Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Learning to Heal: Suddenly, a medical student becomes a cancer patient - Seattle P-I
Greg Lipski exudes a quiet strength as he takes on leukemia
...
He thought little of it at first, until he started waking at night drenched in sweat, as though he were on a never-ending phantom climb. He started needing 10 hours of sleep plus two-hour naps to get through his days.
"I thought, maybe medical school is getting to me," he says. "Or maybe I'm getting old."
...
"Dear Class," he wrote in an e-mail to his fellow students. "It's tough to see your world turn upside down so fast. The perspective from this room makes sitting through T-wing lectures seem pretty good. Good luck spanking spring quarter and surviving through boards. Remember when you're bumming in that next boring lecture, that someone wishes they could be there."
He wished for that so much, he asked one of his doctors about continuing his classes.
"Don't even think about it," came the answer, news almost harder to take than hearing he had cancer. Lipski could feel everything he'd been working for skid out from under him as though he were in a slow wipeout on a slick road.
He sought a second opinion. A different doctor said he could try to keep up.
"I knew right then I would," he says. "It restored me to having a daily purpose."
...
Outside, in the waiting room, [his mohter] Masako Lipski twists a rolled-up information sheet on total body irradiation. Her short wavy black hair is slightly grayed. She has deep circles under her eyes. She already knows about radiation.
In 1945, Masako was on a ferry on her way to her seventh-grade classroom on the mainland in Hiroshima when she heard the air-raid sirens. She was excited. It was a beautiful day and that meant no school. The boat turned around. But when she got back to her yard, she saw a blue flash. Startled, she looked up. There was a noise. She searches for a word to describe it. Not like exploding, she says. Like a gong: Vaaahhhn. She raises her arms to show the noise expanding. And then the wind came.
"It was already warm," she says. "I thought, what is the wind for?"
People were running out of their houses, looking up at the sky.
"We'd never seen that kind of cloud."
News didn't reach her island for days about the devastation.
"I didn't suffer much," she says. "I just see other people suffer."
There will be three more days of radiation after today. She knows each day, her son will be progressively worse. He will retch without warning. He will start to waste before her eyes.
"The future is very unknown," she says. "It gives me fear."
...
In Lipski's case, he will emerge from the transplant with the immune system of an infant. His body will need to reprogram all its infection-fighting cells. Until that happens, he can't risk any undercooked meat. There will be no sushi or aged cheese.
"Or caviar," Lipski points out.
It also means a common flu virus could take him out.
The list of other instructions is long. Avoid large crowds and animals. Stay away from construction sites. (Machinery stirs up molds.) He will take cocktails of drugs.
"There's a whole world of things waiting to get you," he says.
...
Greg Lipski exudes a quiet strength as he takes on leukemia
...
He thought little of it at first, until he started waking at night drenched in sweat, as though he were on a never-ending phantom climb. He started needing 10 hours of sleep plus two-hour naps to get through his days.
"I thought, maybe medical school is getting to me," he says. "Or maybe I'm getting old."
...
"Dear Class," he wrote in an e-mail to his fellow students. "It's tough to see your world turn upside down so fast. The perspective from this room makes sitting through T-wing lectures seem pretty good. Good luck spanking spring quarter and surviving through boards. Remember when you're bumming in that next boring lecture, that someone wishes they could be there."
He wished for that so much, he asked one of his doctors about continuing his classes.
"Don't even think about it," came the answer, news almost harder to take than hearing he had cancer. Lipski could feel everything he'd been working for skid out from under him as though he were in a slow wipeout on a slick road.
He sought a second opinion. A different doctor said he could try to keep up.
"I knew right then I would," he says. "It restored me to having a daily purpose."
...
Outside, in the waiting room, [his mohter] Masako Lipski twists a rolled-up information sheet on total body irradiation. Her short wavy black hair is slightly grayed. She has deep circles under her eyes. She already knows about radiation.
In 1945, Masako was on a ferry on her way to her seventh-grade classroom on the mainland in Hiroshima when she heard the air-raid sirens. She was excited. It was a beautiful day and that meant no school. The boat turned around. But when she got back to her yard, she saw a blue flash. Startled, she looked up. There was a noise. She searches for a word to describe it. Not like exploding, she says. Like a gong: Vaaahhhn. She raises her arms to show the noise expanding. And then the wind came.
"It was already warm," she says. "I thought, what is the wind for?"
People were running out of their houses, looking up at the sky.
"We'd never seen that kind of cloud."
News didn't reach her island for days about the devastation.
"I didn't suffer much," she says. "I just see other people suffer."
There will be three more days of radiation after today. She knows each day, her son will be progressively worse. He will retch without warning. He will start to waste before her eyes.
"The future is very unknown," she says. "It gives me fear."
...
In Lipski's case, he will emerge from the transplant with the immune system of an infant. His body will need to reprogram all its infection-fighting cells. Until that happens, he can't risk any undercooked meat. There will be no sushi or aged cheese.
"Or caviar," Lipski points out.
It also means a common flu virus could take him out.
The list of other instructions is long. Avoid large crowds and animals. Stay away from construction sites. (Machinery stirs up molds.) He will take cocktails of drugs.
"There's a whole world of things waiting to get you," he says.
...
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Couple offers clearer view of blind horses - Seattle Times
When Juliane Hanley first saw the frightened young horse at an Enumclaw auction, it was obvious the filly was blind.
She titled her head in a funny way and kept running into the gate of a stall. "At one point, she ended up falling on her back. It was heartbreaking," said Hanley. And that was before the auctioneer said the horse wasn't worth the cost of grain to feed her and sold her to the "meat man" for $20, Hanley said.
As she sat in the bleachers and the auction wound to a close, Hanley, 31, couldn't stop thinking about the scared filly being led to a gruesome slaughter. She and other members of the Cowgirl Spirit Rescue Drill Team approached the meat man and bought the blind horse from him for $20.
...
Horses like Lena make a mental map of their environments, Smith said, and maneuver well if objects aren't moved on them. Others rely on a buddy horse they stay close to as they walk in a pasture or corral.
...
In all, Smith and Marker care for 20 blind horses at their Rolling Dog Ranch Animal Sanctuary. (You can meet most of them at www.blindhorses.org.) They include Madison and Bridger, an inseparable couple, according to Smith. ...
When Juliane Hanley first saw the frightened young horse at an Enumclaw auction, it was obvious the filly was blind.
She titled her head in a funny way and kept running into the gate of a stall. "At one point, she ended up falling on her back. It was heartbreaking," said Hanley. And that was before the auctioneer said the horse wasn't worth the cost of grain to feed her and sold her to the "meat man" for $20, Hanley said.
As she sat in the bleachers and the auction wound to a close, Hanley, 31, couldn't stop thinking about the scared filly being led to a gruesome slaughter. She and other members of the Cowgirl Spirit Rescue Drill Team approached the meat man and bought the blind horse from him for $20.
...
Horses like Lena make a mental map of their environments, Smith said, and maneuver well if objects aren't moved on them. Others rely on a buddy horse they stay close to as they walk in a pasture or corral.
...
In all, Smith and Marker care for 20 blind horses at their Rolling Dog Ranch Animal Sanctuary. (You can meet most of them at www.blindhorses.org.) They include Madison and Bridger, an inseparable couple, according to Smith. ...
Letter From Malawi: Amid Squalor, an Aid Army Marches to No Drum at All - N.Y. Times
... Seed is available, but without irrigation. Irrigation ditches are dug, but without fertilizer. Water, seed and fertilizer are donated, but the farmer is dying of AIDS. A healthy farmer raises a crop, but government grain policies make him sell his corn for a pittance. ...
... Seed is available, but without irrigation. Irrigation ditches are dug, but without fertilizer. Water, seed and fertilizer are donated, but the farmer is dying of AIDS. A healthy farmer raises a crop, but government grain policies make him sell his corn for a pittance. ...
On India's Roads, Cargo and a Deadly Passenger [AIDS] - N.Y. Times
... Venkaimah, a 25-year-old widow, is part of a "highway brothel" - a small moving coterie of women who work in bushes or fields or restaurants along the road. Her workday starts when the light is gone and the truck traffic heavy. She leaves her two daughters, 10 and 2, behind, and on a good night may get 8 to 10 customers who pay 50 cents to a dollar each.
...
In a courtyard, Venkateswarmma, a mother of two, as thin and brittle as a doll, sat on a cot, unable to move. Her husband, a brothel owner's son, had died 10 days before, infected after sleeping with its employees. She was near death herself, unable to walk for her husband's death ceremony. Her 2-year-old son had already died from AIDS; she would leave behind an 11-year-old boy. ...
... Venkaimah, a 25-year-old widow, is part of a "highway brothel" - a small moving coterie of women who work in bushes or fields or restaurants along the road. Her workday starts when the light is gone and the truck traffic heavy. She leaves her two daughters, 10 and 2, behind, and on a good night may get 8 to 10 customers who pay 50 cents to a dollar each.
...
In a courtyard, Venkateswarmma, a mother of two, as thin and brittle as a doll, sat on a cot, unable to move. Her husband, a brothel owner's son, had died 10 days before, infected after sleeping with its employees. She was near death herself, unable to walk for her husband's death ceremony. Her 2-year-old son had already died from AIDS; she would leave behind an 11-year-old boy. ...
Seattle is a hub for luring teens into lives of prostitution - Seattle P-I
The Seattle that Alisha knows is not a city of social liberalism or glittering scenery. For her, it is just a series of worn-out highways where men will happily pay a 15-year-old for sex.
The Seattle that Alisha knows is not a city of social liberalism or glittering scenery. For her, it is just a series of worn-out highways where men will happily pay a 15-year-old for sex.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Pakistani bankrolls earthquake recovery - L.A. Times
Ihsan Khan returned to Pakistan with his lottery millions and is leading his quake-ravaged hometown.
...
Khan's is an unlikely international tale of abject poverty turned to fantastic riches. Leaving Batagram for the U.S. penniless in 1977, he returned two decades later as one of the wealthiest men in Pakistan.
For years, the slightly built Khan, who worked as a cabbie in Washington, D.C., had regularly played the lottery.
He sometimes slept in his cab, but Khan never gave up hope. ...
Then the incredible happened: In November 2001, the immigrant won a $55.2 million jackpot. He opted for a lump-sum prize payout and posed for photos with an oversized check for $32,499,939.24.
...
Just days before the earthquake, Khan was elected district nazim, or mayor, of Batagram. After the quake hit, he helped pull survivors from the rubble, and paid to get the most seriously injured to regional hospitals. He told pharmacists he would pay them later for dispensing all the medicine on their shelves. The bill came to 10 million rupees, almost $200,000.
Khan has bankrolled a program to supply roofing materials to rebuild shattered homes. He bought 150 tents, some of which occupy land just outside his mansion with breathtaking views of snowcapped peaks.
Most important, Khan has emerged as a colorful and outspoken critic of local government corruption.
...
"That day, I saw some bodies piled on the ground, people crying out and dying," he says. He found one small boy hooked up to an IV machine. A doctor had chalked an X on the youth's bare chest to designate that he was not expected to live unless he was taken to a hospital two hours away.
Khan grabbed a woman with a car. He took out his wallet. "Take this boy, please, I'll pay you," he told her. The woman agreed. But the lottery winner-turned-public servant learned that money cannot buy everything. The boy died minutes later.
"I can see that boy now," an emotional Khan says. "His face is something I will never forget."
...
Ihsan Khan returned to Pakistan with his lottery millions and is leading his quake-ravaged hometown.
...
Khan's is an unlikely international tale of abject poverty turned to fantastic riches. Leaving Batagram for the U.S. penniless in 1977, he returned two decades later as one of the wealthiest men in Pakistan.
For years, the slightly built Khan, who worked as a cabbie in Washington, D.C., had regularly played the lottery.
He sometimes slept in his cab, but Khan never gave up hope. ...
Then the incredible happened: In November 2001, the immigrant won a $55.2 million jackpot. He opted for a lump-sum prize payout and posed for photos with an oversized check for $32,499,939.24.
...
Just days before the earthquake, Khan was elected district nazim, or mayor, of Batagram. After the quake hit, he helped pull survivors from the rubble, and paid to get the most seriously injured to regional hospitals. He told pharmacists he would pay them later for dispensing all the medicine on their shelves. The bill came to 10 million rupees, almost $200,000.
Khan has bankrolled a program to supply roofing materials to rebuild shattered homes. He bought 150 tents, some of which occupy land just outside his mansion with breathtaking views of snowcapped peaks.
Most important, Khan has emerged as a colorful and outspoken critic of local government corruption.
...
"That day, I saw some bodies piled on the ground, people crying out and dying," he says. He found one small boy hooked up to an IV machine. A doctor had chalked an X on the youth's bare chest to designate that he was not expected to live unless he was taken to a hospital two hours away.
Khan grabbed a woman with a car. He took out his wallet. "Take this boy, please, I'll pay you," he told her. The woman agreed. But the lottery winner-turned-public servant learned that money cannot buy everything. The boy died minutes later.
"I can see that boy now," an emotional Khan says. "His face is something I will never forget."
...
What's best for Baby M? - Seattle Times
This is the story of one couple and their daughter, Baby M.
... Life had been particularly hard, they told Marrs. They had lost everything in a house fire. Then Mike took a three-story fall off a balcony. Unemployed and facing $50,000 in hospital bills, Liz and Mike ended up homeless. Mike even attempted suicide.
Liz already had three children from a previous marriage. Although she had recently sent her 6-year-old son to live with his grown siblings in California, she had never run afoul of CPS. I'm a good mother, she told Marrs.
But it was an easy call for CPS.
Show up in court, Marrs told Liz and Mike, and make your case to the judge. Until then, the baby can't leave the hospital. ...
This is the story of one couple and their daughter, Baby M.
... Life had been particularly hard, they told Marrs. They had lost everything in a house fire. Then Mike took a three-story fall off a balcony. Unemployed and facing $50,000 in hospital bills, Liz and Mike ended up homeless. Mike even attempted suicide.
Liz already had three children from a previous marriage. Although she had recently sent her 6-year-old son to live with his grown siblings in California, she had never run afoul of CPS. I'm a good mother, she told Marrs.
But it was an easy call for CPS.
Show up in court, Marrs told Liz and Mike, and make your case to the judge. Until then, the baby can't leave the hospital. ...
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