Do what you can

I’m often called a volunteer, but that’s not true. I’m no volunteer, not even an aid worker.
I don’t know how to properly label that which I do. I realized that I can’t be a volunteer who helps hospice patients, the disabled, the elderly. I can write a report, can place myself in someone else’s place and write about that, go to the “front” where there’s danger. Yes, I will be afraid, just like any normal person. But I’ll get over it. But looking into the eyes of people who have only very little time left is beyond my strength. I wasn’t able to get used to in even in three years. Abandoned elderly, disabled kids, the dying in hospices–all of it kills me. I can’t.
But our Lena can. I don’t know how. I don’t know where she gets her strength from.


About Zhenya and Lena…

Friends, here’s what’s happening:
Our Lena was picked up by an ambulance with a terrible headache and vomiting. No painkillers would help.
An MRI showed nothing out of the ordinary. Today Zhenya and Lena were admitted to the Lugansk hospital. Zhenya’s blood pressure has been fluctuating wildly.
During the spring, Zhenya’s mom suffered a stroke, and nothing has been the same since. With all that, Zhenya’s blood pressure became a more serious problem…If you only knew what was going on during the summer. The stroke took place on the very day we were leaving Moscow for the Donbass in May. And during the summer, after we left…Zhenya’s mom spent a long time in intensive care. Paramedics show up at their home regularly.
Zhenya’s running to and fro and him helping Kolya, who has meningitis and is on the brink of death, took their toll too. Zhenya rushed to the hospital every day, butted heads with the doctors, the mother who not always (to put it mildly) acted in accordance with the doctors’ recommendations, sought out medications. We spent at least half an hour every day discussing, seeking solutions to these problems. Zhenya was worried to tears. He nearly always fights for everyone until he has no strength left…
Zhenya never allowed me to write about his problems. Modesty (and stubbornness) kept him from asking for help. And he’s not giving me permission right now.
But they have me–someone who’s both immodest and rude to boot.

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