Nesta Rovina

What to Do

2012-01-24T20:14:00.000-08:00

I was reading my very brief journal I kept in India, and was reminded of an incident which occurred on our second day there.

We visited Mahaballipuram, an area of magnificent stone carvings and an ancient temple. I remembered it from a previous visit, 18 years ago. What I remembered about that visit were the granite carvings, the snake charmers, and a fight between a snake and a mongoose. I also remember walking along the lovely beach being pursued by a young girl, a beggar. She was in rags and held a tiny equally ragged baby. As is their custom, she latched on to me and didn't leave me alone. It was at a time when I was in desperate need of quiet time, and I am ashamed to say that I quite lost it with her. I told her to get away and asked whether she had ever heard of the world's population explosion. Of course it went by her.

On my return visit, 18 years later our group of 46 stood outside a temple, waiting to go in. Of course we were accosted by every urchin and beggar in the area. Again, a young girl stood in front of me holding out strings of synthetic beads and pearls. She shoved them in my face and tried to open my fingers. I looked down at her and shook my head. She gazed back out of large brown eyes. She was a pretty girl who was very very dirty. She stared at me and said, "please Ma'am, very every hungry." Despite my stoney face she continued. I looked at her, obviously she was hungry. She wasn't in good shape, but what on earth could I do? If I agreed to buy even one of her strands of beads the other hundred beggars around her would insist we buy from all of them. I looked into her eyes and shook my head. Her whole sorry life and future unfolded in front of me. Just then a security guard who had been on the outskirts of this group came over, raised his hand and he hit her on her back, hard. It happened so quickly. I felt myself screaming 'no' as he hit her again and all the street kids scattered.

It is very difficult when one is confronted with this level of misery and despair. One of the men who leads our tour is an Indian man, a Hare Krishna disciple. For the past few years he supervises an organization that feed 1200,000 children a day in Mumbai. For most of these children this is their only meal. They are fed in government schools and their parents now send them to school so that they can eat, and of course, learn. On my last visit to India I decided to donate to them, because I know where the money is going, and that it is an extremely worthy cause, better than the 10 rupees I can dole out to a few people to make me feel better.

If you are interested, this is the link

www.middaymeal.com

Shopping in India

2012-01-22T11:59:00.000-08:00

My latest trip to India passed in a dream. I will write more of it for Namarupa, and hopefully more vignettes will follow in this blog. It is really impossible to capture or even try to describe the sensory overload that is India.

Amongst other places we visited was Puducherry (formerly known as Pondicherry.) Cyclone Thane had passed through before we arrived, uprooting trees, destroying roads and communications, wiping out villages. The area in and around Auroville was damaged very badly.

We eventually arrived in Puducherry after a long bus ride delayed even further by a sit down strike on the bridge, stopping all traffic. The strike was instigated by workers who had not received compensation for cyclone damage.

The area of Puducherry around the Sri Aurobindo Ashram is reminiscent of the French Quarter of New Orleans (thankfully without Bourbon Street.) It is elegant and gracious - wide, almost clean streets, beautiful French colonial buildings. Lush trees lining the streets and form overhead canopies.

After our visit to the Ashram and Temple we had time for that most spiritual of activities, shopping. I was told of a Kadhi Shop (The Kadhi textiles are the industry begun by Mahatma Ghandhi, and not the shop where Ghandi went shopping, as one of our crowd informed her husband in Michigan. ) They are a wonderful homespun cotton and prices are fixed. I wanted to buy something for my nephews.

An Indian 'guide' accompanied some of us along bustling Nehru avenue, no longer reminiscent of the French quarter. Narrow dusty streets lined with crammed shops and stalls. We arrived at the designated shop and everyone dispersed into the narrow, crowded interior, on either side of which textiles and clothing were piled to the ceiling. Behind a counter sat about 10 men, if not more, all their heads wagging as we asked questions.

Behind one of the men I spotted plain medium sized short sleeved shirts and pointed to them. One of the men removed them from the pile and from their cellophane bags. He displayed them on a crowded counter top. Inside the shop the heat and humidity were getting to me, I wanted to leave so I wagged my head in approval of these two shirts. Another man refolded them and replaced them into their cellophane bags. He handed these to another man who wrote the prices on a piece of paper. This man handed them to another man who added the totals and handed them to a man at a cash register. I paid the amount and yet another man handed me the parcels along with a receipt, (and apparently, a blessing.) Finally, another man handed me my change.

"How many Indians does it take to buy a shirt?"

Miracles

2011-12-23T16:23:00.000-08:00

It seems apt that at this time of magic and miracles, of darkness and light, I should write about the presence of The Lord in my life. I know this sounds sacrilegious, as I am certainly not a practicing Christian of any sort. However, all the families I work with are either Catholic, Pentecostal or Baptist. I have worked with Jehovah's Witnesses, but that will require a separate piece.

The homes of the Catholics have crucifixes on the walls, in the fireplaces, in the kitchens. Images of scenes from the Last Supper grace the walls. In the Latino homes there are statues or photos of the Virgin of Guadalupe with candles and flowers in front. These altars are all very beautiful, and are changed according to holidays or family events. Alongside the images of the Virgin of Guadalupe are photos of their ancestors. rosaries, various symbols.

In one of the homes I go to, the daughter is very ill. She was born with a metabolic disease and has to be kept secluded in her home. Her mom is young and deeply religious. I see her on Friday mornings. Often, during my visit a woman member of their church comes by and she and the mother say mass in the home while I sit with the little girl. I presume they are saying mass. They stand in front of a picture of Jesus and another of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the dining room table. A white candle is lit and they stand in front singing, and I hear Senor, sangre, padre, madre, espiritu santo, and so on. They kneel and stand a few times.

The young mother recently had surgery to remove several malignant growths in her neck. This of course shocked all of us who are involved with the family. After all, she is very young, and besides anything, her daughter needs her. We prayed before and after the removal of the tumors. Her mother came up from Mixoaca to help her for a couple of weeks. Her mother is also very religious.

I was there on Friday, after her surgery, and translated the doctor's summary for the family. While I was there the 'traveling minister' (as I refer to her in my head) came into the home. The three women stood around the table/altar and prayed and sang in unison. This lasted about thirty minutes while I attempted to interest the little girl in a book of fairies (she is partial to fairies at this time.) Out of the corner of my eye I saw the women genuflecting, then the minister handed them what appeared to be white discs. I realized this must be communion. When the minister left the mother turned to me. Her face, pale and lopsided after the surgery, was glowing. Her eyes beamed, she appeared almost drunk.

"Nesta, " she purred, "un miraglo a pasar, un miraglo de Dios. Dios es aqui, en nuestra casa." God is here, God is present, God is with us. He wants to make himself known to you. Do you know what happened now?" she continued beaming lopsidedly, while her mother also stood there, glowing. "The minister brought two wafers, one for me and one for my mother, but there is an extra one, it is for you, it is a miracle, "Dios te quiere, Nesta, Dios te quiere. Nesta, you are blessed, Jesus wants you to know him, he is here with us and in our hearts, you are blessed, you are blessed."

I had no idea how to respond to these two beaming women! "Gracias," I said. It is time for me to go now.

I left to the usual "Dios te bendige" that most of the families wish me.

So, God bless you and a merry Xmas to one and all.

Special Needs

2011-11-15T21:00:00.001-08:00

I got back to work three weeks ago. Because of scheduling difficulties and because he is now in a day care, I haven't yet gotten to see one of the boys I work with. Today I called his mother and asked how he is.
"Really good," she said. This weekend he ate a whole bowl of food by himself'. I heard the delight in her voice. "Did he use his fingers"? I asked her. "What did he eat?"
"He ate our food with us. I cut up some pasta and some fish and some vegetables and put it in a bowl. He ate all of it, using his fingers. He picked up the pieces and put them in the side of his mouth and chewed them up and swallowed them. He ate all of it!"
He is two years and three months old, and until now, he will only accept soft food. He doesn't put his fingers in the food or bring anything to his mouth. Any bit not acceptable to him he spits out. I was thrilled and delighted with her news. I will see him tomorrow.
No one who is not involved in the care of a child with special needs can imagine the joy, relief, and delight one feels when they do something that typically developing children just do automatically. Two weeks ago I watched in unmitigated joy as my little cousin of ten months sat in her high chair, grabbed the pears, the bread, the pieces of cheese, and everything, in fact, that was offered to her. She got the food to her mouth and chewed and swallowed and ate some more - a two-fisted little eater obviously enchanted with her food. After finishing every last morsel she was removed from her chair, and then showing good fine motor development she picked up the crumbs from the floor. An efficient little vacuum. Finally content with having done a thorough cleaning job she stood up, smiled, and sat down. She had our undivided attention so she performed this remarkable trick a few times .
How miraculous when everything works as it should, a superb intricate enmeshment of different systems working in unison in a little being.
I returned to the news that one of the boys with whom I had worked had died. He was two and a half years old. In his case, it was probably better for him, he suffered from microcephaly, he was blind, and deaf, and had to be fed through a g-tube. At the same time he responded to his parents' voices and presence, he interacted with his environment, touching objects with different textures. He loved music and responded to it by smiling. His parents and sister were devoted to his care. They are devastated. All I could do was tell his mother how very sorry I am, and what a good parent she was, and that she took wonderful care of him. She was so upset that maybe she had done something wrong to cause his death, by not giving him enough medication, or by giving him too much medication, or maybe she gave him water incorrectly, or kept his room too warm or too cold.
"No, no, no, you did nothing wrong at all." How can one console grieving parents? I would never say "it is for the best." All I can do is listen to them, and show I care.
It is not always easy.

Catch Up

2011-11-13T20:14:00.001-08:00

Phew. As ever much happening. Externally, internally. The internal things are harder to write about because they occur in a place beyond words, as brief flashes of insight or understanding during a yoga pose or while I am waiting at a red light, or getting onto BART. I did carry a notebook around with me but in the interests of lightening my load, so to speak, (my handbag) I threw things out, like a tin of peppermints, my notebook, some of my numerous chapsticks and lipsticks. Now I am reading Joan Didion who writes how she and her late husband always kept cards with them on which they would write Oh well, I am neither one of them nor do I write like them.
Since my return I have been catching up with friends, family, evaluations at work, reading, buying items to pursue my crafts like beading and knitting, and so on.
A most delightful event was seeing William and Olga, my beloved former neighbours, who flew the coop and went to live in Salina, Kansas. I could write endlessly about them, and in fact, at some time I may. Suffice to say we spent a few wonderful hours together, over a really good meal and a hike at Albany Bulb. Then today my friend's son, whom I last saw in New Orleans, came to town for a couple of hours.
Tomorrow I drive down the Peninsula to visit someone very dear to me. She has a really rare form of cancer and is on hospice now. I wish she lived closer. Besides being from South Africa, and married to someone who is a member of the family, she worked in early intervention. We have always had a lot in common. She is a wife and a mother and is a warm, loving, nurturing being. The world is a richer place for having her in it.
Yesterday I was at a get together for a daughter of my friend. She died of a brain tumor in December. These fleeting lives and passing of special people just serve to remind me how grateful we should be for each and every moment. I do try.

A Very Long Time

2011-10-29T17:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, yes, yes. I know it has been a long while. As one concerned friend told me a few weeks ago, "your last post was August."

So, for those of you who are/were concerned as to my wellbeing. I am, thank goodness, fine. I just haven't done any writing of any kind as I have been busy traveling.

Before I left for Israel I spent a weekend with friends in Santa Fe and Taos. I have a tremendous affinity for the desert, and their two homes are situated in the most spectacular spots with endless vistas of clouds, sky, earth, chapparal, scrub. Beauty all around.

I have said this before and I will say it again and again and again. I am blessed to have good friends, and am equally blessed to have good who live in the most beautiful homes, and whom are generous and hospitable.

I left for Israel just before Rosh Hashana. This visit the weather in Israel was wonderful. It is the first I remember at this time of the year - the season of change, as it is called in Hebrew. It even rained the first day I arrived and washed the dust off the trees the countryside looked fresh and sparkly.

I met with friends I haven't seen in almost 30 years, and it was such a joy to sit and reminisce and carry on as if three decades had been compressed into a couple of days. This is how it is with most of my friends there, we simply carry on our conversation,

After leaving Israel I attended the wedding of a friend's daughter. I met my friend 30 years ago on kibbutz! I will try and post the pictures of these reunions, and then I will carry on with my blog once in a while, as before.

Jerusalem

Wedding, Queens

New York

Thursday

2011-08-13T23:06:00.000-07:00

My day began in an apartment building situated in Richmond's Iron Triangle. It was another grey and foggy morning, and in mid-summer I wore a hoodie and had a scarf wrapped out around my neck. I have to call mom, who has to walk down several flights of steps to come down and let me in. As I walked to the front gate, phone in hand, I saw a man open it with a key which all the tenants had. His baggy pants were falling down. he carried a bag of laundry over his shoulder. I hurried up and asked him to keep it open for me, which he did. It slammed shut behind us and he disappeared up a flight of steps. I went up a different flight through the parking garage. We met on the second floor, and surprised, grinned at each other. He entered the apartment next to the one I was going to.

In the apartment the mom, or rather the guardian, whom I wrote about previously, bellowed out excitedly, "he's walking." She didn't even realise I came in without calling her. Indeed the little boy I began working with in the beginning of the year tottered about in a drunken fashion, lurching from my legs to his favorite spot next to the window where he plays with the slats of the blinds and looks out at the buildings outside. He lurched and tottered, but he walked. This is my last visit as he will begin our program next week. He has really come a very long way, and it is very exciting that he is doing so much better.

I spent the next hour playing hide and seek with him, trying to get him to catch a ball and release it, and bringing him back from the kitchen where he loves to stand in front of a cupboard opening and closing the door. Mom and I spoke about his progress, or rather she spoke in her normal fashion, which is in a very loud voice non-stop. Her pauses, if there are any, are only to catch a breath, or touch me on my shoulder. She told me about her family reunion in Atlanta. They had just returned. "It was so hot," she said, "all I wanted to do was stay inside," but Ayana (her daughter) dragged her to see Martin Luther King's grave, and the campus of Emory University. He (the little boy) was so good on the plane they game him wings. She spoke to an auntie and find out that the women in her family suffered from fibroids, she herself began bleeding after not bleeding for years. I interjected to say she must go to the doctor. She told me she had been, the doctor did a biopsy and she was going today to get the results. (Mental note to call tomorrow to check with her)

I got ready to leave and the little boy walked up to me, held me by my legs and screamed.

I drove to the office to use the restroom and check on my messages. I told the office coordinator that I would be away for a couple of hours. I had one little fellow to see, then was going to open another patient. I received the referral in June, called the mom who asked me to call back after July. I did call, several times. Every time the phone was answered by a long rap song (two minutes, because I timed it.) At the end of which there was no voice message prompting the caller to leave a message, and although there was a beep, who knew if anyone listened. However, after a couple of calls I did leave a message, with my office and cell number. I never heard back and I told the case manager I wasn't going to try anymore. "Three strikes and you are out. This is not a compulsory service."

Now, in mid August the physical therapist (PT) seeing the family told me mother is expecting me. (with a bit of coercion on her part, I am sure.) I agreed to meet the therapist there today. I knew this was not going to be a pleasant affair. But first I went to another little fellow I see. He is cute, but throws up the whole time, and smells of vomit. He has a disgusting habit of throwing up, then putting his hands in the mess to make it splash. I gag and look around for something, and grab a sheet of paper towels. This is how I spend my time with him. He wriggles away from being sat down to focus on an activity, like stacking rings, which is enthralling. He crawls away, throws up, smiles, and crawls. His two-year old brother is wracked by jealousy, and he grabs whatever toy I bring and plays with it. It doesn't matter that he has a room full of nice toys. This time, when I got there the outside of the house was being painted and the father was laying down paving. He took me on a tour showing me everything he had done. Inside a wall of the kitchen was cut out and pictures had been taken down so that the walls could be painted. The bricks around the fireplace were covered with a primer. A very large wooden crucifix lay on the sofa taking up all the room. It didn't seem right to move a bloody Jesus to the floor, so I sat wedged between his crown of thorns and an armrest.

An older half sister and a friend of hers were all dressed up. Mom, who normally works, came out of a bedroom, looked at me in a surprised manner and said "Oh, I'm so sorry, it's my my daughter's birthday and we are all going out. I took the day off and we totally forgot about you."

We exchanged pleasantries, I tried to get the little fellow to take a few steps, but he just plopped down in his vomit and didn't move. He was tired.

I left. In the car I poured sanitizer into my hands and went off to the other child.

I parked my car outside an apartment building and suddenly heard the physical therapist yelling at me from a balcony. Come on up here, there are stairs to the side of the building. The door was open, and coming down the passageway toward me was an extremely large, very black woman dressed in a T-shirt that came down over her thighs. Her hair was combed up in an untidy sort of pony tail."Hi," she said, sorry, I wasn't trying to avoid you." I walked in to the living room which was flanked by two sagging sofas against either wall, a TV set which was on. The physical therapist was on the floor with a little boy with a creamy skin, an afro and large blue green eyes. He seemed to be smashing a truck. Two women sat on either sofa, both of them appeared to be sleeping. The one opened her eyes when I walked in and smiled a toothless grin, the other woman did not wake. Mom sat opposite me and I told her we need to fill in paperwork, as I had explained in my first message.

"Why? not now. Is there a lot? What is it for?"

The PT explained that she is concerned she may have to pay for something. We both assured mother she wouldn't have to pay for anything. I said I would fill in the paperwork and she could just sign it. In came two older children, an older girl and boy who had just returned from somewhere. They said something to mom about another child who did something in class, and mom said "don't be so ghetto."

I just know this is going to be fun, and the child is not yet two. I see him until he is three.

Back to the office, ate half a burrito, answered messages, made some calls, rewrote my schedule, and talked to the program supervisor. That is always a relief. I can tell her my impressions and we can commiserate. It is very depressing to return from a place like I had just been to, and think about the little boy and what kind of an environment he is in, and wonder what the future holds for him. We discuss resilient children.

I then called to check that a family of a girl I had worked with were at home, and went to visit them. I worked with the little girl for a year or so, then she came to our program. I absolutely loved her, her grandparents and her auntie. Her own mother was found dead on the streets when the little girl was just a few months old. The grandparents were informed of their daughter's death and then told she had a little girl who was born prematurely and is in a foster home. They went and brought her home. They also raise her older brother. They had a home in North Richmond, and had to leave it in the very first wave of foreclosures. The grandparents both work, but lost their home and found a tenement apartment in a really bad area. The place was filled with mould, no matter how much they cleaned. Worse than that were the shootings right outside their apartment, and the drug dealing, and the prostitutes. And that is where I saw the little girl who had cerebral palsy and some brain damage. She also had, and has, the most amazing spirit. She is a fighter who insists on standing and walking. She has learned to move about in her wheelchair and uses a walker. I absolutely fell in love with her, and the whole family. Since she turned three I have only seen her once although we talk on the phone. I speak to the grandmother regularly. They moved again, to a nicer home. It is cleaner and quieter. So far there have only been two shootings in this area since they moved a few months ago. Just this week grandpa was laid off his job where he had worked for 20 years.

I wasn't sure whether the girl would remember me, but she screamed "Nesta" when I walked in. "Nesta, come and sit here." She gave me a great big hug. We chatted, she showed me her leapfrog pad, we looked at photos. She answered questions. When I finished she couldn't yet talk, now she talks so nicely. She has a slight slur, a result of her CP, but I understand her perfectly. She still laughs and appears really well. She can get herself to the bathroom and insists on doing everything independently, and just needs a bit of help at the end. They have a great big TV and were watching something called Fright Night, about vampires. I would not encourage her watching this, but she was transfixed, although she did say it doesn't scare her.

We hugged goodbye and she said "Nesta, I love you." A warm and fuzzy end to my day.

R.I.P.

2011-07-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

Maxie is no more. He expired in his quiet, graceful manner on July 28, 2011.

Bye Maxie, you were a good little companion.

Maxie Musings

2011-07-13T16:31:00.000-07:00

Maxie has never fully recovered despite my ministrations. On the other hand, Maxie continues with his existence. Mostly he remains still, propped between the heater and an artificial plant. He continues to attack his wee little pellets at feeding time, admittedly not with the same fierceness as previously, but nevertheless, he continues to feed. It seems to me that Maxie leads an existence which is totally based in the now. He has led a singularly uneventful life, free of any dangers he would face in the wild. Maxie doesn't seem perturbed by his waning glory. His existence is punctuated by feeding time, but I don't think Maxie has any sense of time. There is light and there is dark. There is existence, then there isn't, and until such time as there isn't, he exists, free of memories, free of past and future, free of worldly attachments and desires.

And now, an idea and an appeal to my faithful followers. I think I should name the blog something other than Tree Barking, because it is not entirely about my work. Does anyone have any ideas or suggestions?

Intent

2011-07-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

Ever since beginning this blog it was my intent to blog far more often than I do. So much happens every day at work, with the children, with their families, with the ever changing rules and regulations, with the budget, with life in West Contra Costa County, and my intent was, and is, to keep up with this.

My intent, when I agreed to blog for the Albany Patch, was to blog a couple of times a month, nothing grandiose or overly ambitious. And so far, I have posted one, ONE, measly little entry.

My intent is to write on a daily basis so that I can submit a manuscript while I am still alive.

All these, are my intent.

I read about other writers' work habits, and I am in awe. Somehow they finish a chapter a day even though they are raising six children, living on farms, growing their own organic produce from seeds, and tending to their livestock. How on earth do they do this? One thing I know about myself is that I will never be an early riser. My brain does not function early in the morning, and so I won't be one of those writers who is up before dawn to get in a few hours of writing before the demands of the day.

When I first began working in the healthcare 'industry' I fantasized about being free to write in the evenings. Little did I know that I would be writing all day long, At the end of every session I write a summary of what I did for the parents. Then every six months I have to complete a comprehensive evaluation for every child. My days are spent driving from home to home, crawling on the floor, 'playing' with the children. Listening to their parents, communicating with other workers. I come home from work and usually the most energy I can muster is to turn on the TV, lie on the sofa, and breathe.

Now it is July and at last we are enjoying a few days without rain, cold, and fog, I come home from work and sit outside and enjoy the evening breeze and watch the colors change overhead. These long evenings of summer are a blessed event and it is pity to come back inside to write

Mendocino

2011-05-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

It is Memorial Day weekend and I came up to Mendocino on Saturday. It is here that I blogged my very first entry. Something about sitting in this cabin looking out at redwood trees, pine trees, manzanita trees and evergreens, and enjoying all the shades of green inspires me. The air outside is clean and it lightly scented, as if a master perfumier came by to add intoxicating aromas - hints of pennyroyal and bergamot, something else elusive - a spicy scent, as well as wafts of sweet geranium. Outside the window the fairies float by on drafts of air. This morning a female deer came elegantly into the garden and nibbled the grass. Later I opened a back door and startled the deer and her new little one. They turned around and leaped into the woods, vanishing instantly. Last night a blue heron swooped into the pond.

Today is still and calm, yesterday the wind whipped through causing the trees to sway alarmingly over the cabins, creaking and groaning. It rained so abundantly this year that the wildflowers are still out and shades of purple, yellow, orange, cloak the hills and appear out of the grass. In fact, on the drive up it began raining after Cloverdale, all along W 128, as it winds and curves and ascends and descends. It rained steadily through the Anderson Valley and Boonville. When the road entered the sacred redwood groves I turned off the book I was listening to, opened my windows to let in the heady air, and accompanied by the steady swish of the windshield wipers and the steady patter of rain I drove.

This is a much needed break from the exhausting stresses of work. It seems like all the workers are running on nerves and adrenaline. This is not a good recipe for allowing the creative muse in. Here is my chance to exhale and allow nature to do her healing work.

A Recipe

2011-05-14T17:18:00.000-07:00

It seems like everyone and their mother are bringing out recipe books. Actors, singers, dancers, all seem to think everyone wants to entertain guests like they do, and feed their children healthy organic meals from vegetables raised in their gardens.

When I was in New Orleans a while ago, I stood in the long line of people waiting to buy their beignets from Cafe Du Monde. The weather was pleasant, the line was long, and people were friendly. The woman in front of me spoke to her daughter, Deja, and son Jovan, who took off every now and then to chase each other up and down a wall, and into the crowds around Jackson Square. When they disappeared she watched out for them, visibly relieved when they returned to check back with her in the line. She told them not to go too far, and asked them whether they remembered the movie they had seen the night before, in which a slasher kidnapped kids. "There's crazy people out there" she said to them, as she reasoned with them to remain close enough that she could keep her eye on them.

I told her daughter that I had worked with a girl called Deja. She told me she is 10 - soon to be 11, in July. Her brother Jovan, told me he'd be eight in July. Funny, I said, I also have a birthday in July. Jovan told me his is on July 7th, then Deja told me her's is July 22nd, same as mine. Mom said she is waiting to see the price of an order of beignets now. When she was little her parents brought her here and it was only one dollar. She is from New Orleans, but they don't come around here that often. She knows prices must have gone up a lot.

"When we was little," she told me, "we made beignets ourselves. I tell you how to make them," she said to me, "it's easy."

"Go to a store and get yourself a packet of biscuit mix. (That is what I think she said.) Then buy a packet of sugar - that white fine sugar. Roll the mix into balls. Take a coke bottle and put it into the middle of the balls, to make holes in them. Throw some handfuls of lard or grease into a pan. It should get nice and hot, then fry them up. When they be nice and crisp put them in a brown paper bag with that white sugar, and shake 'em up real good. There, you got yourself beignets."

Another Update

2011-04-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

I was away again - this time in Seattle. "Freezing in Seattle" can sum up my time. Despite the weather, it was fun. Ran around in the rain and cold seeing sights, going to museums, to the theatre, here, there and everywhere. I returned to a vastly improved Max. He is back to his normal active self, and attacks his food like he did before.

I hit the ground running on my return. Many new referrals at work - in fact, I cannot handle them all. So, deep breath, and do what I can.Also, I have many evaluations to complete. Somehow the energy has revved up all around, I am sure everyone feels this. I think our practice is to remain open and grounded in the midst of all of this.

Update

2011-03-27T21:42:00.000-07:00

Today I went to the Tropical Fish Store where I bought Maxie. I told a young lady about Maxie's conditions, and described his behavior and appearance. She questioned me for a quite a long while - an interview on my care of Maxie.

Is the water heated? How often do I change it? What do I clean the bowl with? How much water do I leave in the bowl? Do I have gravel in the bowl? Do I check the acid content? I answered, as they say, to the best of my knowledge, but with each question I began feeling more and more guilty of neglect, mishandling, abuse.She also asked about Max's age so I told her two years, and, trying to make her feel a bit guilty also, informed her that I bought Maxie from their store, but he hadn't come with a birth certificate, so his real age is unknown. She shrugged that off and said two years is a good age. Betta fish, she informed me, are inbred and so suffer from genetic mutations! Without seeing Max she can't say exactly what he has.

Eventually I left the store having spent $24.11 for mineral salts, some kind of drops which apparently may help, and a thermometer. I had a heater I had never used for fear of boiling Max. I promised I would heat his little home. She said he may improve within three days - on the other hand,he may not. Whatever, I should return in three days to report on his condition.

I have scrupulously followed her instructions, and will let her and you all know in three days how little Max is faring.

Maxie

2011-03-24T21:15:00.000-07:00

I returned from a glorious time friendwise, weatherwise, and otherwise in New Orleans very very late Monday night. As soon as I entered I greeted Max, my little Piscean companion, who normally greets me by coming to the side of the bowl,undulating happily (or so I imagine - the happy part, that is.) This time I had to look for him amongst the artificial fronds and leaves. He seemed to be resting amongst the plants. I tapped the bowl, called his name, but there was no response. Of course I was alarmed. I did notice slight movement in his fins, so I knew the worst had not happened. After quite a while I observed him trying to come to the surface, then sinking down. He attempted to come to the surface several times, then eventually I saw him inhale some air and then, shockingly, he sank down, belly up! He remained like this, not moving at all. I tried praying, still no life. Then I wondered how to dispose of him, in a dignified fashion. I even said Kaddish for him. I was exhausted after a long day of airport 'hopping' and flight delays. I thought he could remain in the water until the following morning, besides, I couldn't deal with removing him.

The next morning I saw he had moved, and was no longer belly up. He had almost propped himself on one of the plant leaves. I gave him his food, but he ignored it. I called my neighbour who cared for Max in my absence. She immediately said that he hadn't eaten the whole weekend, and said that he does not look well. This pattern has continued until today. I thought that either he is too cold and is hibernating, so to speak, or that he is getting old. He has been with me for two years, and I don't know how old he was when I bought him. One of my patient's moms gave me two books on bettas today when I told her of my concerns. I looked at The Guide to Owning Siamese Fighting Fish, subheading, care, breeding, combat raising, varieties, diseases - that is what I needed, diseases. After careful observation of Maxie he appears to still have good coloring, and there are no signs of fungal infections, fin rotting, swelling, or popped eyes. All signs point to Maxie as having swim-bladder trouble, and there is no cure! Infrequently, apparently, a fish can come out of this condition spontaneously, so I am praying for Maxie's recovery, and ask all of you to keep little Maxie in your thoughts.

Friends

2011-03-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

Without hesitation I would say that my friendships are the most important aspect of my life.

I grew up with a group of girls (The Great Girls Gang). Our friendship began for some of us, in kindergarten. We were carpooled to Temple Shalom. The others from the Gang we met in Grade 1. We remained friends from then on. There was a core group of us - we would meet at school, and play in each others' homes after school and on weekends. We formed the Great Girls Gang and we met in the shed in Sandy's garden. We painted the shed and made curtains, and gave each other exotic names like Njanga. We took minutes of our meetings. What exactly we met about I forget now. We remained together throughout our school years. When we began having boyfriends we always had a cardinal rule - never to go out with another's boyfriend after a break up. Our friendship was always paramount, and so we remained friends ... forever.

After Matric we went our separate ways, to University, traveling. We married, had children, went to live in far away countries, but always kept in touch. The moment I heard my husband was killed my friends were there for me, they reached over continents sending telegrams, and phoning. They were always my backbone, my support. We meet over the years, and as soon as we are together the years we have been apart slip away and immediately we carry on just like we did all our lives.

And of course over the years and the countries, new friendships and bonds were formed, but the old ties are forever there. We meet ... in South Africa, in London, in Israel, and now ... on Skype.

Why this entry? Because this weekend I am going to meet one of these friends, and her husband and son, in New Orleans. And I am so excited. She is a professor of English literature at Wits University in Johannesburg and will be presenting at a conference in New Orleans. Her husband survived a horrendous accident in South Africa last year, and he will accompany her. Their son lives in LA and he will be meeting us all. The last time I saw them was five years ago, in South Africa.

So ---- here is to friends, and to reunions, to love that abides and sustains.

A Day

2011-02-16T21:33:00.000-08:00

A day, and what a day.

My first 'wee one' of the day lives in Point Richmond. They are a Hispanic family. Mom is at home with their son, dad works in construction. When he is not out working he works on their home, which they rent. He has built a deck, painted the home and converted the rickety wooden staircase into an elegant, solid, tiled staircase. They share the home with his brother and his family who also have a young child.

Their son was an 'extreme premie' - born just on the edge of viability, at 23 weeks. His development is quite remarkable considering his fragile and vulnerable beginnings. Mom is very attentive, and has listened to the advice of the therapists and medical professionals. He had pneumonia recently - he is now on antibiotics. Mom and Dad got sick also, but they don't have health insurance, so they didn't go to see anyone. Mom has a nasty cough.

When I arrived, dad and his brother were leaving for work. Mom told me they haven't had any work for the last three weeks because of the weather. No work, no money, and now dad, uncle, and aunt, are all struggling to make their rent payment which is due tomorrow.

On the way to the next family I listened to "This Is Your Call" with Rose Aguilar. The program was on teenage homelessness in California. A young man who was homeless for many years and now works as an outreach coordinator for homeless teenagers spoke, as well as a young woman who works in an agency dealing with the homeless.I can never listen to the entire hour, because I have to go to my next family, and usually 'come in' a little late, and 'leave' halfway through the program. The young people were really articulate and spoke about the shame and fear of being homeless, of trying to keep up a front if they did go to school. Many don't attend school and so drop out of the system.

I reached my next family. I work with their daughter who has Down Syndrome. Dad is there when I go. The parents work at the same factory, mom leaves very early for the morning shift. Dad is with the twin girls, then mom comes home and dad goes to work until late at night. They work very hard indeed.

Two weeks ago dad was very upset when I arrived. A disgruntled worker at the factory had informed immigration services that the factory hires undocumented workers. "La Migra" came to investigate. The owners were fined $50,000 and dad and others lost their jobs. Mom, whose parents brought her here 20 years ago, has been in the lengthy process of applying for papers, so she is still working. Today dad told me that they have been to see an attorney and he has begun the process of gathering all the papers so that he can apply for residency. They bought a home in Richmond in 2005. In 2007 it was appraised at $350,000. He showed me the appraisal forms. The house is now worth $50,000. "Underwater."

Back at the office a director was speaking to a meeting of families of 'consumers' about the upcoming budget cuts. As yet there are no specifics of what will be cut, but she was strongly encouraging the families to 'speak up' - their voices need to be heard.

The future seems dim indeed.

Life is Strange

2011-01-13T21:27:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!!!! Life, as usual, continues its hurley gurley.

Some interesting updates from work.

Today I had a very good talk with Carmela, the woman I wrote about in my very first blog, "I have a Problem." Her son, who attended our program (and did very well,) turned three today. When I got back from my home visits I went to see him, to wish him happy birthday, and to say goodbye, and good luck. I had just missed them. They came in for the celebration in his honor, then she took him home. I called her and we had a really heartwarming talk. She thanked me for helping so much when he was a baby. Then she invited me to their new home. They moved from North Richmond to an apartment in San Pablo which she says has more room for the family. She has a car again and is in school. She is working three days a week, and she says her life is really good now. Her two daughters are doing very well, as is her son. They are a happy family unit. I told her how much I admire her and what a brave, strong woman, and a good mother she is.

Yesterday I received three new referrals. As usual, I read the paperwork, the names and addresses, evaluations and medical information on the children. The first name of a guardian of a little boy was familiar to me, but the surname wasn't. I called and told the woman who I am and what I do,then I asked whether I knew her.She said "You sure do, you used to work with my little boy who was stabbed to death."

Of course I knew her. This tragic and horrendous event had happened just over six years ago. It had deeply affected everyone involved.

"YOu came to our house, and he loved you so much. You remember when he began the program how he cried and sat on your lap for three hours Then he started doing so well. You know the father, the one who did it, they said he was mentally ill and they sent him to Napa Hospital. Apparently he died there a while ago, he had kidney problems."

"Yes," I replied, my heart pounding, "I remember everything. I remember you were really sick at the time. How are your older son and daughter, I remember them too?

"God has blessed me. I am fine. The cancer is gone. My older son, you remember he was in the home when it happened. He is an alcoholic, and before all that happened he never drank. My daughter is really good, she does still go to therapy, but she is in college now, and working."

I sat there, the phone glued to my ear, my mouth wide open, occasionally exclaiming.

I met a wonderful man, and we got married. We bought a home and I did what I always wanted to, I had a day care in our home. Then Nesta, you will never guess what happened."

I didn't want to guess, I couldn't imagine.

"He had a heart attack and died, in our bedroom. I couldn't help but laugh, it seems like everyone dies in my home. I quit the daycare. But I am strong and God is good. I got a call from my cousin who lives in the midwest. She said her daughter is pregnant and cannot be a mother. She has seizures and takes medication and that will affect the baby, but do you want the baby? I flew there and was there when he was born, and brought him back with me.

Do you remember the other one, how stiff he was? This one is the same, and his leg even turns in like the other one. But he is the sweetest little boy, and now the Lord has sent you back in to our lives. God is good."

Happy happy

2010-12-31T17:51:00.000-08:00

In South Africa we would hear whistling and drunken shouts of "happy happy" wafting into our homes from the streets on the last day of the year and the very first day of the new year. So I add my very own shouts and whistles, 'happy,happy,'to each and every one of you, my loyal followers and faithful friends. Here's hoping that 2011 will be a year of health and peace, inner, if not outer.

The last week of 2010 has been one of connecting with friends and enjoying all that this breathtakingly beautiful area has to offer.Yesterday a friend and I went to San Francisco via the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a cold clear winter's day - everything has been washed sparkling by the rains and green abounds. We hiked along Land's End and Ocean Beach. Every time I am in the midst of this beauty and can see Mount Tamalpais, Mount Diablo, the Farallon Islands and see the waves breaking on Baker's Beach I am filled with joy and gratitude that I live in this place. It is with this feeling of gratitude an abundance that I bid farewell to 2010.

Love to you all.

Help

2010-12-08T21:12:00.000-08:00

I wrote an article about the India trip which has been published in Namarupa Magazine, and I am trying to copy the article on to my blog but I don't know how. Here is a link and I hope it works. Please let me know. There are some amazing photos taken by my brother, so good luck.

PS as you may see, nothing! Because it is not working. I will ask for help, but will also add this to the writing section in my website, so those who want can access it,eventually. Oh, the woes of the technologically challenged.

Post Thanksgiving

2010-11-29T12:11:00.000-08:00

A strange title, "post Thanksgiving." Of course I should constantly be giving thanks, and in fact, I do. What I mean by 'Post Thanksgiving" is for the benefit of my many loyal and faithful followers who live in far away countries that do not celebrate Thanksgiving. This is my favorite American holiday, as it is (or was) mostly non commercial. and is centered around family, friends, and food. What could be better? Also, I enjoyed five days off work. Today is a new week and the end of the Thanksgiving holiday - hence post Thanksgiving.

Yesterday, a cold and rainless Sunday, a friend and I met for a walk around the Berkeley Marina. We both love this time of the year when, on clear and crisp days the views of San Francisco and the Marin Headlands are clearly delineated. It is the time of the year the burrowing owls come to rest. I love to find them in the scrub after I stop mistaking the squirrels for owls.On our way back to our cars we saw quite a large grous of what appeared to be teenagers and very young adults dressed in medieval looking costumes jousting with foam swords. I remembered how when I first came to America and lived in Oakland, I saw a group of people every Thursday night at Rockridge Bart Station. They were dressed in armor (real) had swords not covered in foam, addressed each other as Sir Galahad, or Lady so and so, and judging by the clanging sound of their weapons, appeared to be really jousting. They belong to A Society of Anachronists. This group looked similar, although their clothes were far more makeshift, and their helmets and shields were made from cardboard. They spoke normally. The foam on their weapons didn't exactly clang.This group was having fun, playing outdoors in nature.

After watching a while we moved on and saw two young women in costume sitting on rocks. We asked what this group is and they told us, AMTGARD and explained it is worldwide, and they do have rules etc. As everyone looked so very young I asked whether older people could join, and the one said: "Of course, my husband is there playing, he is 39."

Everything is relative!

Veterans Day

2010-11-09T19:08:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I drove to my eye doctor (not good news), and listened to the radio. There was a report on the film HBO will air for Veterans Day on PTSD. (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.) Of course this phenomena is not new. A woman they interviewed had researched letters written by soldiers during America's Civil War. She then reviewed court cases in which families tried to get compensation when their breadwinner returned "changed." Apparently this was a very difficult thing to prove and there were many court cases. Someone read harrowing letters written by a soldier in the Civil War. In the first few he described how he saw some men in his camp suffer terribly - they could not sleep at night, some stopped eating, they became paranoid and had outbursts of anger. He described how some of them took their own lives. He himself wrote that war is awful, but he will not succumb to the taking of his own life.

After a few years the tone of his letters changed and it was evident to his family that he had 'succumbed' to the numbing horrors. After he returned home his sister wrote how she and her mother had to hold him down when he had fits and rages. He was no longer able to work.Apparently he went on a hunting expedition with friends from his platoon. They were aware he was a danger to himself and forbade him to accompany them. It was while he was alone in the woods that he shot himself.

A mother of a soldier from Minnesota who served in Iraq, read her son's tragic and horrifying suicide note. He drank as he wrote the note. He stated this and apparently the writing and content became progressively worse. He described how he could not stand seeing people die and that he had killed people. Now he said was the time to take his own life. After cutting out images of his face from his driver's and personal photographs because he could no longer 'face' himself he put his dog tag to his temple and shot himself through his temple.

When I first came to America 30 years ago a therapist told me I had PTSD. I laughed at him. It has taken me all these years to realise the horrors of the war that I went through in Israel in which my husband was killed. Those events shaped my future and changed my life and my relationships forever. But even now I have many moments when I think, what is wrong with me? I must be crazy, will I never get over this? It wasn't so bad. What happened to us wasn't so bad. Many wars are far far worse.

I caught snippets of another radio show yesterday in which they interviewed a young widow from Kosovo who told how she goes to the cemetery all the time because she cannot and will not, and does not ever want to forget.A young American woman described how she met her husband at the tender age of 16. It was love at first sight, and after dating for several years he proposed to her and gave her a beautiful ring. She herself went to find the perfect ring for him. She had it engraved with the date he proposed to her on the inside. He was killed in Iraq and apparently his personal affects were returned to her, but not his ring. Later one of his commanders and his wife invited her for the weekend and when she walked into the guest room she saw a box, and inside was the ring which the commander had found. She sobbed with happiness and sadness and said at least she has the memories of their perfect love.

Then a young man from Korea described being separated from his family and reuniting with his sister years later. Thankfully, I had to go to a meeting, because I was riveted to these stories, and at the same time sobbing my heart out.

War is universal. Coincidentally last night a friend from my kibbutz called me. Her brother was killed in the first Lebanese war in Israel. We both know of what the other speaks, and thinks, but we keep quiet, maybe mention it in passing, then talk of other things.

When I was last in Israel the Gaza invasion happened. A friend there said to me that it seems like every time I come there there is a war, or an uprising, or something. I noticed how, in Israel, when talking to friends our memories are indeed of wars - the debate becomes, which war, the first Lebanese War or the second? The first war of attrition or the third? The first or second Intifada? Wars are compared, the Gulf War was strange because we remained in our homes like sitting ducks, the men weren't used to this, they were used to going out to fight. Life in Israel is indeed punctuated by different wars or horrendous events, like suicide bombings and terrorist attacks. The entire nation suffers from PTSD.

At last this problem is beginning to be addressed, because we are all veterans, and all suffer the consequences of the ongoing wars, be they distant, in foreign lands, or on our own soil.There are the visibly wounded and the invisibly wounded, and there are way too many of us.

Settling In

2010-11-07T20:50:00.000-08:00

A month already since my return, and all I have posted is one solitary little blog.Yesterday a supposed friend told me about someone he knows who blogs on a daily basis about her dog!

It may be sour grapes, but I wonder who is interested. He also added that she is newly retired! I am not.

I could keep you updated with the adventures of Max, my little piscean friend, but he would prefer to remain, for the most part anonymous. He thrived during my absence and when I returned and stumbled into my home after being sick for the entire flight back, I halfheartedly tapped on his bowl to say hi, and he fluttered and undulated and really seemed as excited to see me as I was to see him. Quite a few things thrived in my absence, Max seems to remain well and content, and an orchid I rescued from a dumpster has sprouted a branch full of buds which are in the process of opening, one after the other, displaying their magnificence. Some of my wee ones displayed new skills when I returned into their lives. Some began crawling, a few are trying out their first stumbly steps, Some, sadly, will never make any gains, other than phsyical, getting larger and heavier.

I spent a weekend in a magical home in Big Sur, enjoying the rugged beauty of the Pacific coastline, and the coastal terrain.We do live in a magnificent area, and I appreciate each moment.

Today I caught up with all the annoying and necessary things of life, like paying bills, finalizing dates and arrangements, making phone calls, laying out my crafting projects, like beadwork and knitting, and blogging about blogging.We shall see how long this spurt lasts.

Mind Shred

2010-10-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

This morning, very very early, I went to the gym. People greeted me saying they haven't seen me in a while, where have I been?

Where indeed? I have been away just three weeks, but it feels like eons. I have spent lifetimes in very different spaces, I have been lifted up and twirled around, I have spun in galaxies hitherto unknown, and now I am back, on the stairmaster!

Before I left I told friends that my memories of my last trip to India are such that once there you have to let go of any preconceptions, of any frames of reference, you have to dive in. Indeed, that part of my memory was correct, but what I forgot is that it is easy to talk about, and hard to do. But if you don't India will take your conscious mind and shred it for you. I won't even attempt to describe the overwhelming sensory experiences that ceaselessly surround and bombard one. Somehow the relentless intensity, buzzing vitality, devotion, filth, poverty, misery, beauty, all combine to form an archetypal experience. One is immersed into the bloodstream of life, jostling along with the corpuscles, platelets, lymph cells, all moving, renewing, dying, changing, flowing, on and on. And strange and wondrous things happen.

An almost cataclysmic flooding of the Ganga, replete with landslides prevented us from reaching our stated goal - Badrinath. We had to remain in a tiny place where people normally go for rafting. Into this unexpected hamlet stranded pilgrims poured in. Sadhus, Sikhs, travelers, mendicants, families. When it became clear we couldn't go further I commented to my brother, who was leading our group, that the one regret I had was that we would not hear Parvathy Baul, who had been invited to sing at a birthday event in Badrinath. That very afternoon Parvathy, her husband Ravi, and her friend Rita joined the stranded throngs. She sang for us that night, and the next. Her songs of devotion, accompanied by her stamping, jumping feet, a stringed instrument, and a drum, and her swirling, writhing dreadlocks pierced open my heart.

Before I left for India I received an e-mail from a childhood friend who lives in London. She and her husband were coming to California, and they wanted to know whether they could see me. I told her I would be in Northern India and she replied that her son and daughter-in-law are in India and she sent me the names of the places they were in, but they weren't where I was going. Our tour landed, by default, in Rishikesh and on a Friday night I went to eat in the Succa at Beit Habad. At least a hundred people were there, amongst them, my friend's son and his lovely wife!

Such are the wonders and workings of India.

And now, I am back.

Electricity

2010-09-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

Last night I was happily ensconsed in the most recent episode of Mad Men, I believe it is called "The Suitcase." Peggy and Don were in a really interesting argument after Peggy told him she was single again. All of a sudden - flash, boom. All the electricity went out. I peekedd out the venetian blinds, darkness everywhere in my little enclave. I fumbled for a flashlight which I keep in a handy place for such emergencies, but I couldn't remember exactly where it was. After a while I located it, cranked it up and saw flashlights going on outside as neighbours poked their heads out their doors. Well, for sure, there was no electricity. No more Mad Men for tonight. Ugh. My supply of matches had dwindled to nothing and I made a mental note to buy some the next day. It never ceases to amaze me how dependent we are on electricity.

I leave for India on Friday so I thought this may be a preview, in fact, I had packed my flashlight just before Mad Men, but knew I wouldn't find it in the dark! No choice but to prepare for bed. Even my toothbrush is electric (a very recent purchase.)

Last weekend I was at a yoga retreat in Philo. A few of us shared a lodge. The first morning my roommate and I were wakened by what sounded like a rooster or a strange bird chirping. It was the alarm of the woman down the hallway. She didn't hear it. After breakfast there was quiet time. All was silent in the lodge, then I heard an interesting kind of hum. Intrigued I went in search of it, was it one of the inhabitants chanting like a maniac, had someone put on some new age music? It was a woman fastidiously using an electric toothbrush.

This weekend has been truly glorious. A treat after our strange and very cold and foggy summer, or lack thereof. Two weeks ago I visited friends in Olympia, in Washington State. There we enjoyed wonderful weather and when my friend, (a former Bay Area resident) and I kayaked along the Puget Sound, I told her about our very cool summer. On Monday afternoon just before landing in Oakland the flight attendant welcomed us and said the local temperature is 94 degrees. This kind of went by me, but the woman in the seat on the other side of aisle tapped my shoulder to ask whether she had heard correctly. We stepped out into a furnace.

All is very odd.

So, a happy and sweet New Year and well over the fast to those concerned. I will not post anything until my return.

Pa-pow-pow

2010-08-14T18:34:00.000-07:00

Tuesday afternoon at 3 p.m. I walked out of my office to go and see the children in one of our programs. They would be going home in 15 minutes and I hadn't yet had time to see them. As I walked along the paved passageway I heard "Pa-pow-pow." Instantly after I heard the screeching of tires and simultaneously I thought, 'gunshots, a car backfiring, it is going to crash on Robert Miller Drive.' I ran to the fence which afforded me a view of the hilltop leading down to Robert Miller Drive. Down below I saw cars slowing on either side of the median strip.I saw two young guys running into the back of one of the apartment buildings just below Birmingham Drive. I realised there had been a shooting and I ran back to the office to tell them. I heard sirens. I ran in to tell my colleagues what had happened. The office manager and another staff member came with me back to the fence. We saw police cars. One of the buses which was to transport the children drove in and told a program director the road was being cordoned off because there had been a shooting. Everyone was told to leave and go home in the opposite direction to the 'incident.'

When i got home I looked this up on the internet, but nothing came up. There was nothing on the news that night and nothing in the paper the next day. It was like it had never happened, but it had, and those shots were still ringing in my head.

I remembered about a year ago leaving the office one afternoon. On Hilltop Drive, just in front of the fire station a terrible accident had happened. Several cars were crushed in opposing directions over the road. People were trapped inside. There were onlookers, it was awful. The only good thing was it was right outside the fire station, but obviously it had been a very bad accident and several people were not going to make it. Shaken, I got home and looked for news reports. Nothing, nothing at all, not on the internet or the news or in the papers. The next day the office manager, who had left five minutes before me had also seen it, so I knew I hadn't been hallucinating.

So, there was a shooting, someone, or a few people, had been shot at. They probably didn't die, which is why it didn't even make a brief paragraph, but someone's son/daughter/father/mother has been badly hurt. I am writing this for them.

Another Rant

2010-08-04T19:02:00.000-07:00

Oh dear, I am becoming a raving ranter!

I won't even begin to discuss my experience with U-Verse. Suffice to say that customer service has really deteriorated in this country. When I came here 30 years ago I was very impressed by the efficiency of customer service. Okay, I had come from Israel which is not known for its high level of customer service, but still, things worked here, quickly. When they didn't, one could call or go into an office, have a word with a manager, and everything worked again. It was astonishing to me how smoothly things ran. I cannot say the same now.

One thing that has not changed is the variety of meaningless choices. When I first came here I wrote about the baffling amount of choices; from ice cream flavors to telephone styles. (If you are interested, my essay on this subject is accessible through my website, www.nestarovina.com.)

30 years later, and I have never become used to the choices, but mostly it doesn't bother me like it used to. However, the other day I went to buy dental floss at CVS. I liked Longs, and although CVS is almost the same, it is different, and I don't really like it, however, that was what was nearby. I went into a small CVS and walked to the teeth aisle (it is not called that, but you know what I mean.) Just dental floss, that is all I wanted. I stood in front of the display of products. Waxed, non waxed, satin tape, broad floss, narrow floss, dentist recommended floss, expensive floss, cheap floss. Once again I found myself baffled, unsure of what to buy, just as I felt 30 years ago when confronted with salt, tea, ice cream, water (WATER!!!!!!!!) bread, milk, yogurt ..... oh help. This time an elderly gentleman was on his knees perusing the toothbrush display. He looked up at me and said "they just don't make the ordinary toothbrushes that fit our toothbrush holder at home anymore. I cannot find an ordinary handle." I smiled in an "I know exactly what you mean fashion." Three months ago, in this exact same spot I met another elderly gentleman looking for a regular toothbrush, which is exactly what I was doing at that time. Neither of us found anything.

I was already flustered because of my experience with the wireless services, robotic machines, and robotic humans. I decided I had enough floss to last me a while and walked out without buying anything.

Frustrations

2010-07-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else find our automated life frustrating beyond belief? Everything is fine when it works; computers, TV's, washing machines, cars, telephones, iPods, ATM's, on and on and on and on. Heaven forbid something does not work.

My DSL service is provided by AT&T. I have had the service for several years, and the monthly amount is deducted automatically. This has been unproblematic for several years.

I go to Costco to fill up on gas and pay for this with my debit card. Suddenly one week when I inserted the card an error message came up saying the pump doesn't recognise my card. I tried reinserting it several times, to no avail. An attendant came to help - he thought my card may have been demagnetised, and wiped it on his trousers - nothing helped. I then used a credit card, something I hate doing. After this I went to my bank. They said my card was fine and my swipes hadn't even registered on their screens. I then went to Costco's customer service who informed me that they have nothing to do with the pumps on their property. It appears that the pumps had suddenly developed a mind of their own, and they decided not to accept my debit card.

Because everyone tried to 'fix' my card by manually wiping it on their clothing, I requested a new debit card from the bank. They sent a new card which had two different numbers from my old card. They said this was done to prevent fraud and it would not affect my monthly deductions from my bank account. They were wrong, I received a notice from Fastrak to update my information as my card was declined. Then I received an e-mail from AT&T that my internet services will be discontinued if I do not update my information. They gave me a number to call. Dutifully, I called and the bloody automated machine answered with the usual "if you are calling about ... punch 1, about that, punch 2,' etc. None of the options were suitable so I didn't punch anything, except for the table at which I was sitting. The voice said "you didn't enter anything," and repeated the useless choices. Out of desperation I punched any number hoping to get a human voice. I did not. I hung up and called again and didn't enter anything. Eventually a customer service person answered "this is Jeff, how can I make your day?" It was night time. I told him I needed to update my credit card information. Jeff could not locate my internet account. All he could find was my phone account. After an extremely frustrating half an hour with Jeff, who apparently really wanted to help me, but just was unable to, he transferred me to a gentleman in India. This man kept repeating every word I said in the hopes that we would both understand each other. Eventually he said, 'I work in technical services, you need a customer service agent." I am really surprised that I answered in a civil tone as he continued saying he would transfer me. Then came the "all our agents are busy," for another half hour. Eventually a woman came on with her cheery "how can I make your day" bullshit. I don't know how, but she managed to help, and she updated my information in ten minutes.

Throughout this hour or more of utter frustration I remembered calling the airlines when my mother died. I wanted to get on a plane to Israel. An automated voice kept asking for my destination. Whenever I said "Tel Aviv" the bloody reply was "I heard Indiana" or "I heard Iowa". To say I was beside myself would be the understatement of the century (last century, this one is too short.)

During the World Cup my TV reception went on the fry or whatever it is they do, in the middle of the game between Mexico vs. France. UNACCEPTABLE. This is not the first time my reception has gone out, but I am so tired of calling, waiting, then having to arrange for someone to come to my house, etc. that I have given up calling. But during the World Cup - unacceptable. I called, and waited, and screamed. They said someone would come Saturday between 10 and 2 - the exact time I was supposed to go to friends to watch the match that the USA lost. I had to stay home and wait. In the meantime the TV started working again, but I was not prepared to tell Comcast it was now working. The agent came at 12.30 - asked who was winning, and sat down with me to watch the game!!! At the end he told me that unless the TV does its conking out thing he can't help,but he would just give me a new box anyway!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Etceteras

2010-07-07T20:14:00.000-07:00

The World Cup continues. I still obsessively watch, and LOVE it. Of course after Ghana's sad leaving I am no longer invested, and can watch without my usually low blood pressure rising to meteoric heights! I can't analyze the games, and give you an informed commentary, suffice to say, I thoroughly enjoy it, to the exclusion of all else. Hence, no blogs.

However, today again proved to be one of those joyous days related to work. The same kids I described in my May 11th blog, again passed major developmental milestones. The little boy who has Johansen Blizard Syndrome (they are all little, but this one is particularly little, it is part of his rare syndrome) has consistently never stayed in prone (on his stomach) for longer than maybe a nanosecond. When I first received the referral and read the name of the syndrome I imagined finding a freezing Norwegian. Instead he was a very odd looking, teeny low-tone little Mexican with a nose just like the beak of a bird, an odd pattern of hair growth, amongst many other anomalies. At first he screamed if I tried to place him in prone, Later he learned to wriggle out of the position. If he even sensed I may be placing him on his stomach he turned himself around so fast that sometimes he almost slipped out of my grasp. In vain I tried, his parents tried, his physical therapist tried - all to no avail. Tomorrow he turns two years old, and although he does many new things, crawling is not one of them. Today we played with a ball. He sat between my legs and threw the ball to his young cousin who then threw it back to him. If it went astray (nearly every throw) his cousin or his mother would have to crawl under the table or go down the passage way to retrieve it. He wouldn't move, even though he has learned to scoot around on his butt. After a while I placed him on his hands in a wheelbarrow position and lifted his legs. After a few minutes of this I lowered him, stomach down, to the floor, waiting for him to flip, writhe, scream, anything to escape. To my astonishment he remained in prone and began combat crawling. I could not believe it, off he went, along the tiled living room floor into the kitchen. There he turned around and continued down the carpeted passageway toward a bedroom! I stood there dumbstruck (briefly.) His mom said that on Friday he began doing this. What joy and excitement. This bodes very very well for his future development. I could honestly say to his family that he will eventually walk.

Later the mother of the other odd little boy who also has a rare syndrome, 41 xxxxy, of which not much is known, called me to say he is sick, he has been coughing. I asked whether I can come tomorrow and she said, "please, we have something very exciting to show you. He got to his hands and knees the other day and crawled a bit, before collapsing." For the first year of his life he didn't move, at all. He never reached for toys, he never moved. If placed on his stomach he stayed there until moved. When placed on his side, that is where he remained, the same when he was on his back. Eventually he learned to sit without support, and there he remained like a little Buddha. Just recently he has begun smiling and combat crawling, and he even initiated a game of 'peek-a'boo' to my astonishment. And now he is crawling!!!!!!!!!!!

The World Cup

2010-06-14T20:21:00.000-07:00

I had no idea I would be so blindsided by the World Cup. I was excited before, and thrilled it would be in South Africa, the country of my birth. I was nervous that South Africa wouldn't be ready, that no one would go, that, that, that ---

I have a few countries to root for; South Africa, Argentina (my brother-in-law is Argentinean), the United States, and ... Mexico, (because I work with so many Mexican families.) I didn't think I would root for any team in particular. I told my families that for the first game, between South Africa and Mexico, I would paint my nails with the SA flag on one hand, and the Mexican flag on the other. Totally fair I thought I would be, just enjoying the game. That is what I thought. Then the opening night ceremonies began. I couldn't find on the English channel, so I watched them on the Spanish channel and got more and more excited. I cried, I loved watching the clips, I recognised places and did not recognise others. I was hit by waves of patriotic fervor, nostalgia, longing, memories. Sleep was out of the question. Friday morning I watched the game - a cousin came over. Simultaneously I was on the phone with my family in New Hampshire, Israel, South Africa. The TV, the internet, the phone, telepathic bandwaves. When Tshabalala scored that first goal we whooped, ululated, danced. The shrieks of delight flew over the air waves like the killer mosquito buzz of the vuvuzelas.

I am not sure I will survive the next few weeks, but it will be fun! Thank goodness the families I work with are equally besotted. Most of them took Friday off in order to watch the game. The first word of many of the children may just be "goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal" and that is a good way to begin to talk!

The event could not have come at a more opportune time, just as the world is going to hell in a handbasket, here is the joy of the game of soccer to buoy us up.

And now it is time to watch Italy and Paraguay.

VIVA BAFANA BAFANA

Uncertainty

2010-06-02T19:06:00.000-07:00

This morning, on my way to work,it dawned upon me that I am living in a sea of uncertainty. As I thought that, I had another thought, a sea - what a metaphor. Over the last few weeks, we are witnessing two tragedies occurring in seas. The ongoing horror of the Gulf of Mexico oil spill, and the dreadful uncertainty that the spill may not be contained for a long long time, and the uncertainty of the extent of the damage it has done, and will do. Then Monday came the failure, and dare I say it, stupidity of the Israeli raid on the flotilla in international waters in the Mediterranean. My thoughts had begun with my personal feeling of uncertainty which has been with me for quite a while now. Uncertainty about work which continues, but we have fewer referrals, so what will happen. What will happen if and when I retire? where will I live? what will I do? etc. etc. It seems like everyone I speak to is in a state of flux, relationships are breaking up, even long term ones. Friends are leaving, moving to different states. The weather is downright odd, it rained this morning, in June.

A Week

2010-05-11T20:55:00.001-07:00

What a difference a week makes.

Exactly one week ago I was feeling really down after I finished with the last child of the day. It was one of those "why, and what, am I doing?" days.

One of my 'wee ones' has a rare disorder, and one of the many things he is unable to do, is drink liquid from a bottle or cup (which have to be held for him) without it dribbling out the corners of his mouth, and choking. So, I ordered him a special cup and xeroxed exercise handouts for his very young mom. When I got there she was on the sofa making out with her new boyfriend, (she broke up with Dad a week ago or so!) They were watching a ventriloquist on TV which was blaring. The boy was sitting untended in his 'saucer.' I tried getting mom's attention to show her how to help him drink out of the special cup. I also pointed out that he needed a diaper change - badly! She barely glanced in our direction. I gave her the handouts and tried to demonstrate what I wanted her to do with her son, but she just glanced briefly and then laughed at her boyfriend's inane jokes. I left wondering why on earth I even bother with this. I returned to the office just to go to the program and vent.

Today, a week later, I went to see the same children, and it was like each one had drunk a magic potion. The first child of the day smiled when I came in and sat down to 'play' without throwing himself backward and wailing. He took a ring stack apart and re-stacked it, looked at a book, put shapes into matching holes, and stood, well. He spent the entire hour doing one thing that he had either struggled with, or refused to try, after the other.

The next little girl I have been seeing for a year. She has Down Syndrome, and other than rolling, has not been able to move very well. For the whole year I have told mom to let her play on the floor. Three weeks ago mom confessed that she was never on the floor except when I was there. Other than begging mom, I just repeated that it would be good for her. Today I put her on the floor, placed a toy in front of her, and suddenly she rolled onto her stomach and began combat crawling! Then she outdid herself. She managed to transition from being on her stomach to sitting without any assistance! I have manually put her through these moves ad nauseum, but she never moved from sitting to prone, or vice versa. I looked in astonishment, and she repeated the same moves three times,each time getting a little quicker and more sure of herself. I was so pleased. Mom told me that she now does leave her to play on the floor and yesterday she began sitting and combat crawling.

Then I went to the strange little boy who, since last week, had been ill. When I got there mom and boyfriend were there, the TV was on - today it was a rerun of Law and Order, and the little fellow looked at me from his saucer and smiled (more like a twitch of his lips and cheeks.) I took him out of his cage and placed him on the floor. For a year he too, has hardly ever reached for a toy, and only just in the last few weeks has he learned to roll. He has spent months and months doing nothing whatsoever. Today he astonished me by beginning to combat crawl. I have never seen him so lively or engaged as today! He really moved, and did many new things.

I went back to the program, and the afternoon group of children was sitting in a circle, singing. Another girl I had worked with got up and walked!!! An entire 10 steps.

I really have no idea what was in the air today, but whatever it is, I am really pleased.

Max

2010-05-03T20:40:00.000-07:00

I would be severely remiss if I did not write about Max, my feisty little piscean companion.

Last year, during quiet time at a yoga retreat, a desire arose, unbidden, to the surface of my mind. I realised I wanted a betta (siamese fighting fish) fish. This wish, for me, was something new, I do not have any pets. I have, on occasion, cared for my neighbors' cats in their absence, I even took care of a neighbor's lizard, feeding it crickets. It was a horrible experience. I did have a beautiful little kitten, a manx cat. In South Africa growing up we had a manx cat, Whisky. They are gentle cats, hailing from the Isle of Man, and do not have tails. I named my coal black little kitten Shaka, and enjoyed his presence for all of two days. Tragically, he had a genetic condition which apparently is quite common amongst Manx cats. He had no control of his 'evacuation' routes, and had to be put to sleep. That experience so traumatised me that I determined never to have a pet of any sort, until up arose this desire for a betta fish.

Exactly two nights after my return from the retreat someone knocked on my front door about 10 p.m. A new neighbor whom I did not know, stood on my porch, illuminated by the street lamp. In his arms he held a fish bowl. He told me that there had been a death in his family and he unexpectedly had to leave town for a week, could I please take care of his betta fish? Of course he had no idea how fortuitous this was. I could now test my ability to care for a fish. His betta was an electric blue, and he survived the week with me. During his tenure I bought a fish bowl, betta food, (teeny weeny little pellets which apparently contain more nutrients than a 200 lb. tuna) dechlorinator drops, a ph. testing kit). Immediately electric blue was reclaimed I went to the tropical fish store. The fish that instantly attracted me was deep carnelian. He was no more than an inch and a half in size, and I loved the way he moved. I can swear he looked at me and signaled for me to take him. Immediately I held the plastic bag in my hand the name Max came to me.

As soon as I got home I gingerly (and tenderly) placed Max in his new environment, and gazed excitedly at his undulations. However, after a few fancy moves he just sank and stayed on the bottom of the bowl. My heart sank as swiftly as Max did. Every now and then I tapped on the bowl and saw a tiny movement, an almost indiscernible little flutter, which calmed me somewhat. But there he remained. The two little pellets I dropped into his watery home left him unmoved. The next morning I found him in the same position. Two more am pellets joined the evening pellets floating on the surface of the water. Max remained still, as did my heart. A friend came over, took one look at the unmoving little creature and said "this doesn't look good." I raced to the aquarium wailing that I had killed my fish. After asking me a few questions the worker assured me this strange behavior is common, Max is stressed, she said. He is in shock. She is sure he is not dead. Four days he remained in this comatose state. Then I went away for the weekend after ascertaining Max would be okay for a day or two, that is, he wouldn't be worse off than he now was. I returned, and resumed the thankless routine of putting in the teeny pellets and tapping on the bowl. After a week of showing no discernible sign of life, I put in a little pellet and Max shot to the surface opened his little mouth and - whoops - the pellet was ingested. Little Max was apparently acclimatised and ready to do his thing, which apparently included attacking his nutrients.

Max and I have been together over a year. He always responds to my finger at the edge of the bowl, swimming up and looking, then he is off again. I read that they can jump, and one day, after changing his water, Max jumped. His body kind of curved, his fins or whatever they are called fluttered and he arced up and out of the water, then headed for the water again.

He has survived the winter, even though there were nights and days of bitter cold (for a tropical fish.) I fancied knitting a fish bowl cosy (like a tea cosy) for Max, but instead wrapped a cashmere shawl around his bowl. He was sluggish, and didn't eat, but with the advent of spring he is back to being his energetic, feisty little self. My home is complete with the presence of Max.

Vanity

2010-04-30T19:49:00.000-07:00

After having previously declared that I am cutting back on my spending, as are most everyone I know, I confess to an indulgence.

I have my eyelashes dyed.

Why do I do this? Why do women have 'permanent' eyeliner and eyebrows tattooed? Why do they get liposuction, breast implants, breast reductions? on and on? The answers of course are myriad, from psychological to sociological.They are not in the scope of this blog. However, there is one saying, "Vanity, thy name is woman," and I resonate with that.

I went to Benefit (the cosmetic 'boutique') for a 'lash tint.' A $20 perk I indulge in every few months. This is something my eye doctor will never know, I am sure he would not approve, but the odds of him coming in to a Benefit store are not very high. Besides, he would not recognize me. If I saw myself I would be highly unlikely to recognise myself, perched on a white padded stool, my eyes closed tight while a perky young woman places plastic things under my lower lashes, applies the equivalent of black shoe polish on my lashes, and tells me to relax. Within a short while she returns, rinses my eyes, and, bingo, my lashes are dyed blue black for a brief period of time.

This time, when I opened my eyes at her command it was to see Groucho Marx, in the form of an attractive young lady, sitting on a nearby stool, staring at me.

"Your eyes look lovely," she said. I looked at her and burst out laughing. Apologetically I explained that she looked like Groucho Marx. She had two patches of thick dark goo where her eyebrows should be. I bemoaned the fact that I have very light sparse brows. The perky young tinter said she had a light colored dye which was perfect for my no brows, and told me to try it.

"Oh sure" I shrugged, "what the hell?" She then applied whatever it was to my eyebrows, no doubt I now looked like Groucho Marx. There we sat, a row of women sporting black goo eyebrows and eyes. What strange things we do. Soon one brow was rinsed - "hmm, too light, a bit longer" said my young lady. Eventually my brows were declared perfect, and I walked out, with perfect lashes and brows.

Not a soul has noticed, or commented on, my new and dazzling look.

Hostage

2010-04-13T19:14:00.000-07:00

At just after 11.30 am today I walked out of a house toward my car. I heard the 'tak'tak'tak' of a helicopter overhead.

Ever since living in Israel I do not like helicopters - they always seem to be forerunners of something unfortunate - bringing in wounded soldiers, or here in California bringing in victims of coastal accidents, road accidents, or looking down on some clandestine action.

I looked up - they were police helicopters, so I knew something was 'going down.' My thought was to drive down San Pablo Avenue to a new coffee shop I had seen. It was 11.38 am when I turned on the ignition, exactly time for traffic and weather. The broadcaster announced the trouble spots, then said that in Richmond there was a situation going on at 39th and MacDonald (exactly where I used to work) and all the blocks had been cordoned off. No word of what the situation was. The coffee shop wasn't that close to MacDonald so I decided to go. I kept listening to KCBS, and sure enough I heard that there was 'some kind of a hostage situation.' I thought of the Health Clinic, the courts, Familia Unidas, WIC, the things I knew in that area. Then they said that a reporter was on his way to the situation. Before I returned to the office I heard that a woman suspect had held five people hostage at a nutrition center, as yet there was no explanations of what had happened.

Of course I told our AA as soon as I got in, "great" she said, just what Richmond needs now. Was she out of Vitamin C?"

When I went to the program the physical therapist had just come from a middle school in that area, and had already told everyone what she had heard, which was the same as I had heard," a hostage situation." What is so sad is that none of the staff were particularly shocked - they all said the same thing. "Things are crazy, people are desperate, it is only going to get worse."

Yes, there is a general feeling of desperation. On Friday I visited a little girl I had worked with. Her family were the first I knew to lose their home, at the end of 2008. Their home was in North Richmond, not exactly a wonderful area, but it was their home, and they loved it. They moved into a drug infested area because they found an apartment they could afford. Since they have been there there have been major shootings in the area. It is an open area drug market on the streets outside.Of course the matriarch wants to move. She works, her husband works, and his sister who lives with them works, but they have a hard time coming up with the monthly rent, let alone all the other necessities. A wall in their kitchen is black from mold, and the tiles and flooring around it are spongy. The little girl has asthma, the adults have been sick on and off with respiratory problems. They are hostages. Many of the families I work with are hostage to their situations, and so, no wonder there has been a hostage situation in a women and children nutrition center.

Work

2010-04-02T16:30:00.000-07:00

Today is a furloughed day, our second one this year. The organization I work for has tried to make it easier on us by spreading the days over two pay periods, so we won't be 'hit' really badly when we receive our next paycheck. But no matter how hard they try to make all these reductions easier on us, we definitely feel them. Like so many others all over the country, I have made changes in my lifestyle, which wasn't extravagant to begin with. In the office we bring lunch to work, instead of buying something. The positive side of this is that we share some wonderful meals. Much of the office talk revolves around food, and recipe sharing. My latte consumption has reduced drastically, and when I do buy a latte it is from MacDonalds!!! This was my first purchase ever at a MacDonalds. I went to the one closest to our office, in San Pablo. I ordered at the drive through and drove up to pay. The young woman at the window was all smiles. "Hola," she smiled, and continued in spanish "don't you recognize me?" But I did. I had worked with her son about three years previously. She told me they are all well and said she is expecting her third child in a few weeks', that is why she looks so fat, she said.

"Come and visit" she said, as I drove off.

Pleasant little surprises like this highlight my days, which are definitely becoming increasingly difficult. It is hard for children to qualify for services. Some services, like feeding specialists, have to be supplied, or denied by the child's insurance. If they are denied, then maybe Regional Center will cover them. I am working with a little boy whom I saw last year. At that time he also had a feeding specialist and a physical therapist (PT) in the home. We all came once a week to work with him, and instruct his family who were wonderful in following through. As a result, he progressed so well that he began attending our program for three hours a day. He obviously loved coming to 'school,'(his 'escuela') waiting for the bus everyday, waving goodbye to his parents who wiped their tears, and happily participating in the activities, playing on the gym and in the go-cars. He began eating by mouth (he is on a g-tube) and drinking from his bottle. Unfortunately, after some really good months, he became very ill with the RSV virus and was hospitalized for almost a month. They had to put him into a medically induced coma and he was placed on a ventilator. He came back home, but sadly he has totally regressed. I can see him until he turns three, and the physical therapist can come, but the feeding specialist can no longer come to his home. His mother can take him to see a specialist at Childrens Hospital once a month, to get some advice. This child needs to be worked with constantly, and the fact that his mother has to take him out of the house and into a hospital environment only puts him at increasing risk of being exposed.

Another little fellow I work with has quadriplegic cerebral palsy and recquires a specially adapted headrest for his wheelchair, which is on order. However, this is not covered by insurance and his parents really cannot some up with $160.

Another boy who has profound hearing loss in one ear, and some loss in his other ear would benefit from a conductive hearing aid. He would hear, and learn to speak, however, this device is considered "cosmetic." It costs $6,000. Everyone is busy finding out about where the parents can find devices, or used equipment, which is not readily available, if at all.

These things are making work more trying, so furloughed days are, in a way, welcome, if only they didn't impose severe limitations on us as well.

Allergies

2010-03-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

Hi - I am still here. It is just that this fog-like exhaustion overtakes me as I plan to write. Actually, that is not the only time. It happens when I am driving, when I return home from work, and at all sorts of inopportune times. Maybe it is the change of the seasons, that limbo period of 'in between.' In fact, now that Spring is officially here, I feel better, more energised, hence I am writing.

A couple of weeks ago I drove up to a yoga retreat. The retreat is held in the beautiful Alexander Valley. This year the countryside is simply magnificent, I had forgotten just how breathtaking Spring is, as it has been so dry the last few years. The creeks gush and gurgle. The hills are clothed in shades of green, and sprinkled with yellow wild mustard flowers. The blossoms are out in purple, pink, and white, and at the retreat site the red flowering quince blossoms tap against the window pane of the dining room, and scented magnolia flowers carpet the deck.

Of course Spring arrives with its attendant allergies, which may account for the exhaustion. As a teenager in South AfricaI I suffered from hay fever and received treatment for my allergies to grass and dust. I think the desensitization shots were still in the beginning stages, and not as closely monitored as they are now. After receiving one set of shots I suffered a rather shocking reaction and almost died. The positive side of that event was that I didn't suffer from allergies again for years. Not in South Africa, not in Israel. I forgot about allergies, and laughed mercilessly when the workers on the kibbutz returned with swollen, streaming eyes and noses from the orchards.

I came to the Bay Area and chose my first rental because of the olive tree in the garden that reminded me of Israel. One spring a friend asked me to house sit for him. I planned to spend the weekend at his home in San Francisco. The first night there I awoke in the wee hours gasping for breath. My eyes watered and itched and I ran onto the balcony gulping in air. I had no idea what had happened to me! A friend came out, took one look at me and said 'you are allergic to the cats.' We had to leave the home, and on the way back to Oakland my breathing became easier. I had never been allergic to cats before. This was upsetting, but okay as I didn't have any cats. However, shortly after that disastrous attempt at house sitting, I began sneezing and itching in my safe haven. I went for allergy tests: cats, household dust, and flowering olive trees!!! I declined the shots and learned to live with my allergies.

Each and every Spring I find an article in the paper as to why, this particular Spring, the allergy season is the worst ever. It is either because of the drought, or the rains, too many or too little, unseasonable heat, or unseasonably cool weather, the fog, or the lack thereof. Whatever, every Spring I begin to sneeze and hear my neighbours sniffing and sneezing, like some bizarre concert. (I live in close quarters with my neigbours.) At work everyone in the office tears, sneezes, clears their throats, and outside, in the parking lot the asphalt is colored yellow from the pollen which falls like a mist from the pine and acacia. When it rains, or, as it has done this year, pours, rivulets of yellow spread like abstract artwork,forming yellow puddles and streaking window shields and cars.

This too, shall pass, an until then I am focusing on the beauty, albeit with a kleenex in hand.

Observations

2010-02-17T20:08:00.000-08:00

I took BART to San Francisco on Saturday. Just as I went through the stile I realised that, horrors, I left my cell phone at home! I felt a few moments of unparalleled anxiety. Should I go back to get it? That would mean paying for yet another ticket. My unused fare would go to waste. I had already entered the station, and as it is, a ride to and from San Francisco is damned expensive. Could I possibly survive half a day without my phone? What if there were some disaster and I needed to call someone? What if my hordes of friends all decide to call me today? This thought is, of course, a flight of fancy, the truth is that hardly anyone calls me.

A reality check. I carry around my phone for days without ever using it. And, of course, I survived for years and years without such a device. I did have my book with me, far more essential than a phone. Phoneless, I sat on BART and looked around, there wasn't one person without tubes hanging from their ears, or looking down at a phone, texting, chatting, bopping to music, talking, gesticulating, laughing. Everyone has things to chat about, or listen to, or text, non stop. The more I looked at this frenzied activity around me, the more I began to feel better without any device. Just me and my thoughts, which goodness knows keep me occupied, and of course, my book.

Every now and then I like to get on BART and go somewhere, without any specific destination in mind. I have always enjoyed people watching. Today there seemed to be some kind of event - now I know I will annoy someone, sorry - for either transvestites, transgenders, or transsexuals. Many men headed purposefully in one direction down Maiden Lane. One wore multi colored boots, pink, turquoise, black, and white leather, with very high heels and a skintight top (he had no breasts) and tight pants. Soon another walked by, his face was really well made up. He too wore very high heels. They were followed by many men in very high heels, with fanciful hairdos. How they managed to walk, and gracefully at that, I have no idea. And of course everyone had some electronic device in hand, or glued to an ear.

In the midst of all of this I remembered a couple of interactions at the Starbucks drive through windows this past week. I ordered a misto and a chai latte, and the reply of the 'barista' came through the microphone - "awesome."

Two days later, at a different drive through I ordered a latte, the 'barista' said, "cool." I wonder if they are being trained to make nonsensical replies to customers so as to make them feel as if their specific order is somehow one of the most meaningful orders that has ever been made. How meaningless our interactions have become.

And now I am going back to struggle with my website. Bye.

The Samoans

2010-02-07T16:48:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago the TV show, '60 Minutes' had a segment on why so many outstanding football players come from American Samoa. They showed the teenage boys preparing and training for football in American Samoa. Without shoes and equipment they play on 'fields' of lava rock. Genetically they are large and strong, and are formidable players. A coach said, describing the teenage boys, 'they are gentle and kind until they get on the field, then they turn into monsters.'

Why do I write about this? Watching this segment brought me right back to the time I worked with Samoan twins. I already had a very full case load, but a case manager said she had these fraternal twins who were born prematurely, and needed to be monitored. I protested, saying I had more children than I could handle, but then she told me their names, and I couldn't resist! Of course I cannot disclose their names, but believe me, they were cute, perfect for a fraternal twin.Think along the lines of "Eric and Erica" and you will get the idea.

The first time I went to their home in the Iron Triangle area of Richmond I parked on the street outside and gathered my clipboard and paperwork. A pitbull dog jumped up and scratched the passenger side window. A strong looking man with flowing black hair reined him in, and they walked on the down the street. That was dad, I learned later.

I climbed up the 6 steps to the front door and knocked. A woman with the same wavy flowing black hair as the man came to the door, and introduced herself as the mother. I walked into the small living room behind her. She sat on a chair and gestured to me to sit. I sat on a sofa and looked around. An enormous color photograph of a black eyed, black haired good looking young man was on the wall. The photo was surrounded by strings of dusty plastic lilies. On the floor in front of it stood pots containing palms. The fronds were covered in dust. In front of the sofa on the carpet stood two walkers, and in each one sat a 5 month old prematurely born, low birthweight boy and girl. But something was very wrong with this picture. Each child looked at least like a large 10 month old chid. They both had a smattering of dark hair, and large dark brown eyes framed by long lashes. The girl's hair was sparser than that of the boy, but I knew she was a girl because she had a tiny pink ribbon clipped to a few sparse strands. Their faces were dirty, their noses snotty. The rims of the walkers were covered in spilled milk and crumbs.
The back of the little girl's head was flat - probably from lying constantly on her back. It was good she was up, but not in the walker, where she and her brother hung, their legs dangled and their heads bobbed around, but they were contained! Parents love these walkers because the kids appear content and happy inside, and they cannot get in anyone's way, but they are not good for the child's development. Their posture is wrong and they aren't using their muscles correctly. I explained that I would work with them on the floor, in this case a carpet, and requested that on subsequent visits she lay down a sheet or blanket. I explained to her that I would come once a week, at a time which was convenient for her, when the twins were awake, and ready to play. We agreed upon a time, Friday at 3.00 p.m.

Mom told me they were children numbers 5 and 6. The other children were in school. Mom was large and quite beautiful, resembling the women in Gaugin's paintings. She had on jeans and a T-shirt. On her left hand was a striking ring made out of what appeared to be bone, with colorful lines and symbols on it. She seemed to me amazingly laid back for someone with such a large brood. Her parents also lived in the home, but worked during the day. The boy in the photo was her brother who had been killed in a driveby shooting in San Francisco the year before. Toward the end of my visit dad and dog returned, and him and mom conversed in a language unfamiliar to me, Samoan.

The following Friday a tousled hair girl opened the door when I knocked. I told her who I was and that I had come to work with the twins. She held the door ajar then ran off shouting "Mom, a lady is here." The response was immediate and loud, 'FUCK." This was the response I received on each and every visit. Mom never remembered, apparently, that I was coming, despite the fact that we had agreed upon the time, and it never varied. From the 'FUCK' which emanated from within the home anyone would have sworn that I had come by to permanently remove the kids. I became accustomed to this friendly welcoming greeting, and walked into the living room calling to Mom that it was me and I am not here to hurt anyone.
Are the kids ready? They never were. They were always in the walkers, sometimes crying, sometimes cooing. Often the little girl pushed a bottle or pacifier in her brother's general direction, or vice versa. These two babies cared for each other, but obviously, being only a few months old, they were unable to do an outstanding job!

No floor covering was ever laid down. I brought my own sheets, as well as a pile of freshly laundered bibs. These two babies, and their walkers, were extremely dirty, filthy is a more apt word. Nothing in the house was free from dust, cigarette residue (the parents smoked), and particles of food. On my second visit, no sooner had I placed each large and heavy infant on the floor than I felt someone shaking my arm. I looked down to see the tousled hair little girl, or another child the image of her, for suddenly the living room and sofa were swarming with kids.

"Lady, lady" she shook my arm. "Pookie hit me so I hit Pookie. The poh-lice came for Daddy." Children everywhere, grabbing my toys, shaking my arm to tell me of mishaps at home and in school, boys, girls, climbing and running around in circles, and jumping over the little ones, no mom in sight. Utter pandemonium. Mom came in a little later, not saying a word to any of the kids, like "do you want something to eat?" "play with your own toys," or "do your homework" or "stop hitting Pookie," nothing. She asked me whether I would like a cup of coffee (I refused) and said that some of the kids belonged to her sister who was on drugs, so they were caring for them.

Sometimes mom wasn't there, the babies were alone with the swarms of kids. "Mom went with the neighbor to the store," or "mom is visiting someone." Dad apparently really had been taken to prison, again. This seemed like something the family was quite used to. This was not, of course, an ideal situation to be monitoring two little babies. I explained the situation to the case manager. We agreed that as soon as the kids were one year old they could begin our program, because these kids needed a structured environment. As far as their development was concerned, they were progressing very well, and would be doing even better if they were ever taken out of their walkers. I explained this to mom, when she was there, ad nauseum.

Over the next few months my work week ended with my Samoan nemesis. I couldn't wait to get home, bathe, and throw my clothes and the sheet into the washer. I scratched imaginary itches, and wiped my watery eyes and nose. I knew I wasn't hallucinating when I saw little white and grey things hopping in the childrens' hair. My ears rang with the kids' whining. The twins quickly grew larger and heavier, and cuter.

The boy began toddling surprisingly early for a preemie. I was there one Friday amidst the usual pandemonium. Mom sat in the living room, calm and placid, while all around the children fought, shook my arms, climbed on to window sills, swung from curtains, bickered, whined, and laughed. No one noticed the little boy had vanished. A snotty-nosed kid used the back of his hand to wipe his nose, he sniffed and asked for a kleenex. Mom told him to get paper from the toilet. He returned from the toilet to report they were out of paper. "Shit, Fuck," said mom, "I forgot to get some."

A house full of people, no toilet paper, and where was the little boy? I ran off to look for him and found him pulling up to stand next to the not clean toilet. His hands splashed in the unflushed bowl. I scooped him up and took him to the sink to place his hands under water. There was no soap or towels. I told the case manager they needed to start our program on Monday.

They flourished. The nits were removed and their hair gleamed. They learned to wash their hands and use the toilet, but best of all, they could run around, climb the jungle gym, go down slides, ride bikes. Then one day they were not on the bus. No one answered our phone calls. Letters were written. I drove by the house but no one was there. They didn't return. Mom had spoken about moving to another county where she hoped to find work, so perhaps this is what happened, but our Samoan twins were gone.

In many ways our work is a constant series of goodbyes.

An entire month

2010-02-04T21:20:00.000-08:00

An entire month has passed, with nary a word from me. And now it is February 2010. The Year of the Tiger is about to begin, and, indeed, the year has roared in.

I returned to work at the beginning of January, and it is good, and not good. Good to get back and to see the kids, who are, happily, doing well. They seem to flourish when I don't see them!!!

A darling little girl who, it seemed, would combat crawl for the rest of her life, is getting to her hands and knees and crawling. A boy of two and a half who, until I went out for surgery, just combat crawled - with difficulty, and who, whenever he was placed in standing would either buckle his knees and plop down, or lock his knees and tilt forward from his hips, until we had to grab him to prevent him from landing head first on the floor. When I walked into his home after my return he came to the door on all fours, and flashed his incredible smile. He crawled all over his home, fast. After crawling from room to room, and to the kitchen to pick up some crumbs, he returned to the living room and sat on my lap. Then he stood up, showed good standing balance and toddled between his mom and me, his little arms in 'high guard,', a triumphant smile on his face. From house to house I went, those who couldn't sit sat, those who couldn't communicate were using basic signs, those who hadn't smiled were smiling. It was like entering a world of miracles, and at the same time it makes me wonder whether they would have made this progress without any intervention.

Actually, I know that it is because of the work we do that they do go through their necessary milestones. It is just that when I see them week after week I cannot see the progress!

A colleague had seen every child a a few times and kept me posted. Working all alone is extremely isolating. It really helps having another pair of eyes, someone to discuss treatment, famiy dynamics, and so on.

So that is the good part. The not good part of being back is not having time to devote to my writing and other projects. (I finished two sweaters while recuperating.) I have writing ideas, knitting and beading projects in my mind, so many things to do instead of work! But I do love my 'wee' ones.

I shall post this hoping that many new posts wil soon follow.

Connections

2009-12-26T16:06:00.000-08:00

Winter has now officially arrived. Am I the only one who enjoys this time of hibernation, short days, and long nights? It is my last week before I return to work. Soon it will be 2010, and I realise that it is really only this year (2009) that I truly entered and acknowledged the digital age! I have at last surrendered, and now I write a blog and read from a Kindle. I hardly recognise myself!

My life has always been one of coincidences - synchronistic happenings which occur in different countries, at different times. Seemingly miraculous meetings with people from my different and varied experiences, places, and interests.

I remember a long ago very dark winter in London, trying to descend the stairs into the tube at Oxford Circus, being jostled by the teeming crowds. I banged against someone and we both turned around to either shout, or apologise to each other. I found myself staring into the face of Michael Klein, last seen years before at Northview High in Johannesburg. Or the time when I walked through the stiles at Earls Court station, at rush hour, and heard a voice from above, "well, if it isn't Nesta." I looked up into the face of the tall man hovering above, Peter Cimring, also from high school. Peter was a year ahead of us, a really clever guy. He suffered from congenital cirrhoses of the liver and sadly he died in a pensione in France a few years later. These seemingly random events heralded a lifetime of similar occurrences.

Doris Lessing has described these events as being synchronistic, rather than coincidental. Everything exists simultaneously. Past, present, and future are constructs we have created in order to function. Every person, place, object, and thought, are interconnected. For the most part we are closed to these experiences. But they seep through. How often is it that we think of someone only to have them phone us in the next minute? When I wrote my first, (unpublished) memoir, I sat typing in my cottage in Rockridge in Oakland. It was at night, and I typed about Raymond (Rafi - my late husband)'s nightclub in Tel Aviv. The phone rang, interrupting the flow of my writing. I answered and heard a man ask if I was Nesta, who lived in Israel. This was the man who co-owned the nightclub with Ray, a tall, brash American who returned to America at the time we moved to a kibbutz. I remember Ray telling me that he heard he had died of a drug overdose! He assured me he was alive and well, and then he asked whether I was still with Raymond, and I told him Ray had been killed in the Yom Kippur War. This man had obtained my number through a potential business partner of his, a South African man who lives in San Francisco.

Last week I checked my e-mail to find invitations to people on Facebook that I last saw 35 years ago! One woman is Danish, I told her I still own a pair of socks she knitted for me 35 years previously. I have connected with family and friends in Australia, Denmark, South Africa, Israel, Canada, all in a week. My sister-in-law found me online and we reconnected. She and her family live in Toronto.

These are the same connections and synchronistic experiences, but they now happen in the digital age. Thanks to the web, the internet, e-mail, skype, videos, we don't even have to step away from our sofas or tables to meet old friends.

Indeed, we are all connected.

Winter solstice

2009-12-19T17:32:00.000-08:00

2009 draws to an end. My mom died exactly today a year ago, and I lit a yahrzeit candle. Last night was the last night of Hanukah, and also erev shabat. A blaze of dancing lights illuminated my space.

It is no surprise that I have spent quite a while thinking about eyes, and sight. I am grateful beyond belief that this time the surgery appears to have done what it is supposed to do. My pressure is appropriately low. My bleb, the doctor assures me, looks wonderful!!! This news is truly joyous.

These past few years have revolved around my eyes. Although prior to my first eye surgery in 2006 I had glaucoma, I used drops and had no problems. However, at the beginning of 2006, after some truly horrendous events happened at work, and which I will write about at some stage, I awoke one morning unable to see out of my left eye. It was as if a dark grey curtain descended and I could not raise it or pull it aside. I thought maybe I had 'squished' my eye while asleep, and soon the world would become clear, but the curtain remained static. I am not sure how, but I drove myself to the ER in Kaiser, Richmond. The lovely young doctor who checked me and my eye stated that the pressure in the eye seems to be so high that she thinks her machine may not be reading it correctly. She sent me to the eye department where a doctor confirmed the reading and put me on steroid drops. As it happened, I had an appointment with my 'glaucoma' doctor the next day. The pressure did not decrease even with the use of steroids and my regular drops. Thus began my saga. My doctor sent me to the glaucoma specialist. This doctor is truly wonderful, but I have had to see him far more times than I care to count. He has been respectful and thorough in his care. He involves me in decision making, explains what he is doing, the reason for the surgeries and the subsequent ghastly procedures. If it were not for him, his care, and his humor, I am not sure how I would have managed.

Besides western medicine I tried homeopathy, acupuncture, and tibetan medicine, to no avail, glaucoma is my inheritance.

After each surgery I experience a sense of vulnerability that is difficult to put into words. Our working bodies are such intricate, magnificent machines. When something goes wrong, one's whole experience in the world is changed. My spatial and depth perception changes, leaving me feeling as if I have drunk a little too much. I bang into objects, feel wonky, and the worst part is that my memory seems to float away. I cannot recall simple things. My doctor insists there is no correlation between the surgeries, subsequent procedures, and my mind, but I know there is. Because the pressure did not decrease substantially after the first two surgeries he would stick a needle into my eye. This is a technique devised by a sadist cum torturer to 'needle' the eye and open the bleb. The other, possibly even worse procedure, required me to 'massage' my eyeball and press the contents upward. I couldn't bring myself to do this because every time I pressed into my eyeball I felt like vomiting. With the blessing of the passing of time, and a decrease in my pressure, the memory of these horrors faded, only to resurface with this latest surgery. But I have not required any of these invasive procedures this time. It is miraculous. I actually feel good, my mind seems to have remained relatively intact, and I feel okay in the world. This is a really blessed way to end the year. I am thankful indeed.

Recuperating

2009-11-23T17:12:00.000-08:00

Why this strange title? I had eye surgery on November 10th and am now at home recuperating. This is my third eye surgery, but the first in my right eye. I have out of control glaucoma, and the surgery is called a trabeculectomy. If you are interested, you may look it up. As far as I understand it, the procedure involves creating a new drainage area in the eye by cutting, pasting, stitching, and creating something called a bleb.

The recuperation period is six weeks during which time I am not allowed to lean over (anything that involves my head being lower than my heart), or to pick up anything heavier than 5 lbs. Memory of painful events is blessedly short. Now, three weeks after the surgery, I remembered that before each such surgery I fantasized about trying out every one of the variety of restaurants which grace my neighborhood. Every day I would take a book, eat lunch and write a review of the restaurant, or cafe. In truth, I do no such thing. I simply do not feel up to this pleasant task.

My days are spent resting. I sleep inordinate amounts, then take sedate little strolls around the neighborhood. I love this time of the year, late late fall. When the sun shines, and it often does, the quality of the light filters out shadows and the leaves on the trees, the pebbles on the road, and the houses on Albany hill and in the Berkeley/El Cerrito hills are sharply delineated. The sun turns home and apartment windows into sparkling gemstones. The fallen leaves crunch underfoot.

Over the last few days I walk to a neighborhood tearoom, drink a pot of tea, listen to classical music, and read. This feels like such a civilized way to pass the time. Back in South Africa, promptly at 4 in the afternoon Martha, our servant, brought in a tray bearing a pot of tea, cups, saucers, a small jug of milk and a plate of biscuits. The only change in this routine would be cake instead of biscuits. Years later, in America, I learned that what we call biscuits they call cookies. Cookies for us were what cupcakes are to them, and what they call biscuits we never heard of.

I say toe-mah-toe.

What Happened

2009-10-06T21:10:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing. The woman who has cleaned my home for the past couple of years has vanished. I will call her Sonia.

Sonia knew I would be away and the last time she cleaned my home before I left she left a note saying goodbye, wishing me a safe trip, and asking me to call her when I return. This has happened over the past few years, and she has always returned.

I called her as I said I would, but her cell phone is now blocked to incoming callers. This is new. I called her home number and a child answered. He spoke english perfectly, in other words it did not sound like her seven year old son. I asked for Sonia and whomever answered called a woman to the phone. She had no idea who I wanted and confirmed that I had dialed the correct number.

I am at a loss. I know Sonia's last name, but I also know that her husband has a different last name, because the woman always keeps her maiden name. I know they live in Richmond Annex, but I do not know the exact address. I do not know where her son goes to school. A short while before I left she told me she was having problems with her young son. She didn't elaborate, but she said he was 'misbehaving' and that she and her husband were concerned. I gave her some phone numbers of places I thought could help. What I never asked Sonia was whether they were here legally.

Because I left South Africa at a very young age, I never had a servant. I felt conflicted about hiring Sonia, after all, I am perfectly capable of cleaning my house, but I don't have much time or energy for doing so. Now this situation feels a bit like South Africa where people had servants, but never knew their last names or anything about them.

Where can she be?

My mind is reeling - could she be a victim of domestic violence?

Could she or her husband have been taken away by the ICE?

Have they just upped and left?

These concerns are not just flights of fancy, I have come across of domestic violence situations too frequently. Sometimes the mother takes her children and runs to a shelter. All too often she returns to her abuser. Of course services such as counseling and shelters have suffered tremendously from the recent cuts, so who knows if she even found a place.

I know many families who live in fear of the ICE.

I have come across families who have upped and left. I have arrived at homes where I had been a week before and the home is empty, as if an entire family had never been there just a few days ago.

I don't know where Sonia is.

I am back

2009-10-05T19:05:00.000-07:00

Hi - I am back. I returned two weeks ago, straight back to work, and the nitty gritty details of living!

My trip was really good. It was meaningful in terms of my parents and my family. My sister kept all of my mom's stuff and we went through the meticulously filed piles. It took a week during which we entered another world, that of our ancestors. Our sifting through photos and boxes and objects shed light on where we are now, our life choices, and our history. We alternated between crying and laughing, sharing memories. Mom kept all our letters, our school reports, a lock of my hair, essays, all carefully preserved, and shipped from South Africa to Israel. I read my fathers' letters he had written home during his years of service as a legal officer during the Second World War. He had such a clear vision of South Africa, of Capitalism, of his experiences in the Middle East. I found the letter in which he announced his engagement to my mom. We sorted out paperwork, put aside objects for relatives and friends. Thus we worked through 90 years of a life well lived!

Then my sister, brother-in-law and myself went with a tour group to Montenegro. No, it is not in Africa, nor is it in South America. It is the newest country in what were the Balkans, nestled between Croatia, Bosnia Herzegovina, Albania and the Adriatic. Quite beautiful - rugged and raw. We drove jeeps up forested mountains on hairpin bends which passed for roads, hiked through the last remaining rainforest in Europe, and had hair raising adventures. Besides anything, it is so refreshing being away from any news, from the internet, from microwaved food, from the ridiculous pace of life we all live.

Returning is always somewhat unsettling. First, there is that state of jetlagged induced insanity to overcome. Then, for me, the shock of America, with, as a friend put it, its 'tidy widy' sterile suburbs and malls. In the Safeway in Marin the clerk nearly fell over herself with her pleases, thank yous, have a good day and false smiles, I felt like slamming her! Of course, when I am dealing with gruff rude clerks in Israel I miss the bland and polite American way. Such is life!

Of course ...returning to work which I will write about very soon.

Vacation

2009-08-19T18:30:00.000-07:00

I have a blog on one of my beloved families in progress, but, as ever, like everyone I am pressured for time.

A few short notes: At work we are having a 4.5% pay cut. It could be a lot worse, and the company I work for has handled this in an exemplary fashion. They have been transparent, and caring, for workers and consumers. As we all know, we are going through extremely challenging times.

On a lighter note, I leave on Sunday for my annual trip to Israel. My mom passed away in December and this will be the first time without her, so I have mixed feelings about this trip, but am very excited to see my family there. I doubt whether I will post anything from my travels, so ... I will be back on line in about a month. Thanks for taking your time to read these posts, and of course, any feedback is welcome.

All the best!

Ongoing Violence

2009-08-04T17:52:00.000-07:00

This foggy Tuesday morning, August 4th, 2009, I sat down to my morning-before-work cup of coffee, and opened the San Francisco Chronicle. The following headline glared out of the Bay Area section:

"Richmond criminals don't care who gets hit, indiscriminate gunfire is on the rise in Richmond."

Then followed a disturbing article by Chip Johnson. Ten people were killed in Richmond in July, and, according to the article, it appears that the killers, mostly very young men, do not care who they hit. Apparently city and county social service programs have identified Richmond families with criminal pasts that extend across at least four generations.

This morning I was to see a famiy in North Richmond. The mother is an obese young woman from Mexico. She has four young boys and on my weekly visits she tells me terrible stories of the things that happen with her neighbors, and on the streets. She relates these stories in the presence of her children. I am there to see her twin boys of 18 months who, thankfully, do not understand her, but the older boy, of six and eight are always present because of summer vacation. They listen, interject, and add their versions. Three weeks ago she told me about her neighbors, who also happen to be relatives. The father deals drugs and sometimes hides them in her mailbox if he thinks the police are coming. He keeps a gun in his infant daughter's chest of drawers, and has taught his eight year old son to use it. Furthermore, over 4th of July he plied his eight year old son with liquor, until the boy passed out. She found him passed out on a patch of grass. She told me she pushed him until he woke and she told him to breathe out, and she smelled the liquor onhis breath. His mother works all day and doesn't want to hear what goes on in her absence, she said.
"Great," I thought, a delinquent in training. I have to report child endangerment and neglect, and so I did pass this information on. The next week she told me that she and her boys were at a nearby park, (an open lot) the day before. It was about 7 p.m. and young boys were playing soccer. A car came by and someone stuck out a gun and shot two of the boys playing soccer. The bystanders saw the car speed away, then stop on a corner and two men ran out and fled, while another climbed in and drove away. According to her one of the boys was killed on the spot and the other was shot in the head."Two brothers," she said, "one fell down 'pobrecito' and there was blood everywhere. He asked for water and someone came to give him some, but a policeman pushed him away."
She told me this as she reclined on her couch. The twins ran between the two sofas and the older boys played with the toys I had brought for the twins. When she described the car they both ran to the window to point in the direction it came from. She continued: "The ambulance came after half an hour. Can you imagine the boys' mother? I don't know where the father is. She will go back to Mexico. Last night I couldn't sleep because I kept seeing the blood pouring out of his head."
She described the supposed killers saying they were Latinos. The police had already distributed fliers to the residents asking for witnesses to step forward. She won't say anything because she doesn't trust the police. She said she knows a woman who told the police about a gunman, and then her husband was killed. She thinks that was because the police let everyone involved know she had informed on them.
I listened in horror and suggested she tell the police what she saw, because it is anonymous, and if people don't talk, this insanity is just going to continue. She said she will speak to her husband when he gets home. When I left the home a red car sped up to the corner not even one block away. A man standing on the pavement walked up to the car, leaned in and yelled at the driver who sped away and began spinning donuts in the street. He drove his car around and around, rubber burning, tires squealing. This display of out of control testosterone truly petrifies me, so I ran back into the house where the boys crowded at the window, looking at the car. I waited until it sped away and quickly made my getaway.
One day that week I drove home down San Pablo Avenue, and just beyond Potrero Avenue I saw a man holding a cardboarad sign at the side of the road, it read: "Please donate money for funeral."
That weekend a boy of 14 years old was killed. Another of my families, also Latino, asked whether I heard about it. The mom told me they were driving back from OSH Hardware and the road to their home was cordoned off because of this shooting. She has pre-teen nieces and nephews who attend local schools. They told her that would be gang members are driven somewhere by a gang member, handed an assault weapon,, and when the gang member points at someone they are told to shoot them.
I did not want to believe her, and now this article confirms what she said. "The victim is often in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of indiscriminate gunfire."
That this is disturbing is putting it mildly. Something is very very wrong.

Good Things

2009-07-31T18:59:00.000-07:00

This week, as I ate lunch with a fellow worker, a oolleague burst into the lounge:

"Come to the program, Oscar walked in." she said.

Oscar had a large portion of his brain removed when he was just a few months old, because of uncontrollable seizures. I began seeing him after this invasive procedure. His mom was so very young, just 17 years old. She came from Mexico to join her husband, and this was their first child. Mom had no idea what was going on with her son who was treated at Childrens' Hospital in Oakland. I did my very best to tell her how to position him, how to exercise his limbs, and where to place objects (to his right side), while she struggled to care for him, to take him to his appointments, and to clean and cook. One day I got there and noone was home. I called Mom. She answered after a few rings, saying "I am in hospital, I have just given birth." I had no idea she was even pregnant!!!!!!!!! And then there were two boys to care for! Oscar suffered from right side neglect (he had no idea he had a right arm and leg, or that he could turn his head to the right.) He made fairly good progress, learning to turn his great big blue, black-lashed eyes to his right, and to reach for a toy or his bottle with both hands. But it seemed he would never be able to sit without help, let alone stand up and walk.

I saw Oscar for several months until he began attending our Great Beginnings Program.When Oscar left the program, at three years old, he could stand briefly using a walker, and with the help of someone at his side, guiding his every move. And now, five months later, in he walked!

All of us were so excited, we smiled and exclaimed and hugged him wiping away our tears. His mom said that one day at home he simply got up and walked, alone, without the walker or anyone's assistance. He walked up to every one of us, and then him and his mom said goodbye and they walked away, leaving us grinnning uncontrollably.

Sometimes, in my darkest moments, something wonderful happens that makes everything worthwhile.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2009-07-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

I suppose if I am to keep a blog, then of course I must blog.

I have been coughing and coughing all day - my sore throat began a few weeks ago, with a general feeling of malaise. Because I work with little kids, who are really like petri dishes, becoming ill is an occupational hazard! When I first began this work I seemed to constantly be ill; colds, flus, coughs, viruses - but since then my resistance has improved. The good thing about not feeling so well is that I have to rest, and then I find time to write.

I am imbibing hot teas loaded with ginger, garlic ,and lemon, as well as chicken soup supplied by my neighbors who themselves were recently ill. I gave them some of my emergency supply of frozen chicken soup, and today they gave me their stash, fortified with set-my-mouth-on-fire peppers.

Yesterday I was out at lunch with family members. I spread butter on warm, crusty sourdough bread and was about to take a spoonful of cream of artichoke soup when the volume around me seemed to fade and go flat. It was like when one listens to music on speakers, and suddenly one speaker stops working. This strange sensation lasted quite a while. I ate my food and strained to listen to what was being said in this new world of one dimensional sound. After lunch I bought Sudafed, took one and in a while full volume sound returned. This 'flat' sensation returned today. I am sure the cough and my hearing and my sore throat are all connected.

Of course this makes me think about my 'wee ones.' So many of them have recurring ear infections, especially the ones with Down Syndrome. They also have hearing problems and have tubes inserted into their ears to drain the fluid. It is fascinating seeing them respond to sound after they have the tubes put in. Their bodies move to music and they look in the direction of voices and sounds.

Our bodies and their workings are miraculous. In Mexico City I saw the exhibition Cuerpos Humanos, the controversial display of human bodies which has been shown around the world. For me it was somewhat akin to a spiritual experience, seeing all the systems and their interactions. The three little bones through which the vibrations of sound are conducted look like beautiful delicate miniatures lovingly carved out of translucent mother of pearl. When everything works as it should, we take it for granted, for the most part. It is enough that one tiny thing go wrong for us to appreciate each perfect little system.

So today I drink my fire inducing fluids and contemplate the mysteries of the body.

I Have a Big Problem

2009-07-18T15:51:00.000-07:00

Before I begin blogging in earnest, it goes without saying that all the names of the people with whom I work have been changed.

I have been working with Carmela and her family for over a year. I was initially referred to her five month old son because he was diagnosed with spina bifida and hydrocephalus, and has a shunt from his brain to his stomach.

The first time I went to the room in which she lived, a man was there along with Carmela and two older girls who played on the paved path outside the door. They had to play there, because the 'home' was a room in a house, with its own entrance. I learned that Carmela and her three children lived in the room which she shared with another woman whom apparently worked as a beautician. They shared a shower, toilet, and tiny kitchen. The family ate in the same room which served as their bedroom, living room and dining room. The little boy's crib took up much of the space, and a chest of drawers and crates overflowed with clothes and shoes. The older girls colored on the cement with chalk. They looked exactly like the man, and so did the baby boy who had the most adorable smile. Of course I presumed he was the father, but I never saw him again.

Carmela was from Mexico, and like with all my families, I got to know her slowly over the course of our time together. We spoke in Spanish, but she attended ESL classes, and was hoping to get her cosmetology license, like her roommate. She was in her late twenties, and already the mother of two girls of eight and five. I never saw them much, because they were in school, but the few times I did see them I was impressed by their behavior and their intelligence.

Carmela told me that she had prenatal care for all her children. When she was six months pregnant with Gabriel, the little boy, she had an ultrasound and the doctors told her and her husband that he had spina bifida and hydrocephalus. What is more, they thought he also had Down Syndrome. Of course they were devastated, but there was no doubt they would have the baby. Her husband left her and the girls two weeks' after the diagnosis. Within a month he was living with another woman. He did pay child support for the girls, but Carmela was alone, pregnant, worried, and very depressed. Other than a brother who lived in Fresno, she had no family in the States.

Carmela was obviously depressed, but she had to continue for the sake of her children. Gabriel did not have Down Syndrome, but he had to have a shunt put in his brain to drain off the excess fluid, that would be there permanently. The doctors were not sure just how he would be affected by his spina bifida, but they hoped he would be able to walk.

One morning he was sleeping and Carmela had the TV on. The reception was choppy and erratic, but this morning we could see the pictures for the most part, and the sound reception was okay. She was watching "Casos Realidad de la Vida," one of my favorite programs. Apparently viewers send in letters of real life situations, and these are reenacted. Mostly they are heartbreaking stories with something to be learned from them, for example, to listen to your child if they tell you someone is mistreating them, or to leave an abusive husband, or not to treat someone different like a pariah. I don't exactly remember the contents of that particular program, but it had to do with an alcoholic father. Carmela had tears in her eyes. During the commercial break she told me she was the only girl. Her father was an alcoholic, and although he never physically abused his children, they never had any money for food, because he bought drinks with whatever he earned. She and her brothers were forced to beg for food. Her mother cleaned homes, but she was not well. Carmela never went beyond grade school and she realized the importance of an education. Besides her ESL classes she went to nutrition classes because she wanted her children to eat healthy food. She wanted to move out of the room because she felt very badly that her children lived in these, to put it mildly, cramped conditions. Somehow she scraped enough money together to buy a car. She cleaned homes, and registered for classes at the local college.

Carmela was always petrified that the ICE would come to her home. (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) a not so known branch of Homeland Security. She hoped that they wouldn't take her because of Gabriel, and she had letters from doctors attesting to his medical condition.

The first time I saw the ICE was early one afternoon as I was driving to a family in South Richmond. I saw police with ICE inscribed on the back of their jackets. They stopped cars. I had no idea what was going on, but it felt ominous and my stomach churned as I was waved through the roadblock. I saw a woman and child walking to a police van. I have seen roadblocks in Israel, and in South Africa I saw black men being herded into vans for not having their pass books with them. I thought of Nazis rounding up Jews, But I did not know about the ICE. They are looking for illegal aliens, and since these raids began, families have been separated, parents have disappeared. Apparently the undocumented people are taken to detention centers, usually along the border. Children are not allowed to open the door to anyone, and parents are even scared to send their children to school. Carmela had heard that there were raids that morning. She showed me a pamphlet sent out by the community asking people to come to demonstrations against these raids.

Thank goodness they have not yet come, but Carmela has yet another thing to fear. Eventually she found a small home to rent in North Richmond. Now the four of them lived together in two rooms, with a separate kitchen and bathroom. Friends gave her furniture, and she fixed up this new place nicely. Gabriel progressed well, and was now crawling, instead of hitching himself along on his backside. Her daughters were doing well in school.

One morning when I arrived, she sat on the sofa, then looked at me and said "I have a big problem."

Now what could it be? She didn't leave me a long time to wonder. "I am pregnant," she said.

My head reeled with many questions and my own judgments came to the fore.

The father, she said, is the father of all her children. The one who left and lives with another woman. Apparently, when he came to pick up his kids, he slept with her! Furthermore, his girlfriend was pregnant also.

How could she let him take advantage of her? How could she allow herself to become pregnant? What about birth control? Why does she not have an abortion? What the hell is wrong with him? Has he no sense of responsibility? I looked at this from my vantage point of being an older, educated, self sufficient woman. She is an uneducated, poor single mother who has no self worth. Abortion is totally against her religion, it is out of the question. I had to agree with her, she does have a really big problem. I asked her whether there was anyone she could speak to, and she said she would speak to her daughter's counselor because she needed to know how to tell her children of this latest development.

The following week she was not at home when I arrived. I called and she apologized for not calling me, she had an urgent event come up. It turned out that nature had intervened and she had a spontaneous miscarriage. Sometimes I do believe in a God.

On a subsequent visit again she said "I have a big problem."

I knew she meant it. What now. The ex-husband lost his job, and his house. He had no money for her or his children. Now she had to apply for welfare. Over the next few weeks she told me about the social worker who was never available to help her, and that her application for welfare had been refused, apparently because of computer errors. She spent her days going to school, taking care of her kids, and going to all the necessary offices, including one for free legal aid.

It is now school vacations and her girls are at home. When I arrived for my weekly visit, Gabriel was in his stroller, and the girls had on their coats. Carmela appeared from the back room donning a coat. "I'm sorry," she said, "But I have a big problem."

Yesterday they went shopping at Food Max and left their car in the lot for a long time, because they also went to the welfare office. When they returned they found their car had been towed! "The ICE took it." Said her youngest daughter. That wasn't true, of course, but she had no money to pay for it, so they said goodbye to the car. Now they walk to the various offices, and they had to leave now as she had an appointment with the social worker.

Because Gabriel was doing well, we agreed that he should attend our early intervention program. It would be good for him to learn from his peers. Carmela was initially hesitant, knowing it would be difficult to part from him, but she went to look at the program and decided it would be best for him. He would be bused back and forth as they no longer have their car.

Working with Carmela and her family, I realized I have a big problem in that I cannot change her circumstances. I can work with Gabriel, and be supportive to Carmela, but I cannot solve her many problems. I cannot transport them in my car to the offices, as this would not be legal. I can ask for numbers of agencies who can provide help, but that is the limit of what I can do. I really admire her courage, her realisation that she has much to overcome, and her fortitude in the face of ongoing struggles. I can let her know that I admire her, and I do this.

2009-06-29T14:50:00.000-07:00

Introduction

I decided to begin a blog because any number of people who have read my book, Tree Barking: A Memoir, have asked whether I will be continuing writing about my work. To sit down and write intensively about my work would require that I quit working, a luxury I cannot afford, so I shall keep people updated through blogs. Of course I cannot promise how often I will post them, but hopefully I will do so quite frequently. I invite comments, questions, and so forth, and hopefully this will become interactive.

When I wrote the book I worked mostly with an adult population. After the Home Health Agency was closed I began working in Early Intervention. I work with a population of infants and toddlers from 0 - 3 years of age. They are refered for any number of reasons; deemed at risk due to different syndromes, genetic and environmental factors, prenatal drug exposure, low birth weight, and premature birth, being just some of them.

Often I am the first person who comes to their home (after they have been evaluated by Regional Center). The mere fact that I have entered a stranger's home means that something is 'wrong' with their child. This is an extremely delicate situation for the parents and family members. I usually visit once a week for an hour, during which time I evaluate the child and monitor his development, including gross and fine motor skills, cognitive development, self help, language and social-emotional skill levels. As an Occupational Therapist I draw upon a large variety of modalities and treatments, and instruct the mothers, mostly, in handling techniques, appropriate exercises, feeding methods, and so on, in order that the child can progress and develop.

Any home visitor should understand the background and culture of the families, or at least, try to, so as not to impose our ideas upon the family. Learning happens best in an atmosphere of trust and respect. When I worked for Contra Costa County we had the help of a Medical Social Worker who would also visit and provide assistance when needed. I am no longer with the County and in my present position we do not have a Social Worker, so of course our position becomes all encompassing. There are severe psychological, financial, and personal stressors on the family, and we become witness to their situations, sounding boards, advisors, supports, and whipping posts. The work is both extremely rewarding and very trying, and hopefully I will be describing it.