A Week

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

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

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.