The week that started with a funeral ended with a wedding amidst the bees and the birds and the flowers and the trees of the horticultural society in Wellesley.
In between these two events I had my left wrist injected with cortisone to put an end to a debilitating tendinitis. The cortisone will kick in, according to the hand doctor, by the time I reach Ouagadougou. This means I am
traveling there with my left hand in the old brace, leftover from the carpal tunnel period fixed in Dubai several years ago. The brace helps to solicit assistance heaving my carry-on wheelie in the overhead bin. It worked beautifully and even kept the seat on my left unoccupied on the first leg of my trip.
I am leaving what is New England at one of its best periods: warm, the water swimmable (which few people would ever call warm), lobsters for dinner, crabs jostling into our traps, raspberries ready and a vegetables garden overflowing with greens, while the tomatoes and potatoes are readying themselves for our dinner table. And then little Faro never more than 3 hours away; his new yellow crocs awaiting him to be tested out in lobster cove alongside his Opa who also got new yellow crocs.
And here I am once again in a plane, once again on my way to Francophone Africa, to add my contributions to those who are advocating for better leadership, management and governance of health programs in West Africa.
Sylvia's Journal 
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