Wrist and More

My wrist pain is back. I put an elastic bandage around it, not too tight, more to remind myself not to strain it until I find a better solution. People seeing the bandage or hearing about it said it stops the blood flow. So I removed the bandage. Went into Superpharm to look at wrist support bands, but could not decide which one would work. Decided to consult my family doctor when I see him next time.

I come to his office with the results of my annual checkup so he could enter them in the computer (it is as stupid as it sounds). "According to the latest research, people who do periodic checkups don't live longer or better than those who don't", says my doctor, always up-to-date on the latest medical research, and starts entering the results. He prescribes medicine and explains the technological wonders of prescriptions with barcodes. Naturally, I forget to ask him about my wrist. End of wrist story, not the end of pain.

Later I stumble on an article about the advertising budget of my Health Fund, a good few million dollars. I imagine the volume of health services this money can buy and get angry. All I see from this budget is pushing useless shots, aggressive phone sales of  yet another insurance, a stupid newsletter, a retarded website and a cute animated TV commercial with a kid named Chamudi. At close to $ 300 monthly fee, I expect a much better web-based self-service system, medicine to the home, atypical tests when necessary, quality medicine and a doctor who actually checks me instead of typing on a computer.

Now, if I could get rid of the cactus in my throat, I'd feel better and complain less.

I Was Trafficked

No, this is not a mistake. I was sold and bought like a piece of merchandise. For $500. Really. My husband's list price was $3,000. The seller wanted 10,000, the buyer offered 2,000. The negotiations ended at the final price of 3,000.

In a shameful chapter of its history, Romania sold its own citizens. They sold Jews to Israel for petrol pumps, Danish piglets and cash.

Together with a cinema hall full of fellow trafficked compatriots, I watched Radu Garbrea's documentary, Jews for Sale, and saw how our own immigration story (which I may blog about one day) was part of the bigger political and economic picture of the time. 

Neurologist Dr Ashkenazi from Bucharest tells his own story in the movie. When he is finally on the plane to Israel, his brain tricks him into feeling like the plane is flying back. I had a similar moment in 1984 when I boarded a train way before it was supposed to leave the station, and refused to step on the platform again, fearing I would be left behind forever. I'm sure many immigrants had variations of this moment.