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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
