Long time visitor, first time patient

So I had a laparoscopic myomectomy the other day. After a couple years of suffering, it was determined by my doctor that the best idea would be to remove an orange-sized fibroid from the lining of my uterus – an “intramural” fibroid.

I was told it would be minimally invasive and that recovery could mean out of the office for two weeks, which did not sound minimal. I was also told I’d go under general anesthesia. I would go all the way under: intubated and on a respirator. This of course was the primary source of my anxiety in the lead up to the operation. I did watch every single episode of ER.

On the day of, in the hospital room with Hayden and my mom (how very very odd for both me and my mom to have the tables turned), I grilled the anesthesiologist, Dr. Chen.

“So, I’m going all the way under?” “I’ve never had anesthesia before. I’m worried about waking up.” “How do you know I’ll wake up?” “What are the risks? “Yes, I understand I could get xy and z, but what are the risks that I won’t wake up?”

She stared at me blankly and then perhaps with a tinge of annoyance. They gave me a lovely shot of some sort of “pam” drug. I instantly recognized it as a drug related to my beloved Xanax. I said, “great, yes, let’s take the edge off. Oh, this is like Xanax.”

“How do you know what Xanax is?” she asked.

I said, because I used it sometimes when I fly in crazy places like Sudan. I don’t remember leaving the room, but apparently I made Hayden kiss me twice and I said to Hayden and my mom, “later bitches.” I do remember the operating room. The last thing I remember saying to the anesthesiologist was, “What do you mean, you don’t know who Bono is?!”

I woke up in serious discomfort and very very VERY grumpy. I would snap at the nurse and then apologize and then snap again. All while feeling super drugged. Hayden and my mom were giving me some details – apparently everything went well, no need for a blood transfusion, there are pictures (wtf?!), I can go home…

I can go home? That seemed odd to me as I fought the nurse for my clothes.  Why was it taking her so long to help me get dressed and why the hell did she put ice and a straw in my cup of water? Just give me the damned water woman! Upon hindsight, that might have been a bit brusque.

The recovery has been more or less ok. I’m taking it pretty slow. Other than bloating and some minor twinges of pain, I don’t seem to have any complications one week out. My four “keyhole” incisions are looking good. God, I hope they don’t scar too badly.

My surgeon, Dr. Robinson, will be pleased that my Burma trip has been postponed indefinitely. I was planning to head out next Wednesday, which admittedly now would seem a bit premature. He did tell me he currently has friends traveling there. I told him they could check in on me.

He looked at me like I was batshit cray cray.

Are you a lion or a kitten?

I led my first training since coming to IFES on women's leadership and advocacy for our women's network in Abidjan, Ivory Coast. It was exhausting but great to do something concrete that I think was also useful for the women.

The biggest barrier, besides the usual anxiety about whether or not a training will go well, was the wee fact that I do not speak French. When I made this announcement in the first minute of the training, there was a collective sigh and minor protests that did nothing to allay my anxiety.

Nonetheless we powered through. We started with some basics on gender equality and women's empowerment and it was clear many of the women were quite knowledgeable. When we rolled our sleeves up and got into the nitty gritty of women's empowerment, things got interesting.

My favorite moment of the training came midway through the first day when we did an exercise called, "What is your expertise?" The idea is that women tend to underestimate their strengths out of humility, but this can be counterproductive. As a woman, it is important to know what you are good at so that you can use your strengths to be better at your work. I asked the women to write down on a piece of paper one or two things that they thought were their strengths and then tape them up on the wall in front of the room. The second step was to choose someone else's expertise, read it and explain why it appealed to you. This would also help the women validate and reinforce the importance of each women's skill.

As if on cue, there were protests and many many questions about the exercise. I could see women gazing around sheepishly around the room while tentatively, furtively writing down a few words. I saw several women fold the paper and then fold it again and again until it became a tiny ball. With lots of questions and hesitation, I finally got the women to put up their strengths and choose someone else's strength to read aloud.

As they were reading the skills, I put up a picture of a kitten looking into the mirror and its reflection showed a lion. I asked them women what they thought about this picture. Again, I couldn't have cued it any better. There was an onslaught of protests. "If that kitten goes around thinking he's a lion, he's going to get EATEN!!"

We all burst out laughing, but then I reminded them that there's another way to look at it. Sure, boasting and bragging can get us into trouble. But so too can underestimating our strengths and skills. It was a great moment and meeting of the minds. I think it set me up to earn their trust for the rest of the training.

Paris Blitz

This was my third 24 hour trip to Paris. As is easy to do with Paris, I came up with a game plan for my solo visit. I picked a decent 3 star hotel that would be walking distance to most major attractions - Hotel de Vaneau St. Germain in the 7th district. I decided to go to Musee d'Orsay, because I had never been and because I wanted to do something cultural before succumbing to the shopping. The museum was as described - amazing and full of famous works. My favorites were all of Toulouse La Trec's works the Whistler painting of the old woman in the rocker and the Renoir collection - I think I prefer Renoir to Monet - this I just found out.

Right before I arrived, I checked facebook and saw that a very good friend from Uganda, Sarah, was in town. This was an even bigger deal, because she lives in Australia. We met for a long lovely lunch near the Museum. It was great to catch up, drink some wine and for a moment have a partner in Paris.

At Sarah's suggestions, I headed over to Rue du Passy for some shopping. I was able to get a few French tailored items without breaking the bank. I snapped a few shots of the Eiffel Tour just as it was lit up -- never gets old to gaze at that amazing structure.

Exhausted, I headed for dinner near my hotel. It was recommended on Trip Advisor - Midi Vins, but it was a disappointment. The atmosphere was nice and it was jam packed with locals, but the food was meh.

In the morning I thought about running to Le Grande Epicerie, the food hall of the great La Bon Marche, which wasn't too far away. But I was just too tired. Instead I grabbed a croissant and a coffee at the place on the corner. As people walked by with fresh baguettes tucked under their arms, my mouth and brain struggled to comprehend the amazing light crispy pastry I was imbibing. Ah Paris, even briefly, you never disappoint!

Abidjan un peu

Well, I made it to West Africa. It was nice to compare and contract with East Africa, although I tried to be one of those annoying development workers who spends the whole time talking about their frame of reference country (i.e., Uganda). My first observation is that the food is great. Ivorians are into spicy. At lunch one day, I asked the woman sitting next to me if I could have a tiny bit of her mound of habanero. I took about a 1/4 of tsp and mixed it into my fish dish. She took the mound, about a tablespoon, and mixed it in. I started eating and it was delicious and then I sputtered and coughed. And then to my mortification, I sneezed. Oy! At least I got the table laughing..at me.

As I have a serious African fabric addiction, I noted that there are two places that produce the famous fabric on the continent: DRC and Ivory Coast. Yet, I managed to resist the urge to buy new stuff. This did not stop me from practically drooled as women strolled by, dressed to the 9s, tailored to perfection in patterns and colors I had never seen before.

The infrastructure in Abidjan was impressive, especially considering the recent violent and bloody conflict. There were nice big highways with overpasses and under passes. A newly renovated university. Water that is treated ad apparently safe to drink, although I did not test that theory. And yes I did compare Abidjan to Kampala and Abidjan puts Kampala to shame!

I got to spend time with Jeanne, of course. Her estate is similar to her last one: palatial and cavernous (unpack, JB, unpack!) It was always a blast to have Jeanne host me and a few of her new colleagues, not least to watch the scales fall from their eyes as she mixed intriguing cocktails (and by intriguing, I mean toxic). Nothing like a ginger champagne mixed with a gooey "liquor" from Kinshasa. While dancing to Akon this made sense. The next day, not so much.

My one complaint was the weather. On the one hand it was lovely to feel the heat of the African sun. It is so much stronger and I could just feel the vitamin D rushing into my body. I didn't get to the much celebrated beach in my short time there. But despite it's promise, it would be hard for me to ever live in Abidjan, because of the very hot and very humid inner city heat - like DC in August. My hair is still not speaking to me! Despite liberal applications of my finest hair schlack, I had to keep in tightly wound in a bun almost the whole time. But for a week, in the middle of the winter doldrums, this work jaunt was worth it.

Ghost of L'Enfant

Charles de Gaule airport sucks. I say this not to compare it say on a scale of 1 to Juba airport bad. I say this in an opposite-of-a-Hertz-ad kinda way. Even if you go like a business pro, you will inevitably be slowed by delinked terminals, long long LONG walks down narrow walk ways under construction with signs that have arrows pointing down to mean "walk on" and on and on. I will now ease up on Dulles' Mad Max vehicles.

I asked a person today where to go to check my bag once I got my boarding pass and she said, "oh, you are in the wrong terminal." I refused to believe her and asked another person, who pointed me down a long long LONG walkway but at least it was in the same terminal. And why do they need to check boarding pass and passport as you are going through security? I don't mean to enter security. They do that too, but as you're trying to remove belts, shoes, etc, you also have to use a third arm and hand it over. Sigh.

The fun part of CDG is trying to change terminals or even sub terminals. Try to change from 2A to 2F, I dare you. And is that 2F section L? M? Z? I think it's section WTF. Oh, and they like to change gates a lot. I passed out in a chair next to my gate on my way to Abidjan and woke up to find a completely different flight leaving from the gate and ran down a long long LONG walkway to find the list of gates and then walked some more to my new gate. I watched about 20 Vietnamese business women and men miss their flight because of this. The worst part was watching these diminutive people being screamed at by the gate attendant. And unlike NY or DC, there's probably only one flight to Saigon a day...