Yesterday Vika went shopping on her own. Alone!
Sveta, her mom, quietly observed her. She says the girl messed up only once, she walked past her home. I remember how she, literally a tiny kitten, couldn’t even walk about her room–she took such careful steps, as if afraid she’d fall through thin ice.
Also our lovely lady recently appeared before the local blind circle, sang contemporary songs. People say the girl has quite a voice, strong and clear.
And look at these cheeks!!! You just want to squeeze them!
My daughter was ill, and in the heat she looked at me seriously:
–Mum, I’d rather have Vika get well and me get sick.
It’s not to show how kind my daughter is. Many kids sometimes say such things, and perhaps even draw them.
It’s rather to show how Vika became part of our lives. Theo has never met Vika, but she has seen plenty of times how I ran to and fro to get the medications she needs. Which I do all the time. Half the fridge is filled by medications awaiting dispatch to the Donbass. The majority of them are for our Lugansk girl.
When Vika was in a TB clinic near Moscow, we often visited her. Theo wanted to go too.
I’ve been writing far less frequently about the people we care for on the Donbass. It’s not so much due to it being hard for me, but rather because everyone is tired and is not opening these posts. But it’s a fact: we’re helping as much as before. Or perhaps even more.
These post contains accounts of aid to 8 families.
Zhenya and I constantly get asked: “How can you bear it?”
I think the answer would run something like this: “It’s far worse to know about it and not be able to do anything.”
I’m simply grateful you are giving us the ability to do something. I think I wrote about this? But so be it, let me say it one more time. I will probably repeat this constantly from now on. I’m glad to say thanks to you for the aid.
I don’t know to what extent we are doing the right thing.
There are cases in which we help those who perhaps don’t need it. There are cases where people lie, though we always try to check. But I know one thing for sure–I don’t sense emptiness.
There are many various feelings. Exhaustion, bitterness, unfairness, tears. Sometimes I want to give up, we have so many people under our care who have cancer and who are simply doomed. Many of them already died. Many cases are hopeless. It seems Zhenya and Lena are hit harder by these cases. They are on the spot, after all. But I return. Return to normal life. Without war.
Therefore I want to thank them once again. The very close Zhenya and Lena, whom I want to tell they are wonderful.
This is another report on helping our Vika.
So far so good, of course the heat is unbearable and it affects everyone. Vika is doing the best she can–she helps out around the house, doesn’t sit around. She picks apricots which grow outside. She gets around the house very well, in spite of blindness. She knows where everything is and doesn’t need a cane. I remember how when we visited, she would walk very cautiously, while frantically feeling around with her hands. Like a tiny blind kitten, afraid of everything.
She started to confuse day with night. She would wake her mom up at night: “Mom, I baked some rolls. I would eat all of them, sugar levels be damned, mom, go have some!”
She stopped sensing when her sugar levels were dropping. That was bad.
I like this photo, this dress, this smile.
Vika can’t see, so she doesn’t know where to look when she’s photographed. And though she poses, she’s easy to “capture.”
When she listens, she slightly tilts her head forward and furrows eyebrows, squinting slightly. And she always giggles. She’s still not used to her condition and believes she’ll see again.
Once I referred to in jest “little bellflower.” And she is like that. She’s a beautiful and gentle flower. And she laughs all the time, no, she rings.
Zhenya recently delivered her life-sustaining medications from us.
Vika, I know your mom is reading this post to you right now.
So I want to say a few things.
We’ve met two years ago in Lugansk.
I remember that day–it was mid-May 2015.
You were in bed, too weak to get up. You lost your two front teeth, went blind, and weighed about as much as in elementary school. Younger brother had only just died, and people thought back then the war would be over soon. One couldn’t get insulin in the city. Pharmacies stood empty. No wages, no pensions.
Even though you were too weak to get up, you got up anyway–so said mom. One had to, even though one didn’t want to. You didn’t want anything back then–to live, to eat, to walk…
Lena told me: “talk to her, you are merry, young.”
I tried to talk, remember?
I went on about some nonsense, and you only replied that you didn’t want to live.
This is Nina with her mom. Nina works at the Lugansk Assistance Center (LGTs) which we frequenly write about.
This center is visited by people who have no place else to go. Amazing people work there. What’s there to say–I’ve written about them more than once. And I also wrote how many of them, of these “girls”, have seen various cases. They don’t simply support needy families. The list includes people in need of a safety net, single mothers, mothers with many kids, but also drug addicts, alcoholics, or simply people for whom nothing is sacred anymore. Who attack and rob people who help them…I’ve met such people myself.
Nina is an inspector, and a very pleasant and modest woman. Every time we see each other, she wants to hug me but manages to refrain. He’s sincerely happy for the people who are under her care. It’s not just work for her, but rather a mission to help.
Zhenya recently came to the center and saw Nina in tears. She didn’t say anything, but he learned from the other “girls” that her mother at home has major problems. Girls. Zhenya always calls them girls. And so do we.
About two weeks ago Nina’s mom fell into a coma and was barely brought out of it. Mom has sugar diabetes, shingles, and hypertension. She’s had a heart attack. Zhenya learned she has no glucose meter and that Nina spends more than half her salary on medications.
Vika is in a good state of mind for the first time in several months.
She’s better, judging by the photos.
Every time we send her medications, I’m afraid of what she’ll look like on the photos.
She’s been feeling sad more lately, beyond consolation. She wrinkles her forehead and keeps her eyes closed, hiding them.
Now she’s smiling, and I think that’s because her eyes don’t hurt her as much.
All in all, I’m even afraid to say anything.
And I miss her so.
This photo was taken three years ago, in January 2014. Vika is a round-cheeked beauty. Her brother is alive. She can still see and has no TB. There is no war, and Lugansk is lit up by fireworks, not weapons.
Sometimes my posts about Vika are read by people who have kids with diabetes, and say that it’s Vika’s own fault, that everything is due to improper sugar monitoring.
Perhaps it is her fault.
But before the war she spent her whole life with diabetes. She was a student, a lively girl, and if it weren’t for the war, she’d have graduated form the university and perhaps gotten married.
It’s awful to even think about that.
Right now, she doesn’t even know whether her eye will be removed.
She lives surrounded by hundreds of pills which periodically make her feel worse, but without which she wouldn’t survive.
Her brother had died, and she succumbed to glycemic coma several times, and her mother is afraid of leaving her by herself.
On October 18, 2016, Nikita was diagnosed with diabetes.
It is horrifying to imagine what it’s like to have your child, who has always been healthy, to be given such a diagnosis.
Nikita’s family fled from Stanitsa Luganskaya during the winter of 2015 and now lives in Lugansk. Mom was pregnant when they grabbed only their documents and ran for their lives.
The came under fire. More than once.
All of that affected the boy’s health. He stopped smiling and became apathetic, and then he started to lose consciousness. That’s how the diabetes was discovered.
I wrote about Nikita before, and now we’ve visited him in person.