When we were preparing to leave Romania for the sake of medical care in pregnancy, just after we made the difficult decision that we had to go, the opportunity came up to build a house for a family in desperate need of a home. Our flights were booked, and we had to go in a certain time frame so I would be medically stable enough to fly after being treated in hospital. Simon needed help to build the house in time, and I was sad for what would become of the work I had started and the plans for expanding it that seemed so close to being able to go forward. Then along came Lauren and Mihai.
Mihai is a builder by trade, a Romanian, and one wanting to see justice for Roma and those stricken by poverty in his own country. Lauren is a teacher, babywearing consultant, and has been involved in La Leche League for a number of years. They were the answer to our prayers and also very good friends to us.
While Mihai helped Simon build the house, Lauren came to our house and helped me pack. I had been mostly bedridden for 3 months, and was under doctors' orders to rest lying down as much as possible and certainly not lift anything, but Simon was working from morning until night every day until the evening before the morning that we had to leave - imagine trying to care for two small children and pack for an international move single-handedly when you are sick, fuzzy-minded on medication, and supposed to be staying in bed! Thank God for Lauren! She would turn up with snacks and games for the children and with her own baby boy, completely unfazed by the chaos, and cheer me up while helping to pack up our house. Then Mihai offered to loan us his van and drive all the way from Romania to England and back again to get us home, while Lauren flew with me so I wouldn't have to worry about flying alone whilst ill. It's pretty hard to find better friends than that.
After we left, Mihai was set to take over the FFR building project, but sadly that didn't go forward and eventually he had to go back to the USA to find work to support Lauren and their two little boys. Lauren took over running the meetings for LLL Brasov, as well as working in the hospital and running babywearing classes. Eventually she took on the Moms project in the hospital, expanded it to the maternity hospital (a huge and very much needed step), and also to the village of Budila, as I had planned to do. She has been working selflessly for many months, fighting child abandonment by supporting mothers, all the while Mihai has been back in the USA looking for work and saving up to find them a new home.
After what must seem like a long, very long, time, Lauren, Tibi, and Ovi are going home to Mihai. They are a family and they need to be together, but leaving Romania is very hard for them. They have done so much for others, please consider helping them pay off their tickets so they can be together and not starting out with a debt. They have already given up so much for others who have no way to ever repay them, including us.
https://www.facebook.com/MihaiandLauren?fref=ts
Thursday, 30 July 2015
Monday, 11 May 2015
Kwashiorkor
There was a boy in bed 13*. He was about one year old, with huge dark eyes, and such a smile. I would have taken him home in an instant. Him and his mother, whoever she was.
He had the rusty orange hair of extreme malnutrition, and skin so pale from anaemia that it looked almost translucent. Even by usual hospital standards, he should have been sitting up, but he didn't even have the strength to try and sit with help. His arms and legs were like sticks, impossibly fragile, while his abdomen bulged so that he looked uncomfortable in any position but lying on his back. The area of his swollen liver was visible, and when I changed him, I could barely fit the disposable nappy on between his shrunken little hips and swollen belly. Think of a picture you might have seen of a starving African child in a famine, and then imagine that child with white skin and reddish hair. This child was starving to death. Yet he smiled. His eyes would search out mine , and as soon as he'd made contact, his smile would spread all over his face, and his weak little body would wriggle with pleasure. Someone loved this boy. His name was Nicolae.
He had the rusty orange hair of extreme malnutrition, and skin so pale from anaemia that it looked almost translucent. Even by usual hospital standards, he should have been sitting up, but he didn't even have the strength to try and sit with help. His arms and legs were like sticks, impossibly fragile, while his abdomen bulged so that he looked uncomfortable in any position but lying on his back. The area of his swollen liver was visible, and when I changed him, I could barely fit the disposable nappy on between his shrunken little hips and swollen belly. Think of a picture you might have seen of a starving African child in a famine, and then imagine that child with white skin and reddish hair. This child was starving to death. Yet he smiled. His eyes would search out mine , and as soon as he'd made contact, his smile would spread all over his face, and his weak little body would wriggle with pleasure. Someone loved this boy. His name was Nicolae.
I worried about him. Had he made it to the hospital in time? Would they be able to give him the care he needed? Surely someone who loved him would come back for him, and not leave him to be sent to an institution. He had a way of twisting his head back and forth, jaw locked open, and his hands stayed fisted unless coaxed open; worrying signs in a place where something as minor as a feeding difficulty or mild learning disability might sentence a child to life in an institution. Was there some condition underlying his physical state, or had the malnutrition already caused brain damage?
I double-checked the symptoms when I got home. Severe anaemia, reddish hair colour, swollen liver, the bloated abdomen and muscle wasting on the limbs. Kwashiorkor. Advanced kwashiorkor. It is a particular form of malnutrition, caused by lack of protein. Not the first case I'd seen by a long shot, but definitely the worst. I knew the common scenario: mother unable to breastfeed, family can't afford milk or safe bottle feeding, so the baby is fed on tea, usually with crumbled biscuit mixed in. It keeps them alive, but there are few calories and no protein. Babies of less desperately-poor families are likely to be given soups that will have had bones or meat boiled in them, but some live hand-to-mouth, knowing only that babies should have white bland stuff and tea, with no knowledge of nutrition and the importance of protein. Even in doctors' offices I have seen brightly illustrated advertising posters aimed at wealthier parents, stating that children must only be fed baby food, milk and fruit until 3 years old; no meat, no 'grown-up' food. It is no wonder that so many children among the general population suffer from stunting - and how much more difficult for families on the outskirts of society to know what is best for their children.
But for a child as malnourished as Nicolae, food could be deadly. He would need very careful feeding to bring him slowly back to health without overtaxing his damaged organs. I dug out my books on caring for severely malnourished children. Someone had given them to me before we left for Romania, though I hadn't thought I would need them.
Back at the hospital, I tried to talk to the doctor. This boy, the one in bed 13, he needs special care. I had training in infant feeding, I have a book... But she brushes past, down the hall. I could do it, I could show the nurses, I would come every day... She holds up her hand and gives me a look, still walking. She doesn't have to say anything. I am overstepping the line. I am only a volunteer. I am supposed to keep my place. A volunteer is a volunteer, allowed into the hospital in the trust that they will respect the rules and let staff do their jobs, no matter what training or expertise they may have in their own life. She is at the end of the hall, talking to a group of people in white coats with clipboards. The hospital is busy these days, people are stressed. If I interrupt, I could be jeopardizing the welcome that volunteers have in the hospital, and then where would all the other babies be? Too much is at stake.
The couple in the small private room - are they his parents? It is only a guess, they could be anyone. I could speak to them, but they are waiting for someone, I don't know their situation. I would need a translator. Their poverty and obvious lack of nutrition don't mean they are his parents; they could be anyone. If they are waiting for the social worker, they will wait a long time, because she is busy. I know, because I would have gone to her first of all to offer my books to the hospital. I just wanted to help this baby boy, and I knew the nurses already had a lot to do. Maybe he would be looking better in a few days.
But on my next shift he was gone. There was another baby in bed 13. I looked for Nicolae. Had he been moved? ICU? The answer hit me like the kick of a horse to my belly. Sent home. Discharged. The doctor said he wasn't sick, so he didn't need to be there. I guessed that was why she had not been interested in talking about him. He had already been discharged. Maybe those had been his parents. Whoever took him home hadn't got to talk to the social worker. Nobody had offered them any suggestions of where they might go for help. Nobody had talked to them about how to feed their child. The frailest child I had ever seen, yet he was deemed not sick enough to take up a bed in a busy hospital.
I was not going to be continuing to work in the hospital anyway, but I couldn't have kept going in after that. Not for a long while, anyway. That sweet boy, with his huge dark eyes and his all-over smile.
I haven't much hope that little Nicolae ever made it through what would have been his second winter. Severly malnourished children are prone to dying of hypothermia, and the Transylvanian winters are cruel to families living in makeshift shacks. They can also go into heart failure if given too much fluid - a considerable risk where soup or herbal teas are likely to be the only staples the family has to give a starving child. I can only hope he went quietly in his sleep, in the arms of someone who loved him and taught him to smile.
*For the sake of veracity: Bed numbers and names are not accurate.
*For the sake of veracity: Bed numbers and names are not accurate.
Friday, 17 October 2014
The Real Thing
Our little Devonshire Dumpling is playing beside the breakfast table, looking to see what that doggy is doing. She's still all cuddly in her bedtime woollies.
I used to think that acrylic knits were fantastic, even better than the real thing. I guess I wasn't the only one. Cheap to buy, easy to wash, dries in a flash, and keeps its shape - what's not to like?
I used to think that acrylic knits were fantastic, even better than the real thing. I guess I wasn't the only one. Cheap to buy, easy to wash, dries in a flash, and keeps its shape - what's not to like?
The Munchkin, about 19 months old, wearing one of my favourite jumpers of all time.
I think it was actually the Pediatric First Aid course that changed my mind. Petroleum-based fabrics catch fire slowly, but will melt onto the skin when they do, causing terrible burns. Wool, on the other hand, is naturally flame retardent and burns into cool ash. It's probably not that much of an issue if you live in a modern home, but it might be something to consider if you have several small children living in one room where you heat and cook with something like this...
As a Reynauds Syndrome sufferer from a cold climate, I didn't need to be convinced about the superior insulating qualities of real wool, but I always thought it was too scratchy to be worn next to skin. Then the Munchkin had two really bad bouts of croup in a row, and grew thin and complained of being cold. I decided to invest in a set of merino wool thermals. Using less energy to keep warm, she started to put weight back on, and without the sweatiness of fleece making her too hot then too cold on winter nights, she slept better and was ill less often. Both children wear their wonderfully soft woollies most of the time, now.
I've tried various nappy arrangements for overnight use with Dumpling, and they all leak. All except her double-layered machine-knit merino shorties. They are a loose knit, and very breathable, but don't wick, even when the terry nappy inside is sodden. And they don't smell. One of the wonders of wool is that it is, to some extent, self-cleaning. If it's wet, hang it to air ("Air" in the Canadian sense, as in "hang it in fresh air", not the British version of "airing", which seems to mean "stuff it in a warm cupboard", which would not have quite the same effect.), and it's ready to use again. And, importantly for a cold climate, dampness doesn't affect the wool's insulating properties. Imagine wearing wet clothes on a cold, snowy day with an icy wind blowing off the mountains, and consider that babies have an unfortunate habit of wetting themselves several times a day, and you will begin to see why that is important. They also have a lower body mass, and chill quickly.
I'm quite thoroughly convinced now that wool is the ideal material for nappy pants. You only need a few covers, because it doesn't have to be washed often, it is cool in summer, warm in winter, breathable, gentle on skin (depending on quality, of course), among the more environmentally friendly of fabrics, safer, and I'm guessing much longer-wearing than most other nappy cover materials.
There is the business of laundering, but if your washing machine happens to be a bowl or bucket, then having a few items that are better off hand-washed than machine-washed isn't really a problem. And really, even in a modern home, using a sink instead of a machine really isn't that much of a problem, either. I spend a half hour a week washing our woollens, and treat them with lanolin every few weeks. It has actually been a part of my plan to simplify our family life; the children get as much wear out of one woollen item as they would out of several bits of cotton clothing, so there is less to store, less to put away when drawers get emptied, and less laundry.
Bit of a waffly post, but anyway, I am convinced that you really can't get better than the real thing, at least when it comes to wool!
As a Reynauds Syndrome sufferer from a cold climate, I didn't need to be convinced about the superior insulating qualities of real wool, but I always thought it was too scratchy to be worn next to skin. Then the Munchkin had two really bad bouts of croup in a row, and grew thin and complained of being cold. I decided to invest in a set of merino wool thermals. Using less energy to keep warm, she started to put weight back on, and without the sweatiness of fleece making her too hot then too cold on winter nights, she slept better and was ill less often. Both children wear their wonderfully soft woollies most of the time, now.
I've tried various nappy arrangements for overnight use with Dumpling, and they all leak. All except her double-layered machine-knit merino shorties. They are a loose knit, and very breathable, but don't wick, even when the terry nappy inside is sodden. And they don't smell. One of the wonders of wool is that it is, to some extent, self-cleaning. If it's wet, hang it to air ("Air" in the Canadian sense, as in "hang it in fresh air", not the British version of "airing", which seems to mean "stuff it in a warm cupboard", which would not have quite the same effect.), and it's ready to use again. And, importantly for a cold climate, dampness doesn't affect the wool's insulating properties. Imagine wearing wet clothes on a cold, snowy day with an icy wind blowing off the mountains, and consider that babies have an unfortunate habit of wetting themselves several times a day, and you will begin to see why that is important. They also have a lower body mass, and chill quickly.
I'm quite thoroughly convinced now that wool is the ideal material for nappy pants. You only need a few covers, because it doesn't have to be washed often, it is cool in summer, warm in winter, breathable, gentle on skin (depending on quality, of course), among the more environmentally friendly of fabrics, safer, and I'm guessing much longer-wearing than most other nappy cover materials.
There is the business of laundering, but if your washing machine happens to be a bowl or bucket, then having a few items that are better off hand-washed than machine-washed isn't really a problem. And really, even in a modern home, using a sink instead of a machine really isn't that much of a problem, either. I spend a half hour a week washing our woollens, and treat them with lanolin every few weeks. It has actually been a part of my plan to simplify our family life; the children get as much wear out of one woollen item as they would out of several bits of cotton clothing, so there is less to store, less to put away when drawers get emptied, and less laundry.
Bit of a waffly post, but anyway, I am convinced that you really can't get better than the real thing, at least when it comes to wool!
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
Limitations
"Doamna mea, mi-e frica." I see the fear in her eyes, her hand on her belly, rounded out with the child she is so afraid for. I hear it in her half-whisper. She is afraid. Something isn't right, and she is afraid for her child. Please can I help her.
They're not like us, I've been told. They have babies just like animals. They don't have any trouble, but there is no emotion. What I see doesn't look like that. Maybe sometimes there is an appearance of callousness, a way of talking matter-of-factly about terrible loss. But maybe if they didn't find a way to accept the hardness of life, it would tear them apart. This is the second girl we've known of, in the space of a few weeks, who has lost a child at nearly full term.
Please can you help me, she had asked. And I had to say "I'm sorry". I'm sorry. The words are so inadequate. I didn't even have to words to explain how sorry. If only the car worked. If only I knew where to go, and could speak and understand her language well enough to know what was wrong, to talk to a doctor. I didn't even have the money to call her a taxi. Ask the neighbours, I said, they have a car, someone will know what to do. If only I'd had someone to watch my children, I could have gone with her, held her hand, made sure she got home safely.
I saw her again a while later. Someone had taken her to the hospital, but she had lost the child.
Imagine being scared and alone, feeling the life that has been growing within you for months slipping away, and being helpless to do anything to stop it. Imagine having to go from door to door, begging for help from strangers. Would she have found any compassion at the hospital? The colour of her skin and the poverty evidenced by her clothing are enough to make me question whether she would have.
It was only a minor incident, only one of many strangers who come to our gate asking for help, but when I think of that girl, I have so many questions I can hardly put them to words. Is it worth being here? Maybe this is the kind of task better left to the wealthy, to those who would have had the resources to help. We refer people to local churches for help, and they are turned away. We hope that others around us might begin to see ways that they might help those in need around them, but it is so hard to get past generations of ingrained prejudice, and they fear being overwhelmed by the level of need, or being taken advantage of. So we do what we can, and look people in the eye, and offer them compassion as our fellow human beings trying to get through this hard life, and maybe that, at least, is something.
"They're not like us", I've been told. But I remember the fear in a young woman's eyes, and her hand on the child within her.
They're not like us, I've been told. They have babies just like animals. They don't have any trouble, but there is no emotion. What I see doesn't look like that. Maybe sometimes there is an appearance of callousness, a way of talking matter-of-factly about terrible loss. But maybe if they didn't find a way to accept the hardness of life, it would tear them apart. This is the second girl we've known of, in the space of a few weeks, who has lost a child at nearly full term.
Please can you help me, she had asked. And I had to say "I'm sorry". I'm sorry. The words are so inadequate. I didn't even have to words to explain how sorry. If only the car worked. If only I knew where to go, and could speak and understand her language well enough to know what was wrong, to talk to a doctor. I didn't even have the money to call her a taxi. Ask the neighbours, I said, they have a car, someone will know what to do. If only I'd had someone to watch my children, I could have gone with her, held her hand, made sure she got home safely.
I saw her again a while later. Someone had taken her to the hospital, but she had lost the child.
Imagine being scared and alone, feeling the life that has been growing within you for months slipping away, and being helpless to do anything to stop it. Imagine having to go from door to door, begging for help from strangers. Would she have found any compassion at the hospital? The colour of her skin and the poverty evidenced by her clothing are enough to make me question whether she would have.
It was only a minor incident, only one of many strangers who come to our gate asking for help, but when I think of that girl, I have so many questions I can hardly put them to words. Is it worth being here? Maybe this is the kind of task better left to the wealthy, to those who would have had the resources to help. We refer people to local churches for help, and they are turned away. We hope that others around us might begin to see ways that they might help those in need around them, but it is so hard to get past generations of ingrained prejudice, and they fear being overwhelmed by the level of need, or being taken advantage of. So we do what we can, and look people in the eye, and offer them compassion as our fellow human beings trying to get through this hard life, and maybe that, at least, is something.
"They're not like us", I've been told. But I remember the fear in a young woman's eyes, and her hand on the child within her.
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Suzy's Magic Feet
When I was younger, I had a pair of multicolour wool slippers that I called "my magic feet", because they were so very cozy and colourful. I am extremely fussy about slippers, and those were the only kind I ever found to be both warm and comfortable to wear. I loved my magic feet. I vowed many times, over many years, that I would one day learn to make them - now I and my children can have cozy feet forever!
I had someone show me how to increase and decrease crochet stitches, cut out some soles from an old sheepskin, and got to work. I had to backtrack several times in the process, but once I'd made one pair, I knew how to do it.
I did learn from a few mistakes along the way: wooden needles are not strong enough for working through leather! Had to make an emergency trip to the charity shop to look for a new needle, and then try to match the size and tension of the stitches to those I'd done with the first needle. Next time I'll know better.
I'm no expert crocheter (crocheteer? crochetess? Is there a word for one who does crochet?), but once the soles are ready, I guess I could make a small slipper in about the time it takes to nurse a baby to sleep.
In my search for low cost, low tech, high sale value, practical crafts to have as my workshop repertoire, one of the criteria I have been bearing in mind is safety and practicality for working with small children underfoot. Sleeping children are ideal to work with, but they don't always stay that way. One of the things about crochet that I particularly appreciate is that it only involves one needle, a dull one, so it can be done quite safely with a sleeping baby in one's lap, and when the baby wakes up, the project can instantly be set aside, ready to pick up again as soon as another opportunity comes along.
Crochet is also wonderfully portable.
I made the first slipper while in the car and in the outpatients' waiting room, bringing the Munchkin to an appointment. The second I made while putting the girls to bed.
The soles are cut from a 'second' sheepskin bought at the pannier market. The wool came with Munchkin's knitting fork , but she preferred to use a more slender yarn, so we traded. A bit of time, and not much skill with a crochet hook, and Lovely Boo has little warm feet that won't slip on the cold floor.
That's magic.
I had someone show me how to increase and decrease crochet stitches, cut out some soles from an old sheepskin, and got to work. I had to backtrack several times in the process, but once I'd made one pair, I knew how to do it.
I'm no expert crocheter (crocheteer? crochetess? Is there a word for one who does crochet?), but once the soles are ready, I guess I could make a small slipper in about the time it takes to nurse a baby to sleep.
In my search for low cost, low tech, high sale value, practical crafts to have as my workshop repertoire, one of the criteria I have been bearing in mind is safety and practicality for working with small children underfoot. Sleeping children are ideal to work with, but they don't always stay that way. One of the things about crochet that I particularly appreciate is that it only involves one needle, a dull one, so it can be done quite safely with a sleeping baby in one's lap, and when the baby wakes up, the project can instantly be set aside, ready to pick up again as soon as another opportunity comes along.
Crochet is also wonderfully portable.
I made the first slipper while in the car and in the outpatients' waiting room, bringing the Munchkin to an appointment. The second I made while putting the girls to bed.
The soles are cut from a 'second' sheepskin bought at the pannier market. The wool came with Munchkin's knitting fork , but she preferred to use a more slender yarn, so we traded. A bit of time, and not much skill with a crochet hook, and Lovely Boo has little warm feet that won't slip on the cold floor.
That's magic.
Saturday, 25 February 2012
Woolly Pants
Here, Lovely Boo is wearing a couple of old jumpers (sweaters) which have been deliberately shrunk in the wash, cut up, and stitched into a very simple design. Old woollens with stains, holes, or which have lost their shape or shrunk in the wash can make an ideal waterproof, breathable, all-weather nappy cover. Soft, comfortable, easy to put on, leakproof, holds a nappy firmly in place, warm in winter, cool in summer, and doesn't need frequent washing. The only drawback is that real wool knits are not so easily come by these days, and synthetic wool just won't work.
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