It's so simple to be wise.  Just think of something stupid to say, and then don't say it.     Sam Levenson (1911-1980)

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA

Since beginning pediatric hospital work over a decade ago, I've shown a tendency to divide circumstances -- that is, reasons for hospitalization -- into two artificially neat categories:  Man-made, and G-d-made.  


Examples of the former include falls from upper-story windows, hot-water burns, and car "accidents."  The latter run a spectrum, from "less serious," (i.e. dangerous but curable) illnesses like RSV, Hanoch-Schlein and cellulitis, to acutely life-threatening maladies like Crohn's, SCID, CF, and acute myeloid leukemia.  


Believe it or not, in many ways I had a much harder time in Pediatric Surgical, working with kids injured as a result of the "man-made" stuff.  Why?  I was constantly troubled by the thought that most of the injuries there were preventable;  Falls resulting from unsupervised climbs along an unfenced roof edge or an unbarred third-story window.  Shabbat kettle burns?  See Prof K's posts, here and here, for more on that.  (Yes, I've referenced these before, and I'll probably keep doing it until the problem is no more).  Car-related injuries?   I won't start ranting here about street safety or seat belt use, but please pretend I did.


As for the G-d-made part -- we can't prevent that stuff.  It's just not our jurisdiction.  We can only try to cure it.  And if we cannot cure a child's illness, we can still try to help that child find comfort and meaning until the end.


But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.


I am, of course, referring to the February 1, 2009 decision of the Palestinian Authority to cease nearly all payments to Israeli hospitals, thereby cutting off hundreds of Palestinian children (and adults) with life-threatening illnesses from the medical care they need. 

  

Let's not turn this situation into another political discussion.  Because for me, and so many others, this is not a theoretical situation involving some unnamed, unknown enemy.  This is a new reality, where over fifty children, all of which I know personally on one level or another -- some for several years now -- have been given a death sentence by way of a governmental policy of collective medical neglect.


When I let myself think about it, or when circumstances force me to think about this new reality, sadness creeps in and hits me, literally, in the face.  Our department is half empty, which for us staff members could be viewed as a glass half-full, since we've been working at a slower pace these past few weeks and can take a few minutes to breathe now and then.


But then someone like A -- a beautiful, bright and sensitive teenage girl whom we have been treating for a leukemia for the past four months -- suddenly shows up in our department with a nearly lethal systemic infection because she no longer had a commitment from the PA to pay for her treatments.


What about all the others?  Some of them are in touch with us by phone, while others have been so difficult to contact, it's as if they have disappeared into thin air.   All are pleading desperately, crying at the desks of the PA bureaucrats who have the power to make a life-changing decision but choose not to.  These officials have claimed they will sponsor parallel treatment in an Egyptian, Jordanian, or even Europe -- anywhere but Israel -- but with very few exceptions, we've yet to encounter evidence that our patients are receiving any treatment whatsoever.   


Every once in awhile a rumor flits through the department -- that so-and-so has died of a deadly infection in some PA hospital somewhere.  So far these rumors have proven false, but it's only a matter of time before they are not.  Chemotherapy protocols are measured in days and hours.  A lost week is an acute risk;  a lost month, or even a fever, is a death sentence.  


If we could treat for free, we would.  But we can't, because the funding would come out of our department budget, such that within a month even one patient's treatment would empty the coffers and shut down the department.  A few of our staff have even dug into their pockets so that certain individual patients could have this one medical test or that course of life-saving antibiotics.  A few miniscule drops into a very deep bucket.


This past Monday we were all relieved to learn that A's family managed to confirm her East Jerusalem resident status, allowing us to continue the treatment that will, most likely, save her life.  This morning, the Palestinian Authority's Committee of Medical Exceptions purportedly met to review the list of children requesting funding in to continue treatment in Israeli hospitals for long-term, life-threatening illnesses.  


I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.



Keep the balance,


ALN


____


While this situation has affected patients in hospitals throughout the country, for whatever reason most of the (limited) PR refers to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.  See the NY Times piece here, and the JTA piece here.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

We're on a Road to...

Once in awhile Treppenwitz offers a "tremp" post;  that is, a hitchhiking experience that stands out for being unusual, humorous or just plain wacky.  I myself don't have many stories to tell since, I'll readily admit, I shy away from picking up hitchhikers.  I'm just too scared to let a total stranger into the car, and unfortunately I've heard enough worrisome stories to justify that fear.  

But in theory I think it's a lovely idea.   As an older teenager / young adult, I depended on others to transport me around this teeny tiny country, and nowadays I wish I felt safe enough to return the favor to society at large

I do feel safe picking up fellow moshav residents, which I often do on my way to work.  I leave the house early and at this time of year the sun is up but it's still chilly and these past few days -- hurray! -- rainy.   Sometimes it's a high school kid trying to get to school, or an older resident on his way to the local shuk for some shopping.  Often as not, it's someone trying to get to the hospital itself, to visit a relative or to keep a medical appointment.  

When I pull my car up to the bus stop each morning, most people come up to the window, ask where I'm going, and either reject the ride with a polite "Have a nice drive," or else they hop into the car, and off we go.   This morning, though, it was the other type of trempist (hitchhiker), that older, first-generation North-African immigrant Savta-type.  I could tell this was going to involve a process, and I stifled a groan.

I know, what's the big deal?  I feel extremely grateful to own a (mostly) reliable vehicle, and we're only talking about a few minutes of my time to help a fellow citizen get on with his life.  True, it's challenging enough, when it's still dark, to drag myself out of bed and make my way through the sleepy-crazy morning rush, out the door and onto the road, only to have someone waste precious time deciding whether to hitch a ride.  

Bottom line?  I have to admit it, I have a problem.   I hate it when people make me late to work.  

So I could see this passenger was going to be a problem.   First, standing outside the car with rain streaming in through the now-open window, she has to interview me:  Where are you going?  How are you getting there?  Are you going via the ----- route?  No?  Why not?  

Pause and grimace.  Are you sure you aren't going the ---- route?  Turns around to her companion, waiting at the bus stop two meters away.  Shouts, SHE'S NOT GOING THE ----- ROUTE.  SHOULD I GO WITH HER?  Pause for discussion.  Short argument.   Unclear resolution.  I yell out through the window, I have to go.  Are you coming or not?

Steps back toward the car.   Looks back at companion, then back at me.   OK, I'll go with you.Opens the back door.  Piles in two heavy bags.   Slams the door.  Opens the front door, sits down with a thud.  

Glances at me and remembers -- I'm that crazy woman who insists on using that silly device. Looks down, fumbles with the seat belt.   I have a wedding tonight.  My sister's daughter.  I have to get to the Central Bus Station by ten o'clock, there's a bus that leaves at ten.  I'm sleeping over there, at my sister's.

I nod.  I'm trying not to lose it, but I'm already running late, I still have to stop and fill up at the gas station, it's pouring with rain, and we've already wasted five minutes discussing route options, as if it's even up to her in the first place.  

I have to get to the Central Bus Station, she repeats.  The bus station.  To catch a bus.  To my sister's.  Maybe if we see the bus coming up the hill you can just drop me off and I'll get a ride from there to -----.    Are you sure you're not going via -----?

We have covered this material before, and so I feel obligated to clarify, more forcefully now, that yes, I'm sure we are traveling the very route I originally specified.  Maybe you could just drop me off somewhere along the way, she continues to mumble.  Maybe the bus will come by.  Meanwhile, my iPod is plugged into the car's speaker system and I am desperately trying to hear Ira Glass introduce Act One of the week's This American Life podcast.  

But my passenger does not understand English and treats the sound coming from the speakers as just that -- sound, without meaning -- so she continues this one-way conversation, competing at full volume with the podcast.  

So, you're going to work?  Oh, you speak English.  I know some people who speak English.  From England.  What do you think, the English they teach in schools, is it the American English, or the English from England. 

I force a smile and, not able to hear Ira, I pause the podcast.  

Well, I tell her, I wouldn't know.  I didn't learn English here in the school system, being that it's my mother tongue and all.   I figure maybe this comment would serve as a hint, that the noise coming out of the speakers is, to me, not some unintelligible cacophony or background noise, but rather, something I was in the middle of following, and I press play.  
North African Savta (continues the discussion, completely unfazed):  Oh, r i g h t. Well, you know, there was just this program on television, about this American couple, a twelve-year-old girl and a thirteen-year-old boy, in America, who had a baby, and they had to give it away.  Did you see that program?

ALN:  No, I didn't catch that one.  We don't actually have a television.  

NAS:  No television?  Really?  Why not?  Oh, just like my sister;  she's Haredi, she doesn't have a television.  She looks at me quizzically.  I'm clearly not Haredi, yet she just can't seem to alight on any other logical explanation.
(Short pause, to point out to our non-Israeli readers the common assumption among Israelis that if you don't have a television, it must be because you're ultra-Orthodox.  Never mind that one does not need an exceedingly conservation lifestyle to come to the conclusion that television here is, on average, a huge waste of time).
NAS:  So if you don't have a television, what do you do for fun?

ALN:  For fun?  Ummm....we read books.  Or we listen to radio programs.  You know,  just like the one I've been listening to, here in the car. 
Another subtle hint that simply does not get through, followed by one final attempt to put the program back on.  Oh, it's no use.   I sigh, shut off the radio, and glance at my passenger.
So, you say you're going to your sister's house for a wedding... 


Keep the balance,

ALN

Almond Blossoms -- Goodbye Until Next Year

This Today's Flowers post is dedicated to my Mom.


This past week I found myself wandering around Ein Kerem, at the southern end of Jerusalem, following an off-site planning session that, to my delight, ended an hour ahead of schedule. 

I was so pleasantly surprised by having this extra hour to myself  that it took me nearly 15 minutes just to decide what to do with it.  The sun, hidden behind the clouds, was due to set in about an hour.  Perfect photography light.

It's the end of the almond tree blossoms.  Ein Kerem is filled with almond trees -- שקדיות shkediot in Hebrew.  This tree's claim to fame is that it is the first to bloom, in the dead of winter, and almost out of nowhere.  


Now most almond trees in Israel are divided between bloom and foliage, with the white/pink blossoms contrasting against dark spindley branches and the bright green of newly sprouting leaves.  

Here, the flowers have already dropped off as the tree develops leaves and shifts into fruit-producing mode.

Another Spring, already on its way...

Happy Birthday, Mom!



Keep the balance,

ALN