Angry post. Very angry, really.
Ksenia Reznikova, journalist, blogger, Facebook profile
I have always been compassionate – since childhood.
All the skinned kittens, blind grandmothers asking to be transferred across the road, three-legged dogs and chicks that fell out of the nest were mine.
My heart was melting with aching pity, my nose was tingling – I was in a hurry to save the world even when my childhood was over and, probably, even when the world did not need it so much.
My loved ones know.
I will tell you one story – the one that happened six years ago, and which is still in my heart.
It becomes all the more disgusting from what I caught a glimpse of today in the passage, hurrying to hide from the sun in the passage leading to the Ocean Plaza.
Having given birth to a son, with every skin cell and overwhelming maternal instinct, I felt a simple truth – there is no such thing as other people’s children and there is no other person’s pain – and recklessly I plunged into helping kids with cancer.
I had enough after a year – requests, participation in training camps, conversations with doctors, reports on the state of the wards, parcels and transfers to different cities of Ukraine.
And children’s eyes.
Adult beyond their years.
Eyelashes stuck together from tears.
He was the same age as Vovka, and even their month of birth was the same – January.
A charming little boy one and a half years old, with cherry eyes.
And nephroblastoma (Williams’ tumor) grade 3.
Maxim Voloshin from Vinnitsa.
He melted my heart, gave me wings and strength that could do the impossible – when I joined the Vinnitsa volunteers, I managed to gather many friends, current and former colleagues around Maxim in order to help buy expensive medicines needed to fight the disease.
T-shirts, children’s books, plush hares and cars with opening doors – we tried to do everything to make Max smile.
We have closed one meeting.
All the money, different amounts from different people from all over Kiev, went to the boy’s mother’s card, and the Vinnitsa volunteers wrote on the corresponding site about how the collection is going, what needs have to be closed, what are the histologists’ answers and what the doctors say …
Literally a month later, we closed the second collection – for a very large amount.
Every morning, I talked with the Vinnitsa volunteers, less often with the attending physician, and wrote to Max’s support group about his condition, mood, needs, small victories or troubles.
Then for a few days I fell out of life – my son got a flu – and when I returned to work and turned on my work computer, I was attacked by a mass of messages and questions about how Max feels.
Six years have passed – and I still remember how I left the office and went down the stairs one flight, closed my eyes from the sun in the windows.
I dialed the baby’s mother, whom I had called once or twice in recent weeks in order to clarify the size of Max’s clothes or what would be better for him, a car or a helicopter with flashing headlights.
After several agonizing rings, the mother answered the phone.
I apologized and asked if it was convenient to speak now.
– Yes, yes, of course… – Natalia responded.
– I just wanted to ask how Maxim feels. And ask if you need anything in the nearest future… – The sun was shining so brightly through the windows that I had to turn away, lean against the wall and study the pattern of the old tile.
– No, thank you…we don’t need anything.
“Why not?” We talked to the girls and thought about buying puzzles and finger paints so that there would be something to do in the clinic …
– We don’t need anything, thank you. – Natalia repeated.
– Then tell me how Maxim feels… – The sun was so bright, so carefree, and the mother’s voice sounded calm and even mundane.
“Maxim is dead.”
“What?”
“Maxim has died. Six days ago. We don’t need anything, thank you.”
I remember muttering my condolences on the phone and disconnecting.
I remember returning to the office and writing two terrible words to Maxim’s help group.
I remember calming the girls and forcing myself to live until the evening, when I could close myself in the bedroom and give way to tears.
I remember being afraid of my family’s questions about the boy.
I remember not getting to the bedroom and, breaking on the first question, sitting in the hallway on the floor, smearing tears.
Why am I telling all this?
Probably to the fact that even mercy and help in any of their manifestations are based on responsibility and, no matter how disgusting and heartless it sounds, on accountability.
The brown-eyed baby died, and a volunteer raising money for his treatment learned of his death from me – a week after it all happened – although he positioned himself as a person who spends day and night in the pediatric oncohematology department.
It is his right, thank him very much for his voluntary help, efforts and time spent.
But where did the money collected for the expensive medicine for Maxim, which they did not have time to buy at the time go – it remained a belated question to nowhere.
To be honest, none of the people who supported Max asked me about it.
No one asked the volunteer.
After this story, I did not find the strength to participate directly in targeted assistance, focusing on other types of charity – facing the death of children was impossible.
I decided that I would participate only in those projects that are supported by checks, numbers, seals and clear information. I transfer money only to funds I trust. I work with people I trust.
I stopped giving charity to questionable-looking women in the subway, pitifully talking about how her five-year-old baby is battling cancer and showing imaginary references.
But today, maneuvering in the human stream and having already passed the legless man in camouflage, who had become painfully familiar for the last three years, I stumbled over the young woman’s big belly and the sign “Help to collect for childbirth and cesarean section.”
Marketers from God, motherf*****s.
I hate this begging business.
Simply h-a-t-e it.
Enraged.
