Red tape ties up Honduran grandmother’s attempt to visit teen with cancer

By MARY SANCHEZ
The Kansas City Star

If Jenesis Magana could cure cancer, she most surely would.
She’d take her background as a Kauffman scholar, her fascination with biology, her dedication to the robotics squad and figure out a thing or two. For now, though, she’s marching her tiny frame through the curvy corridors of Children’s Mercy Hospital.
Her older sister, 15-year-old Kerry Magana, is lying sedated on a ventilator in the intensive care unit. Kerry has acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Her body is rejecting the bone marrow doctors injected in September.
And Jenesis is angry. At anyone or anything having to do with her sister’s illness. She even questions medical procedures done or not done.
“I watch those TV shows,” Jenesis says. “There is always one doctor who ” disagrees with all the others and says, ‘No, I think it is this.’
Jenesis makes the remark as a statement. But it is a plea. Where is that magic doctor who will save her sister’s life?
I have no words to explain that her sister’s cancer may not be stopped, no matter how brilliant the doctor. She knows anyway.
Jenesis understands a lot for a 13-year-old. She knows why I’m there, the newspaper lady her mother, social workers and a family friend were told to call because their best bet for getting her grandmother here from Honduras is to embarrass the government into doing the right thing.
This part makes no sense to Jenesis. Or me.

Staffers with Rep. Emanuel Cleaver and Sen. Kit Bond, a public policy official with the National Council of La Raza, even connections inside the highest levels of the Department of Homeland Security — all said they would try to help. Ultimately, everyone offered the same advice: Get a splashy newspaper story done.

Kerry and Jenesis’ mother was born in Honduras and is now a legal permanent resident of the U.S. She has repeatedly applied for a visitor’s visa so her mother can come help the family, the last time with the help of a local immigration attorney. The doctors at the hospital and social workers have written letters of support to the U.S. Embassy in Honduras.

The U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services has told her that the grandmother didn’t have enough money in her bank account, then that she had too much, another time she was told she had reapplied too soon after a denial. The last time she was turned away without an explanation.
“I want my mother to see her grandchild while she is still alive,” Claudia Cabrera says, in a rare moment of raising her voice. “What do they want, her to die first?”

A single mother, twice widowed, Cabrera is exhausted and anemic. She has passed out twice at the hospital where her daughter has been since Aug. 25.

Nightly she covers herself in a long yellow sterile gown, plastic gloves and a mask to tend to her daughter, changing bedclothes and diapers regularly because of the extreme diarrhea, keeping Kerry’s open sores covered with ointment, begging her to stop fighting the ventilator.

Needless to say, I believe in the power of the printed word. And government bureaucracy is nothing new. Nor are backlogs and the complicated workings of the nation’s immigration procedures. If something is wrong with the visa application, the family needs to be told.

Ridicule by media should not be necessary to restart government cogs. That’s offensive when the issue is bureaucratic. It’s cruel when a young girl’s life may be ending.

When she rises to anger about her situation, Cabrera believes if she were wealthy, she would be able to secure the visa.

Well-placed connections have not helped. Michael Quijas befriended the family after meeting them through his daughter, who was diagnosed with the same type of cancer but is in remission now.

Quijas graduated from Shawnee Mission North High School at the same time as Julie Myers, now head of the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. He has tried to call her office, seeking advice or intervention.

“It’s so frustrating because we’ve tried everything,” he said.

Quijas is among those told that multiple stories done by Kansas City Hispanic News were nice, but not enough. Not even the segments by KMBC-TV reporter Maria Antonia would do the trick. Quijas helped package the stories, along with photos from Kerry’s 15th birthday quinceanera by the Dream Factory, to send along with medical documentation and hundreds of dollars in fees for the latest application — an expedited visa.

The U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services says such a visa “usually takes 90 to 120 days from the date of this receipt for us to process this type of case.”

So, at a time when most children her age are being tucked into bed, Jenesis is pacing the halls with me, unloading her frustration. Upstairs, her mother is curled into a ball, sobbing. She has just been told that the ventilator isn’t helping the way doctors had hoped.

Earlier, her mother had taken a pink cell phone from her bag. She tried to show that day’s photo of Kerry to Jenesis, a visual update on her sister’s condition.

Jenesis sharply turned her head away, buried her face under the crook of her arm and began to cry. She hasn’t entered Kerry’s room for a week.

And she doesn’t need a photo to understand what is happening.