Saturday, August 13, 2005;

First, of all, its nice to see so many pple tagging, considering that i don't update frequently. Haha

Thanks a lot to Jessie who helped me upload the song.

Reply to tags
Jem - No urgency bout the music, you can always hear it on ur own comp. :) IH debate rocked! An honour to be in your team. No more "its in the bag", now its "its done and dusted". Haha

David - yes hockey rawks, cant wait for 4 nations man. Can scrap training tt whole wk to go and catch the 4 nations.

Ben - thx, i'll sign on you next time. haha

Had a great time playing soccer after school today, managed to improve my header connection rate. Always nice to challenge a defender or a goalie for the headers, cause the physical element is there. Beat jeremy to a few headers as striker vs goalie, till he thrashed me in one. Haha. I have his beautiful signature near my eye now. But no hard feelings, cos that was great play. Its great for the goalie to come out and take control of his own area. We should practise this more often heh. :)

Theres this insightful article written by dr michael meegan about his experiences in Africa, qutie a long read, but really an eye opener.

"I held him in my arms and wept" by Dr. Michael Elmore-Meegan
by chella at 04:14PM (PDT) on July 22, 2005 Permanent Link Cosmos
"I have always believed it is our actions, not our thoughts that matter. Tears have never fed a child, pity has never healed a wound. Unless words become deeds, unless dreams are lived, they are mere deceptions". (Dr. Michael Meegan)
To readers: please read the following article by Michael Meegan in its entirety, with the foregoing quote in mind. We have not begun to live, until we have done whatever we can to save another human life. "Personal Prosperity" is an illusion. It does not bring peace, no matter what the self-help people tell you. If you want peace of mind, read this through ... and then do whatever you can to help. Please.
I HELD HIM IN MY ARMS AND WEPT
A year before his death, 17-year-old Atria weighs 7 stone. He has left his village. He is afraid and he is ashamed. He is embarrassed to be here. He is sweating, he fights. His hands tremble. His pulse is rapid. He tries to smile.
His problems aren’t only the rashes and the intestinal worms. These are easily cleared up. But you can’t "clear up" anger and fear, or sleepless nights and panic attacks, or how long a few minutes can seem… or the sense of powerlessness watching your own body fall away, the humiliation of disintegration.
Some infections are harder to deal with: a mouth filled with ulcers, an inflamed penis. As the disease progresses so do the nausea, the back pain, the headaches. Muscle cramps always hurt, especially when one has very little muscle. Atria has severe diarrhea and the dull aches in his stomach be-come sharp pains. Despite our best efforts he becomes anemic. His sight fades, as well as his concentration. Atria has stinging burning pain from urinary tract infections, as his urinary tract is blood red and raw. Moving his bowels has become a feared ordeal, as his anus has lost its muscular contractility and often gets infected. He has no buttocks, not really, just skin stretched over bone, sore to lie on. His joints are hypersensitive. Above all Atria finds it difficult to breathe. His dreadful wheezing-gurgling prevents sleep and he moans a lot because the pain-killers are useless.
Over the coming months Atria finds some support and friendship, some dignity and encouragement. He was a beautiful young man with stunning eyes. A proud, energetic guy, very popular and ambitious with a deadly sense of fun. Now, most of all he hates that he leaks and drips, smells bad, and often cannot control his bowel movements or urination.
He gets angry at himself. He is weak and dizzy and has constant headaches. He cannot eat easily and his ability to digest is deteriorating, as his enzymes are breaking down. The slightest knock causes a painful bruise. Atria is now 6 stone.
After another few weeks, the boy is drained; his mouth full of thrush, a thick, white fungus over his tongue and gums—and ulcers—he has difficulty swallowing. Breathing is increasingly labored. By now, pneumonia is taking over.
All movement is acutely painful and distressing. Intestinal worms are back again. Atria’s limbs are stiffening and his back is covered with ulcers that leak and bleed but do not heal, impossible to manage in a small hut.
His issues are controlling pain, managing extreme distress, reducing humiliation, creating dignity, reducing multiple infections, reducing cross-infection to others. But the worst thing is loneliness. To die of AIDS in Africa is an in-tensely humiliating ordeal, slow… obscene.
Atria is now in his last days of life. His tear ducts have dried up, his hair has fallen out; his bones are brittle. He has no muscle or fat and his heart is 70% weaker than pre-HIV. He has been eaten alive and he has no resistance. All of Atria’s senses are shutting down.
His fingernails and toenails have fallen out. His skin is blistered and scaly, and scabs cannot form. The bedsores and ulcers have spread; sources of multiple deep infections. Breathing is almost impossible and the slightest movement is slow and full of dreadful anxiety. I give him water drop by drop through a straw.
I hold his frail, stiffened hand. He is cold, he has no tears. I look into his eyes. I whisper to him, and kiss him. He slowly inhales, half closes his eyes. He breathes out, very slowly.
Atria’s face relaxes, his tormented body sags. He is gone.
I held him in my arms and wept.I cannot describe the fear and emptiness watching such disintegration. As I write this, the images that flash across my mind are not the data, the plan, the project, but the faces, the faces of those who have had no one else to love them… nowhere else to go—dumped, neglected, unwanted.
I feel so inadequate, so useless and unworthy, flawed and pathetic, so utterly overwhelmed. I want to be somewhere else. I am not able for all of this.
The horror of the holocaust revolts me. I have sights so unspeakable in my mind. What has humanity done?
Why do we allow people to die this way? What manner of beast are we?
In my aloneness, in my fear, in my pathetic inadequacy, in my own humanity, despite myself, I Fall before the feet of God and cry:
Why?
Yet in the end, I find the only thing that matters is to do the best I can.
I leap into the darkness and find myself in a sweltering, disease-ridden place, full of flies and gross smells—and a child is crying. I reach out to gently grasp his small, withered hand, too weak to tremble.
I am here. All shall be well.
I am here.

That brings it to the interview part.

Interviewer: You almost become a priest. You trained for the priesthood. God I suspect has played an important part in your life and your thinking. Yet you tell the story of a 17 year old, Atria in graphic detail how he died. You know, about the uncontrolled bowel movements, the stench of death around us, this young body, the sores and the loneliness of a young African dying. And then where is your God?

Michael: That why I was there. I was there to be the sense. I was there to cherish, I was there to serve and I would be and have been there for thousands of people like that. And for everyone---

Interviewer: Then Where Is Your God? WHERE IS THIS GOD?

Michael: Don’t worry, all will be well. It’s ok. This god is here. That god is in you. That God is what you’re going to do about this suffering. God is in this people. The more you live in Africa, the more you realize the power of faith in these countries. That’s the wonderful thing. You don’t leave Africa overwhelmed with despair, in tears. You leave Africa inspired, because you realize that this continent is so powerful. It’s so strong, has so much love, so much energy. Where do you think all these tens of thousands of orphans are? They’re not in orphanages; they’re being looked after by the communities. And those communities need our help.

Open you eyes and see the real world around.

2:48 AM