The morning of her puncture, a couple of weeks ago, a distraught Mar waited to be picked up from the hospital. As I greeted and wheeled her out, in a tiny voice she told me what happened that morning. Apparently all hell broke lose when Professor Martelli caught her in a wheel chair and gave her the proverbial kick in the butt to get her out of it. She spotted him first in the hospital hallway and suspected she’d be the subject of a third degree grilling if he saw her. She desperately sought to remain incognito which should’ve been easy with her head scarf and mouthcap. I chuckled envisioning my sister, shrinking into her wheelchair, a chameleon blending into her surroundings. I pictured her hand strategically shielding her face, feigning indifference as she wheeled through. If she had a newspaper, she’d conveniently be closely examining it and thoroughly engrossed in its headlines. For a blissful anonymous moment, her cover worked but sadly her joy was short lived and her suspicion imminently became a reality. She was busted. When the Professor recognized her, he cringed. And so did Mar. “What? How can you still be in a wheel chair? Why are you not walking? Why are you so thin? What are you eating?” When the Professor isn’t happy, all present get the brunt of it. He raised his voice: “Someone get me Dr Aloisi (her treating physician)”. Within seconds, an entire medical staff suddenly materialized out of thin air rushing to the scene. Three doctors, a couple of nurses, and some curious bystanders, stood over my sister, shifting nervously around her. I pictured her sinking and shrinking even more into her wheelchair. Her doctor explained Mar’s situation to Professor Martelli but it just wouldn’t do. Dissatisfied, he continued: “why is she not seeing a physiotherapist? Signorina Rossini, if you’re not eating properly, why don’t we re-admit you to the ward? Surely we could feed you better?” The words were spoken without apparent sarcasm, as if he were actually doing her a favor. Mar shuddered at the prospect and near to shrieked: “Nooooooooo”.
It wasn’t pretty. It was ugly. Needless to say the Professor’s strong words of “encouragement” weren’t gratefully received by its intended recipient. I wonder though if they were effective. Fortunately (or was it consequently?), shortly after this berating, Mar’s eating habits drastically picked up. Grey’s anatomy, take that!
Friday 28 August 2009
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Tuesday the 25th of Aug – It’s all in the blood!
Pop a bottle of your finest champagne! As of yesterday, the stem cell transplant is officially a success. The results of Mar’s puncture from last week are good. Her marrow is clean! The doctors explain that the DNA in her blood is now for 100% our father’s. It’s a most unusual concept that gives a whole new meaning to "his blood runs through her veins" which it literally does. In true Rossini fashion it begs to be made fun of and who better then Mara to start with the first round. Her opening remark as she announces the excellent news is that if she ever kills anyone and leaves blood traces on the scene, all DNA evidence would lead straight to Dad. So for our first toast: here’s to a potentially successful life of crime.
Typically, Dad goes for the more traditional Italian guilt treatment and when I get on his case one time too many (as I usually do), he warns me that by offending him, I am now directly insulting my sister who has the same blood. So for our second toast: here’s to guilt tripping.
Now me, I opt for a more “refined” psychological approach. While the DNA of every part of her anatomy is still her own, courtesy of an exotic genetic parental cocktail, the blood pumping in her body is now solely our fathers (sorry Mom). This means that she has a double DNA personality (still with me?). So for our third toast: here’s to my sister being a schizo or at the very least genetically bipolar.
Mmmhhh…Does one’s chosen line of joking reflect on one’s character or on one’s frame of mind? If so it would make Mara murderous, Dad a guilt tripper and I psychologically (or just plain) inacurate…
Anyway, the road to full recovery may still be long and winding; at least we now see a beautiful horizon ahead, making the way so much sweeter! So for our final toast: HERE’S TO MARA!
She is very slowly but steadily regaining strength. Her eating habits have improved although her Houdini appetite is still in full disappearance act and Mar forces herself to eat. She lost so much weight she looks tiny, like a waif. Yesterday, somebody asked if I was her Mom. H.o.w R.u.d.e! I was deeply (ok not so deeply) vexed and Mar tried comforting me. She said with the mouth cap and the hat only her big blue eyes were visible. Also with the “born to be wild” print on her yellow t-shirt and the huge pink bag, she could easily be mistaken for a kid. Even so, I’m just too young to be some teenager’s mother and it becomes apparent that something desperately needs to be done about my Soccer Mom failed haircut. At this point, I feel like I’m a couple of makeovers away from almost pretty!
Typically, Dad goes for the more traditional Italian guilt treatment and when I get on his case one time too many (as I usually do), he warns me that by offending him, I am now directly insulting my sister who has the same blood. So for our second toast: here’s to guilt tripping.
Now me, I opt for a more “refined” psychological approach. While the DNA of every part of her anatomy is still her own, courtesy of an exotic genetic parental cocktail, the blood pumping in her body is now solely our fathers (sorry Mom). This means that she has a double DNA personality (still with me?). So for our third toast: here’s to my sister being a schizo or at the very least genetically bipolar.
Mmmhhh…Does one’s chosen line of joking reflect on one’s character or on one’s frame of mind? If so it would make Mara murderous, Dad a guilt tripper and I psychologically (or just plain) inacurate…
Anyway, the road to full recovery may still be long and winding; at least we now see a beautiful horizon ahead, making the way so much sweeter! So for our final toast: HERE’S TO MARA!
She is very slowly but steadily regaining strength. Her eating habits have improved although her Houdini appetite is still in full disappearance act and Mar forces herself to eat. She lost so much weight she looks tiny, like a waif. Yesterday, somebody asked if I was her Mom. H.o.w R.u.d.e! I was deeply (ok not so deeply) vexed and Mar tried comforting me. She said with the mouth cap and the hat only her big blue eyes were visible. Also with the “born to be wild” print on her yellow t-shirt and the huge pink bag, she could easily be mistaken for a kid. Even so, I’m just too young to be some teenager’s mother and it becomes apparent that something desperately needs to be done about my Soccer Mom failed haircut. At this point, I feel like I’m a couple of makeovers away from almost pretty!
Monday 17 August 2009
Monday the 17th of Aug – Crystal Ball
One year ago, if I had looked into my Crystal ball (the one I always carry in my bag. You just never know when you’ll need it), I would never have foreseen dining with Ian on the main piazza in Perugia. Or visiting Cortona with Richard and bumping into Anthony Hopkins. Or having a cocktail with Martine in Florence. One year ago, I hardly knew Ian. Martine and I had never even met. Anthony and I, now, that’s a different story. We go way back and it’s re-assuring to see he hasn’t changed at all. He still wears a white linen suit and a Panama hat, drinking Chianti, charming the locals. Martine read somewhere that he never quite got out of his character in “Silence of the Lambs”. When I saw him again, he certainly looked like he’d be having a nice Italian for dinner…
How strange Life is…Before Ariane, I don’t think anyone ever performed an Indonesian Sakti ceremony in honor of my sister. I never would’ve expected a “blessed” wooden Statue to be sent oversees to a Perugian Hospital. Before Paco, I don’t think Mara was ever awarded a medal shipped from Mexico to Italy. Paco ran a Marathon sponsoring Cancer Research and chose to give it to her in recognition of her valor. I’m just naming a couple of the many very touching moments and gestures our friends have privileged us with.
Mar’s down to 43Kg. She’s very upset and terrified they may send her back to the hospital. “Never again, Paul! I’m never returning to that place. I think I paid enough for my family. We’re never going back unless it’s for a birth”. The randomness of this illness makes her realize how precarious life is. In her frequent moments of profound sadness, she also fears for our wellbeing. The thought of one of us going through a similar ordeal suffocates her. This sadness she feels is indescribable. It pierces through the core of her being and all Mar can do is endure. She says she doesn’t think, she only feels and it’s unbearable. I see the despair in her eyes and I sound like a broken but reliable record when I say: “Mar, be patient. It will pass.”
How strange Life is…Before Ariane, I don’t think anyone ever performed an Indonesian Sakti ceremony in honor of my sister. I never would’ve expected a “blessed” wooden Statue to be sent oversees to a Perugian Hospital. Before Paco, I don’t think Mara was ever awarded a medal shipped from Mexico to Italy. Paco ran a Marathon sponsoring Cancer Research and chose to give it to her in recognition of her valor. I’m just naming a couple of the many very touching moments and gestures our friends have privileged us with.
Mar’s down to 43Kg. She’s very upset and terrified they may send her back to the hospital. “Never again, Paul! I’m never returning to that place. I think I paid enough for my family. We’re never going back unless it’s for a birth”. The randomness of this illness makes her realize how precarious life is. In her frequent moments of profound sadness, she also fears for our wellbeing. The thought of one of us going through a similar ordeal suffocates her. This sadness she feels is indescribable. It pierces through the core of her being and all Mar can do is endure. She says she doesn’t think, she only feels and it’s unbearable. I see the despair in her eyes and I sound like a broken but reliable record when I say: “Mar, be patient. It will pass.”
Friday 14 August 2009
Friday the 14th of Aug – Friday humour
Dad’s not back yet from bringing Mar to the hospital this morning. Since Mom’s waiting for him to do the groceries, I text him as to his whereabouts. Let me start off by admitting that I’m usually not at my sharpest in the morning (Now, some may contend I’m not sharp. Period. But I’ll argue that a strong cup of coffee generally takes away some of my dullness!). Anyway, Dad responds: “I’m on the scale” which is a curious answer to be sure. My immediate reaction is: why is my father on a scale? Why would it even be worthy of a text message? Since I already aggravate my father enough as it is with all my sarcastic questioning, I decide this time to go with it and genuinely ask: “How much do you weigh?” It isn’t until after the message is sent and with the intelligent help of my Mom that I get it. Unless you have some imagination and are bilingual, you’d know that “scale” means stairs in Italian….My father is on the staircase on his way up! Ha yes…The confusing perks of being multi-lingual!
Mar’s still very demoralized. A multitude of little ailments plague her. Her ear still rings. One of her teeth has a cavity which can’t be treated yet. The stemcells are causing her to feel itchy all over. She still occasionally throws up. And of course, her brain just has too much still to process. She’s exhausted and the light at the end of the tunnel seems fogged up by all this smog. She’s very particular about what she eats and it’s hard to reason with her. Our logic is simple. Mar’s underweight and needs to fatten up. Vegetable soups may be very healthy but won’t do the trick. She needs FAT in the form of dairy, chocolate, chips, etc... Unfortunately high calorie foods often equal unhealthy ones and Mar won’t have it. She’s violent about it. So we’re reduced to secretly smuggling a nice lump of butter into her soups and pastas. Yesterday she caught Mom in flagrant act. It incensed her. I know we must respect her will but what else can we do?
Mar’s still very demoralized. A multitude of little ailments plague her. Her ear still rings. One of her teeth has a cavity which can’t be treated yet. The stemcells are causing her to feel itchy all over. She still occasionally throws up. And of course, her brain just has too much still to process. She’s exhausted and the light at the end of the tunnel seems fogged up by all this smog. She’s very particular about what she eats and it’s hard to reason with her. Our logic is simple. Mar’s underweight and needs to fatten up. Vegetable soups may be very healthy but won’t do the trick. She needs FAT in the form of dairy, chocolate, chips, etc... Unfortunately high calorie foods often equal unhealthy ones and Mar won’t have it. She’s violent about it. So we’re reduced to secretly smuggling a nice lump of butter into her soups and pastas. Yesterday she caught Mom in flagrant act. It incensed her. I know we must respect her will but what else can we do?
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Wednesday the 12th of August – Counting Calories
Under the Little Red sun, Princess Amaranta, dressed in her most fetching gown sits in her magnificent emerald studded, gold plated carriage accompanied by her Mother, Queen Myra. King Rock proudly rides alongside on his noble stead. They wave to their loyal subjects as they make their way to the Ball. Fairy Tinkerpawl, flutters not far behind…But…On the stroke of midday, the carriage turns into a wheel chair. Amaranta’s frock becomes a jogging suit. And it isn’t the Ball but the Hospital they return from.
Mar’s down to 45 Kg. She’s too weak to dress herself, let alone walk. Hidden under an enormous umbrella (to protect her from the sun), we wheel her every day to the hospital. She stays usually until midday for her medication. Mostly Potassium which explains why she feels so tired all the time. She has no appetite and hardly eats. The little she manages to swallow usually comes out the same way. The doctors curiously don’t seem to accord much importance to nutrition. Eat little but frequently is the only advice we extirpate from them. They say convalescence takes time and Mara must be patient. We’re very worried though and it drives us to desperate measures. From reasoning with her to cajoling to blackmailing to forcing her to eat, our attempts are met with angry frustrated retorts. She tries so hard but disheartened, finds it very difficult to ingest anything. We search for foods with high caloric values or that encourage weight gain. Dieting was never part of our family culture. Counting calories even less so, and I never imagined I’d be doing just that for the opposite reason. Our enquiries among Pharmacists elicit stares of disbelief. They eye us from head to toe and must be thinking we got it all wrong. If anything we should be losing weight for the summer, not gaining it!
Mara feels very down both physically and mentally. All these months are taking their toll on her. And on us. It’s harder for us to boost her moral. It also doesn’t help that we’re exhausted. We just wake up low on energy. Mara senses our tiredness and it makes her feel extremely guilty: “Paula, you’re tired of me, aren’t you? I’m so sorry.” It breaks my heart to hear her say that. I tell her I could never tire of her but she still feels bad about putting us through this. She thinks she caused this illness to happen! I tell her: “Mar, we don’t know why this happened. I don’t think we’ll ever know. So what? It’s not about the situation. It’s about how you deal with it. And you have been, you are exceptionally strong. So draw whatever lesson life offers you and come out of this even stronger, even healthier, and even happier than before. One thing is for sure. Your life, our lives, will never be the same. They can only get better.” I tell her this. I tell myself this, even if after the 10th time, the lines sound tired, worn out from over exertion.
The best news is that Richard came over the weekend for a few days to help us recharge. He saw very little of Mara but this time, selfishly, I asked him to come for me. I didn’t even ask. I demanded! Fortunately, he happily obliged.
Mar’s down to 45 Kg. She’s too weak to dress herself, let alone walk. Hidden under an enormous umbrella (to protect her from the sun), we wheel her every day to the hospital. She stays usually until midday for her medication. Mostly Potassium which explains why she feels so tired all the time. She has no appetite and hardly eats. The little she manages to swallow usually comes out the same way. The doctors curiously don’t seem to accord much importance to nutrition. Eat little but frequently is the only advice we extirpate from them. They say convalescence takes time and Mara must be patient. We’re very worried though and it drives us to desperate measures. From reasoning with her to cajoling to blackmailing to forcing her to eat, our attempts are met with angry frustrated retorts. She tries so hard but disheartened, finds it very difficult to ingest anything. We search for foods with high caloric values or that encourage weight gain. Dieting was never part of our family culture. Counting calories even less so, and I never imagined I’d be doing just that for the opposite reason. Our enquiries among Pharmacists elicit stares of disbelief. They eye us from head to toe and must be thinking we got it all wrong. If anything we should be losing weight for the summer, not gaining it!
Mara feels very down both physically and mentally. All these months are taking their toll on her. And on us. It’s harder for us to boost her moral. It also doesn’t help that we’re exhausted. We just wake up low on energy. Mara senses our tiredness and it makes her feel extremely guilty: “Paula, you’re tired of me, aren’t you? I’m so sorry.” It breaks my heart to hear her say that. I tell her I could never tire of her but she still feels bad about putting us through this. She thinks she caused this illness to happen! I tell her: “Mar, we don’t know why this happened. I don’t think we’ll ever know. So what? It’s not about the situation. It’s about how you deal with it. And you have been, you are exceptionally strong. So draw whatever lesson life offers you and come out of this even stronger, even healthier, and even happier than before. One thing is for sure. Your life, our lives, will never be the same. They can only get better.” I tell her this. I tell myself this, even if after the 10th time, the lines sound tired, worn out from over exertion.
The best news is that Richard came over the weekend for a few days to help us recharge. He saw very little of Mara but this time, selfishly, I asked him to come for me. I didn’t even ask. I demanded! Fortunately, he happily obliged.
Saturday 1 August 2009
Chianelli Residence - Mail Address
Dear Friends,
If you want to send Mara (and me) some more mail, here's the address:
D. Rossini
C/o Residence Daniele Chianelli
Via Martiri 28 Marzo #35
06132 Perugia PG
Italy
If you want to send Mara (and me) some more mail, here's the address:
D. Rossini
C/o Residence Daniele Chianelli
Via Martiri 28 Marzo #35
06132 Perugia PG
Italy
Saturday the 1st of Aug – The Move
We’re finally moving from the Foresteria to the Chianelli Residence. It’s a 2 minute walk. The Chianelli is a clean, modern complex, especially built and adapted to the needs of recovering Leukemia patients. The apartment is very compact and suitable for up to 3 family members including the patient. It’s decided that Mom and Dad will remain at the Foresteria, albeit, in a smaller room, while Mara and I move to the Chianelli. For now, Mara feels more at ease with me around at night. The situation for our parents isn’t ideal. They must give up their kitchen and come every day to ours at the Chianelli because Management won’t allow us to keep more than one apartment. Unfortunate but understandable.
So…How can you tell we’re Italian? Well, because it takes us 5 trips back and forth to only move the kitchen! And the fridge at the Chianelli is so much smaller that it will be quite an exercise in self-restraint for our father! On a positive note, the view is even more breathtaking from up here.
So…How can you tell we’re Italian? Well, because it takes us 5 trips back and forth to only move the kitchen! And the fridge at the Chianelli is so much smaller that it will be quite an exercise in self-restraint for our father! On a positive note, the view is even more breathtaking from up here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
