Posted on by Anelemc

Little Earthquakes

August 1998

My belongings were stuffed, prodded and cursed into my 1991 Honda Civic Hatchback . Once the goods were loaded, I pushed and prodded my cousin (primo) who had gained considerable weight over the years into the car. Seven years spent in California. Seven years of struggle, frustration, immense joy and gratification with my commercial still life photography business and it took only one year, to realize it was not working. Financially drained and emotionally barren, my career was over. Running back home was not an option, but a necessity. It was time to drive east, back home to NYC.

 Little Earthquakes                                            

September 11, 2001

While en route to work, close to the World Trade Center, I witnessed black smoke coming from Tower One of the Twin Towers and immediately thought, ‘Oh Boy, Con Edison messed up big time.’

Along with many others on the sidewalk, I stopped, watched, made small talk and questioned the scene. Then…

BANG!!!!

The sound of the explosion (which later turned out to be the impact of an airplane hitting Tower Two) was overwhelming.  A bang; followed by silence. Not a bang from a hand hitting a wood table or a fire cracker exploding. The bang not belong in NYC. It was ominous and it pierced my heart. It was reminiscent of a Hollywood action movie where explosives try to obliterate the bad guys-sometimes.

From the bang emerged a fireball, horrific, with vibrant colours of yellow, orange and red. The flames billowed and flowed from the middle section of Tower Two.  It was now 9:20am.  I was late for work but instead of walking towards the job I squatted down to the ground, called my mom, and hyperventilated into my cell as she turned on the TV news for information. Unlike an etch-a-sketch where a gentle turn erases the etching in its sand-like plastic structure, the image of the tower engulfed in flames permanently engraved itself in mi alma (soul).

Little Earthquakes

 

 

 

 

 

July 31, 2009

7:00am appointment-July 31, 2009
Colonoscopy and Endoscopy @ NY Cornell-Weill Presbyterian Hospital with Dr. Crawford

Mom, my mom endured months of anemia, fatigue and going from 136lbs to 120lbs in less than two months without dieting. Although diagnosed as anemic the site of the blood loss was untraceable. Unable to walk up steps and sleeping most of the day, mom gave in to her primary care physician’s suggestion to have a colonoscopy and endoscopy.

The day before the scheduled 31st  appointment began with the “prep”- Miralax and 64 ounces of clear Gatorade, chased down with two Doculax tablets. The combination produced the desired cleansing needed for a clear colon track. Mom’s nickname during the procedure was “Shitty-Bottom”. Washington D.C. has its “Foggy-Bottom and now mom had her “Shitty-Bottom”. The nickname supplied the laughter needed as mom ran from bed to toilet.

The following day, the 31st, we took a cab from Brooklyn into the city. The cab driver maneuvered through the Brooklyn Bridge unto the FDR Drive during early morning rush hour simultaneously driving with one hand while yelling into a cell phone. The colonoscopy day, the following day began with the check in. Mom changed into a blue gown with non-slip padded bottom socks. She joked with the nurses as she lay on the procedure table waiting for the Dr. Crawford who arrived and explained the procedure and risks. Mom signed a release form absolving the hospital of procedure liabilities. The nurses nodded at me, signaling my time to leave the room and I kissed mom. As I went through the doorway, I turned back and was relieved to see mom relaxed and ready. She was 82 years old.

A week later, Dr. Crawford diagnosed mom with colon cancer as I cried hysterically in the consultation room. Uncomfortable, and affected by my reaction, he spoke softly and stated his father died of colon cancer. My crying stopped. Three weeks later I met the oncologist, Dr. Popa, who whispered to me, while mom was distracted and laughing with the medical techs, words that forever changed my life: Stage 4- Sixty percent survival rate.

I was numb, no tears this time but a tremendous surge of strength which shut down all emotional reactions and released a hyper-drive of analytical thought and rational action. Sixty percent was better than fifty. I was determined not to lose my mom that summer. It was internet research time geared towards mom’s survival; time to fight, dig, claw, scream and PRAY to get what needed to be done, done.

Four bags of blood transfusions, meeting with a cardiologist, stress tests, sonograms,  CBC’s, EKG’s, CT’s, family medical history, hot chocolate and beef patties (mom drank the hot chocolate, I ate the beef patties) mom cried only once and it was not due to the cancer but to the five hours confined to a chair receiving the transfusion. Her daily routine of soap operas, napping and futzing around the house were curtailed and she realized normal routines were not normal anymore.

During the initial consultation where the surgical procedure was drawn on paper to help mom understand, Dr. Lee inquired about setting the surgery date. I replied, “next week”, expecting his response to say in a month’s time. He scheduled the procedure for the following week. Dr. Lee performed the laparoscopic colon surgery  on mom and she was fortunate to have this doctor, who along with his colleagues created the particular procedure she would undergo. There was no apprehension towards mom’s age and Dr. Lee talked proudly of his success with the same procedure performed on a patient in their 90’s.

                                                                                 Little Earthquakes

Dr. Popa, Dr. Lee and Dr. Crawford-mom’s cancer team, saved her life and were kind through my aggressive behavior, internet research, and questions on every test, chemo coctail, port procedure, white blood cell count, CBC’s, mom went through. Mom, my mom survived the operation and endured the special diet which followed. She also handled six months of chemo coctails administered through a port inserted into a major vein near the heart, hair loss and weighed 110lbs when it was over.

During mom’s eight-day hospital stay, I did not leave her side but slept on a chair near her bed and hallucinated during the day from sleep deprivation. Some family members assumed limited responsibility towards helping mom through her recovery but the help was at their convenience while others continued onward with their lives buried in self-absorption.

Three years later, Mom, my mom now weighs 140lbs and is in remission and I am finally receiving the much needed help in calming the Little Earthquakes.

Little Earthquakes, while associated with war veterans is also linked to less severe exposure to trauma which may produce similar symptoms in various degrees.

**Mom continues at New York-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell Medical Center in NYC for all her medical needs.

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Summer time and the Sleepin’ Ain’t Easy

Summer time in Park Slope, Brooklyn is hot, sweaty, sticky and alive with vibrancy. Flowers and trees are in full bloom; Mr. Softy circumvents the ‘hood, fire hydrants spew forth NYC water through a sprinkler cap designed to conserve water for the fire fighters.

For some, it’s the start of long summer vacations, flocking to the country homes on the weekends or for the entire summer. For others, it’s barbeques in the backyard and entertaining visiting out of town guests or family. And for the other, others, it’s all about the summer food craze-Ice cream or Italian icies, outside brunch/dinner at a favourite restaurant, running through sprinklers in the neighbourhood park, or sniffing all the fire hydrants (the dogs-although some humans like to sniff).

Summer time in Park Slope, Brooklyn is oppressive humidity infused with dirt and pollution which adheres to the body. Water rates go up this time of year due to the countless amounts of showers it takes to get the stuff off. Electricity usage soars as air conditioners try to cool down overheated apartments and houses. Oh how I miss winter…

I do enjoy summer.

The fireflies, extended daylight, dew on the grass in Prospect Park, sandals, cold Chardonnay and tending my garden in the backyard make summer truly relaxing.

But…

During summer…

Not only do the freaks come out at night…

Those who drink too much come out.

Those who drink too much come out from the neighbourhood bars during the summer at 2am-4am in the morning.  Those who drink too much also come out in the winter at 2am-4am in the morning but my bedroom windows are sealed shut from the cold and buffers the tirades of those who drink too much.

I probably fit into the category of those who drink too much although my visits to bars are as infrequent as my staying up past 10pm. I cannot recall the last time I drank so much that I compare to those who drink too much who make absolute fools of themselves as they leave the bars to go home. I drink too much when at home with a bottle of wine, waiting for me after work then go to bed.

Those who drink too much leave the bars in chaos.

Screaming, physical and verbal fights, breakups, make ups and sex in cars take place during the 2am -4am hours and my ground floor bedroom window offers unlimited, live, in stereo surround sound and front row viewing to these antics of those who drink too much. Too lazy to leave the comfort of my bed, I listen as there is no mute button to push.  At times the antics have been severe and physically threatening and I’ve called the police. By the time they arrive, those who drink too much and their friends have left the scene.

Confessions of two timers, cheaters, “I hate you, you’re ugly” rants have cradled my ears as I attempt to fall back to sleep. Banging cars with their bumpers, as those who drink too much attempt to get out of a parking space disturbs my restful thoughts as I picture the possible drunk driver damage headline in next days’ news.

Every summer brings the same scenario. Every summer with the increasing heat index affects the air condition use.  Air condition usage means I close the window, obliterating the sounds from those who drink too much.

 

.   

 

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A lil Griping…

I know few people who enjoy spending 30-40 hours working for a company that is not their own. I know few people who own a business and I know few people who enjoy spending those hours with co-workers from hell.  I am one of those few people that I know.  I am also one of the millions of busy worker bees not seen on TV bragging about my wonderful fourteen hour a day job at a Fortune 500. Instead I gripe-no, it is not complaining for gripers are unique in their own right as the word gripe is. For me, griping is done silently, in the form of internal dialogue-not to be confused with voices barking out psychotic orders.

When griping graduates to redundancy and excuses are used up and I can no longer blame myself, I blame GOD and angrily ask, “Why are you punishing me? What sin did I commit that deserves this unjust reward? Where are the guardian angels, the spiritual ones, the keepers and watchers of anguished souls?  Why can I not win the lottery? If you let me win, I’d never complain about anything…EVER…again!

Of course, my questions go without response. At God’s doorstep, questions are presented and often left under the ‘Welcome’ mat. HE does not operate the way I would like HIM to and who am I to tell HIM what to do? HE may also not give me what I demand and after time has passed and I am mad at him again, I realize what was given turns out to be what was needed.

After the tantrums, the whining and sniffling centered on my wretched circumstances brought on by my own poor planning subsides- I pray. My prayers surprise me for I pray in gratitude mode, sending out thanks for the stuff that is going right, for the stuff I do have, for the stuff I enjoy and the people, I enjoy doing stuff with.

When I pray, HE listens and when I don’t, HE listens- to the silence. 

At times, I pray for better circumstance such as the time the “C” diagnosis came for a short visit, an uninvited guest who decided to move into mom, my mom’s colon. The eviction chemo was trying and draining on mí alma (my soul).  I prayed, screamed, hollered and read aloud Mathew 7 with a concentrated effort on the ask and it will be given to you part. The asking, begging and bargaining on my part was relentless. And now, three years later, I thank HIM every week, after receiving communion for saving my mom and allowing the chemo to do its’ job.

Griping about work-now back to the beginning of all this.

In due time, once the fog has rolled out or better yet after the first three weeks in this new position, I  am able to see the commonality shared with the so-called co-workers from hell.  We love to eat lunch and enjoy doing so. I will eat healthy, they will not.  I believe in integrity and working hard regardless of the crap pay and the lack of Thank Yous from the higher ups while the co-workers complain and back stab one another, smiling, as they walk out the door fifteen minutes before quitting time, well, so much for commonality.

I need to and have to work. No choice, for the bills gotta be paid and the insurance must be active. So I work, begrudgingly for I’d rather be home writing, chasing the internet, FBing, emailing and sometimes just basically wasting time while my fingers punch in alphabet keys.

Wasting time does not pay the bills-so I work, begrudgingly.

A lil griping relieves the frustration and the tension.

 

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Thank you…

Watched a replay of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductions on television and felt an intense respect towards the awardees for their lists of “Thank You” shout outs to those who shaped and maneuvered their careers. As in many interviews following an awards show, the recipient will apologize for leaving out that one important name, usually the spouse or significant other who, while supportive of their artistic other halves, dealt with a lonely household.

A public “Thank You” is gratitude and acknowledgement-giving credit where credit is due, sought of, you scratched my back, now I will scratch yours.

Often, “Thank you” is omitted from our vocabulary. Maybe we have become complacent or self absorbed to the point where acknowledging another’s deeds takes the spotlight away from ourselves.

Thank you-I appreciate what you have to offer.

Thank you-your contribution to this project was awesome.

Thank you-for doing what you had to do to get the job done.

Thank you-for donating your time.

For the most part, I try to give of myself anonymously. It is nice to remain in the background, viewing the results of my hard work and knowing the impetus for the work lies in serving a higher caller, which in turn, helps the greater good. If a “Thank You” flows my way-Wonderful! If not, no problem.

But…

The effects of a past weekend’s lack of “Thank You” in regards to my participation in an important event had me feeling bad. My Sunday routine was sacrificed in order to pick up an item and bring it to the planned event. I franticly ran up and down aisles from store to store in search of another item necessary to compliment the first item and inhaled (through my mouth) a Kit Kat bar for breakfast due to time constraints and poor planning (on my part). This was okay. I felt nothing but joyous anticipation and was happy during the event and glowing afterwards.

But…the following weekend…I learnt a lesson.

The dynamics change when a group effort with shelved out duties are involved. Before publicly announcing and publishing names in a “Thank You” speech, caution and critical thinking should be implemented before the letters of the alphabet go unto to that piece of paper. Play it safe, and if there is a group to thank, mention the group as a whole to avoid what happened to me.

The “Thank You” shout out of names for the event I participated in was published and publicly announced-EXCEPT my name, which was Left Out Completely.

I felt like one of Lazarus’ wounds waiting for the dog! I felt bad and that sent me into a feeling of worthlessness, alienation, and a depressed state of mind.  Through ruminations, talking and venting, denial and finally acceptance, the feeling bad feeling dissipated.

The lack of “Thank You” brought about a new understanding of the importance of being acknowledge and knowing someone was grateful. The acceptance part was hard but knowing there were some who knew of my input and responded to my omission verbally with, “ I saw what you did”, “You took the time to do…”, made up for it.

I will not go into specifics as to how it happened, why I think it happened, forgiveness or any other crap that comes up, for it is irrelevant and I may start to sound as a slighted BULLHORN.

I will carry forward, stronger from the experience with a major adjustment to my psyche.

And…

I will always acknowledge and show gratitude to those who have helped me by a THANK YOU that comes from mi corazón ( heart) y alma (soul)!

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For the love of Pi

Pi Patel is the other mini schnauzer in my life, eight years old and not blood related to Tobias but attached to him like Velcro, or like mustard on a baloney sandwich.

No, his name is not after pie, pizza pie, or 3.14159. His name stems from a character in one of my five favourite books. So far, two people identified the origin of the name because they read the book. Heck, he could have been named Richard but I plan to reserve that name for the kitten I hope to adopt in the future (bring on the Zrytec!).

As a rambunctious puppy, Pi Patel came into our home at the age of four months,  purchased from a pet store,  prior to my discovery of where pet shop puppies come from (the dreadful “puppy mills” ) and was quite sickly from kennel cough, which  wasn’t apparent until we arrived home.

My heart stretched at the frustrations of trying to cure my dog.

Pi Patel was suppose to be healthy, running around, frolicking like any other puppy. But, that kind of puppyhood belonged to another and not my Pi. We spent allot of time, especially in the morning, in each other’s arms.

Me, administering his antibiotics while He, struggled against receiving them.

This was our routine for a month and I believe the antibiotics later contributed to his development of food and seasonal allergies.

In time, the Kennel Cough did pass, so did the neutering, the teeth extractions, the torn dew nail,wearing the “cone of shame” on numerous occasions as well as the potted plant dirt eating incident in which he expel dirt laden stool with the help of a laxative for days on end. 

The honour and privilege of having Pi Patel in my life and home is not measurable. Of course, he’ s uba smart, knows tons of tricks and has the mental faculty to learn quickly.

Every dog has its tricks and Pi Patel is amongst them. His personality is unique and his alone. Pi’s assertiveness and aggression towards other dogs is in full force when we, as a pack, walk the streets in the ‘hood and his operatic cursing style is also his alone and cannot be replicated.

Good luck to the groomer who attempts the “schnauzer hawk” on their own Mini!

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Brother, can you spare some empathy?

It is important to be true to your beliefs whatever they mean or however you define them. As long as your beliefs are sound, non-threatening physically or emotionally to another and places no one in harms’ way.

Most importantly there are no reasons to doubt or disregard beliefs which motivate you towards feeling empathy for others. Empathy is not to be confused with sympathy. Empathy dwells in the heart, prompted by emotions and connectedness.  When a situation arises that requires its attention, it comes forth to the surface. How do you deal with your empathy?

My empathy lies in helping others, always in time of need or not, such as, assisting a parishioner up the stairs during communion, holding the door for another and not taking it personally if a thank you does not follow, offering to assist in various tasks around church and sometimes at home, etc.

I often have feelings of helplessness and a longing to have others come to my aid in time of need or not, such as, after my shoulder surgery, during mom, my mom’s chemo, etc.  I, alone am to blame for lack of empathy during these times. It was difficult to ask for help or accept empathy from another because my self-control was challenged.

I do however, find it extremely annoying and aggravating when others, especially those in the field of servicing choose to place an alarm system around their hearts, conveniently forgetting the code and forcing empathy to idle in darkness.

There are times when a slap upside the head to the one ignorant of helping another, would make me feel better. But… I do not care to have the Po-Po  called on my behalf nor do I subscribed to might equals right to get my way or better yet, who am I to project unto others what I would do.

I do not have the right to react in any other way but to help as best as I can in any given situation.

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Happy Birthday Dad

My father passed away two years ago on May 9th 2010, a day before his 90th birthday in Rose Hill, Mandeville, Jamaica. His passing took place while lying down on his bed after a meal, alone in his bedroom-hopefully in his sleep. 

The Death Certificate lists the cause of death in the following manner:

Immediate Cause

(a)    Cardio Pulmonary Arrest-
     I guess this means Heart Attack

(b)   Myocardial Infarction
I guess this also means Heart Attack

(c)    Coronary Artery Disease
This one I had to “Google”-narrowing of small blood vessels that supply blood and oxygen to the heart

Contributory

Hypertension
High Blood Pressure

Of course, there are other versions on the cause of death, closer to home and somewhat intimate and spoken long distanced, across the sea over the phone:

Choking

Dad consumed dinner then went to lie down and choked on his food.
Not sure about this one

Murder

It was poison!!!!
I’m not going there, as Jamaicans have a tendency for over the top drama as well as over the top vicious gossip-(Yes, I can stereotype, because Jamaican blood flows through me)

Whatever the cause or reason, it was Dad’s time to go whether he wanted to or not. I believe his soul now resides in a serene place, free of stress, and the physical pain that restricted his movements. No more worries over the roof coming apart during hurricane season or trying to make things right in others’ lives or drinking to dull the pain. Dad is finally home and in peace.

But…

I miss Dad, my dad-Noel Emanuel Walsh.

This time, I cannot claim a parent for myself as I do with mom, my mom. My lil bro, (although a half, as identification purposes dictate and I refuse to submit to), shares our Dad. Dad belongs to him who also belongs to me. This brings me joy in sharing a parent with a sibling whom I love.

I miss talking to Dad on any given Sunday. Occasionally he was sober and we talked for hours. Occasionally he was not and we talked for hours.

In my Dad, I saw the parts of me that did not belong to mom:

-Dad was thrifty, using 60-watt light bulbs in the house while mom preferred 100.

-He turned off lights when leaving a room while mom created a trail of lighted rooms.

-He believed in stocking the fridge and purchasing items wisely while mom-well- she did stock the fridge but watched the items go to waste because she stocked thoughtlessly.

-Mom is adventurous while Dad preferred to stay at home.

-She is extroverted. He was introverted.

-She loves girly stuff, heels and dresses and he preferred practical clothing that went from tending the field to watching a cricket match on the TV.

There are parts of mom within me such as the gift of cooking which passed over the siblings and found its way to me. I guess they got the ‘girly’ crap. I take after my Dad, after all, “I am my father’s daughter”.

I miss Dad and want to wish him a Happy Birth date.

It cannot be said over a phone call, because if I called the house number in Jamaica which still resides on my phone’s contact list, someone who inherited the phone number would probably answer it and that would not be a good thing.

So instead, I say it aloud and hope he will hear it.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

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WOWSA-an award!

Thank you terribel 85 of,  hislove is real , a wonderful blog on faith, religion, natural hair care and the trials and joys of a recent Miami transplant, for passing on the award!

In following with the rules of receiving this prestigious award I would like to present “The Versatile Blogger“to the following blogs that bring knowledge, laughter and informative bloggings into my daily life:

Benjamin Eakin  http://thoughtsfromafailedagnostic.wordpress.com/   The title speaks for itself. Thought provoking and honestly written blog on faith, addiction and everyday life.

Have dog blog will travel http://celiasue.com/   Who let the dogs out!? This blog covers everything related to dogs with a partiality to the “pits” in the house.

Zilchebooks    http://zilchebooks.wordpress.com/    I am a Kindle addict and have been for the past four years. This blog keeps you up to date on the latest software and happenings in the “Kindle world”.

Angela   http://simplycontradictory.wordpress.com/  Angela writes from the heart about everyday life living with meds, graduate school, a child, husband and dogs. Her trials and triumphs encourage those who may be in similiar situations to move forward.

http://saintjohnschurch.wordpress.com/ What can I say? My parish, yes my parish and my church.

Bryan http://chiefofleast.com/  Wonderful blog on bible versus and faith.

http://endurancegal.wordpress.com/ Keeps me pumped for running or rather penguin jogging in my case.

Seven random facts:

1. I adore playing the piano and started three years ago.

2. I like to garden and work in the backyard.

3. I am addicted to potato chips.

4. I enjoy my penguin jogging and hope to eventually enter a 5K.

5. My mom, yes my mom, Margarita is my best friend.

6. I am a License Eucharistic Minister in training, as well as an Altar Guild member and on the Vestry at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Park Slope Brooklyn.

7.  I am truly grateful for the all the sorrows and happiness in my life. It has made me who I am.

For those of you who just won the Versatile Blogger Award… Congratulations!! Now please do the following…

  1. Add the award to your blog.
  2. Thank the blogger who gave it to you and include a link to their blog.
  3. Mention 7 random things about yourself.
  4. Give the award to 15 or more bloggers.
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Un pensamiento de la manana

Attended a pastoral training workshop last weekend and it was a breath of renewal and a “skip outta my comfort zone”. The workshop was informative and invigorating as was meeting new people and hearing other points of view. I also contributed with my points of view and it was accepted. No criticisms, corrections or judgements. A nice feeling-a nice prompt to continuing “skipping”.

Familiarity is a safety net but it’s not necessarily a healthy one. One might fall through a hole in a neglected net, while a healthy net will cradle and nurture. If one’s environment does not nurture, stimulate or encourage growth then it’s time to search for one that does. This not mean abandon the old environment, rather accept it for what it is and loosen the dependency. Nuff said-babies need to walk.

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Emotional Pain

Pain-not the physical one but the emotional, deep down one that resonates from a memory of a conflict in which the receiver is left with the deposit of a throbbing, scorched, branded entity driven between the layers of the soul. And oh, so difficult to expel once its roots have found anchor.

Physical pain touches the internal or external surfaces of our bodies and produces a reaction.

A face will squeeze into a grimace, unstoppable tears flow, moaning, sighing, rocking back and forth, will dissolve once the pain ceases. Physical pain, on most occasions, leaves a visible mark for the trained and untrained eye to discover. It makes it presence known, outwardly or inwardly and arrogantly. It occurs with warning, sometimes without. It is unpredictable or predictable, quiet or loud. A simple aspirin may reduce its strength; a Vicodin will obliterate it.

Emotional pain.

Set to pounce, by way of a simple trigger, leading the soul into dark caverns without a flashlight, map or a tour guide. The bearer can easily present a smile to the world while the emotional pain carries out its silent torment inside.  It is a coward and adores sucking the fight out its intended victims. It is devious and rots away the foundation of the soul’s vibrancy and pulse. It strangles, suffocates and asphyxiates, leaving the soul disjointed, discombobulated and sucked dry like a prune in a vacuum-packed canister.

If a snap of my finger or the sucking of my lips (Jamaican style) could make the emotional pain disappear, I’d be moving forward right about now, skipping through the Long Meadow at Prospect Park and drinking ONE glass of wine a week, while aging gracefully with my weight in check.

But, no, it’s not that easy.

Analyzing, obsessive rumination, age, endless amounts of wine (preferable white) and most importantly FORGIVENESS helps at times to uproot the emotional pain from its anchor onto a more level field.  On other occasions, analyzing, obsessive rumination, age and endless amounts of wine (usually red) will impale FORGIVENESS and use it as fertilizer for the roots of emotional pain to attach deeper to the soul.

But, with darkness comes light…

With the help of therapy or alone, with a self-help book (New York Times bestseller) or a conversation with a close friend or stranger, healing emotional pain is possible.

Layer by layer or in a huge clump, dissected, torn to shreds or pieces, stomped out, extinguished or left to thaw out-emotional pain is healable.

Bring on the blow-torch and have the fire extinguisher nearby.

Change is a comin’ to my soul.