The shootings senseless killing of children, black grocery shoppers, a man riding on the subway for brunch in the city, all takes a toll. Why are automatic rifles necessary? Why are guns sold to eighteen year old boys?
Covid the naysayers, anti-maskers, hyper-vigilante mask wearers with the sanitizers. One day no mask requirements next day masks and six feet apart. What happens if I only maintain five? What happens if I lower my mask to drink from my water bottle? COVID!!!
I want to rise rise above, step out the door, have hope and see the beauty in a horribly negative world filled with horribly negative people.
My thoughts are jumbled at times, racing up and down, sometimes round, wanting to settle but not able to sometimes, refusing to move or not motivated to do so. Sitting still, sitting terribly still.
My body wants gratification found only in food of the lowest kind. The more, junkier, processed and artificially flavoured, the more my body craves. Each day brings a time for change and each day brings a time for more indulgence.
Sobriety is hard to retain when the world makes you want to space out for a while. Or rather you are not capable of dealing with the world so you choose to space out, be numb, inactive, inaccessible.
Gentrification not a word I use anymore as obliteration is more fitting. Luxury high rises are multiplying like fungi while the old buildings such as my elementary Catholic school are torn down or revamped into something new and trendy for the new neighbourhood, no longer my ‘hood.
Neighbours who have known me from a baby are now old with health issues and passing on. I am now that neighbour watching the new neighbors kids grow up.
No hair straightener No botox, silicone, tucks or lifts
Cutting MY own hair
Natural feet and hands- no polish
Natural tan No umbrella needed-rain caresses my skin No stress once the body hits the bed scented with lavender Natural high from endorphins after a great run ( gotta love those opioids) Natural ability to feel, internalize and be empathic
Greens and fruit are the bulk of nutrition
The black hair dye- whichever name brand’s on sale
Listerine -to freshen and decontaminate my mouth
Teeth whitener-because the past years of smoking have done their damage
Mascara-once used to make my tiny lashes longer, but now its sole purpose is the cover the grey on my lashes and eyebrows
Black eyeliner-because the 80’s refuse to dissipate just cause we’re in 2016
Lipstick-to cover MY pink lips which were once dark back in the day when I smoked
Deodorant-actually this should go under organic since it is a stone which lets the sweat come through but not the ordour
Sunscreen-not sure why I bother but hey…
Alcohol-although it is made from natural plants
Chicken nuggets-from Chinese take-out
Andy Capp’s Hot Fries
Mi alma (soul) Mi corazon (heart) Mi cuerpo Mi vida
Homemade soap and shampoo made from shea butter and coconut milk
Playing piano Writing Running Gardening Animal nursing
Always learning and not taking knowledge for granted
Walking the fur babies this morning led to a wonderful quote from a woman I greeted with, “How are you?”
“Too blessed to be stressed”, she replied and smiled a smile that competed with the brilliance of the sun’s rays on the sidewalk
What a positive way to begin one’s day. A new day, without the anger and disappointment carried over from yesterday or the worries and fretfulness of tomorrows ‘what’s to come’.
Too blessed to be stressed.
Those words remind me to heed and acknowledge the power of Gratitude.
Gratitude often ignored, often forgotten while one concentrates on the wants of what to have, and not of what one already has.
Life gets in the way and ruins all the good thoughts.
I don’t have a shower with cold water-at least I have a shower.
I don’t like the food I’m forced to buy due to finances-at least I have food.
I don’t like the apartment I live in as it’s overheated, too humid and needs new flooring and tiles-at least I have an apartment to call my own and it keeps me warm, with a floor to walk on.
I don’t have enough money-at least I have some money.
I don’t like having to make my own lotion and shampoo because I can’t afford to buy the ‘good stuff’-at least you have the ingredients and the stove and fridge to make the lotion and the shampoo.
I don’t like Fios or Time Warner service and can’t afford the full package deal-at least I got cable and a tv to watch it on.
I can bathe, cook, clean myself up, wake up from sleeping in a comfortable bed, have fur babies whom I love ( and where my salary goes to), a salary of some sort, food (okay it’s not all organic and vegan as I’d like it to be), once again FOOD, clothing (okay most of it’s from Sears)-so I need to shut up, get my butt back into volunteering and going to church to ease my mind and get the balance right in my head.
I returned to General Practice Veterinary Medicine after four months of working 12-14 overnight shifts in Veterinary Emergency care. Time spent in ER was incredible in terms of experience gained and processing death from trauma. I truly miss the doctors and eager vet students I was fortunate to work with. Their love of medicine and the desire to save all God’s creatures from injuries was unprecedented. I realize the privilege to work with this crew and although BP misplaced me in terms of job title and where I truly needed to be, which inevitably led to my failure-I forgive. Nothing can replace what I saw, did, treated, prayed over, held as the last breath was released, can ever measure up to the experiences gained in working overnight emergency.
BP will accept me back.
More time spent in GP.
Yes. I miss ER.
My body and emotional mindset is exhausted.
I no longer shed tears at PTS’s (put to sleep).
Not in front of clients.
Not in the bathroom.
Not on the train going home.
At night, when I stare at the ceiling at bedtime.
I guess it’s all good in some sick way for I can now concentrate on the owners and offer more support from mi alma which no longer feels.
My blog on transitioning to this career has ended. My thoughts on the continuance in this career as well as school is now questionable.
The other side of this business is still present and for that matter, will always be. As long as there are insecure, unstable nurses-the Mean Girls , in this field the drama will thrive.
Don’t want to end up on NY1 so I’ve grown thick skin, a thick heart an emotional void and most importantly the desire to have only working relationship with them.
No, you are not my friend or close confident.
No, I do not need your approval to validate how I do my job.
No, I will not gossip about other co-workers, maliciously or even constructively with you.
No. No. No.
Accusing me of not cleaning?
Please watch the video.
2016 is in full string and transitions seem to be lining up. I’ve thought about leaving the state in search of Tech Nursing work. My mind is working, talking to others who have relocated and gauging if this is a necessary transition to make.
Time will tell. Actually the Fall will tell.
I’m biting at the bit and I love an adventure.
Cali, Georgia, one of the Carolina’s. Florida? Virginia, Washington, Seattle?
A tattoo drawing is now ready to be inked into my skin. Yes, another, and the design links the two, my cousin and his mother, both lives embedded in mí alma (soul).
Mom, my mom’s family and their cultures, emotionally and physically have graced many entries to this blog. Truth be known, I know more of mom’s side than of Dad’s which may be a good thing. Mom’s family were in the states, easily accessible, familiar and close by, although not necessarily close (the warmy and feely kinda close) to each other.
My aunt Peggy, mí Tía Peggy was my second mother during my early years at Berkeley Place, Park Slope, Brooklyn, when it was known as ‘the hood’ and hipsters did not exist. She lived on the third floor with my cousins.
When I came into the world, I was named after mí Tía. Her husband, my uncle, mí Tío drove mom to the Brooklyn Jewish Hospital , because, well, Dad was at work. Childbirth back then had the Dads pacing in the maternity waiting room while their wives hemmed and hawed through childbirth in the delivery room.
That, was, the protocol-back to the naming or my aunt.
Mí Tía Peggy went by her nickname of Peggy. Her real name is/was Amada E***a. Since my Dad was not present at my birth, my uncle, mí Tío named me after his wife-the E***a part of the name and not the Amada.
Why no name for the incoming or rather outgoing baby?
Need to ask mom about that one.
But, a name was given and the name became my own.
Names are peculiar on mom’s side of the family for nicknames can take the place of real names and what once was thought of as a name, a real name, becomes the nickname. At times, it’s hard to remember that the nicknames are not the real names.
I’m confusing myself right now and going way off topic. And, not everyone had a nickname and that includes me.
Tracing family roots was once an obsession for me, most especially during my studies toward the BA. Through searching, listening and relying on family oral stories, I was able to get the real names behind the nicknames as well as the towns in Honduras where aunts and uncles were born.
As far as tracing people and connections, I realized mom’s family tree is a broken one. The roots of her tree exist but the branches, stretching long and thick in some areas and dangerously thin in others often led to dead end ends.
Now onto the tree-the Mulberry tree.
The Mulberry tree is a peculiarity in the ‘hood. Back in the day, neighbours often complained of these trees and hired tree cutters to remove them for their yards. Mulberry trees produce berries, lots of berries from dark purple to ruby red. These berries stain everything it comes into contact with. From white sneakers, to clothing to concrete sidewalks-if the berry touched, it left its impossible to remove stain behind.
This tree and the berries hold a special place in mi alma because it reminds me of mi tia and my cousins.
When we were young and cooped up indoors, on the third floor, due to rain or too hot to venture outdoors we made jam. Jam from the berries of the Mulberry tree, set on a stove, mixed in with Domino sugar and spread warm and soothing on Wonderbread-white bread before whole wheat, before gluten free, before…the inability to be a kid hanging with your cousins gave way to playing video games in front of a computer.
Mí primos and myself would gather on the third floor fire escape and grab at the branches of the tree from the neighbouring yard plucking the berries bare from the limbs. We even devised a system of wrangling branches out of reach with a rope.
My aunt was amazing with us in that she kept us active and intrigued. Bicycle riding in Ppark when it was Prospect Park, the park one did not venture in at night, visiting the Botanical Gardens before it became “the” Botanical Gardens with its fancy horticultural courses and fine dining.
Anyway, the bottom line is I miss my cousin and the memories I have of his mother, my aunt, most especially in the house we were raised in, the house I am in now, which will always remind me that I come from not a broken family but a family that is strong, creative and alive.
Yesterday, I saved a dog on a Saturday morning in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
He was running across a busy street known as Prospect Park West, adjacent to Prospect Park in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
I was on my way to work at the clinic about to cross this street to walk on the side of the park when a dog ran into the middle of traffic.
I ran out into the middle of traffic to stop the cars from potentially running over the dog.
The dog and myself were lucky enough to not meet HIM, our maker that day. I was able to hold back traffic but not the dog, now running down a block. The Farmers Market was taking place at the time so lots of humans were roaming the area. I called out to a jogger, “Please grab the dog”. He did so, hesitantly.
I made my way towards the dog and slowed down my pace as I approached it with my hand extended. The dog sat down, tail wagging and the jogger released his hold on the harness.
I wrapped my fingers around the metal link and did not let go.
The dog had tags on the collar…!
I sat on the curb, with Gus leaning on me, as a small crowd of witnesses gathered. I called the owners, balancing the tag with the info and punching the numbers into my cell. Others from the crowd volunteered to hold Gus.
I was not going to let this angel out of my fingers.
A voice responded to my call and the wife of the husband who was walking the dog in Prospect Park was hysterical. She was at work and had no idea this transpired. I told her our location and promised to wait until her husband arrived.
Meanwhile the crowd slowly dispersed as I relayed the information about the owner coming.
Boy…was I gonna be late for work.
I’ve worked at PPAC for over a year now and cannot recall a time I was late.
It was hard to move with him as he was too big for me to carry with my bags and I had no leash to guide him but we made our way over to a nearby bench.
I heard the husband-owner calling to Gus before seeing him as my back was turned to the side. He ran up to us and Gus was so excited to see his owner. He thanked me profusely, saying I saved his kids’ lives because if he returned home without Gus, they would be devastated. He apologized and admitted while in the park with Gus, he took his eyes off him for a moment, and he was gone. He wanted my address, to send flowers, to drop off a gift. I declined and I stretched out my hand. He grasped it firmly and we shook. He had tears in his eyes and I almost broke down crying.
Prior to this happening I was making my way to work was feeling discouraged and experiencing serious second doubts about my career choice. It can be frustrating and confusing at times when doubt seeps in the alma.
I love climbing mountains, and I love challenges and I feel stuck in a rut right now-a rut caused by my own psyche and wanting to know everything all at once.
Gus was a sign, in a strange way. Meeting him on that Saturday morning was a wake-up call.
I am, where I am supposed to be right here and now.
When I made it to work, I was deemed a hero. I saved Gus’ life. The owner (wife) phoned and asked for my info to send a gift.
I told her I was a vet tech and she laughed and said Gus was lucky to have run into me. She asked where I worked and I told her. Hopefully, we’ll get another client.
In the meantime, thank you Gus.
Yesterday, a dog named Gus saved me on a Saturday morning in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
My cousin Zarak Mohandas Delattibodier has kidney disease and received dialysis two to three times a week.
He needs a kidney.
A donor was identified and during the beginning stages of gathering donor information, he developed an infection in the mitral valve of his heart.
The infection was resistant to antibiotics.
Zarak also had severe periodontal disease.
The hospital released my cousin after a four-day stay and sent him home with antibiotics for the heart and dental appointments to begin work on the perio. One week later, Zarak had difficulty breathing and went back to the hospital where he lost consciousness and was placed on a ventilator and an iv catheter with major antibiotics.
The infection of the heart was fungal.
Mi pimo’s body was too weak to fight. He coded numerous times and stabilized with resuscitation but brain damage may have occurred and he could not breathe on his own.
The ‘No Resuscitation’ directive was put in place. Then rescinded by his wife who is separated from him.
Mi primo is no longer hurting…
No anxiety about the kidney donor’s health condition or going through dialysis
Mi primo is no longer hurting…
He may pass on in California, where he wanted to live and will receive a military burial
Mi primo is no longer hurting…
He’ll join his mom, mi Tía, whom he loved and whose hand he held as she drew her last breath
Mi primo is no longer hurting…
He can play his sax and jam with the angels
Mi primo is no longer hurting…
He can eat all the beef jerky, fried chicken and fries he desires with Excelsior Cabernet
Mi primo is no longer hurting…
He doesn’t have to carry the weight of his family’s dysfunction on his back anymore
I wish the decision could be made to turn off the switch that would enable his alma to be free…