Vanity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.