“Moroccan government hospitals are exclusive clubs and only those who can afford the cover charge are granted access. The gate security demands money before they let you in; the nurse expects a payment to provide care; the doctor sells you unnecessary medication and overcharge you for unperformed procedures; the hospital billing department duns patients, even emergency ones, prior to any care be given and shows no compunction denying service to those who are too impoverished to pay.”

Read more at the blog ‘A Moroccan About the World About Him. ‘

On June 9th, I lost my Dad – which bothers me to say, because it really doesn’t make sense. Of course he’s not lost, he’s just Someplace Else – but “died” sounds harsh, and “passed away” is a little trite. I haven’t been able to bring myself to delete the entry for his cell phone on my Blackberry, even though I see it all the time. It results in lunatic thoughts every time of maybe just calling him, he’ll pick up – but I know he won’t. The last time he called me was on the day of my brother’s wedding, May 22nd, and I wish I had known somehow that it would be the last. I don’t think many people get to have that knowledge.

I’ve been veering between an attitude of bravely soldiering on, and the polar opposite of absolute misery. It’s only been 15 days, true, but it’s awfully exhausting.

Hopefully I’ll have more cheerful things to post as this goes on, and the posts themselves won’t be so cringe-worthy – I look back at some of the stuff I wrote for Morocco Time and earlier blogs, and I just want to hide in shame.

A partial ray of sunshine is that my friend and former Arabic/Middle East studies prof, Jennifer, gave me some stuff for knitting, so now I’m making a purple knitted hat. I think I must be the slowest knitter ever, but it’s coming along.