Cyclists rule!

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We know we are in Holland when the study table in our hotel room has a puncture repair kit in the drawer. Looking out of the window I see people riding their bikes with great abandon – simultaneously texting, chomping at an ice-cream, carrying a big bunch of flowers and chatting with a friend riding a bike in parallel. Pedestrians and automobiles are invisible to them. Bi-cycles go where they like, when they like. Anytime of day or night they shoot out of blind corners and come barging at us from all sides. Walking the cobbled streets as unsure visitor, we feel like an inconvenience to these bikers. I seriously envy them their security, their space and their freedom!

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A white van drives past us with ‘Authentic smaak’ emblazoned across the side in dark green. It brings amusement to our faces. Does this mean what we think it does? We guess it refers to one of the substances that Amsterdam is well known for. We later discover the innocent local meaning of ‘smaak’ is ‘taste’.

‘Dutch masters at the Hermitage‘ is an enlightening exhibition. We got up-close to some of Rembrandt’s great works. The portrait of an old jew from 1654 came out a clear winner in my eyes. The light on his hands and face, the fineness of the wrinkles, the stories hidden in them, the detail on the hands, the use of space, the aura of wisdom …

Our hotel lobby was dominated by a large portrait of a mother and child. Painter unknown. Dates unknown.

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It softened my heart. It spoke to me. It took me right back into the past. It made me sad in the most delightful way. It brought a tear to my eye and a smile to my lips. I didn’t need reminding that my very last holiday with Saagar, in April 2014 was to this very town, Amsterdam. He is with me, wherever I go. Our children never go too far away. They are in our DNA as much as we are in their’s.

 

 

Salute.

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A mother of a teenager in Molenbeek, a suburb of Brussels got this text message, “Congratulations,” it read. “Be proud of him. He is now a martyr. Be happy he died fighting the unbelievers.” Molenbeek is said to be the jihadist capital of Europe and has lost many of its young to radicalisation.

NATO bombs have been falling on migrant boats, night markets, residential buildings, motels, random vehicles, hospitals, wedding parties filled with innocent people like you and me, in the name of liberty and democracy, killing sons and daughters of many mothers.

Continuous shellings, massacres, occupations and sieges in places like Mosel, Raqqua, Aleppo, Ghouta and Gaza carry on for weeks, months, years and decades, claiming innumerable lives of children of mothers who mourn for the rest of their lives.

Some mothers have everything taken from them. They are unable to provide for the most basic needs of their children due to various reasons, one of them being the blockade to aid, such as the one in Yemen. Some have to exchange sexual favours for minimal aid. Some are forced to watch their kids starve. Some of the realities are unimaginable.

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(Source: War through Syrian eyes)

We all are on the same grid of heart-breaking, unconditional love. Today, on Mother’s day, I send my love to mothers all over the world. I salute their tenacity  and commitment. I admire their strength. I hope for peace  and wisdom for all. I honour their grace and grief. I pray for their healing. I stand with them, their pain and helplessness, their love and longing. Our empathy envelops this burning globe like a silk scarf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old people’s radio station

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During his holidays, Saagar and his friends would be subjected to Woman’s hour on BBC Radio 4 second hand, as their mothers listened. They would later have amusing/interesting discussions about breast feeding, female education and employment challenges. This station was pre-set on the car-radio and at home. It was designated as the ‘old people’s’ radio-station by him. Invariably, ‘Gardener’s question time’ would come on while we were in the car together, travelling over the weekend. It was quaint by its sheer irrelevance to us as we could barely keep our 4 nameless indoor plants alive.  Our urban pre-occupations meant we didn’t have a gardening vocabulary.

‘Just a minute’ was our all-time favourite – a panel of funny people asked to speak for one whole minute on a given topic without repetition, hesitation or deviation. The seemingly innocent topics often held great potential for hilarity, for example, billiards, the best thing about cats, how I spread a little happiness, keeping a straight face, my love of the absurd, garages and such. The correct and incorrect challenges posed by the panellists generated tremendous amount of laughter. Our attempts at giving each other topics resulted in great amusement.

On Thursday evening I was asked if I’d like to be a guest on Woman’s hour to talk about Saagar. It was unbelievable. It made me smile and cry at the same time. What a paradox! Of course I’d love to be on Woman’s hour. Under these circumstances? Meeting Jenni Murray was an honour. She was down to earth and professional, looking just as I imagined,  in her trademark glasses sitting just above the tip of her nose.I told her she had my dream job. She said Joan Baez had been in the studio the day before, sitting at the same chair as me. How cool! Oops! Saagar prohibited me from saying ‘cool’ as he thought it sounded all wrong coming from me. I wonder how he would feel about this interview if he knew. Maybe he does.

Despite making notes and preparing as well as I could, I was a bit flummoxed by some of the questions. I didn’t say everything I wanted to. I hope there will be other opportunities. This conversation must grow until everyone is a part of it in a meaningful and constructive way. In a way that saves lives.

A recording of the interview with brilliant and committed Mr Ged Flynn, the CEO of PAPYRUS and I:

Bedtime stories

All those decades ago when I was at school, bullies were visible. Their names were known. They were often big built and their demeanour, unpleasant. Girls could be bitchy, forming little clubs ousting this one or that one depending on how jealous they were of them. The playground was the scene for most unplayful activities. Lunch time was about much more than just lunch.

The only respite was that I knew when I left school I could leave it all behind and come home feeling safe. I wouldn’t have to deal with all that unpleasantness that went on at school.

Now, bullying happens over the electromagnetic waves all times of day and night, incessantly with no breaks. It can reach toilets and bedrooms. The instigators don’t have to have names or forms. They can be cowardly as hell and yet have the mean pleasure of bullying vulnerable people. The abusive messages are often un-erasable, making it possible for the victim to visit them repeatedly and being humiliated and traumatised over and over again. It is inescapable.

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In Arabic, ‘Sarahah’ means ‘honesty’. It is also a highly trending app for anonymous messaging, invented by Mr Towfiq (above) from Egypt. He says it was designed so people could have honest feedback on their strengths and weaknesses from their colleagues at work. But in the west it is the perfect platform for anonymous nastiness.

Here is some honest feedback on the App:

“The site is a breeding ground for hate.”

“I don’t recommend going on here unless you wish to be bullied.”

“Parents, don’t allow your kids to get this app,”

“This is an app breeding suicides.”

This powerful film entitled Bedtime stories by PAPYRUS emphasises the importance of keeping our children safe from online bullies.

Bad doctor!!!

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Despite check-lists, protocols and guidelines, mistakes happen. As long as human beings carry out jobs, mistakes will happen. To err is human. Safety is an outcome of a person’s attitudes and actions within a given environment. Both, the person and the environment have a strong impact on each other and the outcomes. The bad mood of one person affects the whole team. Similarly, a stressful milieu for any reason such as lack of time and resources has a direct impact on the performance of each person in it.

In my 19 years in the NHS, the working conditions and morale amongst the staff have gradually worsened.  When things go wrong, clinicians, being visible on the frontline are expected and often willing to take responsibility. Holes in the system and staff morale are hidden. Only on a closer look are they clearly seen.

I sit in a unique position where I work for the same organisation that is at least partly, if not fully responsible for the fact that my son is not in this world any more. Yet, I know and see many doctors and nurses work way beyond their call of duty. However, our very own GMC took the case of a paediatric registrar, Dr Bawa-Garba to the High Court, supposedly in the best interest of the public. She had looked after 6 year old Jack Adcock before he tragically died of severe sepsis under her care. Her Counsel summerised:

“The events leading to [Dr Barwa-Garba’s] conviction did not take place in isolation, but rather in combination with failings of other staff, including the nurses and consultants working in the CAU that day, and in the context of multiple systemic failures which were identified in a Trust investigation.”

Yet, the high court convicted her of ‘manslaughter by gross negligence’.

A blog by concerned UK paediatric consultants stated that:

“On this day: Dr Bawa-Garba did the work or three doctors including her own duties all day and in the afternoon the work of four doctors.
On this day: Neither Dr Bawa-Garba (due to crash bleep) nor the consultant (due to rosta) were able to attend morning handover, familiarise themselves with departmental patient load and plan the day’s work.
On this day: Dr Bawa-Garba, a trainee paediatrician, who had not undergone Trust induction, was looking after six wards, spanning  4 floors, undertaking paediatric input to surgical wards 10 and 11, giving advice to midwives and taking GP calls.
On this day: Even when the computer system was back on line, the results alerting system did not flag up abnormal results.
On this day: A patient who had shown a degree of clinical and metabolic recovery due to Dr Bawa-Garba’s entirely appropriate treatment of oxygen, fluids and antibiotics was given a dangerous blood pressure lowering medication (enalapril) which may have  precipitated an arrest.”

The case has now been put to the Court of Appeal.

So, whose fault is it? No handover, no induction, no senior support, temporary nursing staff, poor IT services, shortage of doctors … whose fault is it? Obviously the doctor’s. Why this huge disparity in the way in which hospital doctors are treated as opposed to the others? It’s not ok for the sickest of patients to die in a hospital whereas fit and healthy young men and women are allowed to die in the community with not an eye-brow raised.

Parity of esteem? Bollocks!

 

Act Three

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How do I keep alive?
Everyday smile and revive?

How do the pale shreds of my broken heart
Feed the rest of my decimated parts?

How am I able to see the light?
How do I keep up the fight?

How do I muffle the animal-like shrieks that
arise from the dark well of my chest all day long?
How do I carry on?

How does the Earth like a whirling-dervish go round and round?
Can it not hear my heart-rending sound?

How does the Sun go on beaming round the clock?
Does it not feel the massive shock?

How does Time trundle on?
While Saagar is forever gone?

How does the air in cycles turn to breath?
In and out, in and out, in and out to death?

This must not be me.
It must be Act Three.

The playwright’s script,
Dictating entry and exit.

The stage-set and the screenplay,
The pause and what actors do or say.
This must be the way.
I must be one amongst many in the play.

-SM.

(Resource: Spot the Signs)

It’s become a ‘thing’.

For a thousand days I wrote every day. It wasn’t a ‘thing’. That’s just what I did. I didn’t worry about who read it and why. It didn’t matter how good or bad it was. I just did it. Then I slowed down to writing roughly once a week.

Now, I think about writing. I talk about writing. I look up ‘writing’ on the internet. I consider on-line courses. I buy books on writing. I worry about writing well. I listen to podcasts of interviews with famous writers. I am on the lookout for writing tips in newspapers and magazines. I wonder what it must feel like to write properly every day. I envy those who can. What I do very little of, is write. I believe I repeat myself endlessly. I say the same things again and again. I forget things that are important. I hardly know any juicy big words. Why would anyone be interested in what I have to say? English is my second language and I can’t fully express myself in it anyway. My imagination is limited. I haven’t read enough books. I have no writing qualifications. Ms Confidence has evaporated and Mr Self Doubt has surreptitiously crept into her space in the vacant apartment of my psyche.

One ‘expert’ on you-tube suggested the way forward is to just write 3 full A4 sheets every day. She said,”… best not to think too much. Just put down on paper whatever comes to mind”. She called it a ‘brain dump’. She promised that over time it would start to make sense. It would become a story in your voice.

Maybe it’s time to go back to writing everyday. Maybe it’s time to start  my “big fat” book 🙂

PS: My favourite book on writing is ‘On Writing Well‘ by William Zinsser.