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!