Enough said. I doubt you do either. The problem is they seem to like our house. The Nepalese prayer flags on the terrace seem to be excellent bedding material for the mice. The kitchen toaster is an excellent hide-out.
Several weeks ago, while in the kitchen, I saw a mouse scamper out of the toaster. YUCK. I saw little turds and figured desperate measures were needed. I scrubbed the toaster three times with various cleansers and other likely toxic substances found under the sink. THEN I put a towel over the top of the toaster to thwart the mouses efforts to enter. I am smarter than a mouse, RIGHT?
Yesterday morning I came to the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea and a piece of toast. I took the towel off of the toaster, sliced the bread, put two slices in the toaster, and pushed the switch. OUCH! The little mouse must have felt a warm-turning-to-very-hot sensation on his little tootsies, because he bolted out of the toaster lightening speed!!! The toast didn't care, it kept toasting away as if nothing had happened. YUCK.
Another round of cleanings and this time I now stuff two towels WAY down into the toaster so there is no room for the mouse to hang out. I AM SMARTER THAN THE MOUSE. I just know I am.
So far so good, no mouses crawling out of the toaster in the morning, no turds in the bottom of the toaster. I will let you know, if I am forced to come up with yet another manage-the-mouse plan.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Back in the Saddle
I had a refreshing, utterly enjoyable holiday.
In one word - CLEAN.
The “culture shock” was not the ease of transportation in Vienna, the pristine beauty of the alps, the delicacy of the food, the luxury of thermal baths in the Austrian countryside, the daily naps in the park, the sweetness of being in Ballard's company ....it was the shock of cleanliness.
Like a chameleon I adapted to the sparkling clean environment with no effort. I felt myself aware of the tiniest little speck of dirt on my arms, the faint odor that was "different", the room temperature "not quite right". These awareness’s were not bothersome, they were simply in my consciousness.
Before returning to Abkhazia I am working in Tbilisi for a few days (with luxuries such as predictable electricity, internet, quiet office, market with all kinds of recognizable items). It will help the transition back to the REAL world in which I live; fungus on the floor, nasty smells, loud voices, strange sights, sad sights, compromises, frustrations, questions with no good answers.... set amidst a landscape as majestic and grand as Austria... . what I know is I will soon be back living with another consciousness.
I am happy.
I love being clean, I love being not so clean.
I love luxury, I love not so luxurious.
I like good food......wherever it is.......
I like living and working with good, talented people……
News:
Last week Russia vetoed a resolution that would allow the UN to remain in Abkhazia. That means the UN will close its peacekeeping mission in Abkhazia. That means the opportunity for an emergency evacuation using UN helicopters will vanish for MSF expats in Abkhazia in a few weeks. It means a loss of hundreds of jobs for Abkhazians who work for the UN and loss of thousands of rubbles of revenue to the vendors who supply expats with food, services, housing...etc. This is unfortunate, but Abkhazia will have to adapt to this new reality.
The US has big crises with bank closures, billionaire crooks, healthcare inequity, Toll House cookie dough being recalled. Abkhazia has big crises also. We will all make it through these crises and will likely have a new set of crises right around the corner. So be it.
Will talk to you soon,
genie
In one word - CLEAN.
The “culture shock” was not the ease of transportation in Vienna, the pristine beauty of the alps, the delicacy of the food, the luxury of thermal baths in the Austrian countryside, the daily naps in the park, the sweetness of being in Ballard's company ....it was the shock of cleanliness.
Like a chameleon I adapted to the sparkling clean environment with no effort. I felt myself aware of the tiniest little speck of dirt on my arms, the faint odor that was "different", the room temperature "not quite right". These awareness’s were not bothersome, they were simply in my consciousness.
Before returning to Abkhazia I am working in Tbilisi for a few days (with luxuries such as predictable electricity, internet, quiet office, market with all kinds of recognizable items). It will help the transition back to the REAL world in which I live; fungus on the floor, nasty smells, loud voices, strange sights, sad sights, compromises, frustrations, questions with no good answers.... set amidst a landscape as majestic and grand as Austria... . what I know is I will soon be back living with another consciousness.
I am happy.
I love being clean, I love being not so clean.
I love luxury, I love not so luxurious.
I like good food......wherever it is.......
I like living and working with good, talented people……
News:
Last week Russia vetoed a resolution that would allow the UN to remain in Abkhazia. That means the UN will close its peacekeeping mission in Abkhazia. That means the opportunity for an emergency evacuation using UN helicopters will vanish for MSF expats in Abkhazia in a few weeks. It means a loss of hundreds of jobs for Abkhazians who work for the UN and loss of thousands of rubbles of revenue to the vendors who supply expats with food, services, housing...etc. This is unfortunate, but Abkhazia will have to adapt to this new reality.
The US has big crises with bank closures, billionaire crooks, healthcare inequity, Toll House cookie dough being recalled. Abkhazia has big crises also. We will all make it through these crises and will likely have a new set of crises right around the corner. So be it.
Will talk to you soon,
genie
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
EINO
Eino and her grandson
Eino and her 10 year old grandson live together. Eino’s son and the child’s father was killed by a land mine, both were watching. The mother, in her grief fled, leaving the child behind. Many grandparents love and raise their grandchildren, but in Eino’s case she is the one being taken care of by her grandson. Eino had a stroke three years ago and is bed bound, paralyzed on her left side. She will bake no cookies, play no games, never go on adventures to the park or to the “big city” of Sukhumi with her grandchild. Eino’s reality is to wait for food provided to her by her grandson while guiding, teaching, instructing him as best she can from her bed. Meahwhile, he feeds the pigs, milks the cows and tends to the property, which is high in the hills, another spectacular vista overlooking a majestic landscape of green mountains and wide open valleys.
The little boy in all respects is wild. He looks bewildered to me. A confused little emperor in his palace, the filthy fortification which keeps him safe from the world and in the protection of his invalid grandmother. He has never been to school, he does speak, although not much, and when he does it is understandably with hesitation, even suspicion. His austerity seems normal in a strange sort of way. He has cleverly rigged a rope on the end of the bed which will allow Eino to pull herself up, by using her right arm. She weighs no more than 70 pounds, is clearly malnourished and anemic and has a smile on her face when we greet her for the first time. We ask if we can assess the wound which covers her entire left leg. She agrees.
We glove and begin the process of unwrapping the dressing to assess the wound. The smell was disgusting, part of the wound was oozing whiteish- green exudate, the other part necrotic, black, dead tissue. The little boy uses a leaf found on nearby trees about 6 inches long and 4 inches wide to dress the wound. It is supposed to have antiseptic properties. We do some minor debriedment, but do not have proper instruments to do a reasonable job. We do use clean gauze to wrap the entire leg, to cover the wound. We then ask Eino if we could transport her to the hospital for surgical intervention, her only hope to survive. Soon she will be septic and will die if the infected tissue and the dead tissue are not removed.
She refuses. She oversees her grandson’s milking the cows and feeding of the pigs, running of the household. What will he do if she were not there? What will happen to the cows, pigs - they are a revenue source, a food source. Perhaps the neighbors can assist. We suggest he go with her to the hospital. He can sleep in the bed next to hers, as many family members do. He refuses. He is terrified someone will take him from his grandmother. We leave in sadness
Upon our return to the office we discuss the case with our social worker, LaLa and she says, “let me talk to the neighbors”. LaLa is our social worker, probably in her early 50s, lost her husband in the war, raised 3 girls (my mom will appreciate the challenges of raising 3 girls). Testy at times, rude other times, none-the-less she gets the job done when it comes to taking care our folks and she works hard. LaLa returns from yet another jaunt to this remote hillside home indicating the boy is willing to stay with neighbors. They are willing to assist him with milking the cow while Eino goes to the hospital.
Eino has to travel in the back of the Toyota 4 wheel drive truck, on the hard, dirty metal floor. MSF does not have an ambulance. No easy feat getting her into truck. LaLa is a miracle worker some days. With help from the neighbors they load Eino into the truck. .
Eino is now in the hopsital. The surgeon has conducted one surgery. Another is forthcoming next week. Last weekend we took a drive to the mountains. We walked in glorious terrain. We passed by Eino’s home. The cows were fine, the moma pig and her 2 babies were fine, and the grandson was presumably with the neighbors. The bedding that was on Eino’s bed was draped over a railing airing out - a good sign.
We do not know the future. None of us know the future. We do what we can do today, we try our best, we gather people to help, we make decisions, we allow others to make choices, we love, we work, we pray, we smile.
I’ll let you know how Eino and her grandson are doing .
Meanwhile I leave today for holiday. I will go to Tbilisi, Georgia, another border crossing. I will work in Tbilisi tomorrow discussing the handover plan for our program with the Head of Mission. I will meet Ballard in Vienna on Saturday. We will have a leisurely week together, given he has a broken leg and a torn medial collateral ligament. You can ask him for details!!!!!!!
So I will resume my adventures in Abkhazia in a couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for your thoughts, prayers, gifts you have sent, your lives as they bless me.
“See” you soon……………..
Love, genie
Eino and her 10 year old grandson live together. Eino’s son and the child’s father was killed by a land mine, both were watching. The mother, in her grief fled, leaving the child behind. Many grandparents love and raise their grandchildren, but in Eino’s case she is the one being taken care of by her grandson. Eino had a stroke three years ago and is bed bound, paralyzed on her left side. She will bake no cookies, play no games, never go on adventures to the park or to the “big city” of Sukhumi with her grandchild. Eino’s reality is to wait for food provided to her by her grandson while guiding, teaching, instructing him as best she can from her bed. Meahwhile, he feeds the pigs, milks the cows and tends to the property, which is high in the hills, another spectacular vista overlooking a majestic landscape of green mountains and wide open valleys.
The little boy in all respects is wild. He looks bewildered to me. A confused little emperor in his palace, the filthy fortification which keeps him safe from the world and in the protection of his invalid grandmother. He has never been to school, he does speak, although not much, and when he does it is understandably with hesitation, even suspicion. His austerity seems normal in a strange sort of way. He has cleverly rigged a rope on the end of the bed which will allow Eino to pull herself up, by using her right arm. She weighs no more than 70 pounds, is clearly malnourished and anemic and has a smile on her face when we greet her for the first time. We ask if we can assess the wound which covers her entire left leg. She agrees.
We glove and begin the process of unwrapping the dressing to assess the wound. The smell was disgusting, part of the wound was oozing whiteish- green exudate, the other part necrotic, black, dead tissue. The little boy uses a leaf found on nearby trees about 6 inches long and 4 inches wide to dress the wound. It is supposed to have antiseptic properties. We do some minor debriedment, but do not have proper instruments to do a reasonable job. We do use clean gauze to wrap the entire leg, to cover the wound. We then ask Eino if we could transport her to the hospital for surgical intervention, her only hope to survive. Soon she will be septic and will die if the infected tissue and the dead tissue are not removed.
She refuses. She oversees her grandson’s milking the cows and feeding of the pigs, running of the household. What will he do if she were not there? What will happen to the cows, pigs - they are a revenue source, a food source. Perhaps the neighbors can assist. We suggest he go with her to the hospital. He can sleep in the bed next to hers, as many family members do. He refuses. He is terrified someone will take him from his grandmother. We leave in sadness
Upon our return to the office we discuss the case with our social worker, LaLa and she says, “let me talk to the neighbors”. LaLa is our social worker, probably in her early 50s, lost her husband in the war, raised 3 girls (my mom will appreciate the challenges of raising 3 girls). Testy at times, rude other times, none-the-less she gets the job done when it comes to taking care our folks and she works hard. LaLa returns from yet another jaunt to this remote hillside home indicating the boy is willing to stay with neighbors. They are willing to assist him with milking the cow while Eino goes to the hospital.
Eino has to travel in the back of the Toyota 4 wheel drive truck, on the hard, dirty metal floor. MSF does not have an ambulance. No easy feat getting her into truck. LaLa is a miracle worker some days. With help from the neighbors they load Eino into the truck. .
Eino is now in the hopsital. The surgeon has conducted one surgery. Another is forthcoming next week. Last weekend we took a drive to the mountains. We walked in glorious terrain. We passed by Eino’s home. The cows were fine, the moma pig and her 2 babies were fine, and the grandson was presumably with the neighbors. The bedding that was on Eino’s bed was draped over a railing airing out - a good sign.
We do not know the future. None of us know the future. We do what we can do today, we try our best, we gather people to help, we make decisions, we allow others to make choices, we love, we work, we pray, we smile.
I’ll let you know how Eino and her grandson are doing .
Meanwhile I leave today for holiday. I will go to Tbilisi, Georgia, another border crossing. I will work in Tbilisi tomorrow discussing the handover plan for our program with the Head of Mission. I will meet Ballard in Vienna on Saturday. We will have a leisurely week together, given he has a broken leg and a torn medial collateral ligament. You can ask him for details!!!!!!!
So I will resume my adventures in Abkhazia in a couple of weeks.
Meanwhile, I am grateful for your thoughts, prayers, gifts you have sent, your lives as they bless me.
“See” you soon……………..
Love, genie
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Curtain
Avakiyan Anna, 60 y/o, is more persistent than most in her emotional and behavioral exaggerations. Histrionic is what doctors use, to give a clinical diagnosis or a “detached observation” to such behavior.
Anna’s issue is her son. He is mentally unstable. His instability causes her daily, moment-to-moment anxiety that leads to persistent angst which seems to be a source of her histrionics. Although, who knows what is at the core of her spirit, the past legacy she carries forward into her daily exaggerations. She needs help, he needs help. And there are limited, and questionable at that, mental health workers here in Abkhazia, none of which would want to engage this duo.
My initial reaction to Anna: whiny, immature - judgmental words, not clinical nor diagnostic not needed nor helpful. In that moment, those words made me feel superior, detached. I don’t know whether she could detect my feelings. Inga, I am sure, could. I was not compassionate, not curious, just eager to dispense her BP meds and leave. No matter in Denver or Sukhumi a person with histrionics is difficult for me to connect with for fear I will be saprophytically (hum, is this a word?) gobbled up. (Is this where “sap” comes from?) Those of you who know me well have seen it before, superior, detached, just like Inga likely saw in me today.
We listened to Anna for 20 minutes, Inga translated with neutrality and sympathy and patience, God bless her.
I was distracted during Anna’s rants, watching a shredded curtain. I could see the curtain from Anna’s kitchen window belonging to someone in the next building. The curtain was reaching out into the space between the buildings, trying to free itself, trying to escape into the breeze. It was a renegade curtain, not minding its proper duties, but instead trying to transform itself. It was ragged and tattered, that silly, brave curtain and I could feel it was trying to become a luxurious silk cloth. A coveted cloth that would be worn by a princess. It was a worthy effort on the curtains part. The curtain wanted to be something different, something appreciated, something lovely, and in that moment I too wanted to be somewhere and something that I wasn’t. I wanted to be in some lovely place, doing something lovely, actually anything other than listening to a histrionic woman. But the curtain and I could only pretend in that moment, we shared a space and a knowing.
Later I thought, sometimes sharing with an-other of same mind, of same spirit, is as good as being in another place or being something we are not.
After I examined Anna’s heart, lungs, she received her blood pressure medications, a multivitamin, a reassurance of a return next month. She pleaded that we stay longer.
I can’t change Anna nor can I really help her much. According to Inga she has been in this miserable state for years. The medicines we might choose for Anna in the US are forbidden in this country - anxiolytics and most antidepressants.
I can however, work on my feelings, I can try to be aware when the small voice within me is saying “listen, know your feelings, find compassion, find curiosity, find someone, something that teaches you a little bit more about joy in each moment.” And smile.
g
Anna’s issue is her son. He is mentally unstable. His instability causes her daily, moment-to-moment anxiety that leads to persistent angst which seems to be a source of her histrionics. Although, who knows what is at the core of her spirit, the past legacy she carries forward into her daily exaggerations. She needs help, he needs help. And there are limited, and questionable at that, mental health workers here in Abkhazia, none of which would want to engage this duo.
My initial reaction to Anna: whiny, immature - judgmental words, not clinical nor diagnostic not needed nor helpful. In that moment, those words made me feel superior, detached. I don’t know whether she could detect my feelings. Inga, I am sure, could. I was not compassionate, not curious, just eager to dispense her BP meds and leave. No matter in Denver or Sukhumi a person with histrionics is difficult for me to connect with for fear I will be saprophytically (hum, is this a word?) gobbled up. (Is this where “sap” comes from?) Those of you who know me well have seen it before, superior, detached, just like Inga likely saw in me today.
We listened to Anna for 20 minutes, Inga translated with neutrality and sympathy and patience, God bless her.
I was distracted during Anna’s rants, watching a shredded curtain. I could see the curtain from Anna’s kitchen window belonging to someone in the next building. The curtain was reaching out into the space between the buildings, trying to free itself, trying to escape into the breeze. It was a renegade curtain, not minding its proper duties, but instead trying to transform itself. It was ragged and tattered, that silly, brave curtain and I could feel it was trying to become a luxurious silk cloth. A coveted cloth that would be worn by a princess. It was a worthy effort on the curtains part. The curtain wanted to be something different, something appreciated, something lovely, and in that moment I too wanted to be somewhere and something that I wasn’t. I wanted to be in some lovely place, doing something lovely, actually anything other than listening to a histrionic woman. But the curtain and I could only pretend in that moment, we shared a space and a knowing.
Later I thought, sometimes sharing with an-other of same mind, of same spirit, is as good as being in another place or being something we are not.
After I examined Anna’s heart, lungs, she received her blood pressure medications, a multivitamin, a reassurance of a return next month. She pleaded that we stay longer.
I can’t change Anna nor can I really help her much. According to Inga she has been in this miserable state for years. The medicines we might choose for Anna in the US are forbidden in this country - anxiolytics and most antidepressants.
I can however, work on my feelings, I can try to be aware when the small voice within me is saying “listen, know your feelings, find compassion, find curiosity, find someone, something that teaches you a little bit more about joy in each moment.” And smile.
g
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Names
I can’t quite express my contentment that morning.
The pastoral vistas that silenced me as we moved further into the days' journey.
Thick, green moss softly clinging to tree trunks, solidly hugging houses, senselessly growing on abandoned cars, that green on everything, that green and its need to be everywhere made my breath sink deeper, and rise higher. Neither the moss nor my breath could help it.
It is nature.
As always, it is exhilarating to travel new terrain. Today was in the hills between the sea and the mountains. In Denver we call this between-terrain “foothills” (except in Denver there is a prairie instead of a sea).
Precarious by car, deep ravines, rivers to cross, bumpy beyond belief. I am happy with these explorations. The drivers know these roads so for them it’s just work, for me, it’s a daily adventure, a journey into one more magic kingdom.
Her husband, 87 years old, bearded, kindly, was slightly bent at the shoulders, working diligently on a pile of wood. Each piece he cut was as if it had been measured with laser precision. His work was slow, and his outcome, the woodpile, was beautiful. The rooster crowed while he worked, announcing instructions as they seem to do everywhere. Mikaeliyan Azne, the patient, was a jolly, hefty Caucasian woman with diabetes. Her blood pressure was sky high, her blood sugar was sky high. I guess the sky is a good place for her, it seems to suit her well.
Being a pushy doctor, I exalted her with wisdom and cautions then dispensed her pills as if I were giving her communion. Then I receive the Abkhaz ritual: blessings of health from the host, a gift ( which could be nuts, flowers, candy, typical juice made with bread dough - yeasty and nasty….). This ritual is something I now cherish. I know enough Russian to hear familiar words, to recognize a few phrases of bestowing good health, long life and happiness. I respond with my well rehearsed “thank you very much, pleasure to meet you” which sounds like “ochen spa seeba, priat na paz na com itza”.
Smiles, of pleasure from them, from me.
I saw some deep blue irises as we drove away, down a narrow path. I have some in my front yard in Denver, except they aren’t quite so deep in their blueness. I was told they were Siberian Irises. I have always thought of Siberia as some place so far away, so utterly unimaginable, that it wasn’t really REAL. It was like calling something Bohemian, or Mongolian. They are ideas, images, but hardly a place. But now, I recognize Siberia is just a place north of here, yes, quite a ways, but it is a place with many of the same stock as home, the same stock of flowers, deep blue Irises and the same stock of people, rugged, independent. Siberia, the Caucuses, Abkhazia, Mongolia,…..are just places, not really so far from any of us, with flowers and people so lovely, so unique they deserve a name.
In my human-way, I legitimized some bits of nature by calling them a name.
Meanwhile, nature kept being her usual self, beautiful, harsh, mysterious. She didn’t really need a name.
To you who read and journey with me, named by me and unnamed, I send my love,
genie
The pastoral vistas that silenced me as we moved further into the days' journey.
Thick, green moss softly clinging to tree trunks, solidly hugging houses, senselessly growing on abandoned cars, that green on everything, that green and its need to be everywhere made my breath sink deeper, and rise higher. Neither the moss nor my breath could help it.
It is nature.
As always, it is exhilarating to travel new terrain. Today was in the hills between the sea and the mountains. In Denver we call this between-terrain “foothills” (except in Denver there is a prairie instead of a sea).
Precarious by car, deep ravines, rivers to cross, bumpy beyond belief. I am happy with these explorations. The drivers know these roads so for them it’s just work, for me, it’s a daily adventure, a journey into one more magic kingdom.
Her husband, 87 years old, bearded, kindly, was slightly bent at the shoulders, working diligently on a pile of wood. Each piece he cut was as if it had been measured with laser precision. His work was slow, and his outcome, the woodpile, was beautiful. The rooster crowed while he worked, announcing instructions as they seem to do everywhere. Mikaeliyan Azne, the patient, was a jolly, hefty Caucasian woman with diabetes. Her blood pressure was sky high, her blood sugar was sky high. I guess the sky is a good place for her, it seems to suit her well.
Being a pushy doctor, I exalted her with wisdom and cautions then dispensed her pills as if I were giving her communion. Then I receive the Abkhaz ritual: blessings of health from the host, a gift ( which could be nuts, flowers, candy, typical juice made with bread dough - yeasty and nasty….). This ritual is something I now cherish. I know enough Russian to hear familiar words, to recognize a few phrases of bestowing good health, long life and happiness. I respond with my well rehearsed “thank you very much, pleasure to meet you” which sounds like “ochen spa seeba, priat na paz na com itza”.
Smiles, of pleasure from them, from me.
I saw some deep blue irises as we drove away, down a narrow path. I have some in my front yard in Denver, except they aren’t quite so deep in their blueness. I was told they were Siberian Irises. I have always thought of Siberia as some place so far away, so utterly unimaginable, that it wasn’t really REAL. It was like calling something Bohemian, or Mongolian. They are ideas, images, but hardly a place. But now, I recognize Siberia is just a place north of here, yes, quite a ways, but it is a place with many of the same stock as home, the same stock of flowers, deep blue Irises and the same stock of people, rugged, independent. Siberia, the Caucuses, Abkhazia, Mongolia,…..are just places, not really so far from any of us, with flowers and people so lovely, so unique they deserve a name.
In my human-way, I legitimized some bits of nature by calling them a name.
Meanwhile, nature kept being her usual self, beautiful, harsh, mysterious. She didn’t really need a name.
To you who read and journey with me, named by me and unnamed, I send my love,
genie
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