Easy Rider

His name is Tim. He’s British. Very polite. A little serious perhaps but so patient. He puts up with my occasional silliness even when I affectionately refer to him as Timmy, mimicking his “Southpark” character namesake (you know…Little handicapped Timmy). I don’t always listen to him though, but hey…That’s my prerogative as a woman. My parents appreciate him although it wasn’t always like this. Dad got jealous of the attention Tim was getting. Mom too had her doubts in the beginning and suggested I go out with American Sean. But Tim eventually won them over with his deep and soothing voice…Yep…Tim is my Personal Navigator…TomTomTim.

Tim and I are thick as thieves.Where ever I go, Tim tags along in my rented Fiat Punto. In the early days of my driving career (last month), it would get rather loud in the car. Both Mom and Dad liked to “instruct” me…Simultaneously on my driving. It became particularly counter productive when parking the car:

Mom: “Turn the wheel to the right. Wait! There’s a car coming behind us!”

Dad: “LEFT, LEFT, RADRIZZA (straighten), STOP!”

Tim: “You have reached your destination…”

Inevitably, Mom would argue with Dad about his instructions or his tone: “Roc…you’re making her nervous…Stop shouting!” To which Dad would respond: “I’M NOT SHOUTING. I’M RAISING MY VOICE OR ELSE WE’LL CRASH!” Adding to this cacophony, he’d unbuckle his seat belt which would activate a repetitive high pitched beeping sound.

At this point, my palms would get very moist and a sheen of perspiration would glisten on my forehead ( I refuse to sweat). My throat would get dry and in an advanced stage of delirium, a mirage would form in my mind. An Oasis of tall imaginary, seductive Gin & Tonic’s (Bombay Sapphire to be specific) would suddenly dangle before me. I could see myself lunging for this haven of Serenity, always just beyond my reach. In these ever increasing lapses of concentration, the car engine would shut down thus triggering yet another round of vocal parental “instructions”.

It was around that time that Mara started eating again. It almost happened over night. No more bullying her to eat. No more coaxing, pleading, tricking, ordering her to take a few more bites. She just did. When people enquire about her, I say she’s doing well and I literally knock wood. A silly superstition I know…but I can’t help it. And when there’s no wood to be found, I unconsciously tap my head. A peculiar yet frequent sighting for passers-by.

It was also around this time that Mara’s Obsession with Diamonds and Gold began. “Because”, said she while happily googling through numerous jewelry websites, “Diamonds and Gold are forever. THEY never get sick…”

P.s: SouthPark Timmy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThtQTIK3UFw

Fri the 6th of Nov – One Year Anniversary

Today, exactly one year ago, Mara was diagnosed with Leukemia. While this date doesn’t particularly call for a celebration, it certainly merits recognition for having altered the course of our lives.

The vivid memory of that evening still brings back shivers. I was sharing a taxi with two colleagues on our way to a restaurant when Mara called. She sounded cheerful and asked if I wanted to join Richard and her for dinner. For a split second my gut warned me something was wrong. Probably something in the forced nature of her tone set off my intuitive alarm. I believe we all have the ability to instinctively pick up on subconscious messages but years of training our minds to listen to reason over feeling command us to ignore these signs. Naturally, I suppressed the feeling and blew Mara off since I already had dinner plans. She became more insistent and suggested we have pre-dinner drinks instead. The flashing gut “Warning” signs were getting brighter by the second and I then knew it had something to do with the results of the blood test conducted the day before. It started a couple of weeks ago with a swollen cheek that just wouldn’t abate. Mar thought it was a gum infection but an earlier visit to the dentist revealed nothing serious. Thankfully her GP had the presence of mind to run some blood tests and the rest is pretty much history.

When I quizzed her about it over the phone, she wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Afterwards, I’d find out that Mar’s situation was so critical she needed immediate hospitalization. But my beautiful sister didn’t want to alarm me and just wanted one last “normal” dinner before being admitted that same evening. I got to the restaurant earlier and anxiously waited for Richard and Mar to arrive. When I finally saw them, through the restaurant windows, slowly approaching arm in arm, while Richard seemed to give her some words of encouragement, I felt the ground under my feet opening and me sinking into a very dark suffocatingly deep hole. When she told me, I managed to stay calm taking in every word. My appetite had completely gone but in some pretense to normality, I ordered the tomato soup. The good news, Mar said, was that her form of leukemia wasn’t chronic and that it was treatable…Woohooo….

Later that night, Richard, Mara and I presented ourselves on the 6^th floor of the OLVG hospital. We were met by Hans, the nurse on duty. He was incredibly understanding and answered most of our pressing questions. The room was grim and even though Mara put up her bravest front, I just couldn’t leave my big sister behind in that depressing place. Hans allowed me to stay the night and I’d end up staying the first week. I remember trying to keep things light and jokingly warned Hans that Mara would need her usual morning “Late” (coffie verkeerd for the Dutchies) to get her going. We hardly slept, huddled against each other, absorbing the magnitude of it all, terrified of what lay ahead. It was a very welcome surprise when early the following morning, Hans actually indulged Mar’s addiction with a delicious, steaming hot Late.

Mara celebrated her Birthday last week, on the 29^th of October. Her exact words were: “I’m 35…Yay….I made it!”

Mon the 5th of Oct – Irresistible force vs. immovable object

I am exercising my right to being a Royal Pain in the Ass Sibling…Poor Mar…I don’t think I am ingratiating myself with her these days. In fact, she rather thinks I’m a big bully…I’m not proud but I do whatever it takes. Out of principle I always ask her to join me every time I go out. Even when she doesn’t feel all that great…I know…I am terrible. Sometimes she is so excessively provoked that she’ll snap: “Paul (spoken in a very annoyed tone which I am extremely familiar with these days). You don’t seem to understand. I AM NOT feeling well. I am nauseous and I am tired and you want me to go out?” My very obtuse response is categorically: “Sooooo…Are you coming then?” Sometimes I push it. Other times it works if I whine long enough as only very experienced whining sisters know how: “C’mon Mahaahaahaar. You know you want to…I’ll race you?”

This morning was no exception and Dad sarcastically asked: “What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object?” I guess it depends. Today the immovable object out-stubborned the irresistible force.

Meal times are a torture. Mar thinks the only one cutting her some slack is Dad. He always says: “I know my daughter. If she can eat, she will eat.” Mom and I aren’t as understanding and have a slightly different approach. We push Mar to the limit. Sometimes, she defiantly looks at us and says: “that’s it. I’m done.” To which I respond: “Oh c’mon Mar. You’re doing so well. You’re almost finished. Take a little break and come back for a few more bites!” Or when I snack, again out of principle, I always ask if she wants anything. Sometimes it works. Other times, the immovable object gives me the “I’m nauseous so back off” speech.

I feel very ambiguous about my attitude. At times, a little white feathered angel delicately lands on my shoulder and points out that I am pushing too hard too soon. It reminds me that Mar has gone through so much with tremendous strength and courage. It asks me to have more faith in her and respect her pace. But then, a little red devil brusquely stomps on the other shoulder and whispers in to my ear: “Paul, if you don’t kick her butt, who will? After all, what are sisters for? Oh, and by the way, that chocolate sure looks good, you should have another bite.”

Saturday the 3rd of Oct – Call me George

Forgive me Blog. It’s been 24 days since my last entry. What’s been going on? Well. Ladies and gentlemen…I got it! No. Not the meaning of life nor enlightenment, but my driver’s license! Yep! And bribery was not even involved. I didn’t have to wear a miniskirt or show off my cleavage which would more likely have disappointed since “abundant” is not the operative word here. And now I can “truthfully” say that I got my license on the very first attempt…In Italy that is.

Mara spends most of her days on the couch, sleeping. She’s down to 40Kg and food is still her greatest foe. The doctors lectured her again threatening to hospitalize her if she didn’t gain weight. The mere thought still terrified her enough to compel her to eat a little more. On Monday she had another puncture and I’m pleased to report, she’s clean. Another wave of relief washed through us. These punctures are routine and will happen on a monthly basis. It’s just one of those unpleasant invasive operations that are unfortunate but necessary. Our hearts will always skip a few beats awaiting the results.

She has good days and bad days. On the bad ones, she feels nauseous, crampy, sleepy, depressed and listless. On the good ones, she’ll read the “Economist” or the newspaper and express her poignant views on what the hell is wrong with the world and how to solve it, Mara style (doomsday scenarios are not unheard of). She’ll go for very short accompanied walks wearing a reinforced white mask, shaped like a beak. She then very much resembles a colorful, fragile, exotic looking bird. When she particularly wants attention, with her brightest smile, she’ll say: “By the way Dad, thanks for giving me your blood”. Or if I’m youtubing, she’ll demonstratively sigh and with a very straight face, complain: “I’m so wrinkly and I have no hair”. I’ll look at her, we’ll both crack a smile, I’ll shut down my laptop and patiently respond: “Ok. Are you bored, Mar?”

A few Fridays ago, I was invited out for dinner by Eleonora who works at the residence. It had been such a long time since I had gone out with people of my own age that I was momentarily taken aback. Unsurprisingly my initial response which I very inelegantly blurted out, sounded a bit like this: “Er…I…I…er…I’m not sure. Let me…er…check with my parents first. Oh and it’s Friday…Fish day….” As I listened to my verbally incontinent and incoherent speech, I suddenly mentally slapped myself. What the hell’s wrong with you, Paula?? You’re freakin 33 years old. You don’t need your parent’s permission to go out for dinner. I felt like George Costanza (from Seinfeld) when he moved back in with his folks…“Sure Eleonora, What time and where? I’ll be there!”

And so we went to a newly opened Sushi restaurant with a bunch of her friends…I know…Sushi! For a Nation deeply committed and faithful to Pasta, formulating a sentence containing the words “Sushi in Italy” sounds like a contradiction in terms. Some may even view it as blasphemous. Now, let’s talk numbers. There were 6 of us. 5 women and 1 man (No. He’s not Gay). 3 of them had never eaten Sushi before. 2 will definitely never eat it again. Being the Cosmopolitan - aka control freak when it comes to ordering in restaurants - girl that I am, I proposed to share a mixed platter of sushi. My suggestion was met with such a stunned silence that I heard nothing but the sound of crickets chirping. Finally, after an exhaustive study of the menu, Andrea (the guy) requested a plate of spaghetti and when not available, ordered the next best thing…Noodles. When the few dishes of raw fish arrived, they were looked upon with disgust. Thankfully the conversation flowed and was a lot of fun. One of the girls, Chiara, impressed me with her English: “ I wanta four cat!”

Me: “You mean a fork, Chiara”

Chiara: “Yessa, yessa. I wanta forka”

I tell you, somewhere in this conversation, there is a joke!

After a few Sapporo beers, I self derisively shared my earlier reaction to Eli’s invitation. How weird it felt, after 15 years, to be living again with my parents. At this, Chiara, who’s my age, explained that she only moved out last year and her parents were so outraged, they didn’t speak to her for a couple of months…That certainly puts things in perspective.

Anyway, Overall a highly entertaining evening!

Wed the 9th of Sep - Chi Neng Qigong Mania

At exactly 9am this morning if you were to peak into this apartment you’d observe two women sitting on the couch. They look puzzled at each other with a glint of humor in the corner of their eyes. In perfect synchronization, both have their left arm extended, palm upwards while the tips of the fingers of their right hand gently tap their left arm starting from the shoulder down. Then the same with the right arm. They can barely contain their laughter. What on earth are they doing? If the room were bugged, a soothing woman’s voice emanating from a laptop could be heard giving instructions in Dutch. Clued in yet? A friend of Mom’s thought Mara could benefit from a kind of meditation exercise, called Chi Neng Qigong, and sent us a few audio tracks. The lady’s voice is actually quiet pleasant. In the background, while she speaks, the sounds of waves crashing and an Ocean breeze are audible. Both women, a mother and a daughter, with the required ostentatious skepticism expected from a cynical society, secretly enjoy it! Yep…Now, if only they could get Mara to listen to it!

If all goes according to plan, I should pass my practical driving exam on the 24th of September. I am on to my fourth Italian Driving Instructor since April (I won’t even bother to mention how many I had in the Netherlands. Suffice to say this little project is costing me a fortune). I am such an obvious target that I was actually headhunted by this last one. I kid you not. Delio saw me leaving the theory examination room and immediately $ figures flashed in his eyes. The first one, Alessio (with his Lancia Ypsilon), tried to screw me over with the pricing. Massimo (with the Fiat Panda), screwed me over with the times. He’d be consistently late and we’d be running errands during most of my lesson anyway. I’m confident I’d make an excellent delivery person. Both Massimo and Alessio shouted a little too easily and I don’t necessarily enjoy paying to get yelled at. This brings me to Roberta (and her Golf). Super relaxed. Even a little too relaxed. She just never spoke. And now there’s Delio (with his Fiat Brava). He’s an older man with one thick hair growing on his nose just begging to be plucked. Of course, of course, Dad negotiates on my behalf…Delio doesn’t discuss pricing over the phone. First a lesson to establish my level of driving. Then he offers us a package deal, a special price just for us…It surprises me that he doesn’t write it on a scrap of paper and secretively presses it into Dad’s palm. Oh, and did I mention he wants me to take the exam in a different city (village)? But what truly seals the deal is when it turns out his name is Rossini too. Well, then he must be trustworthy. He’s probably a distant cousin, ten times removed. The examinator in the village next door might even be family too. All in all, the bargain of a lifetime…Only a fool would pass on such a golden opportunity…

Mon the 7th of Sep – Counseling 101?

I am surrounded by squealing teenagers. I must be the only 30something year old waiting to take the driving theory exam this morning…If that weren’t enough, I am definitely the only one whose father practically escorted her into the examination room! The other “kids” probably instructed their parents to drop them off. It just isn’t cool to be seen with them…Well, not me! My Daddy demonstratively hugged me, gave me some words of encouragement and waived at me as I disappeared into the room (they grow up so fast…). One teenage girl kept staring at me with the indiscretion of youth. I smiled intelligently at her trying to convince her that I was neither mentally challenged nor a Nerd…I doubt I succeeded…And before anyone questions my mental capabilities, let me give you the same practiced lame line I give everyone that looks at me funny. I don’t have my driver’s license because in Amsterdam, it just isn’t necessary and I never felt the need or the discipline to spend thousands of euros in getting it. Now, I very acutely feel that need, in a city where busses pass only once every hour! I started taking lessons in the Netherlands and already failed the practical exam a couple of times. It’s frustrating and I very conveniently believe Richard’s professional diagnosis of my problem: Ahum Ahum...Clearly I have fear of failure. Let me get this right: at a subconscious level, I must be sabotaging myself and this must be further examined in the only rational way possible: lots and lots of counseling!

Anyway, I am happy to report that I passed my Italian theory exam and hopefully in a couple of weeks I’ll pass the practical one too! Streets of Perugia…Be warned!

As for my wonderful father, in spite of my aggravation at our incapacity to cut the umbilical cord (no father/daughter relationship is perfect), I would rather have a doting, loving, over protective father then not at all. I chose to consider myself blessed and lucky with such a tremendous Dad even if surely a little counseling could do no harm?

And how is our First Lady doing? Mar’s ok. Not great, not horrible either, just ok. Last week, her progress was stunted because of massive stomach cramps. She could hardly eat. The doctors ran tests but couldn’t find anything so she just had to go through it. Her eyebrows were set into a fixed V and it was impossible through my clownish behavior to “turn that frown upside down”. She feels better this week although still unnaturally tired and so she sleeps. She did tell me yet another funny anecdote about the hospital which I couldn’t resist to repeat! In the ‘Day Hospital’ Mara generally shares a room with another patient while she receives treatment. One morning, young Venezuelan Pedro was her room mate. The doctors did their usual rounds, enquiring after each patient. They started with Mara, asking her how she felt, what she was eating, wether she was exercizing, etc…Nothing unusual. Then they moved on to Pedro and asked him the same questions…Shouting: “PEDRO! HOW DO YOU FEEL? WHAT ARE YOU EATING?” And as she told the story I immediately burst out laughing. You see, just because Pedrito isn’t Italian, doesn’t mean he’s deaf…Yet these lovely Doctors fall into the most common of cultural traps: that by shouting in their language, one would immediately understand.

Friday the 28th of Aug - Hospital Antics

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!

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!

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.”

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?

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.

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

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.

Friday the 31st of Jul – Welcome Out

Mara will be discharged from the hospital today at 3pm. Experience is an excellent teacher and I’ve learned that everything can change from one moment to the next. For better or for worse. So until (and even when) I actually pick up my sister from the hospital, I’ll keep in mind that change is constant. Good or bad. Ah…Don’t you just love my pearls of wisdom? It doesn’t matter, of course we’ll still be in the waiting room with a huge imaginary Welcome Out banner and invisible balloons! Mar’s not out of the woods yet. But she reached a clearing and now with a machete, she’ll be chopping her way through the forest. Will you listen to me? Enough with the analogies! The point is Mara is very excited and the anxiety felt over the last few days is slowly dissipating. She’ll have to go to the hospital on a daily basis for the next month at least. For now, she concentrates on sleeping and eating. She already started on a liquid diet. Mom is our CEO (Culinary Executive Officer) and prepares fresh soups every day.

Speaking of food, the basil my parents planted in the huge pot, on the balcony/open hallway, in front of our apartment is the number one cause of theft among our neighbours. Imagine its enticing fragrance tickling and seducing their olfactory senses enough to incite them to commit such a crime. A crime of passion and who can blame them? Oh Basil, thy art a cruel temptress! What amuses us the most is not as much the act itself but the way in which our perpetrators go about it. You may think we have nothing better to do than spy on our neighbours while they ravage our basil. As true as this may be, it is entirely beside the point. Anyway, let me give you our top two favourite ways to steal these leaves of pure green gold (I don’t know, can you smoke them?). Our Tunisian neighbour nonchalantly walks by and conveniently stops right in front of our balcony to admire the panoramic view. By now, I’m sure you understand that our ears are very finely tuned to the sound of basil being plucked and so, barely audible, we hear the unmistakable “tchik-tchik” of leaves being ripped. After a few moments, perhaps tired of the view, he walks away. But my all time favourite is without a doubt the Napolitan older lady. Around mid day (it doesn’t take a Sherlock to figure this one out) she walks at a slower pace, and just about at the height of the basil, without stopping, she ever so lightly bends her knees, and again the distinct“tchik tchik” as she walks away. Then literally 2 seconds later, here she comes again, same strategy, same light bending of the knees and again “tchik tchik”. When she disappears, we, the witnesses, are in stitches. As entertaining as these scenes are, why not just ask? The plant only costs 1 Euro at the local supermarket, we’d generously give them as many as they want. So why not just ask?

Tuesday the 28th of Jul – Mars Attack

After months of holding back, greatly aided by some serious sleep deprivation, Mara finally broke down. Yep. Last Sunday was the memorable day; I no longer need to visit Niagara Falls. I had my own private viewing in an Italian Hospital room. I’m delighted she cried her eyes out. It was about time she opened the lid on all her emotions. It’s healthy. It relieves. It’ll make her pee less and her eyes all the more sparkling. Although my last comment wasn’t well received. It’s a little too early for humor. I take the hint, shut up, hug her and let her sob. There’s nothing like a good crying session. Once you open those gates, everything just comes flooding in. Then, when the legitimate weeping matters are out of the way, the tears usually get tinged with some self pity where even the tiniest offense becomes a capital one worthy of wailing (don't let Mar catch me saying this): “And those stupid nurses always leave the light on at night and they're so indifferent and I can’t sleep and I have to pee every 2 minutes, and on and on…” I make light of this situation but in the end, it’s all just too much. Mar’s at the end of her rope. It’s now beyond physical and has entered the realm of her mind. The girl doesn’t know what hit her. I can tell by the way she keeps saying: “I don’t know what hit me, Paul. I can’t stop crying, feeling depressed. I know I have no reason but I do”. I suspect her doctors are sensible enough to recognize that she desperately needs a break. That’s probably partly the reason why they decided to give her the day off from the hospital today. That and the fact that her neutrophils are at 1600! Yeahhhh!

Any shrink would have a field day analyzing the myriad of emotions washing over Mara. Just like Snow White, she has 7 emotional little dwarves hovering around, hard at work: “Hi Ho, Hi Ho…” By now, you may astutely have remarked on the recurring cartoon theme. Welcome to my Fantasy world. Never a dull moment.

Anyway, back to Mar and the construction site that is her psyche. For a long time Anger laid the foundation in her head. Then Sadness painted the walls of her soul. The twins Panic and Paranoia hammered a little deeper into her mind. Fear and Depression built a little brick wall and finally Relief came sweeping through. Only there doesn’t seem to be much teamwork among the dwarves who come and go at their leisure without any order. So what does Snow White do? She whips their little hineys and recruits an 8th little Dwarf called Optimism to finish off the work. Et voila…Villa Mara is ready!

I sleep over every night now. I thought I’d spend some time describing what my sexy layered pyjamas look like (Delilah and her veils would be envious). I start off with matching dark blue trousers and shirt. The shirt has a side pocket and its usefulness very questionable because all items brought in must be sterilized and placed in a separate plastic bag anyway. Naturally all garments are disposable and only available in X or XXL. I cover the whole with a light green overcoat with matching green bonnet for over my hair. I pull over my feet some kind of green Christmas stocking that go just below my knees. And over those, another pair of dark green covers for my feet. I finish off my outfit with rubber gloves (for the kinky ones among you) and of course never forget the mouth cap. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I slip into something more comfortable for my sleep overs. Oh. And every time I go to the bathroom, which is at the end of the hall, I’m expected to change…After one week in my very own Swedish sauna, one of the nurses finally pointed out that the green overcoat wasn’t necessary when sleeping over. How very considerate! After one whole week! Welcome to the land of too little information.

Anyway, at least in the mornings, I provide my sister with a little entertainment. I’m totally dishevelled (how surprising) and beneath the bonnet I sport a tremendous Afro. Mar says I look like the green Martian from Tim Burton’s Mars Attack. Also, you can tell by the shifted position of my mouth cap on what side I slept. Next time I’ll take a picture.

My only consolation is that everyone is expected to wear this outfit. Including the doctors. And I confess to possibly having a little crush on one of them. I only see his eyes behind spectacles and a few curls peeking out from under the hideous green bonnet. He may not be attractive. I don't know. But, Boy oh Boy, his voice sure is handsome…Sigh…Next time I hear his deep voice, I’ll say something clever in the most sensual muffled voice I can possibly master from behind my mouth cap…

Fri the 24th of Jul – The Soldiers have arrived

Mara texted Dad: “I am now running on your immune system”. Some activity was identified in her blood and her neutrophiles are increasing each day. Apparently this is irrefutable evidence that Dad’s stem cells have found a home base and are multiplying. On Tuesday there were 40 per mm3. Yesterday there were 160. Today 320. A healthy person has 5000 per mm3. Mara is relieved that Dad’s soldiers have finally arrived and the troop is now patrolling her organs to counter any terrorist movement. I am a little more cautious. I know the Gods can be capricious (courtesy of Greek mythology). I do not wish to tempt their fickleness with my euphoria. As I write this, I already hear Richard’s reprimand: “Paula, embrace every moment of optimism that is given to you. Keep faith. Worry is one acquired family trait you can very well do without!” He’s right, of course, and I must let go of the painful disapointments faced in the past. This is a new beginning and we rejoice in it!!!

Even though Mar's spirit stays very strong, her body persists in rebelling. Her organs take turns in expressing their displeasure at all the poison they’ve been subjected to. Her hair is falling out again. For the last week, I stay overnight. The first few days in a chair and then I was upgraded to a bed. Quel Luxury. Every morning, Mara thanks me for being around. She says she’s lucky that I’m her sister. Every morning I respond with how thankful I am. All that I ever gave to Mara, I always received tenfold from her. I am the lucky one. Always have been.

Mon the 20th of Jul – Beep, Beep

I am Wile E. Coyote from Road Runner. Short of strapping myself to a cannon and blasting in, my “brilliant” plans to infiltrate the hospital ward are consistently thwarted. I tried charming. I tried yelling. I tried sneaking in (imagine me tip-toeing). Yet each time the door mercilessly slams into my flattened face. I’m sure I almost hear a: “Beep Beep” from the nurse as the dust settles behind the shut door.

I recently found that the obstacle course doesn’t even begin at the door. It starts in the waiting room. You see, if it isn’t the nurse slamming the door, it’s the mother of another patient who conveniently ignores the line, slithering in as soon as there’s an opening, before anyone else even has the time to blink. It’s a freaking war zone out here and my adversaries are fast and ruthless. As soon as we hear the lock turning, we all throw ourselves at the door. I think I even developed a sixth sense where I can hear the footsteps of the nurse before she even reaches the door. Sadly, I’m not the only one to have formed a super power. Some even smell her coming.

And so after the 3rd time of being outwitted by another relative, I decide to practice Sun Tzu’s Art of War: “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer”. My plan is ingenious. Fail proof. I walk into the waiting room with the brightest smile. Establishing good eye contact his key. I indulge in idle chit chat with every person in the room all the while securing my position in line. “Oh. You’re ahead of me? Great. That means I’m next” I say out loud for all to hear. I continue conversing always keeping a firm eye on that door. “Brilliant. My plan is coming together.” I smugly tell myself. A woman comes in after the rest and stands in front of the door. Instinctively, we all close in on her. As the self appointed leader of the pack, to all and no-one in particular, I call out the order in which this is going down. I’m extremely surprised when my statement is met with very blank looks. I expected to have formed alliances but they all seem to think I’m some anal foreign chick…Could this be? Anyway, the lady, on the defense, casually says “don’t worry, we’ll all get in”. Great. Then you won’t mind waiting your turn. While we bicker, the door opens, and momentarily distracted, guess who seizes the opportunity…The Libyan Gentleman!!!!! Unbelievable. I complain to the nurse. She shrugs and dares to justify his behavior: “He’s from Libya. He doesn’t know any better”. Her statement is so politically incorrect on so many levels I don’t even know where to begin. And so I am outwitted yet again…by my Libyan neighbor no less. Is he over me already? How oddly disappointing...

Oh well. Another day, another strategy. Tomorrow I’ll play the ignorant foreigner. Success guaranteed. Beep Beep.

Sat the 18th of Jul - Like sands through the hourglass…

So are the days of our lives.

What ever happened to little Chiara? The toddler who displayed such a keen interested in my laptop? Or to young Venezuelan Pedro? The teenager who seemed more eager to update his facebook status than to chat with us. And to Gianfranco? My neighbor who had some kind of seizure a couple of months back?

And to so many others. Rosa’s daughter. Rita and Rocco’s son. Vincenzo’s daugther. Ukrainian Marta. Cristina’s Dad. They all have their stories.

We all share the hardship of watching our loved ones endure months of incertitude. We find solace in that we are not alone. Inevitably our lives are entwined; we are comforted and strengthened by each other. We enquire about the health of our loved ones just as naturally as if we were discussing the weather. Sooner or later we are all pulled down the same path. Quickly we become Veterans sharing our experiences and encouraging those who have yet to follow.

Young Pedro is ahead of Mar. He had the transplant 4 or 5 weeks ago. He just got out of his prison cell looking very pale, very thin, very beat up but very alive. He walks around with a head and mouth cap. His Mom Jenny, who hasn’t left his bedside since the transplant, is finally smiling. Pedro’s Dad always carried the Venezuelan sun in his eyes and never seemed to doubt his son would recover. It’s been rough but he’s out! They give me so much hope and courage. Every symptom Mara suffers from, young Pedro had. “Nausea? Don’t worry, “mi amor” (my love), it’s normal. Nose bleed? Been there. It’ll pass. Diarrhea? Done that. All three at once? Sure. Got the green, red and brown T-shirt!” Throw in some yellow for the sensitive bladder that makes Mar go to the bathroom every hour of the day. Chemotherapy may be devastating but, hey, think of how colorful it gets.

Little toddler Chiara had her transplant in February. Due to the genetic nature of her illness, neither one of her parents could be her donor. Apparently a perfect match was found in an Australian person through the International databank. The little girl is doing very well. She was discharged from the hospital and now comes in every 2 weeks for a check up. When I see her, she looks very alert and as happy as any 3 year old could be. She no longer wears a mouth cap. Her hair is starting to grow and she has beautiful light brown curls. This time, it’s my phone that mesmerizes her and she confiscates it. It isn’t until her Mom intervenes - “Chiara, what did I tell you about other people’s phones? You can’t take them” - that it is returned to me. I predict a brilliant career in technology for this little girl if her infatuation with electronic devices continues.

My neighbor Gianfranco just got out this week. I didn’t recognize him at first because he lost so much weight. He also wears a head and mouth cap. The day he was taken to the hospital by ambulance, some cells had entered his brain. Don’t ask me what that means. Suffice to say, it wasn’t good. He was due to start the transplant process (radio, chemo and then transplant) but that development delayed it until now. It took him back one step where he had to first undergo chemo to clear the bad cells in his brain before moving on to the actual transplant. As he put it, this leukemia was a gift from treatment undergone 5 years ago against a different cancer. This man went through 7 rounds of treatment. He lost one testicle, an abscess was removed from his buttocks and he suffers from countless other side effects. One might think that these details are too freely shared and might make one blush. But we find ourselves in unique circumstances where such matters are more easily disclosed. This man’s will to live is exceptional. Giving up is just not an option. In spite of everything, Gianfranco’s life goes on. He is married and has 3 children. 2 came after the cancer. His apartment is always full of friends and family and through our thin walls, we hear laughter. Yesterday his wife, Annalisa told me the leukemic blasts are back. There is very little hope for him yet he won’t give up. After barely one week of freedom, he’ll need to be re-admitted for emergency chemo, yet again. This time experimental, in the hope it’ll clear the leukemia before moving on to the transplant. The end isn’t yet in sight for Gianfranco. And I wonder: is that good or bad?

Mon the 13th of Jul – A very Special Day

The 13th of July is a very special Day. It marks 2 significant events. A Birth and a Rebirth. It welcomes into this world little Micah Sebastian de Haas, the baby boy of my dearest friend Cynthia. And on this day, Mara receives her very first batch of her father’s stem cells. A very special Day indeed.

Last Friday Dad started with his two daily injections to stimulate the production of stem cells in his blood. The level of discomfort for donors can range from dizziness to headaches, stomach aches, backaches, mood swings and in some severe cases to ruptured spleens. The doctor looks at me and says: “make sure your father rests as much as possible”. Mom and I watch over him like hawks although so far, it’s not necessary. He’s doing such a terrific job! Mara texted him in the morning: “Can’t wait for your batch of stem cells”. Dad’s response: “next batch is already in production!” According to the doctors, his harvest is plentiful. He’s ripe for the plucking! In the mornings, Dad must sit still for 3 hours with one fat needle in each arm while his stem cells are collected through blood dialysis. Mara receives them intravenously in the evenings. By Tuesday night we’ll know if and how much more she needs.

I regularly ask Dad how he feels. With each passing day, his answers become more original. I selected my top 5 favorites:
1. “I feel knocked out like a Looney tune crashing into a wall and little colorful birds fly in circles over my head”
2. “I have so many holes in me that when I drink, I’m afraid water will pour out of me like a sift”
3. Dad: “Do you know the joke: How do porcupines make love?”
Paula: “Very carefully?”
Dad: “Exactly. That’s how I feel with everything I do”
4. Dad: “My lower back is pounding. As if someone were playing drums on my butt.”
Paula: “Oh Dad, you have a drumming ass?”
5. The nurse asks:"How do you feel?"
Dad: "Like I've been smoking up"
Nurse:"Lucky you. Some people have to pay for that feeling"

Meanwhile, on Sunday, Mar was high as a kite. She was finally given a sedative. She was in so much discomfort - her entire body aching, her muscles cramped, her throat and stomach burning, her gums irritated, her vision blurred, her ears sore, her nausea back – that she gave in. She resisted the nurses’ enticing offers to administer pain killers for the last 2 days because she didn’t want to trick her body into a false sense of wellbeing only to feel the pain twice as acutely once the drug wore off. While I respect her reasoning, I can’t help thinking how different my own would’ve been. I’d have demanded to be drugged with a wake up call in 1 month time.

A couple of hours earlier, Mara was seething with anger. Might it have been the fifth “Paul, I’m so angry!” that tipped me off? I think she’s now running on her last reserves and her pain threshold is low. After the umpteenth visit to the bathroom, her fragile frame heavily leans against the drip. Her hands turn into fists and she says she wants to rip the catheter out of her chest, she wants to throw things. The phone in the room looks dangerously inviting. She wants to scream. All I can do is listen and hold her and when she finally crawls into bed, I gently rub her back, her arms and her legs.

Within 10 minutes, the drug kicks in. Her pain wasn’t severe enough to get morphine but whatever was administered definitely contained some endorphin releasing substance Almost instantly, I see a miraculous shift in my sister. From a contorted with pain Mara, all of a sudden, she turns into a very relaxed version of herself. There’s a dreamy look on her face, her big blue eyes are glazy, distant and she’s smiling. The pain is gone. She knows it’s still there but she doesn’t feel it anymore. “Paul, I feel wonderful. Tell me more about our trip to Bali.” Another 10 minutes later and she's completely knocked out.

Mar is going through a very rough patch but the finish line is in sight. The final stretch is the toughest one. I know my sister. She'll be kicking and screaming all the way to the end of this marathon and she will triumph. We’re all rooting for her and cheering her on for the last bit of rocky road ahead.

Sat the 11th of Jul – Amaranta of Little Red

Having watched one Disney Fairytale too many, I decided to put my obsession to good use. This tale is dedicated to my sister Mara and to Richard who, like me, believes it will come true.

As a disclaimer, this story is loosely based on real life events. Some characters are fictional and their names modified to respect their privacy. Also some events may be figments of my imagination or yet to happen….But they will happen because it is so Written.

On a final note, to increase the credibility of this fairytale, please imagine the characters bursting into cheesy songs and add, at your discretion, the appropriate background melodies of love, danger, fear and happiness at the relevant times.

ONCE upon a time, in a Kingdom far far away, lived a young Princess by the name of Amaranta. Not only was Amaranta fair, she was also blessed with a very kind heart, great intelligence and a sharp wit. She was dearly beloved by her family and the entire Kingdom of Little Red.

One cold winter day, the wicked Sorceress Lukemia, jealous of Amaranta’s spirit, cast an evil spell on her. She vowed that on Amaranta’s 34th Birthday, she would be cursed with a deadly illness. It would mysteriously come from deep within and spread like fire through the rest of her being. Upon hearing of this dreadful curse, Amaranta, whose most precious gift (although she did not yet realize this) was the gift of life, stubbornly refused to accept the fate laid before her and swore to find a way to break this spell. And so, accompanied by her loving parents and the loyal tiny Fairy Tinkerpawl, she set upon traveling to the land of her Father’s ancestors in search of the Great Wizard Martellius. Although he could not reverse the Sorceress’ spell, for her power was great and feared through out the Kingdom, he could alter Amaranta’s fate.

“Indeed”, said he, “On Amaranta’s 34th birthday, she will be stricken by a cruel sickness and fall into a restless and weakening slumber. But, she will not die and on the eve of her 35th Birthday, she will awaken from her deep sleep through the magnificent strength that lies within her. Her path will be strewn with adversity and danger but it will be so.”

And so it came to be….The Sorceress held Amaranta captive in the highest, darkest tower, guarded by indifferent Trolls. Amaranta remained brave and soon found company in Drippy, the octopus, and Tuby, the elephant. With the help of her new friends, Drippy stretched his far reaching tentacles out of the window down to Tinkerpawl who climbed up and snuck into the tower. In spite of her weakened state, Amaranta still sang, danced and laughed with Tinkerpawl, Drippy and Tuby. The indifferent trolls, who came to find out about this intrusion, were so charmed by Mara's good nature that even their hearts warmed to her.

Time slowly went by and one day Lukemia was called away to an important gathering with her other evil siblings to plot against Humanity. The Wizard knew the time was right to strike against the Sorceress. And so he advised Amaranta’s Father, King Rock to gather his most seasoned and trusted soldiers. That night, they attacked the castle defeating the demonic creatures the Sorceress had enlisted from the fiery depths of hell.

But the evil enchantress soon discovered the deceit and summoned her fiercest servants to destroy Amaranta. First her fire spewing Dragon Radius was ordered to burn her with his scorching flames. But Amaranta, armed with the Shield of Faith, braved the beast and protected herself against its burning rays. Furious, the Sorceress then sent for her cruelest servant yet, the insidious Serpent Kemos. Amaranta, this time, faced her adversary with the Whip of Strength and though the snake stung her, she survived its poisonous bite. But she felt its venom had weakened her and she feared what was yet to come…

Tinkerpawl, sensing Amaranta's distress, called upon all their friends in the entire Kingdom and with their help, they created a magical force that flowed through Amaranta thus restoring her strength.

Amaranta’s imprisonment in the tower gave her time to reflect over her predicament. She searched deep into her soul and realized that in order to live she must let go of the fear of not living. She must know, with complete faith and certainty that her love for life was so great and her will to live so powerful that the Sorceress no longer mattered and ceased to exist. The key lie not in facing her but rather in facing herself and embracing the beauty of life with total abandonment. The moment Amaranta came to this realization, the Sorceress’ hold over the Princess dissolved thus breaking the spell. The curse was finally lifted and was no more…

The fate of the Sorceress is uncertain. Some say her wrath was so immense at this humiliation, her failure so unbearable, that she auto-imploded, disintegrating into millions of dust particles. Others claim that she was banished from the Kingdom, never to be seen again, by the Wizard Martellius and his army of Elves.

As for the Princess, she fell madly in love with one of the handsome Elves and returned to the land of her Mother’s roots, not Flatland but the other more exotic South Eastern Land of Spirituality. She vowed to do good, continuing her quest for the meaning of life and spreading the valuable lessons she had learned. The fairy Tinkerpawl, followed her, opening her own little fairy dust shop by the beach, tanning all day and sipping tiny pina coladas with tiny little paper umbrella straws.

Amaranta, her Parents and Tinkerpawl all lived happily ever after.

The End.

Thu the 9th of Jul – Excellent Woman

I think my Libyan neighbor is flirting with me. It started a couple of weeks ago when Mara was not yet in the hospital and we were both sitting outside. After weeks of exchanging friendly nods and polite “Buon Giornos” in broken Italian, he approached us. We soon found that he spoke better English and we struck a conversation. His son is in the hospital, has the same illness as Mar and he already donated his stem cells. After the standard health enquiries, he asked if either one of us was married. Upon discovering my non-marital status, he warmly suggested we exchange email addresses so that we may stay in touch or as he put it: “To wish you Happy New Year and Merry Christmas”. I distinctly remember him directing his suggestion solely to me, not to Mar. That’s when the first alarm bell went off. During dinner, I jokingly told Dad he might expect a marriage proposal from an older Libyan gentleman. At my age, and with my father’s traditional disposition, I suspect he may even be tempted to accept and give me away for free! While this made us laugh, that same evening, Dad insisted in accompanying us to our room, not 2 seconds away from his own apartment. I’ve been escorted by one of my parents ever since.

After this episode, I decide my “relationship” with the older gentleman needs a break and I downgrade it from friendly conversation back to courteous nodding. I hope he doesn’t think I’m playing hard to get. This evening though, we speak again. After a civil “How’s your son? How’s your sister?” he says: “you are excellent woman”. I don’t know whether to blush, be flattered or burst out laughing…In any case, I am speechless and I walk away smiling….Is he coming on to me or am I missing a very important Libyan cultural attempt at friendship? I don’t know…But, not only am I chaperoned to my room every night, now my mother insists I do not open the door to strangers. How I missed living with my parents…

Anyway, enough about my “romantic” encounters. Yesterday Mar finished her Chemo treatment! She’s now officially in the dip period or her “downtime” as we renamed it. This means her immune system is flat and she is extra susceptible to infections. It’s been a rough 5 days and while the road ahead is still rocky, she continues to endure with her usual strength. She actually dares to think that she complains too much. This, naturally, is total bullshit (pardon my French). I couldn’t be prouder of my sister, her will power and determination. She is truly “excellent woman”!

She’s faced with an unpleasant decision. Tomorrow, the doctors want her “trump” re-inserted. For the recap, please go to episode of the 6th of May about Fine Dining. They make a compelling case and explain that it’s healthier for her body to be fed through the nose straight to the stomach. It would allow her digestive track to function normally. The alternative of intravenous feeding would cause it to remain inactive resulting in a prolonged recovery period during which her “engine” would need more time to restart. Mara has all night to “digest” this information and tomorrow when I visit her, I’ll find out what her decision is.

Sun the 5th of Jul – Con-Cat

The giant Feline tea cozy isn’t pregnant at all. The little Con-Artist or Con-Cat has been tricking us all this time. And now it’s too late. She’s won my Mother’s affection, not that this was such a great challenge to begin with. She sits in front of our door and when it’s closed, she knocks. Alright. She scratches but knocking just sounds so much more polite. Although Management strictly prohibits the inhabitants to feed wild animals on the property, this law doesn’t deter Mom. She clandestinely feeds the Con-Cat who now accompanies her on her evening walks. Dad isn’t very convincing in his attempts to discourage her. Unfortunately his attention is elsewhere. He suffers from tremendous back ache. Every other move sends thousands of electric bolts running through his body. I’d like to believe it’s from all the positive vibes our friends are sending but the truth is of a more practical nature. His bed is the great offender and causes his back to act up. When I ask how he feels, he says: “Paulache (a nickname only he gives), as long as I walk like Lord of the Dance (from River Dance), it doesn’t hurt too much”. He means that as long as he only moves his feet and keeps the rest of his body stiff as a rod, the pain is bearable.

Ever since he became Mar’s “Royal Martini” or Donor for us normal folk, Dad’s been keeping to a very strict and healthy diet. He’s lost very much weight in the last weeks and I can’t remember him ever being this slim. His back condition really worries us though. In particular since one of the side effects of the transplant may be painful joints. If already now he winces at every little move, I worry about how he'll cope during the procedure. Mom and I urge him to rest and avoid physical activity but to a restless soul as my fathers’, such a request may possibly be even more unbearable to handle than a strained back.

Sat the 4th of July – Later that day

The 4th of July also marks the opening of the first official Sales day in Italy. A little out of respect for the long standing institution of Consumerism, and a lot to satisfy our own need for serious Retail Therapy, Mom and I “dutifully” do our rounds of the Perugini shops. Judging from the amount spent and the items purchased, this form of therapy definitely has a desired effect. In fact, to guarantee full success, I expect many more sessions will be required in a very near future.

Later in the day, I visit Mar in the hospital. She had her 1 ½ hour radiotherapy session this morning and is now on to chemo. It seems I am destined to struggle with the nurses to get into the ward. Since my two hour traumatic waiting experience a couple of months ago, I take no risks. I buzz the bell and stand in front of the door until a nurse either opens or I announce myself through the intercom. In my assertiveness, I may have become a tad overly “buzz happy” and a volatile nurse starts scolding me. I briefly justify myself and refuse to enter into a discussion with her. I look at her blankly and indulge in a very blaze tone: “certo, certo” (sure, sure). The equivalent of a “whatever” or “talk to the hand”. Dissatisfied, she continues her grumbling to another more accommodating relative.

Inevitably, Mar’s therapy wasn’t as pleasant as ours. Far from it. The last 10 to 15 minutes were hard. She wasn’t allowed to move and her body started to cramp up. Immediately after the session, she was sick. I ask how she feels now and she can only describe the feeling as weird. Not nauseous but not normal either and she’s exhausted. When she asks about my day, I diligently describe each clothing item purchased. With Mar in the hospital, I find myself more consciously aware of my experiences. At least I try to be. It is deliberate with the intent of recounting them as accurately and animatedly as possible. I want to share every colorful detail. I want to lend my sister my eyes and my ears so that she may feel less isolated. Of course, if really my vision and hearing were at her disposal, I daresay they would serve her differently. This is confirmed when - after I finish with the beautiful green silk strapless top - she asks: “That’s great Paul. What’s happening in Iran?” And there you have it! I should’ve known…After all, I remember a time when Mara started her conversation with “What’s your take on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?” I’ll have to brush up on my current affairs.

Saturday the 4th of July – Radio Day

After a juicy home made cheeseburger, in bermuda shorts, a pink tank top and flip flops, as if heading to the beach, Mar returns to the hospital. On Friday evening, her adventure continues on the same floor but in a different ward. The team leader, Antonella, lists another bunch of house rules. If at all possible, they are even stricter here then in the previous ward. Visitors must now completely trade in their clothes for hospital gear instead. Since this is the very first day, I am let off the hook with “only” a blue cloth over my own and a green one over my hair and shoes. I accompany Mar to her room door and once the nurses check all her vitals, I am allowed in.

Mar’s extremely anxious about Saturday. We keep our conversation light and from time to time I sneak in, not so very subtly, a word of encouragement about TBI Day. In fact, over the last couple of days, I’ve been pep talking her ears off. Always to distract her, I tell her about my next blog entry and my intended opening line: “While millions of Americans celebrate their independence on the 4th of Jul, Mar…” the sentence is immediately finished for me: “Mar gets nuked”. We chuckle. As dark as her humor is on the eve of TBI Day, you may have guessed its morbid meaning. She’s getting Total Body Irradiation also known as Radiotherapy. She is very apprehensive about lying still, naked on her side in a fetal position for over one hour while her body gets “irradiated”. It almost sounds posh, Spa-esk. “Oh yes darling. After my FBM (Full Body Massage), I’m going for some TBI (Total Body Irradiation). It's fabulous." She knows the drill because she already did the simulation in a glass container while an unsympathetic lady doctor snapped instructions at her. Every fiber of her being protests against this treatment. In her opinion, its aim is as useful as a mosquito being destroyed with a bazooka. While pretending to whimper, she really, really, really doesn’t want to do this. All I can do is agree and acknowledge how much this all sucks. It’s ok for her to wallow and it’s ok for her to hate every moment. “Mar, by this time tomorrow it’ll be TBIO(Over) and I’ll TTYL (Talk To You Later)!

After the treatment, she’ll take a “decontaminating” shower. Yet another word that doesn’t sound very promising to Mara. “Big Sistor, think of it as a refreshing, cleansing, detox shower”. Perhaps a little more pleasing to the ear but unconvincing to Mar: “No Paul. It’s definitely decontaminating”. The very same afternoon, she’ll continue with more chemo for 5 days, followed by the stem cell transplant. She will be kept in the hospital for the next 30 days. The typical complications that may arise are nausea, high fever and pulmonary infection. Depending on their severity, family members may be asked to remain with the patient 24/7. In the unlikely event, I already reserved the night shifts.

As for the stem cell transplant, it’s not a very invasive operation since she will receive the cells intravenously. A few days before, my father will be injected with some kind of liquid that will help “harvest” the stem cells in his blood. It will then be drawn from his arms and given to Mar. We should know by the beginning of next month if the transplant was a success.

Let me try one more time: while America celebrates its Freedom on the 4th of Jul, may this Day symbolize the first in Mara’s Freedom from Leukemia. A very special Day indeed.

Sat the 20th of Jun – V for Velina

Italian Shows fascinate me. The older average looking male presenter is always accessorized with at least one “Velina” (Starlet). It seems the ambition of many an Italian girl to be the show’s eye candy poorly disguised as assistants. Ironically, it’s the foreign girl that has most success (for lack of a better word). And so Scandinavian Victoria Silvstedt’s perfect apple shaped bum regularly teases the audience in “Wheel of Fortune”as the camera shoots her, from a most compromising angle, twirling around in her undersized dress. She has big blond hair, big blue eyes, big pink lips, big bosom. In short, she’s big in all the “right” places squeezed into an XXXS dress. For one whole hour, this Beautiful Bodacious Blond Blue eyed Blow up Barbie, struts provocatively, on her very high heals, up and down the stage. As a kid, following Oma’s example, I would religiously watch “Wheel of Fortune” in the Netherlands. Massive cubes would light up each time a contestant guessed the right letter. An average to cute girl named Leontine or Wendy would walk towards these heavy blocs and flip them over thus revealing the letters. It always seemed that a fair degree of effort was needed in this operation and sometimes, if she didn’t push hard enough, she’d have to return as graciously as her eighties sparkling electric blue dress with huge shoulder pads would allow while the presenter made thinly veiled condescending remarks. Today Victoria ever so lightly touches the electronic screen to uncover the letters. She smiles and is completely impervious to the presenter’s lame chauvinistic jokes for the simple reason that she doesn’t understand a word he says.

The personal lives of these Velinas is a national pastime. One, my father unashamedly shares with millions of other Italians. His level of detail is impressive right down to whose boobs are real and whose aren’t. Victoria’s are, not surprisingly, fake.

Mara and Mom strongly disapprove while Dad and I enjoy the show in exaggeration. Dad guesses the sentences instantly and I get carried away cheering every time the contestants spin the wheel…

Our days go by tranquilly and Mar takes her job of eating and sleeping very seriously. At snail speed, she recovers from the chemo. She still suffers from nausea and lack of energy. She still hangs over her plate, forcing herself to eat and apologizing while her elbow rests on the table. She takes a few bites, nauseous, gets up and heads straight to bed for a “power nap”. In the beginning, unsure of how to behave, we watched her, puzzled, as she unexpectedly and wordlessly got up and hit the pillow. After literally 2-3 minutes, she dragged herself out of bed again and resumed eating. It’s almost funny. Now we reassure her: “Take all the time you need Mar. No hurry. Whenever you’re ready come back for a few more bites.” We also coax her to take walks. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. We all know not to push her. Mara does an excellent job and will not be pressured. She marches to her beat and to her beat alone. We learned since November to respect this and march right by her side.

Thu the 11th of Jun - The Good, the Great and the Fun

On Wednesday, very good friends of Mara’s (and now of mine) are in town. Pierre and Emilie come all the way from Martinique. They first travel to France and from there over the Alps to Italy. Pierre’s father, Mr Robin, pilots his own little plane and so, very much in style, they land with “Air Robin” in Perugia’s airport. They’re here for 2 days.

Pierre and Mara’s friendship takes them back to Venezuela where, as teenagers, they went to school together. He’s a little younger than Mara who to this day still calls him “mon petit Pierre”. He’s very bright and an extremely gifted story teller. He crafts his stories so wittily, acts out the different characters, builds up the suspense, engages his audience and inevitably has us bent double with laughter at the end of all his hilarious adventures. This is exactly what the Doctor prescribes and conveniently, Pierre just happens to be one. His wife, Emilie, compliments him perfectly. She’s absolutely lovely, caring and just as fun to be around.

They both have medical backgrounds and have closely followed Mar’s health Pericles. She’s been looking forward to their visit for weeks but as excited as she is, she may not feel fit enough to see them, let alone spend time with them. Pierre and Emilie understand and are very willing to take the risk. They expect to see a tired, weak, emaciated Mara. Instead, to everyone’s surprise, a perky, upbeat, lively Mara welcomes them. For a minute, I worry she is over-exerting herself but then I realize 3 key events took place in the last 2 days.

Firstly, the results of the chemo treatment are positive. With fewer than 5% of leukemic blasts, Mara is in remission! RELIEF!
Secondly, she received over a liter in blood transfusion. Her body desperately needed this pick-me-upper and practically drank it in one gulp. Enough to give anyone an energy booster.
Finally, seeing very good friends always gives the extra and final adrenaline rush.

Pierre, like Mara, is a great fountain of useless information. When spotting a squirrel he asks: “Did you know they have very short memories? They always forget where they hide their nuts. It works out because they end up finding other squirrels’ hidden nuts.” Mara points out the communist principle behind this. We conclude that we are surrounded by forgetful communist squirrels.

On Friday, Mara will even be released from the hospital for two whole weeks. There is one worry casting a shadow over our celebration. Her liver shows very high levels of toxicity. The doctors decide to push out the transplant from the 20th of June to a week to 10 days later thus allowing these levels to naturally drop. I give a positive spin to this situation. I thank her liver for giving us more time to fatten her up and to strengthen her spirit before Round 5 of WrestleChemoMania starts: "Mighty Mara" vs "Nukem Leukem". Ding. Ding. Ding.

After Emilie, Pierre and his parents leave, I accompany Mara to the hospital for her last evening before her 2 week luxury “holiday”. Every evening, a nurse, either Paolo, Mauro or Michele hooks her back up to her drip. Every evening, Mar’s standard greeting is “Take all your time, I’m in no hurry to be hooked up”. Tonight is no exception.

Tue the 9th of Jun – John McCain

On Monday morning, Mara had another biopsy. Another chunk of bone extracted, another bone marrow puncture. Never pleasant. The first time back in Amsterdam, before the deed, Mara found a way to summon her courage: “Paul, did you know that John McCain was a prisoner of war in Vietnam and tortured for years before being released. If he bore the suffering for so long then surely a little puncture can’t be that bad”. Ever since, before a biopsy or a puncture, I say: “Mar, think of John McCain.”

The results will be shared with us in the coming days. I’m nervous and keep telling myself to think of the bigger picture. Let go of the fear. Mara will get her transplant. She will overcome this. She will live a full and happy and healthy life. For this reason alone, the results will be positive.

Every evening, back in the hospital, Mara finds little gifts hidden under her sheets. Somehow, they always come in pairs. Letters. We both get so very excited. Mara always shares and hands me one envelope while she rips open the other. We read out loud, exchange the cards and thoroughly examine both content and design. This mail brightens the dreaded moment of returning to the hospital. We forgot how much fun it is to receive real mail!

Dearest Friends. THANK YOU FOR YOUR LETTERS, CARDS, PHOTOS, STATUES. They are amazing. Please continue to send them. Mar (and I) get so much pleasure in receiving them. She’s out of touch with her “other world” and misses listening/reading what goes on in her friends’ lives. If you’re willing to be old fashioned and willing to cramp the muscles in your hand, then grab a pen, and write her a letter or a card or add pictures. She loves it!

As a reminder, the address:
D. Rossini C/o Osp. S.M. Della Misericordia Reparto Ematologia / Degenza (Cam. 9) 06132 S. Sisto - Perugia - Italia

Mon the 8th of Jun – A day in the life of…

Mom is always the first to wake up. Every morning, she opens the door that gives onto the outdoor hallway/balcony onto the trees and the hills. She reminds me of a more exotic, slightly older, Julie Andrews almost singing “the hills are alive…” Almost. Thankfully she doesn’t burst into song. Rather, our Early Bird enjoys the musical symphony of all the other birds. Even in their feathered community, there are always a few Lead Singers trying to outdo each other with the most original tunes. Competition is fierce! They could not have found, in my Mother, a more appreciative audience. A pregnant cat very quickly understands this is the place to be for a good meal. To be clear, it’s not the birds she preys on…At least not the ones in the trees. It’s our very own Early Big Bird that caught her hungry eye. The expectant (in more ways than one) mother sits in front of our netted open door looking like a gigantic tea cozy. Mom already anticipated and sent Dad to buy cat food days ago. While Dad indulges, he thinks the animal just found the biggest sucker on the premises. So what. It makes both Moms happy and him, the loving sucker by association.

Dad gets out of bed a little later. After a very healthy breakfast (he’s Mar’s Champagne) he’s on the move. There always seems to be something that urgently needs to be bought. Sometimes I even wonder if he “conveniently” forgets things just to go out again. Trust me, his forgetfulness has nothing to do with age. As long as I can remember this has been his way. Our kitchen cupboards are always extremely well stocked. In the unlikely event of a natural disaster imprisoning us in our apartment, a week could easily go by and whoever freed us would find a crazed, cabin fevered but otherwise very well fed family.

I’m the last of the Rossini Bunch to wake up. I make my way to the Chianelli Residence by 8.30 - 9am each morning. They have a wireless network and I get some work done before Mara texts me to pick her up between 10 and 12pm. In her eagerness to leave, she sometimes sends for me too early and I end up waiting while the medical staff busies itself with its daily Mara routine. An entire delegation of doctors visits Mara each day. There are at least 3 of them, sometimes up to 5 squeezed into her tiny room (standing next to Minnie Mouse). Professor Martelli usually leads the party. Just as the doctors may not understand Mar’s humour, at times, she is uncomprehending of theirs. The Professor explains that the transplant process should commence on the 20th of Jun. They will start her off with a little radiation first. He won’t be here that week and hopes not to find her burnt when he returns. The rest of the team chuckles. Mar’s big eyes grow even bigger. Another doctor adds: “Yes Professor, you’ll find her very well seasoned”. This triggers another collective giggle. Mar’s huge eyes are about to pop out of their sockets…One of the doctors touches her cheek. The other pats her head. Another gives her a hug. “Signorina Domenica, aren’t we just a lame bunch?” She smiles unconvincingly.

We slowly walk back to the apartment. She’s still very tired. We usually stop at the bar for a slice of pizza and a cappuccino (for me). Her appetite, like Britney Spears, is working hard on making a come back. Mara really does her best to eat. Every day she weighs herself twice, in the morning and the evening. Every kilo counts. She still yoyos between 48 and 50 kg and understands that her condition must be good to take on the next round of chemo/radio. A couple of times, she also measures her height. As if, by eating, she could actually also grow a centimeter or so. “Paul, did you know that certain Yoga stretching exercises can actually extend your height by at least 1 centimeter?” I did. There. Another bit of useless information.

Lunch is carefully and lovingly prepared by Mom. It’s a warm meal designed to fatten Mar up in the healthiest way. She is so tired she heavily leans with her arm and elbow on the table. Every time, she apologizes in advance. My sister is so well behaved!

Afterwards, almost squinting with exhaustion, she stumbles into bed, finally reunited with Herald, her fluffy mate. I clear the table and Mom washes up. I sit on the bed next to Mara and draft a few work emails to be sent later. Once Mara’s asleep, the three of us tip toe around and make ourselves scarce. Mom and Dad are off to run errands and I go back to work at the Chianelli Residence.

By now, the Chianelly staff knows me well. I look so very busy and important with my super smart headset and my ability to laboriously and blindly type away. Somehow there is an air of seriousness about me and I think they may be treating me with a respect that isn’t entirely deserved. I make little effort to dispel any misconception they may have of my incredibly high powered job…

Occasionally I am lured into the kitchen for some fresh fruit and pastries. Giliola generously calls everyone “Amore” (love). The accent is on the very long “oooooo”. Otherwise it’s “Tesoro” (treasure). I start calling people “Caro” or “Cara” (Dear). I also catch myself sprinkling my conversation with “Con la grazia di Dio” (God Willing) or “Mama Mia” (no translation needed) to some of my new Italian friends. It’s catchy. It rolls so very easily on the tong and is always spoken in a singsongy way. I then also bring my palms together and shake my clasped hands in a back and forward motion…

Around 5 or 6pm, I return home and accompany Mar back to the hospital. I stay with her until around 9pm. Dad insists for me to leave the hospital while it’s still light outside. The first nights I make it home 5 minutes before dark. Dad is happy but would be even happier if I returned earlier. In his cryptic way, he makes his point: “Paul, in the North Pole it’s light 6 months a year, does that mean you’d be home in 6 months?”

After dinner, Mom goes for a walk. Sometimes I tag along. From morning concert to evening spectacle, Mom makes it just in time for the light show starring hundreds of dragonflies flickering away in the night.

Tue the 2nd of Jun – Hello Trees

On Saturday, Mara ventures out of the hospital for the day. No, she did not escape through the window dangling from her drip. And no, she didn’t bribe any of the nurses to help her break out. She is legitimately released and expected back at 7pm sharp. Her cough and nausea have subsided and her appetite peaks out of its hiding ever so timidly. Her first steps are very unstable and shaky. She can hardly stand, heavily leaning against anyone or anything and needs to rest every 2 minutes. By the time she reaches the apartment, she is out of breath and shocked at how drained she is of energy. She eats a few bites of spaghetti and crashes in bed for a long nap before returning to the hospital.

This exercise repeats itself in the coming days. Very slowly Mar starts to feel less dazed. This morning I pick her up. At turtle speed, arm in arm, we walk from the hospital to the apartment. It’s a sunny Tuesday morning with a mild wind sweeping through the trees. Mara marvels at the beauty of every little detail. She basks in the sun and feels the cool breeze gently kissing her face. She savors the moment. We pass through a path bordered by very fragrant herbs made of thyme, rosemary and lavender. Dad, walking behind us, helps himself to some sprigs of rosemary for tonight’s stew. They grow in abundance on these hills. Even through her mask, Mara greedily draws in the aromatic perfumes of these surroundings. It all seems so new to her or maybe having been denied for so long, she just experiences every moment with renewed intensity and complete happiness.

She eats a little and sleeps a lot. At this steady pace, she will soon be discharged all together from the hospital for a couple of weeks. After that she will undergo another bone marrow puncture. We will then find out if this chemo treatment had the desired effect. It will. It will. It will.

One of the Doctors said “piano piano ci arriviamo”( slowly slowly we’ll get there). I like the simplicity of this mantra.. May it be so.

Sat the 30th of May – Oma Part II

After painful negotiations, Oma and I agree on the terms of our already precarious “truce”. She has her own cleaning lady that comes every Wednesday. It’s the same one that has been coming for the last 30 years (she is close to 70 years old!). The idea is to give Oma extra help with groceries, cleaning the bird cages, the kitty litter, and other similar chores. Thanks to my friend Demmy, I am introduced to her young cleaning ladies. They are aware of my situation, seem competent and welcome the extra work. One of them, Zeny, will supplement for no more than 2 hours each Saturday upon Oma’s specific request. This is the compromise she reluctantly accepts and now we are left with the final “detail” of introducing Zeny to her…

Little do I know that this old lady has a few more tricks up her sleeve and has not yet even started to flex her muscles. My cunning adversary has the advantage of a lifetime of experience in being a royal pain in the a**. She is very well seasoned in the art of arguing and mystifying her opponents. When Zeny and I arrive, Oma hardly if icily acknowledges her. We follow her into the living room where she majestically sits on her throne and suspiciously eyes this “new comer”. She doesn’t even offer her a seat and I awkwardly take on the role of hostess. We may have different opinions but, at the very least, I expect Oma or anyone for that matter, regardless of race, culture and age to be courteous to any guest in his/her home. Zeny takes all this in calmly and quietly. She doesn’t seem phased and I am grateful.

Oma re-negotiates the conditions. Not once, not twice, but several times! Her strategy is simple and effective: like a jellyfish stinging and paralysing its prey, she numbs me into total confusion. First, she changes her mind about having Zeny come on Saturdays. “No, I don’t want her then (she addresses me and ignores Zeny). I only want her over when Mrs Oetelmans (after 30 years she is not on first name basis with her regular cleaning lady) goes on holiday at the end of the month. Also, I want her for 2 hours but may need her for 3. Ask her if she can be available” This entirely defeats the purpose. “Oma, once isn’t enough. You need extra help. Do you understand that you will be on your own?” After I sound like a broken record, Oma proposes Wednesdays and Fridays. Last time we spoke, she didn’t want these days because she found the period in between too short. I point this out to her. All this while, we don’t even consult Zeny. Finally Oma settles on Tuesdays and Fridays. This is her final decision. Unfortunately, this conflicts with Zeny’s own schedule and she will need to check. In Oma’s busy social calendar, there is no flexibility for any other days. Oma refuses to ask her own cleaning lady to come any other day and so we’re back to Wednesdays.

Oma skillfully makes me run around in a circle at the end of which I find myself exactly where I started…Check Mate!

Gradually, Oma’s coldness melts away and she starts talking normally to Zeny. Of course, the whole honesty, fairness, hardworking code of conduct speech is given. Zeny patiently listens and short of a bible being shoved under her hand, she solemnly swears to do her best in upholding Oma’s high standards.

Thu 21st of May - Oma

I leave my “Oma” (Grandmother) behind. She’s a very feisty 87 year old. Quite a character. During my parent’s travels, she was given “custody” of their pets, 3 parrots and 2 cats. These animals are accustomed to human company and leaving them in my sister and my care was a disastrous experience. We were hardly ever home and our feline guests expressed their discontent by leaving numerous “complaints” in most unexpected places such as, for example, our shoes. Oma, like her daughter, is an animal lover and absolutely dotes on them. But as she grows older, it becomes more of a burden for her. In fact, she even struggles with taking care of herself. Of course she will never admit to this. My parents’ visits to the Netherlands over the last years have been more frequent and of longer duration. They then run her household and lovingly spoil all its residents.

Now that Mara’s in Italy, we can’t leave Oma alone and I suggest we either arrange for home care which is government funded or just extra help. Oma is vehemently opposed to the idea. Every time I even hint at it she violently rejects it. Today she shouts at me: “I won’t have a bunch of foreigners in my house.” Apparently with home care, a different person comes by every week and typically isn’t Dutch (By the way, Oma has Indonesian blood and is dark skinned herself…). Then it’s: “I can’t be bothered to explain a thousand times how to do things right. I just won’t do it”. Next she heard from friends: “they’re arrogant and won’t do as they’re told. What’s the point?” And so on... I try reassuring her. We’ll find one suitable person she feels comfortable with. We’ll write everything down so she doesn’t need to explain. I’ll be around in the beginning to make sure they’re not arrogant. She gets more and more wound up and in a final attempt to win this battle, her ultimate threat looms over me like a sword of Damocles: “You take the animals then. That’s the real reason I need help. Without them I can perfectly take care of myself”. She knows I want to be by my sister’s side and I know she’s bluffing. She practically hangs up on me. Since I plan to visit her in the evening, I brace myself for the hard discussion that will follow.

In anticipation of the dreaded moment, I seek the counseling of my trusted advisor, Richard. He is slowly becoming the Rossini Sister’s therapist. In his most professional and soothing tone, he analyses the situation and urges me to find the underlying motives for Oma’s resistance: “I see Paula…Yes Paula…Find the real reason behind the reasons.” I’m lucky he doesn’t charge me.

Perhaps Oma perceives this “defeat” as an admission to old age…Perhaps she is afraid of being left alone. She may think it starts with home care and ends with care in a Home. While I understand her fear, at the moment, we have little other options.

In the evening, after a very heated conversation, she finally concedes to maybe allowing someone to help in a future. She reserves the right to veto anyone she disapproves of. Now, the “simple” task of finding that very special someone rests on my tense shoulders…Happy days…

Fri the 22nd of May – Economy of words

Mara is very sick. Her fever fluctuates between 38 and 40 degrees. She is burning up yet shivers under 3 blankets. She is very tired and hardly speaks. Her sleep is interrupted by severe coughing fits that make her spit. These last few days, she doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. I sit with her and when she gets an attack, she weekly cries out in Italian for a “sciotola”. At first I have no idea what she means, and I hand her tissue papers, a glass, the thermometer, etc... She shakes her head and whispers “sciotola, sciotola” while pointing to a plastic bowl on her side table. This cough is persistent and the doctors are running tests to determine what bacteria are causing the infection. Unfortunately, it has formed a wicked alliance with her nausea and so when she isn’t spitting out phlegm, she is vomiting and bleeding from her nose. Later, when she feels better, she jokes about how she could compete with a Chinaman in a very audiovisual spitting contest.

She’s down to 49 kilos. Luckily the trump has been replaced by intravenous feeding.

On a positive note, this chemo doesn’t make her hair fall out. It is growing unevenly, cropping up on top of her head. Mara compares it to a cockatoo’s crest. She says that when she gets mad, her crest bolts up.

Her mental exhaustion worries me the most. She really wants to get out of here. Since last November Mara has spent more than 3 months caged in a hospital room. Enough to drive anyone to desperation. With this recent infectious complication, her hospital stay may be extended. At Dad’s mere suggestion of the possibility, Mara masters the little strength she has to explode. In French... “Ha non! Je me casse! (I’m outta here)”. I picture her crest rising dangerously. Even though her threats are empty, she has all the right to be enraged. She must find an outlet for her frustration and this emotion helps her to cope with the situation. It is almost tempting to continue provoking her just to get her blood boiling. At least this way she knows she is alive and kicking!