The 40 Percent

After managing to hold everything together during the five weeks that I had been in Senegal, I returned thinking this trip would be far easier since I would be doing multimedia and interviewing government officials instead of recording patient stories. I really wasn't expecting to hear bad news this time, which is huge denial considering the type of work involved.

My flight had been delayed due to some security issue, so I arrived two hours later than I had expected to. Apparently someone checked in a bunch of baggage but never boarded the flight, so they had to go through all the luggage and remove those pieces. I sat next to a guy who felt like telling me about the problems of his marriage, which I listened to politely for ten minutes before telling him I was going to sleep...and pretending to be asleep. At one point he tried to wake me up by saying, "wake up," but I pretended not to hear him. The weather was beautiful--hot like New York, but with a dry heat instead of the heavy humidity that hangs over Manhattan. It was nice that all the hotel staff still recognized me, and I went to my room determined not to take a nap so I could get used to the time difference sooner.

I called one of the mothers whose child had passed away, to schedule a time to talk about the short film clip that we would be producing to accompany our advocacy. Her child had been sick for several months, and he remained at the hospital while doctors tried to "discover" whatever "bizarre" disease he had--they thought it was a new disease. It turned out he had a cancerous tumors growing on his bones, and passed away in excruciating pain, during a morphine shortage. I wasn't sure how to ask a person like her whether she wants to be in our film or not. On one hand, her testimony is so important in conveying the severity of the problem, and also associates a human face with the words that we write. On the other, I imagine myself asking her to describe, for the camera, how her 5 year old died in horrendous conditions, and I feel sick.

I finally did it by telling her that I didn't want to make her do anything that she was uncomfortable with--that we wanted to use her son's story because it would help prevent the same fate from happening to other children in the future--and that I understood if it was too painful for her to do. In the end, she said she wanted to help our cause as much as possible, but did not want to speak on film for several reasons. One, many of her friends and family did not know her son had cancer--she is a very private person, and definitely would not want them to hear the news by seeing it on TV. Two, she does not like being filmed. Most importantly however, she said that the death was in the past, and she did not want to relive it again. "It might help other children, but my son is gone. It is every parent's hope to watch their child grow, and I will never see that."

We continued to sit and talk, and she showed me and my cameraman photos of her time at the hospital, and gave me updates on the other patients. It turned out that pretty much all of the inpatients that shared the side of the hospital with her had passed away. That wing, with a total of 8 beds, was reserved for more serious cases. Throughout my five weeks, people went in and out every few weeks or so, but I got to know them better because they were there every day for significant periods of time. If I had free time, sometimes I would fan one of them, for the heat and also to keep away the flies, or play with them. I knew that some of the kids in that ward would die, but I guess I always kept a naive hope that the ones that I became close to would be among the supposed 60% who do survive.

I had become quite close to one girl, a 14 year old who had been sick for some time, recovered, and then relapsed. When I interviewed her, I asked her what was the biggest help she had received from the hospital, and she had said, "it's when they tell me not to lose hope. That maybe, one day I can be cured." Along those lines, I guess I also thought positively. I showed her photos from my travels, and she had said, "Every place is so beautiful. Except for Senegal." I had come to believe that this girl was getting better; I would ask her about her future plans, and which university she might want to attend, what country she might travel to. Before I left, I gave her a watercolor set and watercolor paper. This time, I had brought a stuffed toy as a gift.

I had been planning to ask her if I could interview her as an example of a more positive story of treatment that worked. When I asked the mother of the boy who had bone cancer about her, she said, "she's in very bad condition, suffering a lot; you should go visit." We made a phone call, to another patient who was at the hospital, and found out that this girl had died last Tuesday. I really wish I had gone to Senegal earlier--one week ago, and I would have at least seen her. 

Mission Impossible Completed!

I have always had terrible luck with housing, and in New York, one of the most expensive places for renters in the world, the experience has been horrific.

This time last year, I had moved 3 times in about one month--from I-House to Brooklyn, from Brooklyn back to upper west, and then to another place in upper west because the former had been infested with bed bugs. I've stayed around Harlem for the past year, and am ready to move farther down town, but the broker's fees make me cringe. New York City is one of the few places where renters pay the broker's fee, simply because there are too few good apartments. My brother will be paying about $550 for a studio in Philadelphia, near his school. A studio in Manhattan is around $1550. If you are lucky, you can find a studio for $1000, but there will usually be something wrong with it--like it doesn't have an oven, doesn't have a window, is in a dank basement, or doesn't have a bathroom (these are all examples of my experiences). And even then, there's a broker's fee on top.

Living with roommates will be somewhat cheaper--although still close to $1000 per room, unless you have more than 3 other roommates and one bathroom...or you're willing to be a "special type of roommate." In the past, I have had awful roommate experiences; not awful as in someone doesn't do the dishes, but awful as in one was a kleptomaniac and a pathological liar who got kicked out of our program, and another one was a heroin addict who got arrested for knife point robbery (who also might have stolen some of my items). Both of whom were from wealthy families and really did not need to be stealing anything from anyone (except maybe the drug addict since his parents had cut him off). Anyhow, the last experience really made me decide that I wanted to live alone. No more roommate drama.

I dreaded beginning the apartment search again--with talking to pushy (and sometimes rude) brokers, with searching online and weeding through the scams and spam postings, and with arranging appointments to view places. At least this time around I didn't have to meet random crazy roommates, like that old guy who had a wall of photos of all of the young women (he only rented to young women) who had ever lived with him, as well as a refrigerator taped full of R rated photos, or the hair dresser who spent 20 minutes complaining about how he had to break up with his girlfriend because she was a drug addict (and might come around the place looking for revenge).

This time however, I fell into a lucky spell, and succeeded on my second try. I had been looking at a studio in Brooklyn Heights, which was rented before I could visit it, and then came across a posting in Lincoln Square--for a little of $1,100! It's small, but good enough for my purposes, in a wonderful neighborhood, on the top floor, and it's rent controlled. No laundry or elevator in the building, but there is a laundromat next door, and I guess I'll just get good exercise. I called the broker multiple times, and didn't sleep well the night before because I was anxious about trying to reach the broker again in the morning. Sure enough, I kept calling, and finally he picked up. I booked his first appointment, and gathered my check book and all my materials (proof that I make more than 40 times the salary with pay stubs and letter of employment, last year's tax return forms) and ran downtown (since I'm at 125th, Lincoln Square is downtown for me even though it's technically upper west).

When I arrived, an older guy was already there, with his older girlfriend (or wife? It wasn't clear). He had gotten an appointment for 2 pm, but had decided to barge in on my appointment because, in his words, "if you want to get something in New York, you have to be aggressive." The broker let us both in to see it, and I said that I wanted it. He did too, of course. We both filled out an application, and the landlord would pick one of us. I was really upset--since he is older, I assumed he probably makes more money than I do, so the landlord would pick him. I ended up calling the broker, and shamelessly begging him to put in a good word for me--I basically said something along the lines of, "I always pay my rent on time, I'm really clean, quiet, and I try to help children with cancer for a living!" Shameless, I know...but I wanted my apartment search to be over so badly!

In the end, the broker said he pushed the landlord to pick me because it was my appointment time, and the other guy seemed "pushy." I'm so happy, that words cannot describe the elation that I feel. The best way to put it is to compare it with my dog, who gets so excited when we come home that she starts shaking and she kind of looks like she's having a seizure. If I were a dog, I would be having a joy seizure from signing that lease.

It's excellent timing too, since I am going to Senegal tonight, so I don't have to worry about it while I am there. This time, I will be filming for our advocacy project, doing follow up interviews, and meeting with government officials.