering my bones and flesh and assisting me with nightly dreams, it sits on the floor, folded in half-lengthwise, rolled up. It is my morning stretch mat. I have made peace with the spread, because as a mat, it is fine. I have put a cover on it, a seaside print, with palm trees. I have no particular stretch routine, instead I make up a new routine every morning, based on what my Abkhazian-stretch-needs-for-the-day seem to be. After stretching I shower.
I use an old stove coffee maker to make coffee, which for me is a little coffee in a lot of milk. No one else will go near the “dirty milk” especially my Italian doctor colleague Rossella.
Rossella is smart, young, we spend a lot of time together outside work because we enjoy one another’s company, but on the matter of coffee, we differ. She keeps trying to convince me to make REAL coffee, the kind that is dark, robust, thick, REAL Italian coffee. She says I should make real coffee, pour myself a little bit and add hot milk. She could have the remainder. Rosella is a get-up-at-the-last-minute- morning person, so if I would cooperate she would get to have her coffee made (by me) since I would only take a small amount and leave the rest for her. Perfect. Except, I want to make the little bit of coffee I drink, the way I want to make it. So THERE. We laugh, and occasionally I make it HER way and sometimes I make it MY way. Today, being Sunday, I made it MY way. I like watery coffee with lots of milk, YUMMMMM.
On the weekends Rossella and I go to the market and a bakery which happens to be next door(not good for the perpetual diet every woman in the world is on). But heck, it’s the weekend, and the bakery has a good, not too sweet, apple cake. We each buy one piece, 25 rubble, it is our weekend splurge. This weekend we have “the big wigs” in town for the mid-year budget review and program planning for the remainder of the year. I baked a coffee cake myself instead of going to the bakery because the bakery was closed, for some reason.
The market is crazy, busy with smells, sights that stimulate all senses. I take a backpack for carrying groceries. One day a gypsy stole my new prescription eyeglasses out of the back pack. It was one of those, crowded jams of people, where everyone is pushing to get to the next stall through the morass of people;there is lots of body contact. A perfect spot for a thief to execute their craft. I now carry my old, outdated prescription glasses (I brought in case of a disaster like this) in a more secure place. Fortunately, nothing else was taken. My glasses will be a huge disappointment back at the gypsy camp. One eye has had laser surgery, the other has not, so the prescription is bizarre. Oh well, the glasses were probably entertaining for a few minutes and now sit in a rubble pile. It is what it is.
During the workweek, I commute approximately 62 paces via foot across the street to the office. Some mornings I go early, fetch firewood, and make a fire in the fireplace in my office. It is nice for staff to come in and have a large blazing fire to warm themselves. I, of course, do it for my own pleasure as well. Some mornings I get on the internet for a couple of minutes to see if anyone has written me a note. Many mornings the internet is not working. Today, Sunday, it has rained all day. The internet does not work when it rains. That’s good. An excuse to ponder instead of focus on reports.
Work is a combination of patients and paper work, negotiations, compromises, planning, meetings, thinking. I like all. We work most days from 8:00 until 5ish. Most of the expats stay another hour or so to finish up work that is best done in solitude. Sometimes I go to the sea, then come back to the office. My office has a door that opens onto a little porch with nice trees, the trash pile, the chicken coop, the wood pile and a path to the shack where we eat lunch. It is a fantastic office that I share with all the HAP team members. Fortunately I have worked in hospitals, clinics, nursing homes where there is no privacy, quiet spaces. I don’t like it, but I can concentrate with distractions, other persons yammering….. You might see me mouthing words while I am thinking, it seems to help. Remember, I am working with Russians, Italians, French, Japanese, Armenian, Australian - there is no end to distractions and talking.
Right now I am preparing to handover the social component of HAP (Health Access Program). We are not going to close the whole program. After a visit from a Board Member in Paris, and in part due to my recommendation, we are going to keep the medical component of the Health Access Program and handover the social part to the Local Red Cross. Another day I will tell you about the curiosities involved in this handover. The political and security discussions, best left unspoken for now.
I am pleased the program will survive. This is good, needed work. The Abkhaz government is busy with many other priorities, like trying to create an independent country, generate revenue to survive their nascent status, and manage the little bit of funding that comes from Russia. They are unable to attend to their elderly. I am hopeful the Local Red Cross is able do the work. MSF has provided care for 15 years, buying and delivering food, assisting individuals with pensions, transporting those in need to the hospital, visiting the isolated, assessing needs, providing wood in the winter and heaters, blankets, house dresses, socks, minor home repairs. If the social needs are not met, it makes no difference that medical needs are met. Hunger will preempt patients interest in their high blood pressure every time.
Lunch is a shared event with all the staff in a shack behind the office. This is where Sveta reigns. She and I see ‘eye-to-eye’ now or better said ‘eye-to-boob’, her being much taller than I.
There is a team that works exclusively with Tb patients in the hospital, the prison, at their homes in remote ambulatory points. There are also administrative folks - the field coordinator, the bookkeeper, the logistician. There are house and office cleaners, Shamile, the all around fix-it guy. I have Russian lessons on Tues and Thurs eve. Dinner is expats sharing recipes and a willingness to try whatever is in the fridge, a mix and match of food and good conversation.
I write on the weekends mostly. I have little scraps of paper with images, words, thoughts and a few ink markings on my hands where I have “taken notes”. I use these scraps, this rubble to compose a new blog. I have a lot more notes than ever get written on the blog.
At night I read. I have read some good books. Here are my favorites so far:
Ahab’s Wife - don’t remember author -
The Enchantress of Florence - Salmon Rashdee
The City of Your Final Destination - Peter Cameron
Charlotte Gray - don’t remember author
The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
STIFF, The curious lives of human cadavers - Mary Roach
I have now received 4 packages:
First one was from Barrett and Diedra Travis 4 weeks ago- whahooooo a Russian dictionary (although, unfortunately my old prescription glasses are so bad, that I have a hard time reading the small print). The other handy Russian study tools are fantastic, and my first installation of chocolate.
The next package was from Janae - A fine piece of artwork from Maryn and chocolate.
The next package was from Annelle Mook - A card and chocolate.
And on May 22nd I received a mothers day package from Maryn - another beautiful painting and some Burts Bees goodies, foot cream, lipstick, lemon cuticle cream and chocolate.
I am very thankful for these gifts. When the transport car comes on Thursdays everyone is secretly wishing for a package.
I know others of you have sent packages. Maybe they are being transferred by donkey, or pig. Maybe they will arrive someday.
A favorite time of the day is walking back from the sea, hearing and seeing the little canal in front of my house. The water is flowing from the mountains. Most days the water is shimmering with a peach-colored streetlight reflection(when there is electricity) and the little trickle sound of the water is sweet. It is a color and a sensation that somehow touches me, makes me feel tender and fluid and quiet and content. Truth is there are so many places, so many moments that are full of awe.
I will take them as they come. Savor and let them pass.
Pleased for the next and the next moment.
I am ready to put the computer away and listen to the incessant rain.
Good evening all
My love,
g
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Reading Coffee
Yesterday while conducting home visits I was invited to have my coffee read.
What would you have said if someone invited you to such an occasion?
“Of course, sure!!!”
I don’t drink coffee, but I have learned here to do so, because to not accept a coffee is an insult. After the first week I was tired of insulting people, so I said to myself, “Buck up buckaroo, and learn to drink coffee, if only for a short while“. I will deal with the withdrawal headaches when I return home.
The circumstance of my visiting Sulaberidze Soniya was a bit unusual even without the coffee reading. I had already eliminated Sula from our patient list.
Sula, 86 year old Russian woman living in Abkhazia, had not been home three previous times we tried to visit her. I told the team that if we go again and she is not home then we should eliminate her from the program. She can’t be vulnerable and frail if she is always “out and about”.
Inga, in her understanding way just replied, “please, before you make a final decision, see her once, then decide“. Inga knew something was wrong with Sula, not sure what, but she didn’t want me to make a rash decision. She is very clever, not to be completely put out by my direct manager-get-it-done-approach. She wants to make sure I am making the decisions, but she makes sure I make the right decision!!!!! I think all good assistants do the same. Make the boss seem smarter than she really is!!!
As it turned out, Sula was home yesterday. We arrived as we do with all the patients, unannounced, we just show up.
After greetings, we enter her house. Sula walks bent over at the waist. Kyphotic, like many individuals who have severe osteoporosis and arthritis, Sula can‘t stand up straight. She is shaped like an upside down L, instead of a normal I. She doesn’t seem to mind. It is what it is.
Sula worked during WWII in a munitions factory bending over and lifting heavy objects. She said she could not straighten her back after the war and has been walking like this for decades. Her husband was a General in the Russian army, they traveled a lot before the war. No children. He died in The War, WWII that is. She is bright, well traveled, a delightful hostess, even in her one room “home”. She was given a place to stay by neighbors. She sold her home several years ago, sent all the money to her brother in Armenia so he could arrange a place for her, a new home. (She is Armenian, married a Russian, lives in Abkhazia, has sister in USA - typical conglomeration of mixed cultures) She wanted to be close to family. Her neighbor gave her a room to stay in until she moved. She was planning to move to Armenia right before the war broke out in 1992. She has been unable to accomplish this since, because she needed a Russian passport. Abkhazians cannot leave Abkhazia via Georgia and that is the most direct route to Armenia. She obtained the passport finally last year (because she was born in Russia, she could apply for one). Sula is one of the fortunate ones who has obtained a Russian passport while living in Abkhazia. The advantage of a Russian passport is a large pension(around 3,000 rubble= 85 bucks), compared to the Abkhaz pension (100 ruble =3 bucks). Per Year.
Sula told us why she was not at home for the past month.
She needed to renew her Russian passport (annual requirement). She knew of the approaching expiration date on her passport. She did not have money to pay for the renewal so she requested funds from the Local Red Cross to help her to pay for the renewal. She was given sufficient funds, then became ill. She was in bed for 2 weeks. No one knew she was sick. When she was well she decided to get on a bus and go to Russia to renew her passport.
She arrived at the border only to discover she did not bring one of several documents that is required for renewal. She had to turn around and go home. She got the papers, went back to the border however, at the border she was not able to cross because her passport was now expired by two days. She explained the situation, but was told to go home and to send in the money and the documents to Moscow and she could pay a late fee and her passport would be renewed
And so, she did that.
Sula said she was distraught and decided she would to try to go to Armenia without her Russian passport. She would go through Georgia. It is very tricky for Abkhazians to go to Georgia, but she was going to try anyway. She arrived in Zugdidi, Georgia via bus and while getting out her money she accidentally dropped her Abkhazian identification. BIG MISTAKE. Georgians DO NOT WANT people to show or to HAVE Abkhazian identifications. Abkhazians are supposed to be Georgians. To show the ID is an insult. Abkhazia is a territory of Georgia, not an independent country where citizens have Identification Cards.
She did not mean to drop the ID , but she did and now she was in trouble. The militia took Sula to jail, for having an Abkhaz ID. She stayed in jail for three days, then was taken to a psychiatric floor of a “old-folks-home!!!!!!! She was told there were no beds other than in the psychiatric area. Sula is clear-headed, frail, kind and of NO threat to ANYONE. The militia felt that an old folks home was more fitting than jail, but now she was medicated with antipsychotic meds along with those who “needed“ them, and force to live with individuals with whom she had no ability to communicate. She had no recourse. She had no family to contact. She was doomed in this horrific place. She was innocently trying to go to Armenia to be with her family and was likely to spend her last days in a place worse than jail.
Sula decided she would commit suicide. After having been refused any opportunity to contact relatives in Armenia, she felt death was a better way to solve her dilemma than life in the psych ward. She announced her plan. Of course, that only confirmed she needed this level of care. The soldier who had arrested her came to see her, feeling guilty, I guess. She told him her plan. He told the Director of the Old Folks Home that he must take her to a government office to sign “some papers” . He said he would bring her back as soon as the papers were signed.
He then let Sula go. He said, “I cannot give you your Abkhaz ID back, but Go Lady, wherever you can and wherever you want to go, just GO“. And she did. She did not have enough money now to go to Yerivan, Armenia. Her money had been used in the “the home” to buy food. She was able to beg a bus ride back to the Abkhaz border. She had no Abkhazia ID, but the man at the border crossing recognized her and mercifully let her through the border.
When we saw Sula she had been home for 2 days. She was beyond grateful to see friendly faces. She was happy to be in her little room. She now regrets having sold her home, but she has no ability to reverse this decision. She must find a way to get to Armenia.
We will meet with the International Red Cross this coming week. They have a re-location program and should be able to assist Sula getting re-located to Yerivan, Armenia. She wants to wait to get her Russian passport, so she can leave Abkhazia legally through Russia. If you look on the map you will see how absurd this is. Russia is north of Abkhazia. Armenia is south. It would be like going through Denver to go from Los Angeles to San Francisco. ABSURD.
But on to the coffee reading.
While Sula was telling her tale, we sipped on coffee. After completing the coffee, and still telling the tale she quietly swirled the final contents of the coffee, and then turned the cup upside down.
Remember this is thick, muddy coffee. Turkish coffee. You drink only the top portion and leave the bottom one third. The bottom is just thick coffee grounds.
So in preparation for “the reading” she swirls the remaining coffee grounds, turns the cup upside down then lets it sit. My cup sat for 15 minutes.
We had now finished the tale, and were ready to leave. I thought perhaps she had forgotten all about the coffee reading. Inga had warned me, that “you never ask to have your coffee read”. One is invited to have their coffee read, at the invitation of the coffee reader. There are only a few coffee readers in any village or town. This is a rather special talent. It is like palm reading, fortune telling, future forecasting.
Sula, without announcement , picked up my coffee cup and began something like a chant. While telling her tale she had been animated. This was a different voice, a different space. She was a different person while reading my coffee. This was serious, this was sacred.
I shant tell you the content of the reading. I don’t think I should. Inga knows, because Inga knows everything. She translates for me. I was stunned. Sula has never met me. She never asked anything about me. I introduced myself and told her my name when we arrived, that‘s it. During the half hour we had been in her home we discussed only her mis-adventure. There is no way she could know the things about me she knows. The coffee told her.
Sula has a gift. Tears streamed down my face as she read the bottom of the cup. She twirled it around and around. She paused. She smiled. She never looked at me. She was almost in a trance.
It was yet another spiritual experience in this magical place. I have been offered secrets into my future.
God Bless Sula in what will no doubt be more adventures and mis-adventures that will bring her to her long awaited reunion with her people. God bless us all as we travel and reunion with our people.
What would you have said if someone invited you to such an occasion?
“Of course, sure!!!”
I don’t drink coffee, but I have learned here to do so, because to not accept a coffee is an insult. After the first week I was tired of insulting people, so I said to myself, “Buck up buckaroo, and learn to drink coffee, if only for a short while“. I will deal with the withdrawal headaches when I return home.
The circumstance of my visiting Sulaberidze Soniya was a bit unusual even without the coffee reading. I had already eliminated Sula from our patient list.
Sula, 86 year old Russian woman living in Abkhazia, had not been home three previous times we tried to visit her. I told the team that if we go again and she is not home then we should eliminate her from the program. She can’t be vulnerable and frail if she is always “out and about”.
Inga, in her understanding way just replied, “please, before you make a final decision, see her once, then decide“. Inga knew something was wrong with Sula, not sure what, but she didn’t want me to make a rash decision. She is very clever, not to be completely put out by my direct manager-get-it-done-approach. She wants to make sure I am making the decisions, but she makes sure I make the right decision!!!!! I think all good assistants do the same. Make the boss seem smarter than she really is!!!
As it turned out, Sula was home yesterday. We arrived as we do with all the patients, unannounced, we just show up.
After greetings, we enter her house. Sula walks bent over at the waist. Kyphotic, like many individuals who have severe osteoporosis and arthritis, Sula can‘t stand up straight. She is shaped like an upside down L, instead of a normal I. She doesn’t seem to mind. It is what it is.
Sula worked during WWII in a munitions factory bending over and lifting heavy objects. She said she could not straighten her back after the war and has been walking like this for decades. Her husband was a General in the Russian army, they traveled a lot before the war. No children. He died in The War, WWII that is. She is bright, well traveled, a delightful hostess, even in her one room “home”. She was given a place to stay by neighbors. She sold her home several years ago, sent all the money to her brother in Armenia so he could arrange a place for her, a new home. (She is Armenian, married a Russian, lives in Abkhazia, has sister in USA - typical conglomeration of mixed cultures) She wanted to be close to family. Her neighbor gave her a room to stay in until she moved. She was planning to move to Armenia right before the war broke out in 1992. She has been unable to accomplish this since, because she needed a Russian passport. Abkhazians cannot leave Abkhazia via Georgia and that is the most direct route to Armenia. She obtained the passport finally last year (because she was born in Russia, she could apply for one). Sula is one of the fortunate ones who has obtained a Russian passport while living in Abkhazia. The advantage of a Russian passport is a large pension(around 3,000 rubble= 85 bucks), compared to the Abkhaz pension (100 ruble =3 bucks). Per Year.
Sula told us why she was not at home for the past month.
She needed to renew her Russian passport (annual requirement). She knew of the approaching expiration date on her passport. She did not have money to pay for the renewal so she requested funds from the Local Red Cross to help her to pay for the renewal. She was given sufficient funds, then became ill. She was in bed for 2 weeks. No one knew she was sick. When she was well she decided to get on a bus and go to Russia to renew her passport.
She arrived at the border only to discover she did not bring one of several documents that is required for renewal. She had to turn around and go home. She got the papers, went back to the border however, at the border she was not able to cross because her passport was now expired by two days. She explained the situation, but was told to go home and to send in the money and the documents to Moscow and she could pay a late fee and her passport would be renewed
And so, she did that.
Sula said she was distraught and decided she would to try to go to Armenia without her Russian passport. She would go through Georgia. It is very tricky for Abkhazians to go to Georgia, but she was going to try anyway. She arrived in Zugdidi, Georgia via bus and while getting out her money she accidentally dropped her Abkhazian identification. BIG MISTAKE. Georgians DO NOT WANT people to show or to HAVE Abkhazian identifications. Abkhazians are supposed to be Georgians. To show the ID is an insult. Abkhazia is a territory of Georgia, not an independent country where citizens have Identification Cards.
She did not mean to drop the ID , but she did and now she was in trouble. The militia took Sula to jail, for having an Abkhaz ID. She stayed in jail for three days, then was taken to a psychiatric floor of a “old-folks-home!!!!!!! She was told there were no beds other than in the psychiatric area. Sula is clear-headed, frail, kind and of NO threat to ANYONE. The militia felt that an old folks home was more fitting than jail, but now she was medicated with antipsychotic meds along with those who “needed“ them, and force to live with individuals with whom she had no ability to communicate. She had no recourse. She had no family to contact. She was doomed in this horrific place. She was innocently trying to go to Armenia to be with her family and was likely to spend her last days in a place worse than jail.
Sula decided she would commit suicide. After having been refused any opportunity to contact relatives in Armenia, she felt death was a better way to solve her dilemma than life in the psych ward. She announced her plan. Of course, that only confirmed she needed this level of care. The soldier who had arrested her came to see her, feeling guilty, I guess. She told him her plan. He told the Director of the Old Folks Home that he must take her to a government office to sign “some papers” . He said he would bring her back as soon as the papers were signed.
He then let Sula go. He said, “I cannot give you your Abkhaz ID back, but Go Lady, wherever you can and wherever you want to go, just GO“. And she did. She did not have enough money now to go to Yerivan, Armenia. Her money had been used in the “the home” to buy food. She was able to beg a bus ride back to the Abkhaz border. She had no Abkhazia ID, but the man at the border crossing recognized her and mercifully let her through the border.
When we saw Sula she had been home for 2 days. She was beyond grateful to see friendly faces. She was happy to be in her little room. She now regrets having sold her home, but she has no ability to reverse this decision. She must find a way to get to Armenia.
We will meet with the International Red Cross this coming week. They have a re-location program and should be able to assist Sula getting re-located to Yerivan, Armenia. She wants to wait to get her Russian passport, so she can leave Abkhazia legally through Russia. If you look on the map you will see how absurd this is. Russia is north of Abkhazia. Armenia is south. It would be like going through Denver to go from Los Angeles to San Francisco. ABSURD.
But on to the coffee reading.
While Sula was telling her tale, we sipped on coffee. After completing the coffee, and still telling the tale she quietly swirled the final contents of the coffee, and then turned the cup upside down.
Remember this is thick, muddy coffee. Turkish coffee. You drink only the top portion and leave the bottom one third. The bottom is just thick coffee grounds.
So in preparation for “the reading” she swirls the remaining coffee grounds, turns the cup upside down then lets it sit. My cup sat for 15 minutes.
We had now finished the tale, and were ready to leave. I thought perhaps she had forgotten all about the coffee reading. Inga had warned me, that “you never ask to have your coffee read”. One is invited to have their coffee read, at the invitation of the coffee reader. There are only a few coffee readers in any village or town. This is a rather special talent. It is like palm reading, fortune telling, future forecasting.
Sula, without announcement , picked up my coffee cup and began something like a chant. While telling her tale she had been animated. This was a different voice, a different space. She was a different person while reading my coffee. This was serious, this was sacred.
I shant tell you the content of the reading. I don’t think I should. Inga knows, because Inga knows everything. She translates for me. I was stunned. Sula has never met me. She never asked anything about me. I introduced myself and told her my name when we arrived, that‘s it. During the half hour we had been in her home we discussed only her mis-adventure. There is no way she could know the things about me she knows. The coffee told her.
Sula has a gift. Tears streamed down my face as she read the bottom of the cup. She twirled it around and around. She paused. She smiled. She never looked at me. She was almost in a trance.
It was yet another spiritual experience in this magical place. I have been offered secrets into my future.
God Bless Sula in what will no doubt be more adventures and mis-adventures that will bring her to her long awaited reunion with her people. God bless us all as we travel and reunion with our people.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Classrooms
I was a visitor today. At two schools.
The first school was The Sukhumi Boarding School. It used to be a very prestigious competitive educational facility. Now it is an orphanage. The students there have no parents, they were lost in the war. There are some students who have one parent, but that parent is disabled in some way, ie unable to make a living and so the child lives at the school during the week and goes home on the weekend. The students that show promise and perform well have a free ride to a Russian University. The school is paid for by the government. Inga and I went there today, she said I was the first expat to go to the school. It was high up on a hill, overlooking the sea. A spectacular setting. The building was rebuilt after the war. Institutional, but quite nice. The campus was beautiful, it could have been in some lazy New England township or English village. Majestic trees, fresh spring grass, pastoral scenery, pastures with content cows, soft sunlight highlighting the basketball court and a couple of students sticking their heads out the window, greeting the visitors.
We went there to donate Plumpy Nut. Some of you may know what Plumpy Nut is and others may not. It is a therapeutic food supplement, basically peanut butter with vitamins, minerals and a bit of sugar. It is packaged in a plastic foil packet enough for a single healthy serving. Kids love it. It’s is distributed in countries with famine or after a disaster. It is portable, doesn’t “go bad”, and as lots of calories, and is a complete food substitute - ie one can live on nothing but Plumpy Nut and clean water . It has saved many lives.
We were sent a shipment that was three times larger than ordered. So, we thought we would take some to the orphanage as a donation. They were pleased. I expect the kids will be throwing temper tantrums next month when all the Plumpy Nut is consumed. With a little jelly, yum, what more could a kid want?
On the way back to the car there were a couple of boys at the scrappy, but functional basketball court, obviously skipping classes. We laughed, they look chagrined, but confident in their naughtiness.
School boys, always ready to bend the rules on a sunny day in May.
I visited another school this evening after my Russian lesson.
I estimate there were 15-20 students in each classroom. Three classrooms in all. Each had the same basic curriculum.
There were students that were “normal” students, that is, they conducted their exercises with rhythmic synchronicity. Perfect timing, perfectly graceful in their execution. There were students that were “showoffs” as there always are in every classroom. Stand-outs, eager for an audience, playful and naughty, you know, 12 year old boys. And of course there were those students I could not see, because they were, well hidden. Hidden in the sea.
The students were dolphins. The sea was the school. It too was a lovely setting. The campus was soft, almost silky, very few waves, only those made by the few dolphins jumping and playing while other students quietly “rolled” in and out of the water. They were at one moment black dots, that looked like a mirage, then they came closer, then they were very close, close enough to see their fins creases, and the individual movements
It was thrilling to witness, so close and for so long. I stood for an hour in amazement.
Of course, I tried to take pictures, but as soon as I saw them jumping, I was so excited that I clicked the camera a millisecond too late. After 8 or so attempts I gave up, and just said, “Genie, enjoy. You can’t capture this moment on a camera.”
I think the reason why I have not seen them before is that the dolphins are studying Russian. Most days they can’t take recess, too much work to do. Too many letters to learn, to many nouns and verbs to conjugate. So, I think the dolphins and I both enjoyed this evening. Done with your lesson, ENJOY SOME FREE TIME. The dolphins and I are determined to learn a little but make sure we play a lot.
We also took Plumpy Nut to the Psychiatric hospital.(I’ll make no nut jokes) I’ll tell you more about that another day. Two classrooms is enough, plus Russian lessons!!!!!!!!
Nighty night…..g
The first school was The Sukhumi Boarding School. It used to be a very prestigious competitive educational facility. Now it is an orphanage. The students there have no parents, they were lost in the war. There are some students who have one parent, but that parent is disabled in some way, ie unable to make a living and so the child lives at the school during the week and goes home on the weekend. The students that show promise and perform well have a free ride to a Russian University. The school is paid for by the government. Inga and I went there today, she said I was the first expat to go to the school. It was high up on a hill, overlooking the sea. A spectacular setting. The building was rebuilt after the war. Institutional, but quite nice. The campus was beautiful, it could have been in some lazy New England township or English village. Majestic trees, fresh spring grass, pastoral scenery, pastures with content cows, soft sunlight highlighting the basketball court and a couple of students sticking their heads out the window, greeting the visitors.
We went there to donate Plumpy Nut. Some of you may know what Plumpy Nut is and others may not. It is a therapeutic food supplement, basically peanut butter with vitamins, minerals and a bit of sugar. It is packaged in a plastic foil packet enough for a single healthy serving. Kids love it. It’s is distributed in countries with famine or after a disaster. It is portable, doesn’t “go bad”, and as lots of calories, and is a complete food substitute - ie one can live on nothing but Plumpy Nut and clean water . It has saved many lives.
We were sent a shipment that was three times larger than ordered. So, we thought we would take some to the orphanage as a donation. They were pleased. I expect the kids will be throwing temper tantrums next month when all the Plumpy Nut is consumed. With a little jelly, yum, what more could a kid want?
On the way back to the car there were a couple of boys at the scrappy, but functional basketball court, obviously skipping classes. We laughed, they look chagrined, but confident in their naughtiness.
School boys, always ready to bend the rules on a sunny day in May.
I visited another school this evening after my Russian lesson.
I estimate there were 15-20 students in each classroom. Three classrooms in all. Each had the same basic curriculum.
There were students that were “normal” students, that is, they conducted their exercises with rhythmic synchronicity. Perfect timing, perfectly graceful in their execution. There were students that were “showoffs” as there always are in every classroom. Stand-outs, eager for an audience, playful and naughty, you know, 12 year old boys. And of course there were those students I could not see, because they were, well hidden. Hidden in the sea.
The students were dolphins. The sea was the school. It too was a lovely setting. The campus was soft, almost silky, very few waves, only those made by the few dolphins jumping and playing while other students quietly “rolled” in and out of the water. They were at one moment black dots, that looked like a mirage, then they came closer, then they were very close, close enough to see their fins creases, and the individual movements
It was thrilling to witness, so close and for so long. I stood for an hour in amazement.
Of course, I tried to take pictures, but as soon as I saw them jumping, I was so excited that I clicked the camera a millisecond too late. After 8 or so attempts I gave up, and just said, “Genie, enjoy. You can’t capture this moment on a camera.”
I think the reason why I have not seen them before is that the dolphins are studying Russian. Most days they can’t take recess, too much work to do. Too many letters to learn, to many nouns and verbs to conjugate. So, I think the dolphins and I both enjoyed this evening. Done with your lesson, ENJOY SOME FREE TIME. The dolphins and I are determined to learn a little but make sure we play a lot.
We also took Plumpy Nut to the Psychiatric hospital.(I’ll make no nut jokes) I’ll tell you more about that another day. Two classrooms is enough, plus Russian lessons!!!!!!!!
Nighty night…..g
Sunday, May 17, 2009
GIRLFRIENDS
She was a raging maniac tonight, like I have never seen before.
I see her every day, and I love her changing moods.
She is shimmering, silvery and sexy one day and sullen and sour another. Some days her “dress” is a glorious pink at sunset and sometimes she wears an ugly grey-green housecoat that needs to go to the goodwill. Plenty of days she has a conservative dark blue suit that looks quite nice on her.
She is lazy some days, just lolly-gagging, in no mood to do much of anything.
She can be rather tempestuous and on occasion fidgety, but late this evening she was madder than mad, crazier than crazy, she was a lunatic. She was intimidating and downright scary. I don’t think she could have been arrested for her behavior because no one could get close enough to her to catch her.
THE SEA was quite a gal tonight. All that fluid fury and oceanic anger from my friend was good to watch. I know exactly how she feels. It is always good to be around girl friends that can tell you what they are really feeling. "Just let it all out honey, it will be OK soon." She and I are buddies. Tonight no one else was around. No one else wanted to be around. They all wanted the comfort and quiet of their homes. I however came to the sea to “vent” and when I got there she was ranting and raving and kicking and screaming so that I forgot all about my own grumpiness. That’s the great thing about a good girlfriend.
We take turns. Sometimes she listens to me and sometimes I listen to her. We need each other. We girls.
I hope tomorrow She-Sea is in a better mood, otherwise I may have to have a heart-to-heart talk with her. You know, "shape up or ship out". "Get off your high horse and get back to work". "Stop that nonsense". "Honey, you aren’t the only one with problems"………….. She will likely tell me to butt a stump.
We will laugh and all will be good……….
I love all of you, my friends, you that speak, you that listen, you that empty you soul, and you that allow me to empty my soul into your outstretched arms.
good night.
I see her every day, and I love her changing moods.
She is shimmering, silvery and sexy one day and sullen and sour another. Some days her “dress” is a glorious pink at sunset and sometimes she wears an ugly grey-green housecoat that needs to go to the goodwill. Plenty of days she has a conservative dark blue suit that looks quite nice on her.
She is lazy some days, just lolly-gagging, in no mood to do much of anything.
She can be rather tempestuous and on occasion fidgety, but late this evening she was madder than mad, crazier than crazy, she was a lunatic. She was intimidating and downright scary. I don’t think she could have been arrested for her behavior because no one could get close enough to her to catch her.
THE SEA was quite a gal tonight. All that fluid fury and oceanic anger from my friend was good to watch. I know exactly how she feels. It is always good to be around girl friends that can tell you what they are really feeling. "Just let it all out honey, it will be OK soon." She and I are buddies. Tonight no one else was around. No one else wanted to be around. They all wanted the comfort and quiet of their homes. I however came to the sea to “vent” and when I got there she was ranting and raving and kicking and screaming so that I forgot all about my own grumpiness. That’s the great thing about a good girlfriend.
We take turns. Sometimes she listens to me and sometimes I listen to her. We need each other. We girls.
I hope tomorrow She-Sea is in a better mood, otherwise I may have to have a heart-to-heart talk with her. You know, "shape up or ship out". "Get off your high horse and get back to work". "Stop that nonsense". "Honey, you aren’t the only one with problems"………….. She will likely tell me to butt a stump.
We will laugh and all will be good……….
I love all of you, my friends, you that speak, you that listen, you that empty you soul, and you that allow me to empty my soul into your outstretched arms.
good night.
Friday, May 15, 2009
RATS
RATS
Not in darn-it, phooy, but the rats that creep you out. Healthy, robust, well-fed rats are what are here, BIG RATS.
But then, it’s really no surprise. The choice of the Abkhaz for clean versus dirty seem heavily weighted on the later. The rats are happy, happy, happy and BIG here.
Gabrava Indusha has rats. When we entered today there were shreds of bedding, sofa stuffing, scraps of food, paper, wood, plastics everywhere. Her “home” tops the list for the most unadulterated disgusting place yet.
Gabrava receives dry food (pasta, rice, flour, lentils) and fresh fruit (apples, oranges, bananas, greens) and hygiene products(TP, soap, cleanser) from the MSF social worker every month. She has NOTHING except a mattress, a filthy chair, in which of course she insist that I sit, and a little tiny table, full of moldy food, black, fuzzy stuff, shreds of who-knows-what, with the floor underneath and around the table also full of the same black fuzzy stuff.
Gabrava wants to give me SOMETHING, although she has NOTHING. Everyone wants to give me something, nuts, candy, flowers, something. I appreciate the gesture, but I (MSF) is supposed to be giving not receiving. I am learning receiving is a form of giving.
I have given up resisting gifts intended to express the happy-to-welcome-you joy. I accept a mushy, but not yet black fruit of some kind, probably last months delivery from our social worker.
In this moment, Gabi is a gracious hostess, hosting an Amerikankee. In her rat-infested, vomit-inducing hell-hole, she offers me her “best”.
While Olga. our national doctor, with whom I am working today, is talking with Gabi, (well-named - non-stop talker), I sneak in a bit of cleaning. I know I shouldn’t but my hands cannot stay still, they must do something. I put on a pair of thin surgical gloves we use for changing dressings on wounds, and they immediately rip, but here, where something is better than nothing, I forge ahead with clandestine cleaning (although we are all in the same room). I pick up a stinky, mushy Jehova’s Witness pamphlet in Russian of course, empty plastic bottles and caps, sticky stuff, mushy stuff, black stuff, really smelly stuff, rat poop, shreds of things……something that has become nothing….I am a fastidious fairy god mother. RIGHT?
After the exam and more gabbing from Gabrava, after she complained bitterly about the RATS, we prepare to leave. I pick up the large plastic bag with the grunge in it and am walking towards to door, and Gabrava intercepts me and the bag. I indicate I am happy to carry the bag outside, to the dump, for her.
She will of course not allow this. But I am your fastidious fairy god mother, come to heal your wounds, and clean your home…..NOPE. Instead of engaging in a tug of war with Gabi I relinquish the bag, I render the rubbish back to it’s rightful owner.
I am ashamed.
I am a “doctor without borders“, but am I also a “doctor without boundaries“?
Even though there was a part of me that said, “this is pathological hording, and she is at risk of disease and death because of her hording. I am there to help…“but somehow, when she took the bag, intentionally, deliberately, I knew I had crossed a line, she may be ill, she may have a psychologically diagnosable, unstable condition, but did I have a right to impose my values in her single room-home?
I am sure next month when I return all of this mush-rubbish will have found a new home in this room and the rats will have consumed a portion of it and the remainder will be taunting me once again.
Truth is, I am sure my well-intended meddling is something I have done in other’s homes, my friends, my family.
I hope, I pray next month I have the restraint to leave Gabi’s goop alone, and just focus on her.
This is hard. The medicine is easy, we have so little sophisticated technology to get in the way. We keep things simple, medically. It’s the rest that is hard.
Everyone, please just do a little bit of cleaning FOR ME today, for the world, make a little space a bit better than it was. Perhaps I can take comfort in this.
And let the grunge, the muck, the black fuzzy stuff just remain.
THANKS
g
Not in darn-it, phooy, but the rats that creep you out. Healthy, robust, well-fed rats are what are here, BIG RATS.
But then, it’s really no surprise. The choice of the Abkhaz for clean versus dirty seem heavily weighted on the later. The rats are happy, happy, happy and BIG here.
Gabrava Indusha has rats. When we entered today there were shreds of bedding, sofa stuffing, scraps of food, paper, wood, plastics everywhere. Her “home” tops the list for the most unadulterated disgusting place yet.
Gabrava receives dry food (pasta, rice, flour, lentils) and fresh fruit (apples, oranges, bananas, greens) and hygiene products(TP, soap, cleanser) from the MSF social worker every month. She has NOTHING except a mattress, a filthy chair, in which of course she insist that I sit, and a little tiny table, full of moldy food, black, fuzzy stuff, shreds of who-knows-what, with the floor underneath and around the table also full of the same black fuzzy stuff.
Gabrava wants to give me SOMETHING, although she has NOTHING. Everyone wants to give me something, nuts, candy, flowers, something. I appreciate the gesture, but I (MSF) is supposed to be giving not receiving. I am learning receiving is a form of giving.
I have given up resisting gifts intended to express the happy-to-welcome-you joy. I accept a mushy, but not yet black fruit of some kind, probably last months delivery from our social worker.
In this moment, Gabi is a gracious hostess, hosting an Amerikankee. In her rat-infested, vomit-inducing hell-hole, she offers me her “best”.
While Olga. our national doctor, with whom I am working today, is talking with Gabi, (well-named - non-stop talker), I sneak in a bit of cleaning. I know I shouldn’t but my hands cannot stay still, they must do something. I put on a pair of thin surgical gloves we use for changing dressings on wounds, and they immediately rip, but here, where something is better than nothing, I forge ahead with clandestine cleaning (although we are all in the same room). I pick up a stinky, mushy Jehova’s Witness pamphlet in Russian of course, empty plastic bottles and caps, sticky stuff, mushy stuff, black stuff, really smelly stuff, rat poop, shreds of things……something that has become nothing….I am a fastidious fairy god mother. RIGHT?
After the exam and more gabbing from Gabrava, after she complained bitterly about the RATS, we prepare to leave. I pick up the large plastic bag with the grunge in it and am walking towards to door, and Gabrava intercepts me and the bag. I indicate I am happy to carry the bag outside, to the dump, for her.
She will of course not allow this. But I am your fastidious fairy god mother, come to heal your wounds, and clean your home…..NOPE. Instead of engaging in a tug of war with Gabi I relinquish the bag, I render the rubbish back to it’s rightful owner.
I am ashamed.
I am a “doctor without borders“, but am I also a “doctor without boundaries“?
Even though there was a part of me that said, “this is pathological hording, and she is at risk of disease and death because of her hording. I am there to help…“but somehow, when she took the bag, intentionally, deliberately, I knew I had crossed a line, she may be ill, she may have a psychologically diagnosable, unstable condition, but did I have a right to impose my values in her single room-home?
I am sure next month when I return all of this mush-rubbish will have found a new home in this room and the rats will have consumed a portion of it and the remainder will be taunting me once again.
Truth is, I am sure my well-intended meddling is something I have done in other’s homes, my friends, my family.
I hope, I pray next month I have the restraint to leave Gabi’s goop alone, and just focus on her.
This is hard. The medicine is easy, we have so little sophisticated technology to get in the way. We keep things simple, medically. It’s the rest that is hard.
Everyone, please just do a little bit of cleaning FOR ME today, for the world, make a little space a bit better than it was. Perhaps I can take comfort in this.
And let the grunge, the muck, the black fuzzy stuff just remain.
THANKS
g
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
OUT OF JAIL, STILL IMPRISONED
Ali and Asya Bairactarov, both in their early 80s live high in the mountains. It has rained every day this past week - and every night. So the MSF Toyota vehicle got stuck in the deep muddy ruts on a very steep, not-meant-for-man-made-vehicles road as we were approaching their house. Donkeys would be better, cows would be better, goats would be better. An elephant would be best.
Ali comes to the gate to greet us - he is huff-puffing and audibly wheezing. But with a smile on his face he welcomes us into his palace - chickens squawking, dogs barking, a one room-with-a-porch shack with a wood burning combination heat and cook stove, 200 or more years old I guess. I see an after-though electric wire loosely attached to the wall leading to a single bulb in the middle of the room. The sun is out, no need for a light. It is dark in the little room none-the-less.
We extend greetings, I now am accomplished in introducing myself, and saying a few words of conversation in Russian. If the persons speak Abkhaz, I don’t even try. It is the silliest language you have ever heard. Slooshes, and choschloshes, gutteral utterances that sound like a bad cough combined with an apple stuck in the back of your throat.
Anyway, exam time. Asya is first. She has had a stroke, and currently has a large pleural effusion - based on exam. No breath sounds in the entire L lower lobe. She has apparently has an effusion in the past. But she is too sick to transport now, nor does she want to be transported. So, we acknowledge, yep, it is there, and treat what is bothering her. The pain in her hand. She is happy. Ali’s asthma is worse. He wheezes a lot, and struggles to get a deep breath. We have inhalers that help. He also has diarrhea and so we treat that. He too is happy.
I ask for a photo. They sit next to each other, a kind, loving glance between the two. She takes off 2 layers (there are ALWAYS many, many layers). I stopped her when she arrived at the orange polka dotted dress and said, that is nice and colorful. She smiled and stopped taking off layers. Ali had on a dirty grey shirt, he puts on a dirty gray sweater to be presentable. Neither bothers with their hair.
As we were packing up ready to depart, I see a little book in the window. It is a math book, for a school child. Ali says that it is his grandson’s book. I also see a twig, with leaves on it. I have seen this same twig in numerous homes. I ask what it is. Ali smiles and says, it is to “encourage” our grandson. He shows me that the leaves, that are fuzzy and a bit sticky also have a sting to them. Like stinging nettle. He smiles, it helps our grandson when he needs “encouragement”. We all laugh.
Olga told me after we left Ali and Asya’s home their son died in the war. Their daughter died in a car accident 3 years ago. They have no other family but the grandson. They must stay alive for him.
I say to Olga, “they are such a sweet couple.”
She smiles, and says, “Ali and Asya met while they were serving time in prison”.
They served their prison sentence, they are serving a different sentence now. They are imprisoned in time’s-running-out-jail. No means to make money, both too sick to survive for long, and a mandate to stay alive, to keep going, to survive, to be able to care for their one-and-only-grandson.
We will return again next month. God bless Ali and Asya.
Ali comes to the gate to greet us - he is huff-puffing and audibly wheezing. But with a smile on his face he welcomes us into his palace - chickens squawking, dogs barking, a one room-with-a-porch shack with a wood burning combination heat and cook stove, 200 or more years old I guess. I see an after-though electric wire loosely attached to the wall leading to a single bulb in the middle of the room. The sun is out, no need for a light. It is dark in the little room none-the-less.
We extend greetings, I now am accomplished in introducing myself, and saying a few words of conversation in Russian. If the persons speak Abkhaz, I don’t even try. It is the silliest language you have ever heard. Slooshes, and choschloshes, gutteral utterances that sound like a bad cough combined with an apple stuck in the back of your throat.
Anyway, exam time. Asya is first. She has had a stroke, and currently has a large pleural effusion - based on exam. No breath sounds in the entire L lower lobe. She has apparently has an effusion in the past. But she is too sick to transport now, nor does she want to be transported. So, we acknowledge, yep, it is there, and treat what is bothering her. The pain in her hand. She is happy. Ali’s asthma is worse. He wheezes a lot, and struggles to get a deep breath. We have inhalers that help. He also has diarrhea and so we treat that. He too is happy.
I ask for a photo. They sit next to each other, a kind, loving glance between the two. She takes off 2 layers (there are ALWAYS many, many layers). I stopped her when she arrived at the orange polka dotted dress and said, that is nice and colorful. She smiled and stopped taking off layers. Ali had on a dirty grey shirt, he puts on a dirty gray sweater to be presentable. Neither bothers with their hair.
As we were packing up ready to depart, I see a little book in the window. It is a math book, for a school child. Ali says that it is his grandson’s book. I also see a twig, with leaves on it. I have seen this same twig in numerous homes. I ask what it is. Ali smiles and says, it is to “encourage” our grandson. He shows me that the leaves, that are fuzzy and a bit sticky also have a sting to them. Like stinging nettle. He smiles, it helps our grandson when he needs “encouragement”. We all laugh.
Olga told me after we left Ali and Asya’s home their son died in the war. Their daughter died in a car accident 3 years ago. They have no other family but the grandson. They must stay alive for him.
I say to Olga, “they are such a sweet couple.”
She smiles, and says, “Ali and Asya met while they were serving time in prison”.
They served their prison sentence, they are serving a different sentence now. They are imprisoned in time’s-running-out-jail. No means to make money, both too sick to survive for long, and a mandate to stay alive, to keep going, to survive, to be able to care for their one-and-only-grandson.
We will return again next month. God bless Ali and Asya.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mothers Day
We planned a trip to Lake Ritza today. A spectacular lake high in the mountains that is often photographed. However, it is raining cats and dogs and pigs and rats and goats and, at the moment, blundering bombastic buffalo. Perhaps Ritza will happen another day.
So I can catch up on some writing, some reading, some cleaning, maybe even some Russian lessons.
I like rainy Mother’s Days. Plans Change. No packing of picnics, or dressing up for brunch, just hanging out. At “home”
I have the best Mother in all the world. I think everyone who knows Frances will agree.
Frances Harper knows the joy of love and living the good life, and she know equally the pain of love lost and a tough life. She know beauty and banality. She has had her share of plenty and parsimony. Frances knows how to navigate in auspicious occasions and those occasions where no one would ever want to be found.
MOM is my mother superior, my most blessed one, who inspires me with her beauty, her grace, her kindness and forgiveness. She is a sit-on-the-bed-late-at-night-giggle-with-the-girls-mom. She is a sure-why-not-mom. When she was “too old” she paddled solo down the Guadalupe river in an inner tube, screaming with the rest of us, and in the dead of winter she hiked with snow-shoes in the mountains in Colorado. Each "I'm-too-old-adventure" she curses and says "I'll never let you do this to me again" reminding us she is too old, but of course secretly enjoying her “too-oldness”.
Granny is a champion among champions. She plays a mean piano and organ, and knows the ancient art of short-hand. She says she can’t cook, but all three of her daughters remain well-fed, even today. Quite frankly I think the “oh, I can’t cook thing” is a muse - mom’s smart enough to cook when and what she wants, but not to be stuck in the kitchen cooking my favorite, your favorite, and everyone’s favorite dish every day. I like this practical approach. And her squash casserole is yet unmatched by any.
Everything I am, the good and the naughty has it’s roots in this red-headed, hot-headed, gentle-spirited, generous mother of mine.
I am my own person, but much of that is because Franny Wilson was her own person and she showed me how. Peg made mistakes, still makes mistakes, and she deals with what has been dealt her (perhaps keeping a few lucky cards in her back pocket, and regularly disposing of unnecessary cards along the way).
She is my hero, my inspiration, my friend and foe, she makes me happy and mad, warm and boiling hot.
GaGee is a fabulous grandmother, and a tremendous great grandmother but it is her motherness that I love.
It is the simple, never changing fact that Martha Frances Wilson Harper, Granny, Gagee, Peg, Franny, mom is and will always be my mother, and that brings me more joy and strength, courage and kindness, curiosity and balder-dashidness than I deserve.
Thank you Mom, I love you. I am grateful the gods selected me to be your daughter.
PS: I happen to have with me the picture of you in those ridiculous, “jeweled” red glasses that you “won” at the goofy gift exchange a couple of Christmas’s ago. I look at it often, and giggle. This is my elegant, poised wacky-I-can’t -believe-she-is-really-wearing-these-mother!!!! I am hoping you will bring the equally ridiculous egg pan for this year's goofy gift, but you may have already selected something even stupider (is that a word?)
see ya,
daughter#2
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Maia and Tomi
I would like for you to meet Pantskava Maia, who is 30 years old.
Maia had been married 4 years when she fell while cleaning a house for a wealthy Russian family. They wanted outside windows cleaned. There was no ladder. Maia fell 3 stories. She is now a paraplegic. A lovely girl. Lying in her bed with a sad sort of smile, a half-smile.
Her husband left her after the accident, and two years after that her only child, a son, died of leukemia. Her mother moved to Germany and her father is deaf and frail and is not able to care for her. Maia’s aunt lived in Sukhumi and offered her a place to stay.
We provide her food and dressings for a chronic fistula at the surgical site on her back, the unsuccessful surgery. Maia’s only wish is to go to the cemetery to visit her son. We got her a wheelchair this week, it is not what MSF typically does, but I have a small “undesignated/ miscellaneous” budget to work with, and I spent a portion of it on Maia‘s wheelchair. Many who contribute to MSF never know exactly how their money is spent. I wish they knew how they helped Maia. I am grateful to those persons who have given Maia a whole-smile to replace her half-smile. She is planning a trip to the cemetery to see her son tomorrow.
Tomasina Gaiyina lives alone, at least with no other humans. She actually isn’t alone at all, with her dogs and cats and chickens and polka dot pigs. Tomi is strong and her dog is mean. Today we go to visit. We call her name from outside the fence in a very loud voice. She slowly walks out the door, onto her porch, we see her turn around, get on her hands and knees. She then backs down, step by step, until she reaches the bottom. She picks up two tree branches made into walking sticks, with mean dog by her side, and she hobbles to the fence. Mean dog growls as she approaches the fence where we are standing, the cats and chickens of course don’t care. The polka dot pig is grunting and schloppily shlugking in the muck.
Inga is afraid of dogs and gets back into the MSF vehicle. I stand by the gate and Inga translates leaning her head out of the truck. Tomi says “After I open the gate the dog will come out and be nice“. Hummmm, do I trust this? My predecessor had 5 dog bites, my colleague had a dog bite near our house just yesterday. Tomi looks so kind, and she shakes her hand with a gesture of assurance, the tree branch also shaking, communicating non-verbally “really, the dog is OK, he is nice”. I wait, I spot a stick within reach, so stupidly I think I can grab the stick and fend off the dog, once he gets out of the gated yard, if he decides he does not like me after all. I remember I had the full rabies series while in Paris.
Gate opens, out comes the dog, he looks at me, growls, tail starts wagging, he looks back at his master and watches her. Nothing. She was right - Mean Dog is Nice Dog outside the gate.
Of course, I will be examining Tomi not in the comfort of her home, but in the wide-open……but she is so unsteady and how foolish of me to not bring an exam table or at least a chair. I go to the back of the truck, there is an emergency box, a metal box, about 2x2x3foot. Perfect ,a make-do chair. It is hard to find a flat space, so the “chair” sits on uneven ground and I help Tomi sit. Blood pressure very high, lungs clear, heart irregular. .No swelling in her feet, her knees arthritic and it is arthritis she is complaining of today. I change her medications to hopefully impact her BP and recognize there is nothing I can do in her front yard to improve the irregular heart rhythm, other than the selection of an antihypertensive that might also slow the heart rate a bit. She gets paracetamol (the equivalent of Tylenol) , and some ibuprofen with proper warnings. Inga and I carry the old-fashioned black bag with all sorts of medicines and goodies, never knowing what might be needed. We dispense the proper amount in little teeny zip-lock packets, with the Russian names written. We give verbal instructions. Mean dog has been sitting dutifully by his master the whole time, a perfect doggie-gentleman.
We finish our examination and visit, Tomi is happy. Mean dog is happy. She has chocolates in her raggedy pocket. She hands them to me. I say thank you in Russian. I watch her habbleto her home on the hill, place her two walking sticks next to the stairs, which this time she ascends one at a time on her knees.
Mean dog stays at the fence , on his side, and growls viciously.
Maia had been married 4 years when she fell while cleaning a house for a wealthy Russian family. They wanted outside windows cleaned. There was no ladder. Maia fell 3 stories. She is now a paraplegic. A lovely girl. Lying in her bed with a sad sort of smile, a half-smile.
Her husband left her after the accident, and two years after that her only child, a son, died of leukemia. Her mother moved to Germany and her father is deaf and frail and is not able to care for her. Maia’s aunt lived in Sukhumi and offered her a place to stay.
We provide her food and dressings for a chronic fistula at the surgical site on her back, the unsuccessful surgery. Maia’s only wish is to go to the cemetery to visit her son. We got her a wheelchair this week, it is not what MSF typically does, but I have a small “undesignated/ miscellaneous” budget to work with, and I spent a portion of it on Maia‘s wheelchair. Many who contribute to MSF never know exactly how their money is spent. I wish they knew how they helped Maia. I am grateful to those persons who have given Maia a whole-smile to replace her half-smile. She is planning a trip to the cemetery to see her son tomorrow.
Tomasina Gaiyina lives alone, at least with no other humans. She actually isn’t alone at all, with her dogs and cats and chickens and polka dot pigs. Tomi is strong and her dog is mean. Today we go to visit. We call her name from outside the fence in a very loud voice. She slowly walks out the door, onto her porch, we see her turn around, get on her hands and knees. She then backs down, step by step, until she reaches the bottom. She picks up two tree branches made into walking sticks, with mean dog by her side, and she hobbles to the fence. Mean dog growls as she approaches the fence where we are standing, the cats and chickens of course don’t care. The polka dot pig is grunting and schloppily shlugking in the muck.
Inga is afraid of dogs and gets back into the MSF vehicle. I stand by the gate and Inga translates leaning her head out of the truck. Tomi says “After I open the gate the dog will come out and be nice“. Hummmm, do I trust this? My predecessor had 5 dog bites, my colleague had a dog bite near our house just yesterday. Tomi looks so kind, and she shakes her hand with a gesture of assurance, the tree branch also shaking, communicating non-verbally “really, the dog is OK, he is nice”. I wait, I spot a stick within reach, so stupidly I think I can grab the stick and fend off the dog, once he gets out of the gated yard, if he decides he does not like me after all. I remember I had the full rabies series while in Paris.
Gate opens, out comes the dog, he looks at me, growls, tail starts wagging, he looks back at his master and watches her. Nothing. She was right - Mean Dog is Nice Dog outside the gate.
Of course, I will be examining Tomi not in the comfort of her home, but in the wide-open……but she is so unsteady and how foolish of me to not bring an exam table or at least a chair. I go to the back of the truck, there is an emergency box, a metal box, about 2x2x3foot. Perfect ,a make-do chair. It is hard to find a flat space, so the “chair” sits on uneven ground and I help Tomi sit. Blood pressure very high, lungs clear, heart irregular. .No swelling in her feet, her knees arthritic and it is arthritis she is complaining of today. I change her medications to hopefully impact her BP and recognize there is nothing I can do in her front yard to improve the irregular heart rhythm, other than the selection of an antihypertensive that might also slow the heart rate a bit. She gets paracetamol (the equivalent of Tylenol) , and some ibuprofen with proper warnings. Inga and I carry the old-fashioned black bag with all sorts of medicines and goodies, never knowing what might be needed. We dispense the proper amount in little teeny zip-lock packets, with the Russian names written. We give verbal instructions. Mean dog has been sitting dutifully by his master the whole time, a perfect doggie-gentleman.
We finish our examination and visit, Tomi is happy. Mean dog is happy. She has chocolates in her raggedy pocket. She hands them to me. I say thank you in Russian. I watch her habbleto her home on the hill, place her two walking sticks next to the stairs, which this time she ascends one at a time on her knees.
Mean dog stays at the fence , on his side, and growls viciously.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Crazy
Three expats in the past two years have gone home early - “mental stress” was the reason.
Now they tell me…..GREAT
We have another expat leaving next week, she too is leaving early. I wouldn’t say stress, I would simply say she is “off her rocker”, she passed being unstable and stressed months ago.
So VY, Vats ze reason?
Here are a few
You know all about the bedbugs and cats .
Then there’s the greasy water. Yep, my hair honestly comes out of the shower saying “I thought you were washing me, and for the last 50 plus years that has meant fresh, soft, fragrant, you know CLEAN. Not greasy, slimy, smelly, yuck.“ It’s a sad situation when ones hair speaks to its owner in such vile terms. My hair is not happy with the quality of shower and shampoo. My body sings the same tune. “Come on now, can’t you manage to scrub yourself squeaky-clean every once in a while? I mean really, is that too much to ask the owner of a body?” I apologize often, to my hair and my bod, but they keep their tirades up night and day….
Is it the pipes, the water, the soap my imagination,? Am I too going crazy?
I have requested an American plumber-friend to come size up the situation, but unfortunately an American plumber friend or foe would have a hard time getting into Abkhazia, but better foe than friend. It would be easier to say “I am a thief, here to cause trouble, to rob and plunder, you know, like all other Abkhazians.” It would also help if the plumber said “and by the way I hate all Georgians, and while I don’t hate Russians, I do want independence, I want Abkhazia to remain Abkhazia." That might get the plumber in the country.
The Russian military movements began again today. Convoys of 20 tanks, 30 canvas-topped trucks, larger weapon-weilding vehicles in town headed for the border, helicopters overhead, something is going on. We will have a briefing tomorrow morning and find out. Probably not the best time for a well-intentioned plumber to come to town.
Meanwhile, I just complain about my hair and my body and the fact that I am going a bit off my rocker too.
Nighty night,
genie
PS - Announcement was made yesterday regarding agreement between Russia and Abkhazia. Russia will secure Abkhazia’s borders (truth is Russia has kept tanks at the border since last summer, now it is official that they will secure the border). We will see how this impacts our travel to and from Georgia. MSF has weekly transfers between Abkhazia and Georgia in order to send sputum from the Abkhazian Tuberculosis hospital for drug sensitivity testing and to receive supplies from Georgia, and for expat movements.
All for now
Now they tell me…..GREAT
We have another expat leaving next week, she too is leaving early. I wouldn’t say stress, I would simply say she is “off her rocker”, she passed being unstable and stressed months ago.
So VY, Vats ze reason?
Here are a few
You know all about the bedbugs and cats .
Then there’s the greasy water. Yep, my hair honestly comes out of the shower saying “I thought you were washing me, and for the last 50 plus years that has meant fresh, soft, fragrant, you know CLEAN. Not greasy, slimy, smelly, yuck.“ It’s a sad situation when ones hair speaks to its owner in such vile terms. My hair is not happy with the quality of shower and shampoo. My body sings the same tune. “Come on now, can’t you manage to scrub yourself squeaky-clean every once in a while? I mean really, is that too much to ask the owner of a body?” I apologize often, to my hair and my bod, but they keep their tirades up night and day….
Is it the pipes, the water, the soap my imagination,? Am I too going crazy?
I have requested an American plumber-friend to come size up the situation, but unfortunately an American plumber friend or foe would have a hard time getting into Abkhazia, but better foe than friend. It would be easier to say “I am a thief, here to cause trouble, to rob and plunder, you know, like all other Abkhazians.” It would also help if the plumber said “and by the way I hate all Georgians, and while I don’t hate Russians, I do want independence, I want Abkhazia to remain Abkhazia." That might get the plumber in the country.
The Russian military movements began again today. Convoys of 20 tanks, 30 canvas-topped trucks, larger weapon-weilding vehicles in town headed for the border, helicopters overhead, something is going on. We will have a briefing tomorrow morning and find out. Probably not the best time for a well-intentioned plumber to come to town.
Meanwhile, I just complain about my hair and my body and the fact that I am going a bit off my rocker too.
Nighty night,
genie
PS - Announcement was made yesterday regarding agreement between Russia and Abkhazia. Russia will secure Abkhazia’s borders (truth is Russia has kept tanks at the border since last summer, now it is official that they will secure the border). We will see how this impacts our travel to and from Georgia. MSF has weekly transfers between Abkhazia and Georgia in order to send sputum from the Abkhazian Tuberculosis hospital for drug sensitivity testing and to receive supplies from Georgia, and for expat movements.
All for now
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
It Ain't Me Babe
For those of you older than dirt, like me, do you remember the song It Ain’t Me Babe?
I have been singing one of the lines recently……”Go away from my window”……then it goes something like “leave at you own (the word escapes me)speed“……“I’m not the one you want babe“,….on and on.
You see, there is, or actually there was, a cute kitten (like the kitties on my bedroom walls) but in fact a real kitten that was beloved by the former occupant of my room. She liked cats and liked to sleep with cats. Every evening this little kitten would arrive at her window and come in for a snuggling sleep. Fine, I have no problem with people who like cats, and who sleep with cats. It Ain’t Me Babe.
And so when she graciously moved out of this room to assume a larger room in the other house, leaving me with the kitty wallpaper, she didn’t tell me about the REAL kitten, who wanted to stay in his little cuddly bed every night.
I am charmed by the kitties on my wallpaper. They don’t meow, they don’t tear things up, they enjoy their 2 dimensional existence in silence and respect of their roommate.
Not so with the REAL kitty. After several nights of kindly putting the kitty out the window, then tossing the kitty out, then cursing while hurling the kitty out, I had to take more drastic measures. I’m smarter than a kitty, RIGHT?
The window has iron bars on the outside presumably to keep out unwanted visitors, Hah!!!!!! The house guards are paid to keep out unwanted human visitors, but not cute little kitties.
I found some extra mosquito netting in a closet and thought - this will do the trick. So, I put the netting on the window attaching it with clothes pins which I stole from the clothespin basket (I am sure my thievery has been noticed). I will need netting on the window for summer anyway. However, the little kitty just tore a hole in the netting. I tried double netting (you know extra strength, like Bounty) but the hole was there the next day and the kitty was in my bed the next night.
Drastic measures for desperate times. I called upon Shamil. Shamil is our “Jack-of-all-trades” grounds-keeper. He is the kindest, always smiling, fella in Abkhazia. He reminds me of my friend Jose, he too is always willing to do those pesky chores no one wants to do. We have drivers (required by MSF) that often are grumpy, and ask for raises every other day. Shamil is thoughtful, and very helpful whenever asked. He fixed the light fixture in my room and so when the electricity works, so does the light. We found old buckets and pots to plant flowers in for our terrace, and Shamil put holes in the bottom……I asked Shamil to use his wits, not his charm, to solve the kitty problem. The next day he put chicken wire on the window, small hole wire, no kitty can come through those holes, neither will the giant RATS we have either. I guess a teeny mouse could get through, but I have not seen mice, just gross, fat, fast RATS. I am not sure who would be the victor in a cat and rat battle, I don’t really care. They can have their own games, just leave me out.
So, you might think the kitty ordeal is solved. It was, sort of. After 5 days of the kitty meowing endlessly throughout the night, while I was using earplugs and dreaming of a stun-gun, he departed. Presumably to find a more hospitable home, one where food and lodging were provided. Dilemma solved.
A week of peace and quiet, nice, then last night, as I was drifting off to sleep after finishing MY LAST BOOK (please send more books, Please) I heard not one cat, but two damn cats, meowing right under my window. On the terrace outside my window TWO NEW CATS decided since cute little REAL, but now departed, kitty has found another home they should take up residence here.
I ran out on the terrace, forgetting there is a guard guarding our house sitting in his guard-perch who has full view of anyone on the terrace, in my birthday suit, yelling at the cats, “Get out of here, NOW“.
Who knows what the neighbors on either side of our house were thinking, cats are just apart of life here. The cats of course scampered away for a few minutes, only to return once I got back into bed. This time with a yodel instead of a meow, a quivering, screeching, irritating, annoying, frustrating, disgusting, ‘we‘re out to get you, you silly girl‘……….yodel.
Earplugs,
a smile from the guard the next day,
an acknowledgement that I’m here to learn,
maybe to accept new night-kitty-friends.
Not in my bed, NEVER. Nighty night g
I have been singing one of the lines recently……”Go away from my window”……then it goes something like “leave at you own (the word escapes me)speed“……“I’m not the one you want babe“,….on and on.
You see, there is, or actually there was, a cute kitten (like the kitties on my bedroom walls) but in fact a real kitten that was beloved by the former occupant of my room. She liked cats and liked to sleep with cats. Every evening this little kitten would arrive at her window and come in for a snuggling sleep. Fine, I have no problem with people who like cats, and who sleep with cats. It Ain’t Me Babe.
And so when she graciously moved out of this room to assume a larger room in the other house, leaving me with the kitty wallpaper, she didn’t tell me about the REAL kitten, who wanted to stay in his little cuddly bed every night.
I am charmed by the kitties on my wallpaper. They don’t meow, they don’t tear things up, they enjoy their 2 dimensional existence in silence and respect of their roommate.
Not so with the REAL kitty. After several nights of kindly putting the kitty out the window, then tossing the kitty out, then cursing while hurling the kitty out, I had to take more drastic measures. I’m smarter than a kitty, RIGHT?
The window has iron bars on the outside presumably to keep out unwanted visitors, Hah!!!!!! The house guards are paid to keep out unwanted human visitors, but not cute little kitties.
I found some extra mosquito netting in a closet and thought - this will do the trick. So, I put the netting on the window attaching it with clothes pins which I stole from the clothespin basket (I am sure my thievery has been noticed). I will need netting on the window for summer anyway. However, the little kitty just tore a hole in the netting. I tried double netting (you know extra strength, like Bounty) but the hole was there the next day and the kitty was in my bed the next night.
Drastic measures for desperate times. I called upon Shamil. Shamil is our “Jack-of-all-trades” grounds-keeper. He is the kindest, always smiling, fella in Abkhazia. He reminds me of my friend Jose, he too is always willing to do those pesky chores no one wants to do. We have drivers (required by MSF) that often are grumpy, and ask for raises every other day. Shamil is thoughtful, and very helpful whenever asked. He fixed the light fixture in my room and so when the electricity works, so does the light. We found old buckets and pots to plant flowers in for our terrace, and Shamil put holes in the bottom……I asked Shamil to use his wits, not his charm, to solve the kitty problem. The next day he put chicken wire on the window, small hole wire, no kitty can come through those holes, neither will the giant RATS we have either. I guess a teeny mouse could get through, but I have not seen mice, just gross, fat, fast RATS. I am not sure who would be the victor in a cat and rat battle, I don’t really care. They can have their own games, just leave me out.
So, you might think the kitty ordeal is solved. It was, sort of. After 5 days of the kitty meowing endlessly throughout the night, while I was using earplugs and dreaming of a stun-gun, he departed. Presumably to find a more hospitable home, one where food and lodging were provided. Dilemma solved.
A week of peace and quiet, nice, then last night, as I was drifting off to sleep after finishing MY LAST BOOK (please send more books, Please) I heard not one cat, but two damn cats, meowing right under my window. On the terrace outside my window TWO NEW CATS decided since cute little REAL, but now departed, kitty has found another home they should take up residence here.
I ran out on the terrace, forgetting there is a guard guarding our house sitting in his guard-perch who has full view of anyone on the terrace, in my birthday suit, yelling at the cats, “Get out of here, NOW“.
Who knows what the neighbors on either side of our house were thinking, cats are just apart of life here. The cats of course scampered away for a few minutes, only to return once I got back into bed. This time with a yodel instead of a meow, a quivering, screeching, irritating, annoying, frustrating, disgusting, ‘we‘re out to get you, you silly girl‘……….yodel.
Earplugs,
a smile from the guard the next day,
an acknowledgement that I’m here to learn,
maybe to accept new night-kitty-friends.
Not in my bed, NEVER. Nighty night g
Sunday, May 3, 2009
MARYN
Dearest Little Maryn,
I have just received the picture you painted. I am so happy. It was the first package I received.
Thumb-tacked on the wall so I can see it from my bed, and my desk is beautiful heart. I think in addition to being a great singer and dancer, you will also be a great artist. Thank you for sending it, and FOR THE CHOCOLATE. Whahooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about sharing it with others, but I think I will just keep it for myself this time..
I want to talk with you about two things, both serious, both you will know about as time passes. Life and Death.
I have asked some old Abkhazians “what do you think has given you long Life?”
Here are some answers:
Acid food - Abkhazians eat spicy food, and many say that is the secret to good life, to long life. Cleans out the innards. I hope you will eat a little bit of spice in your food.
Fresh seafood and landfood- Abkhazians have the beautiful Black Sea where seafood is available and they also have rich dark soil that grows fantastic fruits and vegetables. Cows and pigs and chicken have plenty to eat in the springtime and summer. Abkhazians have fresh, healthy food if they can go to the sea and fish and if they can grow a garden and keep animals. Some can, some can’t. I hope you will make a garden this summer and eat fresh foods.
Mountain air - the Caucasian mountains are the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen, really, even more beautiful than the Rockies or the Appalacians. The air in the mountains is fragrant and clean and makes me feel healthy when I take a deep breath.
I hope you will take deep breaths every day in your beautiful mountain home.
Rain - The tranquility of rain (your mom will explain to you about tranquility). Every few days the clouds collect in the afternoon and then it rains all night long. Soft mostly, and sometimes heavy rain, all night. It is tranquil. It helps me to sleep good. I think it too brings long life. I understand why the American Indians and farmers and everyone pray for rain. It is good for growing crops and also for softening the soul. I hope you have good rain.
Strong, loud, proud - these are things I have observed in the Abkhazians that live long. Sometimes I don’t like these things because they seem harsh, but I think they are good for life. Everyone needs to know of these things. I know you are strong, loud and proud. Keep it up.
As for the other issue, Death, it also has it’s ways. I couldn’t speak to anyone who was dead, so I have to observe and think. As a soon-to-be 20 month-old little girl, you observe and think all day.
In Abkhazia un-natural Death occurs because of wars and cars.
There are fighters here, people who want independence. One gentleman said, "Our flag is like the American flag, because we are like the Americans were many years ago. We are a small number of people who believe we can stand up against large powerful nations (Georgia and Russia) and be our own nation".
I don’t know whether independence is possible for Abkhazia, but many fighters believe so. As you know, and will understand more with time, independence requires more than fighting. It requires responsibility and resources and respect and hard work and collaboration with your neighbors and parents and other important people. Wars are a reason people die.
And cars. The other reason for Death. In Abkhazia they drive faster than Italy. They take chances. Drivers drive in the middle of the road, and only at the last minute will get into their lane. We used to call it “chicken”. I have been scared every day I travel to see patients. It is very scary. The roads are horrible. Military tanks destroy the roads. There are no signs or signals to help people. Cars cause death. Please little Maryn, when you are with your friends tell them to be careful (I know your mom and dad are very safe drivers), and when you learn to drive, be respectful and careful when you drive.
Today I saw something strange:
A car was driving very slow. The person in the passenger seat was holding out their hand and there was a ball of string. They were very slowly letting out string onto the road as they drove along the highway. I asked Inga what this was about.
She said “We have a tradition here. When someone dies outside of their home, we take string and “string it” from wherever they died back to their home so their soul can find it’s way home.”
Isn’t that wonderful?
Ask your mom to read you the story about a little girl who places crumbs along the path so she can find her way home.
With help from our family and friends we can find our way home after we die also. I like that. People always want to come home.
I want to come home.
I love you little Maryn. Be a good girl.
Know that your grandmother loves you very, very much.
Thanks for the heart picture you sent. It means your heart is close to my heart.
Sleep tight
I have just received the picture you painted. I am so happy. It was the first package I received.
Thumb-tacked on the wall so I can see it from my bed, and my desk is beautiful heart. I think in addition to being a great singer and dancer, you will also be a great artist. Thank you for sending it, and FOR THE CHOCOLATE. Whahooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about sharing it with others, but I think I will just keep it for myself this time..
I want to talk with you about two things, both serious, both you will know about as time passes. Life and Death.
I have asked some old Abkhazians “what do you think has given you long Life?”
Here are some answers:
Acid food - Abkhazians eat spicy food, and many say that is the secret to good life, to long life. Cleans out the innards. I hope you will eat a little bit of spice in your food.
Fresh seafood and landfood- Abkhazians have the beautiful Black Sea where seafood is available and they also have rich dark soil that grows fantastic fruits and vegetables. Cows and pigs and chicken have plenty to eat in the springtime and summer. Abkhazians have fresh, healthy food if they can go to the sea and fish and if they can grow a garden and keep animals. Some can, some can’t. I hope you will make a garden this summer and eat fresh foods.
Mountain air - the Caucasian mountains are the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen, really, even more beautiful than the Rockies or the Appalacians. The air in the mountains is fragrant and clean and makes me feel healthy when I take a deep breath.
I hope you will take deep breaths every day in your beautiful mountain home.
Rain - The tranquility of rain (your mom will explain to you about tranquility). Every few days the clouds collect in the afternoon and then it rains all night long. Soft mostly, and sometimes heavy rain, all night. It is tranquil. It helps me to sleep good. I think it too brings long life. I understand why the American Indians and farmers and everyone pray for rain. It is good for growing crops and also for softening the soul. I hope you have good rain.
Strong, loud, proud - these are things I have observed in the Abkhazians that live long. Sometimes I don’t like these things because they seem harsh, but I think they are good for life. Everyone needs to know of these things. I know you are strong, loud and proud. Keep it up.
As for the other issue, Death, it also has it’s ways. I couldn’t speak to anyone who was dead, so I have to observe and think. As a soon-to-be 20 month-old little girl, you observe and think all day.
In Abkhazia un-natural Death occurs because of wars and cars.
There are fighters here, people who want independence. One gentleman said, "Our flag is like the American flag, because we are like the Americans were many years ago. We are a small number of people who believe we can stand up against large powerful nations (Georgia and Russia) and be our own nation".
I don’t know whether independence is possible for Abkhazia, but many fighters believe so. As you know, and will understand more with time, independence requires more than fighting. It requires responsibility and resources and respect and hard work and collaboration with your neighbors and parents and other important people. Wars are a reason people die.
And cars. The other reason for Death. In Abkhazia they drive faster than Italy. They take chances. Drivers drive in the middle of the road, and only at the last minute will get into their lane. We used to call it “chicken”. I have been scared every day I travel to see patients. It is very scary. The roads are horrible. Military tanks destroy the roads. There are no signs or signals to help people. Cars cause death. Please little Maryn, when you are with your friends tell them to be careful (I know your mom and dad are very safe drivers), and when you learn to drive, be respectful and careful when you drive.
Today I saw something strange:
A car was driving very slow. The person in the passenger seat was holding out their hand and there was a ball of string. They were very slowly letting out string onto the road as they drove along the highway. I asked Inga what this was about.
She said “We have a tradition here. When someone dies outside of their home, we take string and “string it” from wherever they died back to their home so their soul can find it’s way home.”
Isn’t that wonderful?
Ask your mom to read you the story about a little girl who places crumbs along the path so she can find her way home.
With help from our family and friends we can find our way home after we die also. I like that. People always want to come home.
I want to come home.
I love you little Maryn. Be a good girl.
Know that your grandmother loves you very, very much.
Thanks for the heart picture you sent. It means your heart is close to my heart.
Sleep tight
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Chocolate
Yesterday I had two distinguished guests in my office.
One is a senior member of the Board of Directors of MSF France- a surgeon. Jean Paul has done many missions for MSF over the past 26 years and is quite the storyteller. He and I had dinner a few days ago at the seaside, and he regaled me with MSF stories of times past. One was particularly memorable.
This story was of a mission in Somalia during a very tense time. One day he conducted a life-saving surgery on a young man, a bullet in his neck. The man was a member of a rebel group, despised by the local militia. That evening Jean Paul returned to the expat house and was walking down the hallway. Two local militia broke into the house, armed, pointing guns at him. They were accusing him of saving the life of an enemy. They indicated his life was soon to be over. At that moment, one of the nurses walks out of the bathroom having just finished her shower. She had a towel wrapped around her, that’s all. She calmly looked at the militia, and spoke with a firm, but soft voice, “Excuse me sirs, firearms are not allowed in the house”. She kept walking to her room. The soldiers were stunned, they started backing up, and she said, with her back turned to them, “I mean right now boys, no guns allowed”. Jean Paul was ready to faint, the soldiers left the house with their firearms. (You never know about stories 10 years old, whether there was a little fisherman in Jean Paul, as in all of us, as we tell and retell stories….doesn’t really matter, stories are for entertainment).
The stories went on and on……..
Jean Paul worked in Abkhazia for one week some years ago conducting surgery at the Sukhumi Hospital. He came again this past week to the Caucasians to participate in the FAD (Field Associates Debates), where all MSF sites around the world, expats and nationals, gather to discuss a single topic. This years FAD topic was “closing missions“. Very apropos for the project I am working with.
The other distinguished guest was the Director of the Hospital in Sukhumi.
Jean Paul and The Director worked together many years ago here in Sukhumi, so we arranged a reunion for the two of them.
In the morning Jean Paul, translator Inga and I went to the Hospital and in usual fashion, The Director had a display of food and wine and vodka and other spirits and chocolate. In the 2 months of being here I have had 3 meetings with the Director and each time, despite my protestations, he prepares this feast - it matters not that it is 10 am and I have a full day of meaningful work ahead of me. NIET (russian for NO) does not seem to translate when it comes to being a guest in the Directors office. So, we spoke of pleasantries, then conversed about the unfortunate state of Abkhazia, the need for supplies. The Director spoke of French things in honor of Jean Paul, wine, parfume, beautiful women, to display his worldliness. (I recall on my first visit to the hospital, The Director spoke of famed American cardiac surgeon Michael Debakey. He showed me a journal 30 years old with an article Debakey had written. He was very proud to be able to speak of someone in the medical center where I trained). All in all, yesterday's visit was a pleasant two hour reunion for the distinguished guests.
THEN, The Director insisted on lunch. Jean Paul declined - for Pete’s sake, we just finished a 3 course mid-morning “snack”. But once again, it is impolite to refuse. So, off we go to a restaurant. More food, more spirits, no chocolate this time.
Yesterday, the day before Jean Paul would leave, here comes The Director again, in the afternoon, with a bottle of “champagne“, actually Abkhazian sparkling wine.
We don’t have champagne glasses in my office. There are coffee mugs. Not exactly what one would offer to two distinguished guests. So, I excuse myself, and run across the street to the expat house. I grab a few glasses.
Unlike The Director who spreads out a white table cloth, tattered, but none-the-less washed and pressed to serve the “snacks”, I had a foot stool. I guess I could have brought a white shirt that was in the laundry, but, Niet. We would have to manage with small water glasses, AND,
AND The Chocolate Bar I was saving, given to me by my friend. I was saving it for a special occasion.
This was the special occasion. Two distinguished guests, champagne, and MY CHOCOLATE THAT I WAS HIDING FROM REBELS AND MILITIA AND FELLOW EXPATS AND RATS AND EVERYONE ELSE.
I took a deep breath, silently said “Thank You” to my friend and ran back across the street with glasses and chocolate in hand.
As it turned out while I was gone the two distinguished guests placed 5 chairs in a circle so we could visit. The Head of Mission was here, along with The Board Director, The Hospital Director and me. That’s 4. There was an empty chair. No one seemed to notice. I did.
We drank all the wine and all the chocolate, I ate the last piece.
I am sure yesterday afternoon with lovely Abkhazian sparkling wine, pleasant conversation, and the heavenly chocolate from my dear friend, that in that empty chair, you were all there with me enjoying this auspicious occasion with distinguished people. I felt your presence. For a moment, while they were vying for the most interesting conversation, I was thinking of my people, my stories with each of you. I was happy.
I hoped you too enjoyed the wine and conversation.
Thanks again, dear friend for gifting me chocolate that WE ALL used for this special occasion.
One is a senior member of the Board of Directors of MSF France- a surgeon. Jean Paul has done many missions for MSF over the past 26 years and is quite the storyteller. He and I had dinner a few days ago at the seaside, and he regaled me with MSF stories of times past. One was particularly memorable.
This story was of a mission in Somalia during a very tense time. One day he conducted a life-saving surgery on a young man, a bullet in his neck. The man was a member of a rebel group, despised by the local militia. That evening Jean Paul returned to the expat house and was walking down the hallway. Two local militia broke into the house, armed, pointing guns at him. They were accusing him of saving the life of an enemy. They indicated his life was soon to be over. At that moment, one of the nurses walks out of the bathroom having just finished her shower. She had a towel wrapped around her, that’s all. She calmly looked at the militia, and spoke with a firm, but soft voice, “Excuse me sirs, firearms are not allowed in the house”. She kept walking to her room. The soldiers were stunned, they started backing up, and she said, with her back turned to them, “I mean right now boys, no guns allowed”. Jean Paul was ready to faint, the soldiers left the house with their firearms. (You never know about stories 10 years old, whether there was a little fisherman in Jean Paul, as in all of us, as we tell and retell stories….doesn’t really matter, stories are for entertainment).
The stories went on and on……..
Jean Paul worked in Abkhazia for one week some years ago conducting surgery at the Sukhumi Hospital. He came again this past week to the Caucasians to participate in the FAD (Field Associates Debates), where all MSF sites around the world, expats and nationals, gather to discuss a single topic. This years FAD topic was “closing missions“. Very apropos for the project I am working with.
The other distinguished guest was the Director of the Hospital in Sukhumi.
Jean Paul and The Director worked together many years ago here in Sukhumi, so we arranged a reunion for the two of them.
In the morning Jean Paul, translator Inga and I went to the Hospital and in usual fashion, The Director had a display of food and wine and vodka and other spirits and chocolate. In the 2 months of being here I have had 3 meetings with the Director and each time, despite my protestations, he prepares this feast - it matters not that it is 10 am and I have a full day of meaningful work ahead of me. NIET (russian for NO) does not seem to translate when it comes to being a guest in the Directors office. So, we spoke of pleasantries, then conversed about the unfortunate state of Abkhazia, the need for supplies. The Director spoke of French things in honor of Jean Paul, wine, parfume, beautiful women, to display his worldliness. (I recall on my first visit to the hospital, The Director spoke of famed American cardiac surgeon Michael Debakey. He showed me a journal 30 years old with an article Debakey had written. He was very proud to be able to speak of someone in the medical center where I trained). All in all, yesterday's visit was a pleasant two hour reunion for the distinguished guests.
THEN, The Director insisted on lunch. Jean Paul declined - for Pete’s sake, we just finished a 3 course mid-morning “snack”. But once again, it is impolite to refuse. So, off we go to a restaurant. More food, more spirits, no chocolate this time.
Yesterday, the day before Jean Paul would leave, here comes The Director again, in the afternoon, with a bottle of “champagne“, actually Abkhazian sparkling wine.
We don’t have champagne glasses in my office. There are coffee mugs. Not exactly what one would offer to two distinguished guests. So, I excuse myself, and run across the street to the expat house. I grab a few glasses.
Unlike The Director who spreads out a white table cloth, tattered, but none-the-less washed and pressed to serve the “snacks”, I had a foot stool. I guess I could have brought a white shirt that was in the laundry, but, Niet. We would have to manage with small water glasses, AND,
AND The Chocolate Bar I was saving, given to me by my friend. I was saving it for a special occasion.
This was the special occasion. Two distinguished guests, champagne, and MY CHOCOLATE THAT I WAS HIDING FROM REBELS AND MILITIA AND FELLOW EXPATS AND RATS AND EVERYONE ELSE.
I took a deep breath, silently said “Thank You” to my friend and ran back across the street with glasses and chocolate in hand.
As it turned out while I was gone the two distinguished guests placed 5 chairs in a circle so we could visit. The Head of Mission was here, along with The Board Director, The Hospital Director and me. That’s 4. There was an empty chair. No one seemed to notice. I did.
We drank all the wine and all the chocolate, I ate the last piece.
I am sure yesterday afternoon with lovely Abkhazian sparkling wine, pleasant conversation, and the heavenly chocolate from my dear friend, that in that empty chair, you were all there with me enjoying this auspicious occasion with distinguished people. I felt your presence. For a moment, while they were vying for the most interesting conversation, I was thinking of my people, my stories with each of you. I was happy.
I hoped you too enjoyed the wine and conversation.
Thanks again, dear friend for gifting me chocolate that WE ALL used for this special occasion.
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