The Scribble Pad

Random, self-promoting thoughts by author Roslyn Carrington, aka Simona Taylor

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Location: Trinidad & Tobago

I write literary novels under my real name, Roslyn Carrington, and wayyy too hot Arabesque romance novels under the pen name Simona Taylor. I live in Trinidad with my partner, Rawle, and our toddlers, Riley and Megan. Ah, the pleasures and pressures of being parents to those two! There’s also my full-time Public Relations job, the aquarium full of albino sharks, the dog, the garden, the obsession with cooking (the more fattening the dish, the better), the addiction to the comic art by the likes of Keith Knight and Aaron McGruder, and the chocolate compulsion. I fill whatever time I have left dreaming about romance and writing.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Bang Bang! (No kiss, kiss).

I had just put my kids into the tub on Saturday evening round about 7 o' clock, when I heard two loud pops. Then I heard my neighbour screaming as he ran down the street, shouting for someone to call the police. Turns out that two young men relieved him of his car as he tried to enter his yard, put him to lie on the ground with a gun in his face, and discussed the merits and demerits of shooting him. He said he had a wife and kids and begged for his life. They said they didn't care.

So he ran.

They fired two shots at him, grazing his shoulder, and made off in the car. Incidentally, it was the same brand as my own. I didn't have a good night. These shots went off so close I felt the pop in my ear, even though I was indoors. My kids were about. My husband ran outside to find out what was happening, and I trembled until he came back.

One of these young men lounged outside my house until his victim came home. I don't even recall seeing him. I can't help but ask myself, were they targeting that specific car, or would mine have done as nicely? And what would happen if my turn came up in the crime lottery and my kids were with me? This place has become a nightmare. I love standing out under the stars with my children and looking up at the moon. When they're in bed I like to go outside and breathe in the scent of orange blossoms and garlic vine flowers. Now I look both ways and case the joint before I put the garbage out.

It's sickening, this sense of waiting your turn. Terrifying.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Bad day for babies

Today somebody gave birth to a baby boy and threw it in the trash can on the sidewalk of a major street near where I live. A vagrant fished it out (I guess he decided it wasn't good to eat) and put it on the pavement. People walked up and down, shook their heads, and tut-tutted about who could have done something like that to a poor innocent baby. Nobody picked it up. Didn't want to get involved, I guess.

Somebody finally called the ambulance. Instead of rushing him to hospital, they called the police and hung around until the cops came. By this time, he was already dead.

Somewhere along his nightmarish few hours of life on planet Earth, somebody managed to bash his face in.

And you wonder why I can't sleep.

Monday, November 13, 2006

Where's the medical morality?

Crabby today. Having a spot of medical bother, so of course I have begun the ritual of dancing through the hoops while doctors play the tune. And I'm not enjoying it.

More and more I ask myself: where's the medical morality? Whatever happened to relating to your patient, whatever happened to truly wanting to help, and hatever happened to practicing with a conscience?

My cutie doctor has referred me to a specialist. Okay, no probs. Only he's on the other side of the island, so to get there for my 9 am appointment I'm on the road at 6:30 a.m. this morning. I get there and, wonder of wonders, I don't have to wait. And then what happens? This guy sees me for 3 minutes tops, just long enough to peep at my doctors referral letter and write out a request for an ultrasound. Then he sends me packing, with an instruction to come back Friday. That'll be $200 Ma'am, thank you very much. For THREE minutes work in which he lays not a hand on my and barely asks me a question. Talk about being dis-MISSED. (NB $1 US = $6TT)

So I trot into the city for my ultrasound. During the test I make a mistake (How was I supposed to know what to do? I'm not a medical worker). And have to deal with the sarcasm, irritation and plain old churlishness of the doctor administering the test. I leave with my tail between my legs feeling small and stupid. That'll be $400, please, Ma'am, thank you very much.

The medical fraternity in this country is one huge grinding money machine, and God help you if you don't have enough money to pay. If you wind up at the mercy of the public health system, cross yourself and start to pray.

Why must it cost so much to stay healthy? Why must health care be such a chore? Why must I pay $200 for you to see me for 3 minutes, and then another $200 for you to decide what's the next step?

I had a baby 3 years ago, and my OB-GYN charged $2,500 to pull the kid out of me. 25 months later, he charges $4,000 for my second kid. I'm still reeling. Why the steep price increase? Same doctor, same patient, same hospital, same delivery method, same service, same healthy pregnancy and delivery. Same damn vagina. WHAT CHANGED?

Cost of living went up? Did the Benz need tyres? Did he want to take his wife to St. Vincent for the weekend? Did he just feel he was worth more, or did the entire gynecological cohort just get together and decide they were charging more for their service?

I understand that you went to school for longer than I did. I understand that you are charging for your knowledge, experience and expertise. I understand that your service is valuable. But when you charge these kinds of fees, you force more and more people to rely on the cursed, stinking farce that is public health. I can barely afford all this, and I have a good job and insurance. What happens to people who have nothing?

They die, that's what.