Pope Francis taking us back to the core of our humanity

Pope Francis (L) caresses a sick person in Saint Peter’s Square at the end of his General Audience in Vatican City, 06 November 2013.
Photo courtesy of Washington Post

A man of faith

I watched with billions of others in 2005 as Pope John Paul II slowly departed this mortal coil, frail, infirm, a body so weak, but a spirit so strong doing the service he was called to minister to the faithful.

In his death throes, we wondered about how great a man was about to depart having left deep footprints in the sands of time, difficult to obliterate from our memories because his advent changed the world.

In July that year, I visited Rome for the first time as a birthday gift to a friend and as we queued to enter the Sistine Chapel, we were really in another queue that filed past the tomb of this amazing and great man of God.

A church so solemn

I am a Protestant, school in the High-Church Anglican faith, baptised at 9-years old and confirmed at 16. I took new religion of the Evangelical to Pentecostal kind at 18 and was baptised again, this time by full immersion at 21 but the Catholic Church has always held some fascination.

In 2008, I visited Fatima in Portugal, I watched the solemnity, the stillness, the reverences, the religiousness, the humility and the awesomeness, maybe I should have taken more away from that experience before cancer struck a year later.

Churches serving as sepulchres and places of worship depict an eternity of the circle of life and death that defines our humanity. The Catholic Church is one long continuous documentation of human history, the longest existent human religious and political institution; it is significant even if many ignore it.

A church astray

Today, there are many strands of Christianity, people rising with a gospel and a teaching gathering the wild sheep of people strewn all over the world to tents of great performance and pageantry. Many other religions too bring adherents to temples and synagogues imposing conditions, some easy, some difficult; all to lay hold on some peace on earth and possibly the promise of something in the Great Beyond.

In all this, the simply message of our common humanity is lost, the pain we share, the suffering that is the story of many. The plenty that the rich avariciously aggrandise to themselves stepping on the heads on anything or anyone to fill their vaults with much more without restraint, yet, like a flower we all bloom and then wither away.

For all the riches in this world cannot yet buy immortality, the best we can get is longevity in life, providence willing and being favourable towards us.

Compassion is the message

Back to the Catholic Church, we have a new Pope, his name is Pope Francis, and he is taking us back to where the church the belongs, to where religion serves humanity, to where humility is what draws the hearts of men to a truth that is irresistible, to where compassion is the open door to everyone, and it is a good thing.

Princess Diana with one handshake in 1989 dealt a blow to the stigma of HIV/AIDS, Pope Francis is dealing bigger blows, calling us to service as Good Samaritans, lifting our humanity to the pinnacle of existence above all beliefs, race, sexuality, condition, situation and whatever part of our diversity the unconscionable exploit for gain.

Good Samaritan humanity

In embracing, kissing and blessing a much-disfigured man, the Pope retells the gospel in the letter, the spirit and the acts of Jesus Christ when he walked the streets of Jerusalem and the Galilee, comforting and healing the sick, ministering love and compassion, with unconditional access.

No other story can be told than to see the story the picture tells. We must see, reach, touch, embrace – that is Good Samaritan humanity regardless of what you believe in.

Read the story and see the pictures – here.

No pluses for the weather

Cold it was

It must be the cold and I am not yet used to it, more so, I must avoid the dreadful effects of it as in pneumonia or influenza, I just cannot afford to submit my body to the ructions of those ravages.

In a week that was 3 nights in Berlin and another 3 in London, I basically spent the last 2 in bed trying hard not to succumb but beginning to vegetate as I do when I am beginning to feel ill.

A chesty cough that tugged violently at whatever held my lungs to their predefined locations, it was not looking good at all. I was slowing down in everything and could not bring myself to see food with any excitement at all.

Black tea with honey seemed to soothe my throat and began to work on the discomfort but I felt best just curled up in bed waiting for that time that I could return home.

Home is my fortress

I had to return home in any case, I had only taken pills for 7 nights and needed to get to hospital to give blood for tests in preparation for my quarterly medical consultation to see how I was doing.

I got to the airport quite early but the walk to gate 22 at London Heathrow was literally interminable they were making the last call when I finally got to the gate and then someone offered to give me a wheelchair ride to the plane.

This is after 3 carts had seen me trundle to the gate with the speed of a tortoise trying to imitate a slow snail; I could not be bothered anymore.

I finally got to my window seat as we were told our flight would be delayed an hour before take-off, I tried to relax and hope for sleep. Sleep suspends for a while the discomforts of illness whilst the body recuperates in some ways or deteriorates as I first noticed as I woke up to shingles lesions in June 2009.

Not delightful

Just as we approached Schiphol, I had such a violent coughing bout, I was literally sick over myself and could only get so much into a sick-bag, there was no time to feel embarrassed, I was just sick as a dog and unwell.

Thinking of warm custard I got home and just collapsed into bed with a spittoon nearby because things had really gotten that bad and for the whole day I have spent most of the time horizontal.

I wonder if it is a sign of recuperation that there are unfinished plates of food, a salad and some rice; none too appealing after a few spoons – the food is however necessary for my pills and the cough is subsiding as I got some daily use cough mixture at the airport chemist.

I still need to get to hospital braving the cold in the process but I believe I am on the up and should be very fine very soon.

Now, I need to get some serious Christmas sunshine, somewhere old or somewhere new?

Avoiding suddenness

Abrupt triggers

Apparently, what I triggered on Wednesday has not fully abated, the trigger being the removal of my pain management patch.

The re-introduction of pain management has reduced the salivation considerably but the nuisance lingers, but worst still is the diarrhoea and stomach pains which have had a very adverse effect on my appetite.

It would appear every change in my medication would have to follow a gradual reduction rather than some shock treatment that hopes on the preponderance mind over body and matter.

Work or will?

On Friday, the welfare office called to determine whether I am ready for work or still ill; I am ready for work but have nowhere near the strength to enter into full employment, the fact is the discontinuance of chemotherapy does not present the immediacy of full recuperation.

I have to patiently learn to adjust myself to a gradual assimilation into a workplace rather than jumping in with both feet.

To test that situation, I visited some ex-colleagues on Friday from late afternoon till closing, they had sent me a get well card at hospital when two of my closest ex-colleagues visited even though I had left the employ of that company for a year.

18 months after, I did look quite trim and fit to many who saw me along with the stories I had to tell about my experiences, I was there for just over 3 hours but it took a bit out of me.

Out and back again

The Friday was also the monthly get-together of staff for drinks and snacks; after chatting a while with my ex-boss, I needed a long sit down, I was so pleased when I was offered a lift back home, I wondered if I would have been able to make it back if I had to run the gauntlet of public transport.

Today, I got up early for the 1st service at church, I got there just in time but had the runs and great discomfort throughout the service and all the way back home on the bus and tram.

It settled down a bit as the evening came and I took advice concerning the letter that arrived from the welfare office that suggested I apply for sick benefits in the meanwhile.

In any case, whenever a job turns up, I am ready to get back to work, I might need to chat to my doctor about supplements and advice for post-chemotherapy recovery and helping to recover and boost ones immune system after all the treatment I have had.

Looking forward to the next week, the kitchen timer just went off, better get that before it becomes ashes to ashes.

Off and back on the pain patch

Managing the pain regulator

At my last meeting with the oncologist we decided I could begin to wean myself off pain regulation managed by the Fentanyl patch that trans-dermally seeped 25 micrograms of active agent through my skin every hour.

The week before, my treatment superintendent had suggested the best way to half the dosage was cut the patch in half before removing the seal, I had gotten used to having the patch work well beyond the 72 hour dosage time.

Or rather, I did not have any perceptible pain beyond the 72 hour patch wearing recommendation and probably that meant there were no indications of pain as I planned to discontinue the usage of the patch.

Coming off the patch

On Wednesday evening, I peeled off the patch and decided the pain management was over, some 36 hours after, I have had to reconsider that decision.

In addition to pain management, it would appear the patch with the attendant side effects was managing a few other things that gave me a lot of comfort that I think I have lost making me seriously uncomfortable.

It started with a chronic sickly salivation, I was producing so much saliva that I was spitting out quantities bordering on arrested nausea not manifesting as emesis.

The patch generally has a side effect of constipation whilst my general medication has dysentery to boot, at one time I had to take something to handle the constipation but my physiology had adjusted for normal bowel movement.

Without the patch, I suddenly had the runs accompanied with severe abdominal ache which last about 10 minutes allowing for bowel evacuation which seemed to dislodge the discomfort.

Back on the patch

In any case, I was very uncomfortable and sad to discover that the pain management probably masked other issues that would show up on discontinuance.

It would appear I have to be more gradual in withdrawing the pain medication to the point of the current half-dosage that I have for beyond the 72 hour range and then down to a quarter and hopefully with the adequate adjustment I can go off it completely.

I am not in any particular pain per se, but at the same time, I am willing to tolerate any pain like what I suffered for months even when dosed up on morphine and its derivatives, I also need to manage the discomfort because it helps to keep a fresh and comfortable state of mind.

So, the patch is back on the fatty but lean parts of my stomach wall and pain management is just a case of managing oneself off the need for medication much more gradually than a macho act of mind acting over matter and hoping for the best.

No Gloria in Emesis

Warning: To be read only by those with a strong disposition, it is full of talk of emesis, sickliness, vomit and puking.

Tired out completely

It was a hard slug getting home on Monday evening; I think I had tired myself out after chemotherapy, the long walks and the visit to the library.

A few chills had set in as I trundled to the tram stop just in time to catch the tram going home. I was homing for bed and not long after a snack, I was under the duvet and ready for sleep.

I was out for just over 2 hours and got up for my elevenses, well, I take my pills twice a day, though only one set has to be taken every 12 hours, there are 5 sets of pills, the other 4 are taken daily and I have split them into the morning set and the night set.

This regime is easier than when I first left hospital with pills to take 6 times, 4, times, 3 times, 2 times and once a day – it called on all your powers of organisation to sort out.

Then there is the emetic suppository to be taken as needed, an anti-constipation powder to be mixed in water and taken for the Fentanyl pain patch that gets changed every 72 hours.

Puking all the time

This was the first time that my chemotherapy session and pain patch change coincided and this probably lead to the sickly feeling I had throughout Tuesday.

Just before my first elevenses, I was feeling quite nauseous so I went over the toilet bowl and threw up violently but nothing of substance came through, the feeling continued all day, I could hardly eat and really could ingest no medicines in that condition – I took the anti-emetic suppository hoping it would alleviate the situation but it seemed like a long shot, I was on the verge of calling the hospital.

During one of the 5 times that I was sick, I was in the middle of a telephone conversation literally answering back between each puking session, it was an absolutely rotten feeling.

Neighbours bring strength

I settled back in bed and more or less spent the day lain down and hoping for some improvement – afterwards, I found that my neighbours had returned from holiday, we had a chat and as usual they were there to help and the first thing I could keep down was some bouillon they made for me.

I gained a little strength to do some shopping, had some fruit and when it came to my nightly elevenses, I took the anti-emetic medication which also comes in tablet form along with my main medicine and the suppository.

What a day, glad it is over, thanking God for His mercies and looking forward to another day – it is white outside – it has been snowing again after the complete clear-up on Monday.

Seeing hospital meals again

Scoffing at utility

It might be congenital but that is looking for excuses, my mother when she was in Europe in the 1960s scoffed at the idea of the specialisation of chiropody but God knows today that having a chiropodist look at my feet would be of greater succouring benefit than a mother mopping her sick child’s brow.

And so, did one not a time scoff at the idea of being a dietician viewing it from the perspective of those weight loss diets or regimes that seem to plasticine-mould you into body beautiful that Michelangelo’s Mona Lisa or David would jump out of their eternal states of paint and sculpt in mortal envy.

The glories of hospital food

You learn, I had a visit from the hospital dietician the other day because it appeared I was not eating enough of my food.

The food choices are to reach the goal of either more energy or more bulk, that is where the sophistication ends, she did agree that hospital food was hardly haute cuisine, well, if you thought Michelin and hospital food, it would not be about stars but probably the chewiness of rubber in their tyres, OK, maybe that is a bit extreme.

No voice in choice

Anyway for all the integration that might be required of immigrants, losing your indigenous cuisine is probably the very last thing you will ever give up. There is a world of difference between Dutch cuisine and Yoruba food from the South-West of Nigeria, even so, there is enough of a difference between English and Dutch cuisines, and I seem to prefer those to the Dutch.

The presentation is a collage of dull colours that would hardly rival masterpieces of art out a kindergarten class, finger-painting and all.

A vulture pause will do

So we built round these courses of palatable disregard but not before I was reminded of the nursery that literally forbade eating between meals, these become lessons of life well learnt from childhood only to be debunked by professionals.

So Hiliare Belloc penned this rhyme for children and whoever had this at school was definitely scarred for breaching that rule.

The Vulture eats between his meals. // And that's the reason why. // He very, very rarely feels. // As well as you and I.

His eye is dull, his head is bald, // His neck is growing thinner. // Oh! what a lesson for us all // To only eat at dinner!

And you wonder why what is a coffee break should really be aptly named a Vulture Pause; nursery rhymes could be so unforgiving and graphic.

So, it is cornflakes rather than breads for breakfast, fruit salads in between and high-energy milk shakes for lates.

Sick as a dog

Now what I cannot understand is why over 6 hours ago I felt nauseated but the manifestation of seeing my food again took that long and by the time I finished this blog, I had been sick thrice already. Don't worry, I am sick-bag trained, no mess.

Is there a dietician in the house?

The Big Sickening Hoax

All for new donors

Well, what can one say? It transpired that The Big Sickening Show (de Grote Donor Show) was a hoax after all, or was it?

The show did take place the only difference the horribly expected and what occurred was that the supposed terminally ill kidney donor was just an actress and the kidney patients were in on the act.

It would appear there was a studio audience of the unshockable who participated in this charade before they learnt that not much of this was reality as pseudo-reality.

Interviews with the producer of the show indicated that 12,000 prospective organ donors had applied for a donor card - the net gain of this event is that they brought a serious issue to public awareness and this is a positive.

Some have already rationalised saying that the non-appearance of the so-called terminally ill donor means no harm was done - in fact, Endemol promised never to cross the limits of acceptable decency by making such a show.

It was a bad kite

It still leaves me unimpressed, hoax or not, there was intent and a possible attempt to completely outrage public decency - they flew a kite (they assessed reaction by being suggestive) and what is to say if there was not such uproar from sections of the public and politicians, that reality would not have been visited upon our screens?

In my book, the end just does not justify the means and in this case, if the intention was to bring more awareness to the organ donor issue, other ways of doing this might have been involved and difficult, but this shock tactic method is beyond the pale and patently unacceptable.

As an almost "vibrant" democracy, the freedom of expression is upheld and protected, but if we give the impression that there are no bounds of decency and sensibility in the exercise of this freedom, what great surprises would we be preparing ourselves for in the near future?

I can assure you, this is not the last we would hear of another edition of The Big Sickening Show genre. But if this is the evolution reality television; to stimulate debate by threatening unethical, reprehensible, atrocious and morally bankrupt human depictions on television, we have arrived a new stage of human de-civilisation and it is as far from nirvana as the East is from the West.

The Big Sickening Show

Big Brother don't bother

When I first saw Big Brother and the rave accompanying it many years ago, I felt we could not plumb any further the depths of depravity, I was wrong.

Big Brother has excelled exceedingly in scraping the dregs of all that is humanly and socially despicable, deplorable and disdainful.

Only last week, Channel 4 in the UK and implicitly the producers of Big Brother - Endemol - which has a Dutch progeny were upbraided for making "serious editorial misjudgements compounded by a serious failure of their compliance process".

This was in relation to the Celebrity Big Brother 2007 show where racist bullying by poorly educated celebrity dunces was aired as they laid into a more sophisticated and successful ethnic minority contestant.

There is no doubt that the producers allowed the rotten behaviour dressed as controversy to continue, they also allowed it to thrive despite the fact that people were losing lives in India because of the events on the show - it was amazingly free publicity and wanton ignominy that could not be paid for or garnered by any other means, they cynically exploited it to the extent that their sponsors cringed and pulled out of the show.

Inspired of mendicancy

Now, the makers of this rotten tat genre have descended into a bottomless pit that digs deeper than the misery of hell, nothing can be as desperate as begging to notoriety far beneath the most unacceptable cause or whim.

The new reality fare has three contestants vying for the healthy kidney of a terminally ill cancer patient. I cannot begin to think of how this format would involve the public in phone-ins and voting - So, nastily named that it translates from Dutch into The Big Donor Show .

The "O" in Show is the shape of a kidney, these people are sick and they make me violently, regurgitatively and retchingly sick beyond respite, they are too obviously certifiable.

Suffice it to say the producers have rationalised this event and stated that this would highlight issues with organ shortage, organ donations and the needy recipients, but this can also be handled in a series of documentaries on the matter. O! Really?

This is NOT Liberal

The Dutch are known for being liberal, but I would be darned if this fits into any definition of liberal and not a less appealing depraved bastardisation of humanity.

Unfortunately, the outrage to this affront to all that is good and decent gives undeserved oxygen and priceless publicity to a programme which might go ahead in the name of free speech, scheduled for this Friday.

It is left to be seen if the contestants will be wheeled on stage on gurneys all laden with intravenous medication from the four posters as the dialysis machines hum with terrifying distraction in the background just as the cancer patient writhing in pain, half-sedated on morphine plays eternal benefactor of a life restoring miracle - a badly needed kidney.

The fallout without responsibility

Then what counselling or consolation would desperate and O so desperate patients receive from the disappointment of losing out and the winner finding out that there is no type match as some unscrupulous doctor is paid to perform the transplant probably for another spin-off show?

If during the show, the terminally ill patient dies, who assumes the Power of Attorney to make the donor choice or would that have been written in a will thus giving the impression of a pre-determined winner?

This opens up too many issues of ethical, moral, social, psychological and legal import, but the quest for publicity and notoriety has probably subsumed this wholesomely important matter.

This all makes for entertainment ever so gross, but the fact is; there is a public who will be entertained and titillated by their quest for material to sate their interminable voyeuristic lusts. No one however, to take responsibility afterwards for psychological and emotional fallout as patient and donor experience how life ends in humans suffering from incurable diseases.

Before long, it would be childless women vying for donor eggs or who handles the pain of labour best before asking for an epidural, maybe some puppy-eyed kids vying for adoptive parents, or imagine the Big Heart Gift - it just does not bear consideration - if this show gets through and gets aired; the human race would have gone too far down the lane of degenerative evolution; apes would probably be more principled in their approach to social issues in their primate communities.

It must be stopped forthwith without any mitigating circumstances whatsoever.

Methinks, this protest is futile.