Ghana celebrates World Diabetes Day!Have you hugged a diabetic today?

In honor of World Diabetes Day today, I'd like to ask you... have you hugged a diabetic today? Whether they have type 1 or a type 2 (or something in between), are pre-diabetic, have gestational diabetes or LADA or MODY or whatever... let's show all of the people we care about a little compassion, sympathy, understanding and love, today and every day.

And in special recognition of a brave young soul, our sweet girl Alexandra, who has thus endured thousands of shots and finger sticks since her diagnosis with type 1 diabetes little more than a year ago (1 year, 4 months and 20 days, if you're counting) I'd like to share this letter with you, and maybe you'll share something with us in return...

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Open Letter to Our Friends

Those of you who know me well know that I am one of those people who, as a child, was always in search and support of a good cause… I trick-or-treated for Unicef, raised money for “Jerry’s Kids” with Muscular Dystrophy by knocking on doors, walked 20 miles with Christine or Josie for a pledge of 10 cents a mile in support of the March of Dimes. As I grew older, I did my bit with United Way and Salvation Army, too. It seemed there was always some needy kid who I was compelled to help or research group to be funded. There was always a cure on the horizon for lots of horrific diseases and disabilities.

But I did that without any real personal involvement. I didn’t know any of those kids. I was sympathetic to their plight. But I had no had no real feeling for what they endured.

Now, I have a new cause. And this one I embrace with all my heart and soul and every single fiber of my being, because it affects my youngest child. Some of you may not know this, but a little more than a year ago, our daughter, Alexandra who was 7 years old at the time, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, or what used to be called juvenile diabetes.

Now, I didn’t know anything about diabetes. I knew Mary Tyler Moore had it, but couldn’t figure why it was called “juvenile” diabetes – certainly she was no juvenile. I knew diabetes had to do with sugar and sweet stuff, but I didn’t know anything else.

Boy, what a difference a year makes.

I’ve learned that type 1 diabetes is an auto-immune disease; that a person’s body basically attacks itself – in this case, the pancreas – and that nothing a person did or didn’t do could have prevented it. No one knows why some people get it and others not. The pancreas no longer produces insulin, a hormone needed to convert the sugar and carbohydrates you eat into energy.

Without insulin, plainly speaking, Alexandra will die. But insulin – as wonderful as it is – is not a cure.

The only cure is a cure.

But there is hope on the horizon, and it takes the form of Dr. Denise Faustman of Massachusetts General Hospital. Dr. Faustman has actually cured type 1 diabetes in lab mice, with an FDA-approved drug that is already on the market. The problem is, because the drug is already on the market and widely available, there’s just no financial incentive for the pharmaceutical companies to embrace Dr. Faustman’s efforts.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say it’s something I’ve researched, and I am more than hopeful that within my daughter’s lifetime there will be a cure.

But the cure won’t come without funding. The Lee Iacocca Foundation has contributed $10 million to jumpstart the human trials, and money is trickling in through grassroots organizations such as one I’m happy to be a small part of – Help Cure Childhood Diabetes.

So, if you’ve stuck with me this far and you knew me as a child, you know where I’m going with this… please help. Your donation toward research for a cure would be appreciated more than you can ever know. This link will take you to Alexandra’s web page and from there you can link to the donation page at Massachusetts General Hospital.

And if you just can’t make a donation right now – times are tough here, too, I understand – I’d appreciate your prayers instead.

With thanks from the bottom of our hearts…

Barbara and Sylvester

Where in the world are you?

Ya know, basically I'm a nosy person. I'm easily intrigued, my curiosity gets piqued and I just have to know. I'm not one of those people who are obsessed with wrapped packages, though, so don't get me wrong... that would be my sister. But, I'm just mildly interested in learning where you're from? You see that little ClustrMap to your right, there? Yeah, that's it. Did you ever click on it just to see what happens? Where it goes? There are a lot of dots on it, from all over the world, it looks like (though my geography sucks, probably only 1/4 of all the countries in the world are represented).

But, I'm curious, and I want to know you better. So, don't be shy, leave me a comment and just say where you're from. I promise I won't write and ask for money or anything and I won't sell your email address to some online marketer, it's just that I'm so happy to have friends from all over the world, that I want to know where in the world you are. Kind of like Carmen Sandiego, but in reverse, ya know?

So, please, leave a comment if you will, and you can do it anonymously. If you've got a blog, let me know. I'm always curious to read what life is like outside of the jungle. ;-)

Summer Titbits (sic)

As a sometimes writer/editor, I know that in the uptight, too politically correct land that I know and love, we stuffy Americans prefer to call it “tidbits” – publicly eschewing any reference to tits as somewhat crass. But when in Rome (or in Ghana), you’ve got to do as the Romans (or Ghanaians) do… so, this posting is all about our summer “titbits.” It’s a potpourri (pronounced pot pouree here, by the way, at least by one television sports journalist who shall remain nameless because I can’t remember his name) or a compendium of our goings on (or not, as it often were) here in Ghana over the past two months. And while I’m on the subject of spellings and pronouncements, I just can’t allow this one to get away… “As Kwame Nkrumah put it so succinky…” Yes, this was the tag phrase on a commercial for a popular African television show, Africa Today, as uttered by the beautiful television show hostess having the African equivalent of a blond moment.

Moving on….

The kids were on summer vacation from mid-July through just yesterday (and hopefully that will go a long way to explaining my absence from this blog). Ah, sweet relief and blessed silence. For the most part, it has been a long, hot, somewhat uneventful summer. But there have been instances and days of emotionally charged activity. For example:

Our Day

The last official day of school is “Our Day” and meant for one thing and one thing only: Fun. Unlike last year (b-oring!), this year’s Our Day celebration had trampolines, balloon bounces, face painting, horseback riding and lots and lots of food. Sean chose not to go – he is 14 after all – but Mike and Alex had no intention of letting this day pass them by. They took full advantage of having Mommy (and her purse) who was on standby holding onto Alex’s diabetes kit. Mommy made sure she was prepared, too, with a fully charged phone battery, 5 GHC in top up phone credit, her Nintendo DS lite, a good book and a Diet Coke.

You might be wondering where Mike was in all of this… did I mention that there was lots and lots of food on Our Day? He could be found hovering (perhaps hoovering is the better choice) near the kebob and sausage seller on the other side of the school, only a few feet away from the Lucky Dip seller. Now, Lucky Dip, for those of you not in Ghana, is a game of random draw. You pay your money to the lady, reach into the bag and pull out a scrap of paper on which is your prize. Michael was desperate for an iPod, which was why he spent a small fortune in Lucky Dip attempts. At the end of the day, all he had to show for it was half a dozen rulers, some erasers, a string of Pepsodent toothpaste in disposable pouches and a bottle of Frytol cooking oil. Total cost of attempts (don’t tell my husband): approximately 20 GHC. Total value of goods: approximately 5 GHC. I am thinking about signing Mike up for Gambler’s Anonymous because the warning signs are all there. I’m also thinking of never returning to New Jersey. Note to self: Research which state does not have legalized gambling?

Score one for Mom

One of my pet peeves is incorrect pricing. No, I’m not talking about obroni pricing; I’m talking about overcharging at the register simply because the “computer” reads differently than the sign. I’ve argued over lots and lots of things – even kite string in MaxMart – who ever heard of 10 GHC for kite string! Ridiculous.

Unfortunately, I’m usually the loser in the fight. I often forget this is not America. But, occasionally, I win.

Case in point: A trip to Evergreen supermarket and a purchase of a can of Dr. Pepper soda. The register says 1.60 GHC. But, the sign says .90 GHC… see?

After a quick glance at my cell phone camera, an even briefer chuckle by the cashier and a lengthy dash to the manager, I got three cans of Dr. Pepper for .90 GHC each. Ha!

Thanksgiving

My husband’s sister who lives in Maryland has been battling colon cancer for the past year and has undergone surgery and chemo with (knock wood) very good results. Early in the summer, she and another sister came home to Ghana after Paulina had been given the okay from her doctor. It’s natural, then, for her to thank God for his mercy and, in the traditional Ghanaian way, a Thanksgiving service was arranged. Paulina had requested that we attend the mass, all of us dressed in the same special fabric. Now, some of you may be aware of this already, but I don’t do church. None of us in this branch of the family “do” church. But we planned to go and so we all dressed in the special cloth; kaba and slit for Alex and me, and dress shirts for the guys.

I have to admit, I’m not really a fan of everyone dressing alike, but the fabric was really beautiful and of the best quality you can buy in Ghana. The kaba and slit outfit that was made for me, on the other hand, was, um, interesting. Our tailor, Kofi, came over and took the measurements, and he had very explicit instructions from Sylvester not to make anything too small; Sly believes that Kofi, our quite small in stature tailor, suffers from some strange complex, because truly, everything he sews is too tight. Anyhoo, the day before the event the clothes come to the house and we all try them on. Everything fits as it should. Except that’s not necessarily a good thing; the kaba and slit fit me like a glove and I can hardly move about in it. Interestingly, inside my very tight skirt and top is a 5” inseam of surplus fabric. I point that out to Sylvester and he makes a very astute observation which I will relay to you here, but not before I apologize in advance for offending anyone – sorry, if you’re offended – he says that the reason they do that is because typical Ghanaian women only get bigger, never smaller. And in this way, when they’ve grown from a size 10 to 14 to 18, 20 and 22, there’s no need to have new clothes made – you simply have your inseam let out. Oh, and before you think my husband’s observation is in jest, just let me tell you that all of his 6 sisters, with the exception of Paulina are, um, pretty sturdy Ghanaian women.

After the Thanksgiving celebration we all went back to the family house for a while. It was a good time to meet up with Paulina’s sons whom we hadn’t seen in a while. The younger of the two, Bob, brought his girlfriend – didn’t catch her name at all and not sure she’s still in the picture anyway, but that’s another story. Actually, that’s the point of this story. You know Alex, my often too-friendly, gregarious, sometimes charming daughter? Well, unbeknownst to any of us that day, Alex caused a little brouhaha. It seems she was chatting with Bob and nameless, and Bob was teasing her about something. Alex doesn’t respond well to teasing, so in defense mode, she teases back. What happened here is that they were teasing her and Alex told nameless that she shouldn’t marry Bob because he was a witch.

Here’s where the story doesn’t end. “Witch” has entirely different connotations in Ghana than it does in America (at least this particular century in America – I read the history books). Anyway, when I call someone a witch, I mean that they are being difficult to deal with. Alex is often called a witch (alright, I admit I call her worse than that under my breath sometimes) and so that is what she understands. In Ghana, calling someone a witch is tantamount to calling someone Hitler or Osama Bin Laden or Satan, himself. It just isn’t done in polite company. Nameless took great offense on Bob’s behalf and brought the topic up to Paulina after we’d left.

The next day, Sly was summoned for a family meeting to discuss Alex. I was not invited, and I’m just as glad I wasn’t. I would have taken great offense on Alex’s behalf. I don’t know what exactly was said, but Sly did call me for confirmation and I said it was quite possible she called someone a witch. I also pointed out to him that Alex’s definition of “witch” is not a juju person, but one who is troublesome. I also pointed out that Alex is 8 years old.

Alex now knows not to call anyone a witch, except me. This is a picture of the witch, er, I mean Alex, stirring up her fire.

Akosombo Revisited

We also went to Akosombo for two days just to swim, fish and relax. The boys wanted to take a paddle boat out to the middle of the river to fish from there. They built up their leg muscles but caught nothing. We noticed that the hotel had a couple of new creatures in their mini zoo. See if you can spot the lizard.

While we were there, we bought 10 GHC worth of amazingly fresh caught shrimp to take home, which I had the pleasure of cleaning. And then the distinct pleasure of eating. All 120 pieces of shrimp (eat your heart out, it was delicious!). While there were a couple of little guys, the majority of them were at least as big as the one Alex is (grudgingly) holding.

Teshie International Airport

As far as I know, Ghana has only a single international airport. Haven’t found this one yet, but there is a free urinal for anyone interested.

The Pirate’s Life for Me

Sometimes, when you’re bored, you just need to get out of the house and enjoy a little Vitamin D and the great outdoors. And that’s just what Mike did. Except he didn’t get farther than our yard but he was well prepared: Pirate hat (check), pure water sachet (check), cell phone (check), Nickelodeon magazine (check).

Queen Sheila

Around the corner from us is Queen Sheila, a local drinking spot with cheap beer, cold minerals (soda), loud music and great spicy kebobs and sausages. There’s not much to it, nothing at all fancy – plastic tables and chairs, dead plants in broken planters, ripped canopy overhead and flapping in the breeze. But, boy, what a breeze. Reason enough to head over there for a quick Star beer.

The Gutter Ball

There is a single bowling alley in all of Ghana, and I’ve been dying to go to it for many years. But, I’ve come to the realization that dying is not all its cracked up to be, and neither is bowling. We all trooped over to Harbin Entertainment Center one fine Sunday morning, everyone with a clean pair of socks at the ready to go bowling. My friend Leslie had been there a few months ago and she really enjoyed it, as she said in her blog post. I guess I didn’t read her blog post too closely though – got caught up in the great pictures – because I’d have noticed that she said something about how expensive bowling is in Ghana. I vaguely remember reading 8 GHC but not the specifics. Let me tell you, it’s all about the specifics. We get to the bowling alley and there are a dozen lanes all unoccupied. The Chinese guy behind the counter wants to take down our names for the computer because it’s all computerized. Cool. Sly (thank God for Sly) asks the guy, “So how much are the games?” And the Chinese guy says 8 GHC. Each. “So,” I say, “excuse me, don’t you mean for each game?” And he says, “No, each person is 8 GHC for each game.” Now, I’m not a math whiz, but I can tally up 4 people at 8 GHC pretty quickly to get my answer: NO WAY IN HELL!

I really felt bad – the kids so wanted to bowl, and poor Mike had to hand back the shoes (he already had his sneakers off even), but I just could not justify 32 GHC for a single game of bowling. I even argued that the internet “said” it was per game, but he said no they’d changed that. No wonder there was no one bowling. No one can afford it! I’ve bowled at Madison Square Garden and it was less money than that.

So we headed out the door, with three very sorry kids in tow. Then, out of nowhere, Mike spots flashing lights and hears bells. He goes to investigate. Ta da! A game room! Just like in America! Well, not really, but enough to hold their attention for a while and distract them from the pain of not being able to bowl. Sly breaks a 10 GHC note and gives each of the kids the special coins to play. Sean heads straight to the driving game, Mike is shooting hoops and Alex is on one of those dancing thingamajigs.

I walk over to the other side where there are some casino-type one-armed bandits. Only these have funnier names than the boring old Lucky 7s machines; how about Crazy Monkye (sic) and Lucky Haunter (Hunter? I didn’t see a ghost or a gun anywhere, but there were some guys drinking beer and wearing lederhosen on the front)? I’d have thrown a coin or two in just to test my luck (yes, Mike gets the gambling bug from me, I’ll fess up here) but it was minimum bet $10. If I wasn’t going to pay GHC 8 for bowling, there’s no way I’m going to fork over $10 for a single bet. If I want to bet I’m going to La Palm where the one-armed bandits take American dimes and the maximum bet is ninety cents!

So, after playing in the games section for nearly an hour, the kids blew at least 32 GHC, but they didn’t complain when we left that it wasn’t enough. They were satisfied and happy, and that’s enough for me.