St. Patty's Day

Monday, March 17th

We had to get up early because I need to prepare Benny for his IOM appointment that we had this morning.  We were told to be there at 9,and marched up the hill to ait at around 8:45.  We kind of checked in, but were told that we had no need to.  We waited and waited and waited.  People were getting called two and three times, before we had been seen once, and we were firs ton the list from the Friday before.  I finally got up and asked if there was something else we were supposed to do because it had been 2 hours already, and had not been called once.  She said we would check, and we were called around 20 minutes later.  I am not sure what happened, but she called us back and took Benny Michael’s vitals, and then she took us straight to back to slip in between people to have his TB read. 

And I had not noticed before, but he had a mark on his arm, and the edge of the circle they had drawn, 7 cm wide.  Ugh.  My heart dropped.  I started texting Fr. Michael to see if he had the BCG vaccine when he was a baby.  I went to the CDC website to check the norms on tuberculosis readings.  If a child has a BCG vaccine, then the skin test will come back as slightly raised and bumpy like his – almost like a ring worm circle, and it stays under 10 cms.  OK, so the size is good, and it is not a hug bubble, or seeping or nasty like active TB would have read. 

So now how do I get the proof, right here and now that he actually had the BCG, considering his medical records were never turned over to me from the previous hospitals that treated him?  Father Michael made a mad dash to town, and took a photo of his medical card and emailed it to me.  I showed it to the doctor, and he believed me, but sad that it was up to the Embassy.  I requested a chest x-ray to prove that he did not have TB, but the very kind doctor told me that the Embassy needed to request the x-ray.  My heart sank.  This could push coming home back several more weeks. 

In fact, once the Embassy gets the IOM paperwork, they could demand a chest x-ray and another blood panel, and a round of antibiotics, and then they would wait 1 week after the antibiotics were done, to do another blood panel, and make sure that he was cleared.  I was so concerned.  And then I wondered, should I trust the reading and assume it is from his BCG?  What happens if he has early onset TB?  Then I could get it, or my kids, or our friends?  I need to get him checked out separately from this, maybe back at the Wentz clinic or at the British hospital, the Surgery, so we could get on something right away if need be.  I could go in and ask for a chest x-ray for him, and a blood test.  If it comes back positive, then he gets meds, and I start some just in case.  Simple enough.  I guess.  I prayed to St. Patrick, that he settle my heart and mind and show me what I need to do.

During the interview with the Doctor, he suddenly got kind of emotional while he was asking me all sorts of questions. 

“So you have no idea if his seizures will continue the rest of his life?” 

Uhm, no, we do not know.  His pediatrician said that children grow out of this type of seizures around 6 or 7, but we won’t know until then. 

“And what about his asthma, do you think it is seasonal?” 

Well, we were told that when he has malaria or seasonal colds, then he has asthma attacks.  I brought a mini nebulizer with me and an inhaler, chamber and mask, with me just in case he needed one.  

“So you are very prepared?” 

Well, I try to be, we have known of his existence for so long now, I just kind of knew of things that would help me if he got sick. 

“And do you think that he cannot talk because he is, well, mentally deficient?” 

Uhm, I have no idea.  I have been reading a bunch that say this is typical of an institutionalized child.  I have read a bunch that says the therapy we will need is extensive.  He does try and he is learning little things every day, so I cannot be too sure.  Either way, we are preparing for whatever lies ahead.  

“So you have known all of this, this whole time, and knew he could not talk yet, and you still want him?” 

Well, we started the adoption process long before we really gave any thought to adopting Michael in particular.  But when I saw him last November, and saw how he was living, and the fact that he would never succeed in Uganda without being able to communicate, my husband and I decided to try and bring him to the US, where we could get him therapy, and help communicating, and schooling that would not be available to him here.  We could give him a permanent family instead of people who are in and out of his life, someone to depend on, forever.  “Well…(kind of teary eyed) It always impresses me, when parents from the US, come here, and take these children who are injured, or ill or handicapped, and they are so willing to bring them to the US and help them.  I do wish you good luck, and I can make no promises about how long it will take you to get home, but if you need anything, you can come find me here.” 

I thanked him repeatedly, and reassured him that we would do whatever it takes to get Michael communicating and learning and functioning within a family setting once we returned.  It was amazing and emotionally rewarding to here that, in a setting that has been kind of hostile during the last week or so.  I attributed his response to St. Patrick casting a little ray of sunshine on this rainy, gray day.

I always loved St. Patrick’s Day.  Growing up, it was a huge celebration with my extended family.  Grandma would stand up and sing Irish songs from her childhood, my mom would make a feast, and there were enough Bailey’s and Creams to go around, green face paint and green Mardi Gras beads.

When we were living in the Bay Area, without extended family, it meant a huge Irish meal, and Notre Dame tee shirts, and green hair bows and crazy socks, and all of our teachers saying, “Of course you are Irish, look at the blond wavy hair, freckles, and pale complexion.”  Actually we were more German than Irish, but we soaked up the attention when we could.  The Moseman Family grew up in Long Island, and the massive celebration and devotion to St. Patrick came along with their red hair and freckles.

For me, really though, St. Patrick’s Day was a time to watch Grandma Eileen shine.  She would be so tickled that everyone wanted to hear her sing.  Even when Alzheimer’s had taken most of her short term memory, and the twinkle from her eye, she could still sit in her chair and belt out most of the song.  The pieces that she forgot could be filled in by my cousin Katie, who could mirror her voice singing that song perfectly.

Grandma was one of those souls that loved deeply.  She would write to my grandfather when he was away during World War II and in Korea.  When he was living in New York looking for work, and she was in California with her and her children (10 all together), she would write long loving letters about her strife, her love, her fears, her travails, her loneliness, her need for him.  She never let people feel lonely, and she never let them leave empty handed.  And what can she give, when she was so low on funds?  Food.

Even though times were hard for her and her 10 children, she took in every other neighborhood child.  Imagine if each child had a friend or two over – 20+ children would be sitting or standing around her kitchen table.    Oh goodness, the stories they tell today of what they did and got away with as children growing up in California in the 60s and 70s.  

If it was not around the kitchen table that Grandma would show her love, it would be with the wedding cakes that she made for people.  Her beautiful hand-made cakes were the talk of the town.  How many people growing up around my mom and aunts and uncles had their wedding cakes or elaborate birthday cakes made by my Grandmother?  And her grandchildren loved when Grandma was done making the wedding cakes, because that meant that there would be bowls of different colored icings on the kitchen counters.  When we came over for a visit and needed a snack, she would make us rainbow colored graham crackers, or put icing on saltines when we were sick.

As we grew up, we would be force fed.  We would be over eating dinner, and when we would finish, Grandma would say, “Allison, how about some applesauce?  Let me give you some applesauce.  Allison, eat the applesauce, you barely ate anything.”  When people would leave, she would offer them cans of food, “Maybe you will get hungry at home, just take the can of tuna fish.”  She used to run down the drive way with a food item, or a coupon or a piece of newspaper with an article that we might want.  “Wait, Allison, here is a coupon for $.25 off of baby powder.  You might need this.” 

When she could no longer chase after us, she would stand at the door and wave, and flicker the front porch lights on and off.  A silent tribute that said, “I love you, I am watching you, come back and see me.”  I remember the last time she did this, we were pulling out, heading to my moms, and getting ready to head back to Alabama.  I stopped at the corner, and saw the lights blinking in the rear view mirror, and stopped and stared and thought, “This very well could be the last time that I see those lights,” and it kind of broke my heart, that I was in such a rush to get home, and that I could not enjoy her for a few more minutes.

Grandma loved to do things for us.  She would go to the Dollar Store and to garage sales and by whatever Pop would let her.  Little statues, odd purses, weird cheesy artwork, plaques with plastic fish wearing santa hats that sang Christmas carols.  Once I could drive, she would beg me to take her out of the house and to the Tuesday morning store or to the Dollar Store or to somewhere that she had 30+ coupons to.  “Let’s walk to Walgreens, I have all of these coupons for mouth wash and toothpaste.”

Oh, Grandma and her coupons and the newspaper.  She would sit and diligently cut coupons out and place them in a hanging organizer that looked like a shoe holder that hung on the door.  On each compartment, there was the name of one of her children and every time she would find the name of one of her children in an article, she would cut that out too.  Uncle Michael might walk in and look in his compartment, looking for stray mail, and there might be 5 slips of paper that said, “Michael Johnson.” 

How she loved her children.  Anything that she could do for them, she would.  She raised all 10 of them in a tiny house that originally had only 4 very small bedrooms – there were bunk beds and children everywhere.  They shared 1 full bathroom, with another very small bathroom off of the back of the kitchen I think.  In fact, there was not a child that did not move back in for a period of time after or during college.  The kids renovated the back bedroom and put a really nice bathroom in the back, but Grandma and Pop never moved from their tiny bedroom in the front of the house to the large master bedroom in the back – that was for her children, or her guests. In fact, when my parents moved us from the Bay Area back to Sacramento, all of the 5 girls lived in the back bedroom, 1 set of bunk beds and 3 twin beds.  Oh the trouble we would get into being in there together. But they never seemed to mind, and always sacrificed for others and brought joy to the people around them.

When Pop had to stop driving, they would walk the neighborhoods, and then the neighbor’s children became their children.  They would walk miles, and wave to everyone, and stop and talk to people, and pray for people along their journeys.  She was never upset, never sad, she would smile and bring joy to everyone she met.  And the walks would help her memory, and the people on her path became the people of her past.  She would call neighbors by her children’s names, small child by the names of her grandchildren.  They understood, and they did not care.  And if one day, the neighbors did not see my grandparents, they would worry and call my mom and ask if everything was alright.

I wish I could have been around during the young glory days of the Johnson kids.  I kind of do not need to though, I see a huge portion of my Grandma in my mom.  I had friends in high school who liked my mom more than her own, and not because my mom let them get away with everything, but because we got away with NOTHING.  She was always there, always close, always enforcing her rules about grades, dress, work, chores.  Even when the last child, my brother Joey, is away his friends still come and see my mom, and she cooks for them or bakes for them – huge trays of magic bars, and cookies, cinnamon rolls and crumb cake.  The people that she baby sits for become her extended family, their children, like her grandchildren.  They cry when they have to leave her, and love on her when they are there.

So I guess that St. Patrick’s Day left me prayerful and introspective than celebratory.  Since I could not plan a party for my children and their friends like I normally would (for awesome kids like the Romero family or with the O’Grady family) I prayed for their protection, their crazy busy lives as military families and their strength to lead strong Catholic lives. 

I looked for a place in town that would have something close to St. Patrick’s Day party or celebration.  I called the only pub that I could find on the internet, and they were an English pub and none too keen on hosting a St. Patrick’s Day party.  Everyone else I talked to had no idea who St. Patrick was.  In fact, there are not a whole lot of catechized Catholics in Kampala.  Their faith here is lived daily, with few devotions outside of what they here or learn about at Mass or through traditions, like the Feast of the martyrs, St. Charles Lwanga and his companions. 

The village children wear tiny miraculous metals on brown cord around their necks from the time that they are very young.  In fact, during my first few days with Benny Michael, I showed him one that I had, loose in a bag of metals.  He picked it up and slammed it against my neck a few times.  I took it as a sign that he wanted me to wear it, so I took that one and a 4 Way Cross and tied them on a brown string around my neck. He likes to grab it and play with it when he is trying to fall asleep.  When people see my necklace in the Capital, they comment and ask which village I am from.

I promised Benny that he would have a wonderful St. Patrick’s Day meal when we got home, so I could spoil everyone with my mom’s awesome recipes and we settled for a fruit salad for dinner, and Benny got a banana smoothie. And we called it a night early, having really struggled to stay awake after having gotten up so early with the IOM.  I prayed one final time to St. Patrick for his intercession regarding the path that I should take regarding Benny’s TB results, and I would ask them same from everyone that I know.

Notes from my prayer journal: St. Patrick chose to be a missionary to the land that brought him pain and separation from his family.  Let me serve a one while I am here, trudging through my spiritual and emotional desert.  Help me to focus on bringing joy to the people that I meet, and set an example of love and charity to those in need.

“No one will be able to stand up against you all of the days of your life.  As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you or forsake you.”

-          Joshua 1:5

Soundtrack song of the day –   Evening, Band of Horses

Consecration to Jesus through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Mary’s Retreat, Day 3, Day 26

The Novena to the Divine Mercy, Day 8 & The Novena to St. Joseph, Day 8

See the Complete Lorica - (St. Patrick's Breastplate)

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of cherubim,
In the obedience of angels,
In the service of archangels,
In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In the predictions of prophets,
In the preaching of apostles,
In the faith of confessors,
In the innocence of holy virgins,
In the deeds of righteous men.

I arise today, through
The strength of heaven,
The light of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendor of fire,
The speed of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of the sea,
The stability of the earth,
The firmness of rock.

I arise today, through
God's strength to pilot me,
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptation of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and near.

I summon today
All these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel and merciless power
that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul;
Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me an abundance of reward.

Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.