Power tripping

Wondering where I've been? Let me just say (before I start rolling with my next diatribe) that I am the type of person who doesn't talk (or write) just to fill up an uncomfortable silence. There really wasn't anything that I hadn't already said. :D

But today, today is different. I'm still a little ticked off from the experience we had yesterday at the U.S. Embassy in Accra. Up until a few years ago, the Embassy was located in an ugly little building within a tiny run down compound in Osu R.E.; there was no air conditioning, no waiting room, an abundance of supercilious security personnel and the usual bureaucratic inefficiency.

Well, it's different now. The U.S. Embassy is now located in Cantonments, in a big ugly building (or as my friend Leanne calls it, "U.S. penitentiary in Accra) on a huge compound with cold, conditioned air, and a fairly large waiting room. There's even a working television broadcasting VOA. That's the good news. Unfortunately, there remains an abundance (even more so, now) of supercilious, arrogant security personnel who apparently are contagious to the point that even the groundskeepers have serious attitudinal issues.

We needed to do the passport renewal thing, me and Mike, and as a minor, it is a requirement that both parents be present to "swear an oath" so poor Sly had to take time off from work to come with us. Naturally, Alexandra had to tag along for the ride (not that I could have or would have let her stay home alone, nor would she have permitted it). Hours for consulate related activities for American citizens are 8:30 am to 12:30 pm. Now, I was familiar with how it used to be at the old embassy, so I made sure that we got there at 7:30. There was already a long, long line of Ghanaians waiting to enter the consulate for their visa appointments. We whipped out our American passports and showed them to the security guard at the front. With hardly a glance, he responded simply, "8:30," and turned his back on us.

We walked away a little and huddled. Should we go to the car? Find a place to sit? What? And do we come back and have to stand in that line? Sly suggested I go over and ask the other security guard, the one who was guarding the entrance door. So, I walked along the cordon (you didn't think I'd be able to get that close, did ya) and yelled out to him, "Excuse me!" He glanced my way, frowned and gesticulated that I should see the other guard (the one who couldn't be bothered from before). I shouted out, "I only want to know do we have to wait in that line at 8:30 or should we just go to the front?" Again, he pointed at the other guard. "No, I don't want to see him, he couldn't be bothered with me... I just want to know where do we go at 8:30? Do we have to wait in that line?" Finally, finally... "No line. Just come to this door." Seven friggin words. Could he spare 'em?

Our van is parked around the corner and down a bit. The building is surrounded by an ocean of grass, and I begin to tromp across it to get to our van. A groundskeeper is yelling at us to get off the grass. A couple of things crossed my brain just then: 1) Had he never heard of the Pythagorean theorem? (which I actually yelled out, much to Sly's chagrin -- and, in retrospect, he's a groundskeeper, of course he hadn't heard of the Pythagorean theorem); 2) there were no "Keep Off the Grass" signs anywhere; 3) How hard would it be to put a couple of paving stones from the building to the street; and 4) It.Is.Only.Freaking.Grass (and pretty pathetic looking grass, at that)!!!

So 8:20 arrives (I am anal about punctuality -- that' s the American in me, I guess) and we're at the entrance door; there are a group of Ghanaians in front of us, all bearing American passports. He let's them in and signs to us that we should wait (cannot figure out this no-talking rule of his -- maybe he's aspiring to become a Queen's Guard!). After a few minutes, he opens the door and waves (!) us in.

Here's where it gets fun... we sign in, indicate we have no phones on us and walk through the metal detector. Sly and I get to put our jacket and bag on the x-ray machine. My bag sets off all kinds of concerns. Despite the signage that says no phones or cameras, now, all electronic stuff is banned inside the consulate. So into a little pouch go the Nintendo DS consoles I brought for the kids, as well as Mike's MP4 player. My bag goes for another ride through the x-ray machine.

"Madam, you have a pen drive in your bag." Um, no, I don't. I do have Alexandra's glucose meter and insulin pens, but other than that, nothing electronic. I pull out her glucose kit and show him. He shakes his head, "that cannot go into the consulate" he says. I say, "it has to go, I don't know how long I will be in there (understatement of the year!) and I have to be able to check her blood sugar if she feels low." He refuses, and tells me I need to put it in the pouch.

Momma bear's hackles are up at this point. "No," I insist, "I want to speak with your supervisor." Eyebrows raise here, but that's my right (as is bringing Alexandra's glucose kit into the Embassy itself). A few minutes later and I'm talking to Carol, an American who claims she is familiar with type 1 diabetes and knows that the meter is important, but she's got to defend the stance on the electronic ban so she'll have someone come and "inspect it." I was really ready to whip out the Americans with Disabilities Act, if necessary... I mean, an Embassy is American soil isn't it?

We're directed to sit and wait, though one guard tells Sly he should proceed and Sly basically scoffed at him and sat down. Truth be told, I had expected Sly to suggest I give them the meter (he's really not big on confrontation in situations like this), so I was very (happily) surprised when he backed me 100%.

A few minutes later, another Ghanaian security agent comes through the door -- I'm pretty sure he's in charge, because everyone hops to attention and yells out, "Good morning, sir" to this guy. The security agent at the desk, in a local tongue, must be telling him about the "machine" and how it "measures sugar pressure." I assume this means Alex's glucose meter.

I indicate that it is for Alexandra, and he wants her to use it so he can see. No problem, she does this nearly a dozen times a day so what's another, even for an audience. Everyone is watching. She does her thing in about 10 seconds and the meter reads a 9.7 mmol (not good, but she did just eat granola and apparently the insulin hadn't kicked in yet). Even though he sees what the meter is for, he still has to ask, "Do you really need to bring this in?" (Can you picture me rolling my eyes -- well, I didn't -- but, oh, how I wanted to!) I can't even imagine what would happen if Alex were on an insulin pump.

I relinquished Alex's juice boxes to the pouch (no liquid inside, either -- I wasn't gonna argue), and once inside the consulate it was a relatively smooth process, in air conditioned bliss. And within an hour we were on our way home.

Ghanaians are generally the most pleasant, helpful, friendly people you'd ever want to meet. What's the saying? "Absolute power corrupts absolutely?" Yeah. Yeah, it really does. But here's the thing -- I can board a plane (of course, only once I've dealt with the ineptitude and attitude of the Kotoka Airport security agents over the same glucose meter and insulin) and fly to America. And those Ghanaian embassy guys, can't.

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. ;-)