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The plight of a baby lying in wait for a piece of paper that will let her travel for an operation in London has captured my attention over the last weeks.   Last night’s Channel 4 news (Jon Snow and team in Haiti) confirmed a fact that I only suspected but needed to confirm in order to write about this.  The arrest of Laura Silsby and her ten conspirators has led the Haitian officials to take a long and hard view of every baby leaving Haiti for medical care. I don’t think the Haitians can be blamed for this.  The minister of health and his department are overworked and worried.  The experts they needed could not be found.  For example they spent days looking for and not finding a Haitian neurosurgeon to approve the operation for baby Landina.

When I first saw baby Landina on the news she affected me immediately.  She had bonded with her doctor (one could see from eye contact) and her caretaker.  She had enormous spirit. Having been saved from the rubble, an arm amputated and several operations on her brain, she still managed to keep going.  Seeing her last night again, it became apparent that she was not doing as well and hours were ticking away. Even with the papers signed with the help of the Channel four news team (UK), it would take two more days to get her moving. She had five left to get to this operation.

I think this delay is, in large part, because of Laura Silsby, a very disturbed narcissistic person.  It is extraordinary that one person’s very serious mental problems can have an impact on this baby and other children who are in need of operations not available in Haiti.  The evidence for her disorder is abundant.  She is in debt in Idaho and yet has said on various occasions that she is building a resort in the Dominican Republic.  The contractor she mentioned said that he had sold her a house years ago and had not heard of her since.  It is a money making scheme, her fantasy and she took advantage of the earthquake to put it into action.  As I understand it, the resort was going to consist of an orphanage for the adoptive Haitian children, a hotel for adopting parents who would pay to stay in the hotel for three months, deciding whether to adopt of not and a compound of restaurants and shops. Laura Silsby of the New Life Children’s Refuge told Channel 4 News: “We may have been deceived by someone coming to us and saying: ‘The parents are dead. Please take our child.’ Because we’re taking them to a very… I mean, we have a beautiful place for them to go, and I can see how parents that were desperate, that had lost their homes, lost their jobs, would want possibly to have their child go to a better place.”

No one has seen the ‘better place’, When further questioned, she said she had rented a hotel for the Haitian children in the Dominican Republic until the resort was built.  Of course, all these statements are lies.  She has no money and her church is poor.  I personally doubt that any hotel or resort in the DR would welcome Haitian children during the height of the tourist season or at any other time. The orphans would attend schools and hospitals in the DR which is not a rich country.  Having lived in Miami, and visited the DR and Haiti, I need to say that Haitians are on the bottom of  a very high social structure. I’m convinced that the Dominican Republic is helping in any way they can during this catastrophe so that conditions in Haiti stabilize and they don’t have a rush of immigrants coming over the border.

Silsby also lied to every parent and child she abducted.  I doubt if she actually paid parents for children, but I have no proof.  Thirty-one children even at one hundred dollars apiece add up to more then the reported donations by her church.   The children thought they were going to summer camp, college and other fantasies that she told the parents. Five of the parents testified in the groups’ trial that they were unable to feed their children and hoped for a better life for them. I assume they were paid expenses to witness the case and perhaps a bit more for testimony. The so-called ‘missionaries’ were given a speedy trial by a Haitian judicial system said in reports to be non functional. Luckily, as Jon Snow pointed out, they weren’t Arabs in a US or UK jail.

On the trip to the border, Laura Silsby and her crew apparently gave the children no water and left them in the back of a van.  They arrived at the orphanage in a terrible state, so much for the promised land.

Her ‘team’ consisted in part of her nanny. (I don’t know who is caring for her two children in Idaho), a man with two teenagers and a wife and a group of men who I personally would not like to run into on an Idaho street at night if I were a Haitian.  I admit to knowing nothing about them personally.  One suspects that all these people thought they were in on a money making scheme. One wife said knowingly when her husband gets home they will sort out who said what to whom. She was under the impression that he wanted ‘to observe the earthquake’.

What brings tears to my eyes is the danger this woman’s pathological narcissistic personality has brought on the injured babies and children of the Haitian earthquake. The injured babies and children she will never meet. It is impossible to locate most if not all of their parents (buried in the debris) and understandably the Haitians want to make sure no other children are taken criminally from Haiti. They will bring them up in extended families.  It is encouraging when one person can make a positive difference but this case is a disaster.

I have sympathy for the people of Haiti.  They need to find resources to feed and house one million of people.  The so called ‘nonworking’ judicial system was able to give ‘the missionaries’ a fair and speedy hearing and a jail to live in with three squares a day and plumbing and two court assigned lawyers. (Laura fired the first) The detainees complain about heat and mosquito bites.  Getting rid of Laura Silsby and her crew seems a good idea. They leave 31 children in an orphanage with no clear way of returning them to parents, who might not want them back. I hope they face the fact that they have done no good in Haiti and have left it a worse place for their misguided if not criminal intrusion.  If they can face this with all the spin that will be placed on the story in their home town (most provided by Laura Silsby) they will have learned a valuable lesson. Laura Silsby and her crew have grown a much more serious cancer than my individual cancer which next to this seems unimportant.  Her cancer has spread to every sick child and injured child that seeks to leave Haiti for treatment.  Fundamentalism of course surrounds this case, but Laura Sisby is using fundamentalism and the tragedy of the earthquake in the service of her narcissism. My prediction is that she will never have insight about the damage she has done and she will continue with her self-serving schemes.  It is hoped that people will realize that there is a lot of very good work being done in Haiti and continue to give to the effort.  This child and others are being helped by Oxfam, Unicef,  Medicins Sans Frontiers, and to end Latina’s story with good news.

From Channel Four news (London)

Landina arrived in London this morning, where she was taken to Great Ormond Street children’s hospital for medical assessment on her head injuries.

Her journey had begun last night in the Haitian capital Port-au-Prince following weeks of bureaucratic delays.

Channel 4 News travelled with British surgeon David Nott, working as a volunteer in Haiti, who has looked after the child for two weeks since her arrival at the Medecins sans Frontieres hospital.

The baby’s mother is missing, presumed dead, and has no known family.

At the Santo Domingo airport, Landina’s new passport was stamped and she was checked by a nurse before being put on a British Airways flight bound to the UK to become the only Haitian child to be medically evacuated to Britain.

The charity, Facing the World, had invited her to stay in London for six to 12 months.

After she has recovered from surgery, she will return to Haiti.

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Would you give this woman drugs? I didn't dress for chemo. I got turned away.

I had a revelation today and a resolution followed. I have to look well to have well-person treatment from the hospital staff.  I’m slow on the uptake. It took me two years into my three-year PhD to realize that my ‘hippy’ long dirty hair and jeans were not speeding up my degree in Education.  In this case my sleep wear is morphing into my ‘going out’ clothes and it is not getting me anywhere medically. Today, just as in school, I decided to turn over a new leaf.  Let’s call it a belated New Year’s resolution. I have to pay attention to my grooming, even though it may compromise  my  first priniciple, ‘be comfortable’ . Maybe I’ve taken this too far because there is a blur between my sleep wear and my going ‘out’ clothes.

I woke up yesterday during chemo. to the reality of the situation that how you look gives hospital staff from cleaners to consultants a clue to your health and if they believe you are seriously ill, they treat you accordingly, which may mean they don’t treat you at all or that your treatment takes longer, while they check and check and check. This is how I arrived for chemo for two days running. I wore some comfy trousers that I could have easily slept in. (I’m not admitting whether I did or not) My hair has fallen out to the extent that I should wear my wig or a proper scarf, but, what the hell, it’s 9.00 and I’ve not slept well, why not throw my long wool everyday scarf and forget it.  No makeup. Voice still an even dimmer whisper, if that is possible.  And, on my first visit, I arrive, limping, and arriving on the wrong day giving more proof that my mental state was deteriorating, too. Usually they would have scrambled around and given me my chemo a day early, especially since the blood tests had been done and were all right. They looked sideways at each other and said, ” I didn’t look well”, and they should postpone treatment until they spoke to my oncologist at the end of the day.  I still didn’t get it, but based on how I looked how could they think otherwise? My oncologist has dropped subtle hints’ that dressing up a bit might make me feel better. (We are very close friends; she is allowed to say that). Later that day she sent an emergency text saying that she would do a ‘house call’.  It was the time I was having my toes taken care of so that I wouldn’t limp, and I couldn’t make the meeting. She told them that chemo could be scheduled for the morning if I was up to it.  She understood that if I was out of bed, I was just looking my normal messy self and in this case, it was nothing to worry about.

Not yet  ‘getting the message,’ I repeated my performance of day one, sloppy trousers, same top, same, same.  The staff again looked worried.  “Have I seen my oncologist recently?”” I walk in and a friend who I hadn’t seen in daycare before came up and had to remind me who she was.  I’m terrible when I meet someone out of context.  She .too. was here for chemo. She looked amazing.  Well dressed, hair perfect, make-up also natural and beautiful, and neat, neat, neat.    She has very serious cancer and has not been too long out of a long hospital stay. I know she is a very private person and doesn’t discuss her cancer. She conceals it well.  She sat down and got her chemo within a few minutes.

While the staff dithered about the safety of giving me chemo, I waited.  I had to wait for the doctor in charge to give his OK and then wait as the nurse tried to puncture my tired veins looking for blood, so that the tests could be repeated to make sure. She tried four times and then called the senior nurse.  All this fuss to send yet another blood sample away for tests. This added an extra two hours to my four-hour stint.   Still I didn’t get it.

Another woman who has had a really tough time with cancer came in and sat across from me with her lovely husband.  She also looked well-groomed and attractive.  She moved through her treatment without problems. This is when a light bulb went on in my head, I GOT IT!  No one wanted to take the responsibility of giving a disheveled, sick-looking person chemo. If I were as sick as looked, I might collapse or whatever.  The senior nurse came over and apologized for having me wait but said she wanted to be very careful because I didn’t look well, although the tests were all right. At that moment I made my resolution. My resolution is to dress ‘up’ for medical procedures and meetings with doctors. I will spend at least a half-hour dressing.  w

What I will do with this time, it now take five minutes, but I will try.  Finding earrings will take about ten minutes of that time, locating my lipsticks aother  five minutes. Motivation: I can cut my chemo to four hours from six hours. It is the first week of Feb. I wonder if I’ll keep this resolution until March. I do love my comfy trousers and I hate ‘dressing in the morning’ when I actually don’t feel up to much. Will I find a middle way? . .

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I’ve become the kind of person who checks for keys ten times before I leave my flat and at least once after I leave. On the evening when my oncologist made a home visit and hospitalized me, I began a new kind of checking. (The fainthearted might not want to read this.)  Had I actually told anyone that I wanted to be cremated? In my demented mind I think there must be more than two choices; burial or cremation. I guess one can be frozen, well I don’t fancy it.  A choice between two things need not be difficult, but somehow it was.  I was immersed in ‘Wolf Hall” about the 16th Century and Cromwell and it seems quite normal that we should have the option of being hung in Trafalger Square.  Perhaps as an artwork on the fourth plinth It would be better than most of the work shown and would attract the press. I wouldn’t have to worry about who would come because the tourists would throng.

I don’t want a religious ceremony with someone leading it who I have never met\and those weird looking pall bearers who freak me out.   In fact I decide (still on the way to the hospital) I only want one ‘event’ and it is quite simple except that I haven’t told the person in charge of the venue what I wanted, because until that night I hadn’t made any plan.   Formulating this checklist, the next item was who would need to be contacted, how many would come, would someone say something, what?Was I so much of a control freak that I would have to write the eulogies or order people to say something. If I had a luncheon, who would be invited, and more and more items became additions to my checklist.

Where would the ashes go? I think this checklist will be the last thing I think before I close my eyes for the last time.  I couldn’t believe how involved it all got and all the details I had never would have thought had I not been on the way to the hospital.  I always assumed doing a will and a living will were enough. Now feeling truly horrible and sure that I was facing the end, all these things flooded into my head. They say that facing death your life flashes by but I’m convinced I’ll be checking and checking and checking until my last breath.

There are other things to check as well.  Every time I have cancer I give away or give to charity as many of my things as possible.  Then I spend the next years looking for things and wondering , “Have I or have I not given it away?”

I feel I’ve accumulated more  stuff  during my last cancer remission that needs to go.  But not the night, I am on my way to the hospital. That is too much to think about.

I’m adding to this list ten days later.  Now I feel better and I’m going home tomorrow. From this vantage point, all this looks like a to do list for some other time.

Reminders keep coming in. . Yesterday was tax day in the UK and that brings on worries about how what little I will no doubt have left be distributed or do I just split it between US tax and the British Tax and call it a day. (Yes expats pay both)  Instead of big questions I spent the day trying to pay my tax on line and eventually succeeding.

In the mist I had to call to check if I had money to pay the tax and Barclays (the worlds most hated bank) locked me out of the online banking system and forced me to call on the telephone.  As most readers of the blog know I cannot speak above a whisper and calling a Barclays call station in India was extraordinary.  “What is wrong with you?” the operator bellowed  in a heavy Indian accent, over a noisy background.  “Do you have a cold?”  No, I whispered back “I’m in hospital and I have cancer’  What?  Cancer? What C- a –n-c-e-r, I spelled.  It went on like this for 30 minutes, during each security question.  When I finally finished she began to tell me in detail how to log on and when I did log on they had taken the money out of the account but had not itemized the deduction in the statement. Useless.   I will never call again, so I just hope it is all right.  If not, I might go right from hospital to jail.  I won’t miss a beat.

This is what comes of too much checking!

Check the guests to make sure they will have the 'correct' state of mind! Almost forgot!

Check the guests to make sure they will have the 'correct' state of mind! Almost forgot!

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image1The next person who says, ‘you look tired’ I will personally murder.  Or course I look tired.  I’ve been in this hospital for a week with three blood infections that have names I didn’t write down for fear I’ll look them up on The Iuternet and scare myself to death.  My living will doesn’t cover throwing my hands up in vain and shouting OUH VEY .  When I last checked this was not a beauty farm although it is the Harley Street Clinic and in the area there are hundreds of Botox and plastic surgeons.  I’d give anything to be with one of them, but I’m here, looking tired. I’ve been on three different antibiotics and have a nebulizer, oxygen, and whatever is trying to make me look less tired and not succeeding.  Also my hair is falling out in handfuls, slowly and torturously.  Look tired, no, I look like a wreck going somewhere to happen.

The hospital is a kvetcher’s paradise.  If you can’t find anything to kvetch about here you should give up you rights to complain.  From the moment I put my foot in the door things to complain about flowed.  No bath in my first bedroom and a large hospital chair sat in the middle of the shower.  The first thing the officious nurse did was to rummage through my suitcase and take my drugs.  Then the doctor on call ‘borrowed’ my drug list and went off with it never to be seen again; well it was only the first hour of the first night.

I won’t go on day by day, but one can complain in general.

1.     Being woke up at 5 in the morning for antibiotics.

2.     Having your blood pressure taken every hour or two. Does it change that much? This is the one I can’t understand. I think the robotics people at Imperial College London are working on a robot to do this. Hurry is all I can say.

3.     Nurses that make the blood pressure cuff so tight you could easily scream and defiantly should scream.

4.      Nurses who forgot half your medication and disagree when you tell them they’ve forgot.

5.     Never enough blankets.  Is this a developing country? Asking for an extra thin blanket is never easy especially when you really want two extra blankets.

6.     Pills you are supposed to take left in small containers next to your bed and you come across them the next day.

7.     Twenty five to thirty year olds who trained to be speech therapists and physical therapists by memorizing the book.  They look like something out of “Mad Men/,” dressed to the height of office protocol.  High heels, sensible dress (translate, boring) or suit, make up perfect, hair perfect you already hate them and they haven’t opened their mouth yet.  One such speech therapist and I are going to come to serious blows.  Instead of admitting that she never did a proper swallowing assessment, she surreptitiously showed up during lunch the next day, no doubt to watch me swallow.  She kept insisting that I was perfectly all right.  Fortunately, I have a more experienced speech therapist with some authority who sorted everyone out in no uncertain terms.  I won’t go in to details.

8.     Nebulizers that go over your nose and mouth are to be kvetched about.  They are never given at the right time.  The noise interferes with TV; it wakes you up just as you are drifting off, and greets you at 6.30 in the morning.  AND nurses leave it on and say they will be back in ten minutes.  Ha.  They never come back unless you call them and it is difficult to figure out when it is finished.  After several days I asked how you turn it off. Now after ten minutes, off it goes, I have to get out of bed to do it but it is worth it and after ten minutes of whirring I’m fully awake anyway. I tried to close it off a few days later and it exploded. (Maybe best I keep my hands off of it.)

9.      Now this is personal.  Disposable underpants.  The ones they supply in the hospital are diapers.  I don’t know how long it is since you’ve diapered anyone, but pampers are a long way back in my history. I was faced with a complex diaper, half asleep, and wondering when I could lie down again. I found a friend who found some proper disposable underpants that look like they are supposed to look.

10.  Within sight I have Wolf Hall (Hilary Mantel) with only 100 pages left to read and about 10 other books, DVD’s and my blog to write and I’ve felt too tired to do anything.  It is worth complaining when you have no other symptoms besides tiredness.  There is nothing to get your kvetch into like vomiting (well you know the list).

Now that I’ve had my Kvetch I feel better,  Of course the staff here is very good and the care excellent, but I kvetch to visitors and to myself mostly.  I think it is therapeutic. Since I have no voice only a whisper and English is not a big first language around here, I don’t do any real damage.

Anyway, Chemo is cancelled and I’ll be here another week. Today is the first day I’ve felt able to blog, so I will try to keep it up.

"Have any cards for someone who's just kvetching?"

"Have any cards for someone who's just kvetching?"

Another Kvetch, they didn’t find my Advil PM supply.  Like any good American I managed to get Advil brought in (it is illegal in the UK) and NO ONE WILL EVER GET MY ADVIL. (Don’t worry about addiction; it is just my security blanket.)

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High table at Oxford-  MY TABL£ NOT!

High table at Oxford- MY TABL£ NOT!

I woke up in fear – I was having just one dinner guest but it felt like I was having a dinner party for 8 to 10. Because of Chemo I haven’t had anyone for dinner for a long time but I needed to get over the impasse. I’ve lost the use of a vocal cord and can’t speak above a whisper, so restaurants are proving difficult. I emailed my cousin who is on Chemo, holding down three jobs and still cooking for husband and children when they are home from college. She sent me a fabulous recipe endorsed by her sister, who hates cooking.

Chicken Marabella

16 pieces chicken (thighs work well, I used six but the extra sauce was great)

1 head garlic, crushed

1/4 c oregano

1/2 c red wine vinegar

1/2 c olive oil

1 c pitted prunes or apricots

1/2 c green olives, pitted

1/2 c capers with some juice

6 bay leaves

S and p to taste

Combine the above in a big casserole pan or two casseroles.  Make sure the chicken is covered with the marinade and pop into the refrigerator.  24 hours later remove and pour over 1 c white wine and sprinkle with 1 c brown sugar.  Put in oven at 350 for an hour.

The night before was not good. Because I have the ‘can’t feel fingertips’symptom, I broke a jar of spaghetti sauce and dropped the dish I was making when taking it out of the microwave. The kitchen looked like a bombsite. I scrapped dinner altogether and went to bed. No marinating.

The next day I had Chemo and didn’t finish until 4.00. Two and a half hours to go. Ran past the wine shop and bought an organic wine for cooking and Petit Chablis for drinking. Ran home. This had to be fast. I have a tiny kitchen (London flat) and two stuffed cabinets. I had about six chicken thighs, but decided to make the whole sauce recipe. I now keep frozen chopped garlic in the freezer. I had some dried oregano. Problem, not enough red wine vinegar, threw in the balsamic (why not? Everyone loves balsamic). Had a can of pitted prunes (anyone on chemo will know why) and low and behold jar of capers (I guess smoked salmon at Xmas), and even found olives and bay leaves. (No breakage yet.) Threw everything in the direction of the casserole dish and banged it in the oven. Lay down and waited. It was five thirty and my friend was coming in an hour.

In she whooshed right on time. I should say, this was a bit of a rapprochement, because she hadn’t visited for quite a while. (Our relationship was a bit shaky.) She is a wine lover and began by telling me that wine that costs only 10 pounds was for ‘students’ (she is a professor at Oxford), not for friends. I didn’t dare tell her that the Petit Chablis was 10.99. She tasted both the Organic and the Chablis and settled on the Chablis. We spent a few hours over dinner and she seemed to like the chicken and drank a respectable amount of wine. It was going well.

When she got up to get her Oxford train, it was 9.00 and I was exhausted. ‘Well, she said, in her professor manner, I will stay longer next week.’ All I could think to say was, ‘This is fine; I go to bed very early.’

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