The Heart DOES Go On...........

So I’m winding down the homestretch of a 14 hour layover in London's Heathrow Airport, and I’ve just heard the most craptastic Muzak version of Celine Dion’s “The Heart Does Go On” ever committed to public airwaves. After that abomination, my teeth ache, and my ears are almost bleeding.

On the other hand, hearing that song reminded me that two years ago today, my sister Julie learned she had colon cancer. I’ll always remember the grim face of the young doctor who broke the news. He was slightly built with reddish blonde hair, and when he first came into Julie’s room at Hahnemann Hospital in Philadelphia, all he said was, “Mrs. Newell, where is your husband? I think he needs to be here.” Ron had stepped down the hall, probably for one of his life-sustaining Pepsis and a bag of Fritos, which is all he ever ate during Julie’s hospital stays. My gut lurched, and I wondered why my friendly banter wasn’t eliciting a smile, chuckle, or at least some slight cordial acknowledgement from the young whippersnapper doctor.

I’ve used this blog to chart several significant sea changes in my life, and I know I’ve proclaimed each one more profound than the last. But this time, I can truly say that the moment the words “Stage 3 colon cancer” left that doctor’s mouth, I experienced what was nothing less than an out-of-body experience. I vividly remember the puzzled disbelief on Julie’s face, and Ron’s stunned shock. I was sitting on the edge of the bed holding Julie’s hand, but somehow, I was also looking down on the entire scene. I remember having about a millisecond to stifle the wailing moan rumbling up my throat, and feeling more freezing cold to the bone than ever before in my life.

But at that same instant, some psychic tectonic plate shifted, and I also remember thinking, “I will not fall apart. I cannot fall apart. I have to be strong, for Julie.”

So I just crawled into bed beside her and held her while she cried. And I also told her that I’d be there for her, no matter what.

I’ve done a lot of gallivanting since March 12th, 2006. Been to Ethiopia and Nigeria and Uganda and Kenya and Brazil. God willing, I’ll continue to travel, see new places, meet new people, try to make a difference in the world. I’ll be in Abuja, Nigeria for 2 weeks starting tomorrow morning, and then on April 11th, I’ll spend 2 weeks in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Who knows what May will bring….maybe a return trip to Uganda….or a job working the drive thru at Chick-Fil-A. I mean, I don’t want to be presumptuous or anything.

Life is so unpredictable.

Still, no journey I’ll ever take for the rest of my life will compare with the path I walk
each day, trying to make a life for myself in a world without Julie. At some point daily, I find myself amazed that I’m still sane. I never thought I’d get to this place, emotionally.

So, even though some crappy elevator music has me about ready to blubber into my plate of already watery spaghetti carbonara, I’m grateful for the poignant reminder that the heart DOES go on.

March Forth!

Hey, y’all!

I’m back, I’m black, and I’m better than ever!

That’s just my way of saying I think my re-entry into American society is complete. I've spent the past 3 weeks playing hooky.....first a week in Brazil, and now in Atlanta, visiting my sister Marilyn and her husband John, and my Rio galpal Jamila. It almost feels like I’ve never been away….except for reminders like the scars from where I clawed at bug bites, and my fascination with light switches that actually illuminate every time you flip them. Every day is a marvel of paved roads, hot water on full blast, and dessert.

I can’t underestimate how glad I am to be back in the US of A. But at the same time, I’ve also made peace with the fact that my work with Internews over the past 5 years has been the closest thing to a “calling” I’ve ever experienced. As I predicted, I’ve been away from Gulu 3 weeks, but I miss working with the journalists. I miss their energy and enthusiasm, and I miss editing their scripts and pushing them to be more creative.

The good news is I’ll get to keep doing it during monthly commutes to Africa. Internews has decided that even though I'm virtually brain-dead as a manager, I'm quite useful as a trainer. So, I head to Nigeria March 11th and Ethiopia on April 11th. If I’m lucky, I’ll be doing once-a-month gigs for the near future…traveling around the African continent for Internews working with African print and broadcast journalists who cover urgent, complex issues.

Come to think of it, it was about last year this time I learned about the Gulu job. At the time, I was stagnating at work, licking my wounds from yet another disastrous Match.com interlude, and preparing for a visit from my sister Julie. She had received her colon cancer diagnosis in March of 2006, and on St. Paddy's Day that year, a surgeon pronounced her emergency surgery a complete success, and that they'd gotten all of the cancer cells. In March 2007, we were going to celebrate the one year anniversary of that joyous news. It was the perfect time for me to consider tackling the Gulu job. By that point, after all our family had been through, the prospect of living in a former war zone didn't seem so far-fetched.

A year later, I’ve quit my job, haven’t had a single date, spent 8 months living in Uganda and survived Julie's death.

And I’m still marching forth. I’m telling you people, I am so incredibly amazed, humbled and grateful for that. As I’ve told everybody who stands still long enough, I’m happy, and not because of a man or a windfall or the miraculous re-appearance of my rump. (Minutes after I arrived in Atlanta, my sister Marilyn commented on my weight loss by saying, “What happened to your butt?? It’s concave!”) For absolutely no reason at all, I’m gripped by an inexplicable, ongoing sense of contentment, a feeling that even though I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, I’ll be totally and completely all right.

Funny, but I can't shake the sneaking suspicion that this is the way I’m SUPPOSED to feel most of the time. Imagine that.

The Girl from Ipanema

It is amazing what an extended bout of trichinosis can do for a woman's self-esteem.

I've spent the past few days walking around half naked on Ipanema Beach in Rio, and all I can say is, "Thank You, Gulu." Between the mosquitoes that drained half my blood and the mass quantities of pork I consumed to keep a minimal level of protein going on in my body, I finally feel confident enough to wear a bikini. At least the top part. My ass is still "Missing In Action."

I gotta tell you, I TOTALLY feel like "The Girl from Ipanema." I feel like the hottest thing since Jalapeno sauce. I feel beautiful, and strong, and confident, and ALIVE.

Maybe it's because I survived 8 months in Gulu. Maybe it's because today is the 4 month anniversary of my sister's passing. Maybe it's because I'm staying at my brother Peter's fully furnished, completely SWEET condo near the beach with my best friend Faith and another friend Jamila, and Jamila is a gourmet cook, and I've been eating pain perdu with fresh macerated peaches and spinach and chicken crepes for breakfast every day. Or maybe it's because for the first time in a long time, I feel HAPPY, and I don't feel like I need a reason to be happy, or that maybe I should apologize for feeling confident and at peace.

Whatever. One thing I know for sure after 3 days in Rio...there is no problem so huge and insurmountable that putting on a skimpy bikini top, thrusting your titties out and strolling along a beach can't solve. Especially if you do it in Rio. Granted, 90 percent of the men and women here are Amazons, which could really mess with your head if you let it. I mean, it's like cellulite and beer guts are punishable by 25 years to life down here.

But that other 10 percent? I've seen some nipples dragging their own trail in the sand these past few days. I've seen men with so many wrinkles and hide so leathery, they look like alligator suitcases with legs. I've seen some things most people should not have to witness, unless they're being punished for some unspeakable crime.

Yet I've seen those things tied into thongs, draped by bandeau tops, stuffed into speedos, and hiked into booty shorts, and strutting down the beach as bold and bad as you please. After a couple of hours, I started to feel like Halle Berry. No, I take that back. I started to feel like Rachel Jones, and that Rachel Jones was perfectly fine just the way she was.

So, a hearty "Bom Gia" to you all! I'll try to post a picture of me on the beach later today. I almost didn't recognize myself when I saw it. I've never seen myself look so much like myself before.

An Attitude of Gratitude

I had grilled bok choy for dinner last night. Oh, and some rosemary and garlic roasted chicken, and some Israeli cous cous.

The cost of this meal from Whole Foods could feed a family of four for a week where I just came from.

I am so, SO glad to be back in America.

I'm also very much transformed. I don't think I'll ever look at my life, or my world, in the same way again.

More later, once jet lag clears and I've downed a few caipirinhas on Ipanema Beach....I'm headed to Rio on Friday.

God is good. Life is good.

Last Night in Gulu

It’s 3:48 AM on Friday, February 8, 2008. In less than 12 hours, I’ll be a former resident of Gulu Town, Northern Uganda.

I just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep because so many thoughts are racing through my mind. Oddly, one of them was that I wanted to be awake when the rooster next door starts crowing. It might be the last time in a long while that I’ll hear that sound, and I’ve really started to enjoy it.

Now, after all these months of whining about being exiled over here, I’m not going to be a hypocrite and start waxing poetic about life in Gulu. It is harsh, sometimes boring, and more often than not incredibly frustrating. Even so, I’m really gonna miss the cozy little cottage, and the impossibly still mornings on the compound at Plot 26, Samuel Doe Road. I’m gonna miss hanging out at the open air Bomah restaurant on a rainy night, listening to the pelting drops on the thatched roof and knocking back a few Tusker beers. I’m gonna miss rollin’ with my buddies Akiiki and The Intern, and I’m gonna miss hearing the journalists we work with describe how the Internews training transformed their lives and careers.

But mostly, I’m gonna miss having so little to distract me from what matters in this world. You know, minor things, like.........THE FATE OF MY FELLOW HUMAN BEINGS. Once jet lag subsides in a week or so, there’ll be so many options back home, so much access to stuff that can entertain or distract me. For example, there’ll be the soothing pablum of morning TV, which can’t get through an hour of programming without an update on Britney Spears. But just the other morning, on a BBC interview program called “Hard Talk.” I heard author Studs Terkel drop pearls of wisdom so riveting, I let my coffee get stone cold. His comments invigorated me more than caffeine ever could.

It’s been truly marvelous having access to so many international news sources, because for the first time in my life, really, I feel as much a global citizen as I am a U.S. citizen. It’s amazing how knowing the intricate details of the Serbian presidential election and the rioting in Kenya and the winter weather emergency in China can make you feel less foreign, less of a detached observer.

This experience has transformed my life, too. Without question, I am a different person than the woman who arrived in Gulu early last June. I’m tougher, smarter, and less afraid to be who I am. I’m a LOT less worried about what people think of me. I’m a lot more willing to forgive myself for mistakes, and to applaud myself when I’ve conquered a challenge.

I guess I just LIKE me a whole lot more than I did when I got here!

In a strange kind of way, Gulu also helped prepare me for my sister Julie’s passing. I used to be convinced I would never survive losing her. But after spending the four months prior to her death being constantly tested, pushed harder and harder to make sense of things, having to reach inside my gut to summon courage I didn’t even know I had, I finally understood what Julie faced every minute of every day of her life. If Julie could keep going, and vow daily to never give up, or give in, then I knew I must try and do the same.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings, other than a flight out of Entebbe airport, headed to Amsterdam, and then another flight to Washington Dulles. I gotta tell you, so often these past few months, it felt like this day would never come. On those nights when I cried myself to sleep, and then cried myself awake, my heart pierced by grief and loneliness, I didn’t think I could make it to this day sane and functional. The jury’s still out about the former, but there's no disputing the latter. I am a survivor.

"Through the fire, fine metal is made." "What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger." Maybe that’s what middle age is all about….realizing that those so-called “tired clichés” are all irrefutably true, and that no matter how much pain and struggle you’ve faced in the past, it made you EXACTLY who you are at this very moment, and if you can honor and respect that, you’ll be one step closer to real peace of mind.

That’s where I am right now. I’m up for whatever life throws my way, because I spent the past 8 months in Gulu. Reaching that understanding has been the most rewarding journey of my life.

"Oprah Light"

I went shopping today with Cissy and Stella, the 2 pre-teen girls I’m sponsoring this year as boarders at Mary Immaculate Primary School outside of Gulu. The headmaster, Sister Helen, had given me a list of items the girls would need when they report to Primary 6 on Monday.

As long as God lets me live, I will never forget the dazed gratitude on their thin little faces as Akiiki and I drove them from place to place shop for those things. First, the girls picked out two tin suitcases, with blue shapes stenciled atop the steel gray casing. Next, they got two twin foam mattresses and a set of sheets apiece…Cissy chose yellow, and Stella picked blue.

The girls would need 3 bars of bathing soap each, and 4 long, thin blue blocks of laundry soap. Cissy chose a 12-pack of pretty floral “knickers.” I keep forgetting about the colonial influence in Uganda, and I’m standing there scratching my head trying to figure out where the hell you’re supposed to buy knickers in the 21st century when Cissy handed me the package of panties. When I told Stella to pick out a pack, Cissy said, “Oh no, we will share these. Six for her, and six for me.”

I was floored. I mean, you just let some bleeding heart, deep-pocketed sponsor cart ME around Pentagon City Mall to buy whatever I want, and just SEE how many times I object to buying more than I actually need. Do NOT hold your breath, okay?? I’d be like, “Hell YEAH, let me get three of those bad boys.” But time after time, when I tried to suggest that maybe one set of pencils wasn’t enough, or that they might buy 3 fifty-cent towels instead of 2, the girls politely declined. “Two is enough,” they chirped.

For about 90 minutes, I was "Oprah Light." I will never feel as rich and powerful as I did this afternoon, watching those two excited girls pick out whatever they needed for school. Admittedly, the cynic in me expected them to spoil my charitable mood by asking for lipstick, or a purse, or maybe some glittery blouse that was totally inappropriate for a 12-year-old girl. I braced for the one request, the one furtive little glance or snicker behind my back that would unmask those girls as greedy little manipulators, and me as a hapless sucker with a target painted on her forehead. When, on WHEN am I gonna start closing my heart to sob stories and just let other people pull themselves up by their bootstraps like I did???

But then Cissy stopped in front of a stall that sold cheap polyester blankets with hideous designs on them. I’m talking one step beneath the “saucer-eyed dogs playing poker on velvet” scenario. The things made me itch just looking at them. I couldn’t help thinking those tacky little blankets would burst into flames if the sun shone directly on them; forget about a drop of candle wax or paraffin oil.

Watching Cissy and Stella oooh and ahhhh as they poked through the tacky textiles, I realized that we might as well have been standing in Neiman Marcus. It would take their families 7 days to earn the 7 dollars I would pay for each blanket. And for those girls, having something brand new, and just for them, was more than just a dream. Last year this time, as they prepared to return to school, they didn’t even have the 14 dollar fee to pay for both semesters. Now, they were on a shopping spree, buying new things they’d get to pack in their very own suitcases as they headed off to boarding school…..all expenses paid.

And oh, yeah, today’s shopping spree set me back a grand total of about $100.

I think I finally understand the real reason I'm sponsoring those girls. My mother’s mother’s name was Stella Jane. As I’ve already mentioned, Grandma Stella Jane crushed my mother Eloise’s dreams and ambitions for her future before they could even start to bud. My mother went straight from helping run a household with 8 younger siblings and two nutty parents in Philadelphia to Cairo, Illinois, where she would raise 10 more children and never, EVER get the chance to further her education, explore the world, define who she was and what she wanted from life.

So, dear Grandma Stella, with all due respect, IN YO’ FACE!!! Your granddaughter Rachel is making sure that one little girl who shares your name and lives in a mud hut with a thatched grass roof on the other side of the world gets to start the school year "living large and in charge."
I believe this will change Stella's life, and Cissy's life, and that they'll both start dreaming of the world outside of Gulu, and they'll get there one day, because they've already had this astounding miracle happen in their lives.

So, Granny, I hope that wherever your spirit is, it will find Mama’s spirit, apologize, and give it a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

The End....

Technically, my Internews contract is finished today, but I’m staying an extra week to wrap things up for the new Project Director.

Not surprisingly, I’m having some mixed feelings. I can’t decide whether my first meal back in the U.S. should be Thai or Soul Food. Last night, I dreamed about chocolate ice cream. A few nights ago, my dream about prime rib and strawberry pie was so vivid, I could literally taste them. And this morning, as I transitioned from sleep to consciousness, my first thought was whether I should buy a frozen pie crust or make one from scratch for the sweet potato pie I’ll inhale during my first week home.

I’m interpreting these thoughts and dreams two ways. First, I’ve lost so much weight that even I’M starting to worry about me. Folks tell me I don’t look skeletal, or anything, but I’m down to a size 6, from a peak of size 14 two years ago. In many ways, it’s kind of fun….I’m enjoying wearing tank tops and shorts without feeling absurd about the way my gut is spilling over the waistband, and the rather unsightly imprint my bra is making where it’s cutting into my mildly doughy back.

Next, I’m even more concerned about ANOTHER ending….my butt. It’s damned near flat now, and I don’t know how to deal with it! Even though I’ve been relatively slim most of my life, I've always had a rather bubbular rear end, compared to the rest of me. Because youth is wasted on the young, I never really took pride in it, or anything. I totally took my tushie for granted.

Nowadays, because I’ve lost at least a good 15 pounds over the past 8 months, my butt looks like a half-inflated balloon. There’s little to no curvature. It looks like one of those Pillsbury biscuits out of the can…flat, squooshy, and unnervingly pliant. There’s no bounce in my bum.

Maybe I’m not the best judge of the situation. Being the sex-obsessed piglets that they are, I’m sure 8 out of 10 men would say my booty is perfectly adequate for their purposes. The problem is, I’ve been living in Uganda, where for a woman, an ass is a true asset. I mean to tell you, I’ve seen some butts over here that have made ME gape, and I have NO desire to play for the all-girls team. (To use a phrase I absolutely adore from the TV Show “Girlfriends,” I am “strictly dick-ly.”)

Just yesterday, I was walking behind a young woman whose butt resembled 2 raccoons wrassling in a burlap bag. I was amazed she could even stand upright with that bodacious bundle. All of a sudden, I felt old and inadequate, because my entire butt isn’t as full and flourishing as HALF of her left cheek. I was depressed well into the evening (and couldn’t even do a few tequila shots to ease the pain, because my stomach is so messed up these days).

I figure this has to be why I’m having all these intense food dreams. Perhaps they’re desperate subconscious pleas routed directly from my butt to my brain. Though the aging process and gravity can’t be avoided, my ass is begging me to “not go gentle into that good night” of receding rumpdom.

I’m doing my part. I’ve already joined the obscenely bourgeois Sports Club/LA’s Washington, DC branch. It’s a bit pricey, but they were having a 75 percent off initiation fee promotion. I figure I can at least pretend to be a wealthy narcissist even if I’m not. I can also take regular yoga and Pilates classes, and stalk the elliptical machines, and do some leg presses that will tighten this jelly up a bit.

Besides, ready access to ice cream, cheese and great wine should restore at least 10 pounds to my frame within a month.

I know I must sound incredibly shallow and insensitive obsessing about food in one of the poorest countries on the face of the Earth. It must seem like the past 8 months had no effect on me whatsoever, which is definitely NOT the case. In fact, I plan on coming back to Northern Uganda often, to do journalism trainings and media consulting. I believe Internews has helped me find my life’s work; never again will I be able to take a job where I don’t feel directly connected to improving the fate of my fellow human beings.

I just need to know that while I’m making a difference in the world, EVENTUALLY AND FREQUENTLY, I’ll be able to connect with to my two favorite people in the world….Ben and Jerry. If that makes me shallow, then so be it. Just as long as my ass isn’t shallow.