Soundtrack of My Life

I don’t know about some of the rest of you, but with almost every significant moment in my life, there’s an equally significant song that has branded my memory to associate that said moment with.  As of late, I’ve been re-savoring these said moments – for reasons unbeknownst to me.  For those unknown reasons I simply smile to relive where I’ve come and how far I’ve come. 

For artistic reasons, these moments I describe and associate songs with are told in a kind of shuffled order.  

…(Summer of 2010)...One afternoon in the foggy summer’s day riding and peddling the hilly streets of San Francisco, after leaving a rondevu with co-workers and supervisors (who I looked at more as friends) as I made my rounds to say good bye to a city that had forged so much for me, a quiet and soft song queued on my iPod.  A song that almost whispered to me of returning to these wondrous streets of cable cars, eclectic characters, and iconic sights; “Do you have to…do you have to…do you have to let it linger…Oh you know I’m such a fool for you… you got me wrapped around your finger…do you have to let it linger.”  That song by the Cranberries speaks to me of my love for the city by the bay; how I’m hopelessly intoxicated by its originality, by its intrigue, by its allure, but most importantly by its people, and how I came into my own there.    

…(July of 2012)...One angry and stormy night in July, I found myself alone and hearing devastating news of my dad’s health.  The words: stage four, terminal, 12 months to live echoed in my ear as I simultaneously collapsed in a rage of tears and sorrow.  After many more words and tears exchanged between father and daughter in a cross country call I promised two things: one to make the arrangements to come home to California, and two, to get some friends over and help me get through the night with devastating news and an angry storm.  Before those two dear friends came rushing over in loving aid and presence, the rock song with heavy emotion from 3 Doors Down came on…  “It's down to this, I've got to make this life make sense; Can anyone tell what I've done.  I miss the life.  I miss the colors of the world.  Can anyone tell where I am 'Cause now again I've found myself so far down, away from the sun, that shines into the darkest place I’m so far down, away from the sun again.”  It was all I could do, to feel thrown in that darkest place, as I tried with all my might to simply walk down the second floor hall, but instead found myself gripping the banister railing to keep me from totally falling in a rage of sorrow that pierced my gut.  As I crouched there in a haze of tears and screams, one hand on the banister, the other on the opposite wall, it was all I could do to inch myself closer to the stairs to get to the first floor before my friends arrived.  

…(Fall of 2009)...Another song, sung by none other than the Michael Jackson, graced my ears one afternoon, after being distraught from friends and confusion.  It was all I could do and hop on my bike (yet again) and sail down a steep 45 degree downward decent from my San Francisco abode to the sands of Ocean beach.  As I listened to the hums and rhythms of the opening melody, it granted me an instant serenity.  “Hold me; you are my friend; carry me; love me; will you be there; when wrong will you scold me; when lost will you find me; care enough to bare me…”  As the words resonated with me, the sunset I gazed at, as I continued to soar downhill, embraced me, and all I could do was surrender with arms wide open (still on my bike) into the sunset.  And in an instant, serenity overwhelmed me.  

 …(December 2010)...One serial afternoon I found myself visiting San Francisco via the underwater rail system (BART) one late December day, after living and teaching in Philadelphia for a mere 5 months.  It was Christmas break, and I was home for the holidays!  As I anticipated the city that I love so much and all its sights, sounds and people Vanessa Carlton’s blissful keyboard playing arose on my iPod just as I stepped off the BART train and up the escalator to the hilly streets of the city and song “San Francisco.”  “I know what you did; Like a boy of summer gives his first kiss; Love, is dancing on my finger; Now I'm walking with the living; I always liked Steinbeck and those old men whistling; We're back, we're back in San Francisco; We're back and you tell me I'm home; Talking in the Mission; Over coffee this is my utopia…” The song and its melody sang to me of my love of my city. 

…(Spring 2006)...Walking through the coble stoned streets of Rome one warm spring day, I and new earned dear friend and I played hooky from our study abroad class.  Italian Cinema; eh, I’ll pass for one day!  Passing the flower covered Spanish Steps, the tourist packed Trevi Fountain; and charming and quaint streets till we passed other ancient landmarks preserved in a modern city full of romance, subways, busses, food and delicious gelato.  In an instant; on this delightful sunny day; we both impromptu put on the first song in her iPod: “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield.  “Staring at the blank page before you, Open up the dirty window, Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find.  Reaching for something in the distance, So close you can almost taste it.  Release your inhibitions.  Feel the rain on your skin, No one else can feel it for you. Only you can let it in.  No one else, no one else, Can speak the words on your lips.  Drench yourself in words unspoken.  Live your life with arms wide open.  Today is where your book begins.  The rest is still unwritten.”  As we strolled down Roman streets sharing earphones, a kind of beauty and potential for my life came over me.

…(September 2008)...In another moment, James Taylor and his soothing vocals played in a Tai restaurant a block away from Golden Gate Park, as two friends sat across from each other in a kind of unrequited love.  “I’ve seen fire, and I’ve seen rain.  I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end…I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend…but I always thought that I’d see you again…”  As my heart was aching in this moment of unreturned love, I listened to this song as a promise of retaining a dear friend.   

…(November 2011)...In the final stretch of my second marathon, I found myself searching for a power song to carry me the rest of the way down the scenic Kelly Drive.  Florence + The Machine should surely do the trick!  “Dog Days Are Over, and it’s playful trickle like melody was the winner.  “The dog days are over.  The dog days are done.  The horses are coming.  So you better run.  Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father.  Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers; Leave all your love and your longing behind.  You can't carry it with you if you want to survive.”  In the height of autumn colors and leaves, I ran and sprinted down that final Philadelphia marathon stretch without an ache in my body…that is not until I finally crossed the finished line; then I could barely walk.  What can I say; 26.2 miles will do a number one you.  Lots of ice!  

…(January 2010)...In another instant I found myself by coincidence reconnecting with a missed connection of a fireman.  A tall and handsome brown haired and eyed man and I almost collided on ice in the middle of Union Square, San Fran over holiday ice skating.  What were the odds I’d run into this dangerously charming man?!  One or two weeks later (like it matters now) him and I gravitated towards each other over Naun and Curry, Mass, and dare I say rock climbing.  Nothing like muscles, sweat, and our bodies sprawled on a rock wall to build some tension!  Needless to say it was a short lived lil romance; especially since I was about to move to Philadelphia to teach intercity youth; yet I found myself in my SF abode cooking dinner as my Pandora played, “Here we go Again” by Demi Lavato.  “So how did you get here under my skin; Something about you is so addictive; We're fallin' together; You think that by now I'd know; 'Cause here we go go go again; But I start to go insane; Everytime that you look at me; so here we go again.”  How was it that I fell for this man’s charm again?  Shake the dust off - it's all good.  

…(Spring 2009)...One spring day turning to evening I joyfully hopped on my bike, zipped and zoomed through the twilight lit streets and iconic campus of Berkeley.  In this moment I felt a sense of zeal for life after leaving a dual campus ministry event between two Newman clubs, that I had a large part in forming.  In this high of joy and bliss MC Hammer and one of his better known hits, hit my ears – “U Can’t Touch This”  “Give me a song, or rhythm…Make 'em sweat, that's what I'm giving 'em…Now, they know…You talking about the Hammer you talking about a show…That's hype, and tight…Singers are sweating so pass them a wipe…Or a tape, to learn…What's it gonna take in the 90's to burn…The charts? Legit…Either work hard or you might as well quit…That's word because you know... You can't touch this.”  Without a doubt, I felt nothing could “touch” me. 

…In the fall of one of the years I addressed San Francisco, my dear Ethiopian and alluring friend/coworker and I departed from an evening gathering of prayer, as we both by spontaneous chance began obnoxiously singing to Don Mclean’s “American Pie,” in his car, riding through a moonlit night in Golden Gate Park.  “We were singin' bye-bye, Miss American Pie; Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry; Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye; Singin' "This'll be the day that I die; This'll be the day that I die"”   For a friend that challenged me quite a bit in my Catholic beliefs; but who also brought out a care free kind of go with the flow way of being, I felt a huge sense of gratitude for him in my life and the gift of his friendship. 

…(Spring 2011)...Bright and early one spring Monday morning, before the sun had even completely risen, I found myself driving through Center City Philadelphia on interstate 676, before transferring to interstate 76 on route to my classroom in intercity West Philly.  First year teacher; Monday morning; coming off the weekend – need a say more?  I needed a Monday boost of energy to kick start me – and my two cups of coffee clearly wasn’t enough!  Queue Jennifer Lopez’s “Let’s Get Load” please!  “Let's get loud, let's get loud; Turn the music up, let's do it; C'mon people let's get loud; Let's get loud; Turn the music up to hear that sound; Let's get loud, let's get loud; Ain't nobody gotta tell ya; What you gotta do.”  There’s something about the song’s contagious energy that gave me the energy to handle the energy of my boisterous students.

You may ask yourself, why do you smile at some of these moments; as some are clearly painful?  To which I simply say, all good, bad, difficult, joyful, have made me into the strong independent woman I am; full of opinion (sometimes to the dismay of my family, as some opinions have changed), full of life and itching to live and see more of life here in California and elsewhere.  These moments remind me that if this is how colorful, eccentric, exciting and passionate life is now at 20-something, imagine how much more there is to discover. 

The Heart of the Matter

Shocked and appalled was how I found myself this time last year.  Today, I stand in the shadow of my former self re-reflecting on a culmination of events that was perpetrated against me; and one word comes to mind: forgiveness.

For reasons I suspect, but will likely not ever fully know or understand, I was deeply hurt.  Without going into detail, circumstances were blown out of proportion; I was made a scape goat; certain avenues were not honored; and when I made my claim, the rug was pulled from underneath me.  Wolves haunted me while crows heckled at me, and despite my best efforts to hold my own (believe me, when I say I did), I was powerless to stop it – any of it. 

In the midst of the cascading events, truly I was beside myself.  Events that stemmed months prior to the culmination replayed over and over in my mind like a broken record - as I wracked it - trying to figure out where I went wrong, or what I could have done differently.  Clearly some miraculous epiphany was what I was searching for in my memory to know how I could have changed the outcome.  True to many stages of grieving, I blamed myself. 

Days, weeks and even months after the climaxtic ending waking up in the aftermath, I was at the mercy of the emotions that followed.  Some days it was all I could do to cry – earphones in and lying in the grass - as I thought of what was taken from me.  Other days it was all I could do to yell and scream in rage as I slammed doors at the injustice, manipulation, and abuse of power that was committed against me.  Truth be told, these escalating events even haunted me in my sleep as I’d wake up suddenly reliving scenes from spiraling events.  Never before have I felt so deeply hurt before – honestly and truthfully. 

From where I sat in the midst of these heated and hurt emotions, it wasn't until three distinct friends of mine on three separate occasions suggested to me to forgive persons I was holding resentment towards.  It was an enormous idea and dare I say task – this idea of forgiveness. 

“How could I?”
“They don’t deserve it!”
“They haven’t earned my forgiveness.” 
“I want them to feel the hurt I feel!”
“I’m not ready to forgive!” 

Fortunately for myself these friends reminded me of something. The remorse I was aching for from these persons wasn't going to come.  In other words, some kind of resolve or apology wasn't going to happen.  I was waiting for a healing word to come from these people, an apology in a bottle; maybe a flare that says, "I'm sorry," and the hurting left me numb. And as days went by, and the sun settled on my anger, so did the darkness laugh, as the wound destroyed, thus turning my prayers to noise.  The bitterness I was hiding would eat me alive; it would seep into my soul (without me even being suspect of it) and steal my joy.  A joy that many know me for would indeed be robed from me, till all I might now is bitterness.  Thus, I needed to let it go, and not be held down by a hurtful past.  Knowing I can’t change the past, as much as I’d like to.  In a word: acceptance. 

Something to be grasped, as I walked this road, I realized something: forgiveness isn't something to be earned, rather it is given, without an expectation of any resolve in return.  Most people associate forgiveness with letting the perpetrators off the hook, an out of jail free card if you will, an attitude of “it’s okay” (when it’s really not).  Rather, forgiveness, as I've come to learn again, is more of a reconciling within of actions that caused so much hurt, and then and there reconciling those feelings.  Then in turn, to forgive the inexcusable in the other; not forgetting, rather understanding the human in them.  In essence, it’s not sweeping it under the rug, its water under the bridge; where one image pretends it’s not there, the other accepts that it has passed.  Letting it go, and moving on. 

That is not to say that the essence of this word didn't come without much struggle; in fact it came with ample struggle.  After all, in the words of Alexander Pope, “to err is human, to forgive, divine.”  To say that there isn't the struggle; would suggest that there wasn't an offence made; hurt done; thus nothing to forgive.  But no matter it something as petty as a lie; or something as hurtful as betrayal, it still boils down to forgiveness.  Forgiveness surely doesn't happen overnight; without a doubt forgiving takes time – as it did for me. 

Will I forget what happened?  No.  But I have learned a lot about myself in the process.  I've learned what I’m capable of facing head on.  I've learned that I gave it my best effort – and put up quite a fight.  I didn't go quietly if you will – and for that I’m proud.  As cliché as it sounds, it has made me stronger.   

And so it goes, the age old question: can you forgive if you can’t forget?  Sure.  Forgiveness doesn't imply amnesia.  Rather forgiveness implies an interior strength greater than the hurt; greater than the emotions that drive us away from peace within.  And in time, time does heal all wounds – and I’d add: if you allow it to.

“The more I know, the less I understand

All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning them again

I've been tryin' to get down to the Heart of the Matter

But my will gets weak

And my thoughts seem to scatter

But I know it's about forgiveness.”

~India Arie 

Never You Mind

(Just a couple of disclaimers, one: this entry is not for the faint of heart.  Two: many lines in this entry are inspired and paraphrased from a many of musical artists that a dear friend of mine recently burned for me as an encouragement for these hard times I’ve been facing.  Music, does have a many healing powers – at least I believe so.  And so, I cannot take complete credit for this entry.)

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.” 

― Maya Angelou

It’s often said that anger is just anger. It’s neither good. It’s neither bad. It just is. What you do with it is what matters. It's like anything else. You can use it to build or to destroy. You just have to make the choice.  Well, it was brought to my attention through a friend that I might be projecting my anger of my current situations. 

Truth be told, I know I am.  And I’m not just angry, I’m pissed and enraged; I’m one or two mishaps (depending on the day or my time of the month) from blowing a fuse.  It’s not like me, and I know it.  Try as I may to shake it off though, this anger is proving to be a stubborn parasite.     

Well in the mist of this parasitical anger I was reminded of another dime a dozen self- help books my grandparents gifted me after I graduated from high school. Through reading page after page (years ago) I learned all kinds of “truths” that I have truthfully rejected about the idea of anger’s opposite – happiness.  Like, happiness is a choice.  In part sure, but in all circumstances you can’t help but feel angry or sad – it’s natural to feel that way, so excuse me if I’m not perky, cheerful and optimistic given my circumstances!  Or another “truth” like it’s my moral or social obligation to be happy around anyone and everyone.  Surly, I’m not going to be a hot mess throughout my day, but there is only so much of a façade I can paint. 

Through silent car rides and conversations gone ape shit, I’ve deduced that this parasitic anger is a result of my circumstances that are truly out of my control. Watching my dad face and battle a kind of terminal cancer – outta my control.  An unexpected diagnosis of amnesia had by my sister and all the implications that come with it – yup outta my control.  Knowing I need to be home and available to a certain degree to my family, but still living in the trenches of what that reality is – to an extent outta my control, but I know I can’t simply run away and abandon what that is.  Frustrating? Tiresome?  You can’t believe how much it is. 

Somewhere in between dealing with the cancer battles, and taking care of my sister, or feeling tired and unsatisfied from this hamster wheel, or craving a space of my own, I’ve lost my joy; I’ve lost who I am.  And I don’t know how to get back to where I once was.  That, and this, is what has made me so irate. 

Thus from where I sit, people (be it I ask or not) have felt the need to prescribe their philosophical therapy of wisdom.  Some of which is welcomed (you know who you are), but some of which is not.  And I’m tired of the unwelcomed “wisdom,” because if all it is, is cliché mantras, and fortune cookie advice, save your breath!  It’s not doing anything for me!  If anything it’s more insulting, that my struggles would be reduced to something so simplistic.   

I don’t wanna hear you say that this will all make sense some day!  Cuz it doesn’t help me today. 

I don’t wanna hear you say that I should unite my sufferings with Christ’s sufferings!  Cuz his suffering happened more than two millennia ago, and mine are today, right now. 

I don’t wanna hear you say that my anger and sadness is a choice! Cuz sometimes a silver lining isn’t enough to make the wrongs seem right. 

Spare me the tough love talk of starving and dying kids in Africa, and how they’re able to retain their happiness!  Cuz, what deep pain are you holding right now that you can begin to compare to mine, that would justify you pulling the Africa card on me?!

Surly, there’s that great God in the sky saying, “you got to come on up! You got to hold on. You got to wait.”  To which I say, very simply,” I don’t wanna wait.  I got so much to do, I ain’t got much time.”  If it’s always darkest before the dawn, I must insist and persist; how long is that darkest?

Can you tell there’s a lot of anger in me right now?  Good.  Now, as it were, all my ranting begs a certain question.  How can anyone truly comfort those who morn, weep, cry, or suffer from anger of a situation, such as myself? 

For starters, don’t feel obligated to “fix,” those who morn or suffer, at least not right away.  Just give me a bit of your time.  That does a world of good.  You can’t imagine how many people have told me, to my face no less, “oh, I’ve been meaning to call you, your mom, your dad; or go see them for that matter.”  Well then go and do it.  What’s stopping you?  And if you think telling me all your empty should’ve(s) would’ve(s) could’ve(s) make anything, any better, you’re mistaken.  For many it’s a thirty car pile-up.  And when I start to question, they throw their little hands up.  So just stop.  Actions versus empty broken record words, talk is cheap; ‘nuff said. 

Another thing, do me a favor: minimize the hard realities.  Tell me bad news comes, and say don’t you worry, even when it lands.  Cuz good news will work its way to all them plans.  We’ll float on; good news is on the way.  And we’ll all float on, okay?  Show me some kindness and remind me that we’ll always have each other; each other’s friendship – a real kind of friendship.  Say that the better part of me is lost, but only for now. 

And yes, I’ll be the first to admit I’m stuck in a moment, and I just can’t seem to get outta it.  And if only for a little while, I can just leave my worries in the corner, ignore them for a moment, leave then in a big pile and find a simple distraction, I’ll be okay.   Help me to just laugh it off, okay?

So in the meantime, or in between time I’ll simply fix my mind on that crystal day.  Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind; or so I try.  So for now, I try to look to the positive, and work to look past my worries, and just tread water.   

And so it goes, if you are unfortunate enough to ask me that dreaded “comforting” question: how’s the family?; or your quick fix one liners slip their way to me; or your unwarranted philosophical wisdom comes my way, I might just reply, “never you mind!” 

“Anybody can become angry — that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way — that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.” ― Aristotle

Some parts of this entry inspired by the following musical artists:  LCD Soundsystem, Modest Mouse, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Alabama Shakes, Incubus, Florence + the Machine, De La Soul, Yo La Tengo, Gillian Welch, Creed.  

Teacher Meets Student

"One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child."  ~ Carl Jung

For myself there were many teachers that touched on my feelings; that gave warmth to my growing soul, but none quite like one teacher.  She was the first teacher growing up that inspired me, of whose class I loved, and always think fondly of.  For me, she preceded all my other teachers I think fondly of; when I think of my significant teachers, I think of her first and foremost. 

When I was a young girl, I pined over Ms. Johnson.  A teacher that was considered “that” teacher, everyone raved about her.  My first memory of her was a school rally of sorts, while I watched her so enthusiastically rally her class, into a cheer that their loud and voluminousness cheer jokingly gusted her over, as her class smiled and laughed in agreement and comradery.  So when I came to be a 5^th and 6^th grader, I yearned and crossed all my fingers and toes to be assigned to Ms. Johnson’s class.  Much to my delight I was! 

While in her class she was everything a teacher should be, and everything a young kid could want: she was young cool and hip, she had command over the class.  She taught with conviction and passion. The self-assurance and enthusiastic presence in the classroom was infectious.   If ever we didn't meet her expectations, or misbehaved for her or any substitute there was sure terror in our bodies.  She cared about her students and was involved in school activities, and we loved her for it – all of it!  Without a doubt Ms. Johnson rattled me when I slacked off; and because I was eager for her approval, I was eager to atone for my lack of work.  She poked fun at us – myself included – and let us do the same to her.  In fact, one of us did just that in their daily journals; Ms. Johnson would be the lead character on some epic, embarrassing, and elaborate story, that this student reveled in sharing with the class (every day), and Ms. J would grin over in amusement.  Truth be told, before Ms. Johnson I don’t quite remember enjoying school quite as much as being in her class.    

So as I’ve been reconnecting with friends from my youth while acclimating back home, my longest friend to date and I tried visiting Ms. Johnson, more than a decade after leaving her class.  Well, that reunion of sorts finally happened: what a treat is was! 

What turned into a failed attempt to visit her at her current school, turned into a thread of emails back and forth trying to find a day and time to meet up and catch up.  Wouldn't you know the only good time was a classic happy hour rondevu?   As that day approached, so did my anticipation to connect with my favorite grade school teacher.  After getting off work late, and rushing to meet Ms. Johnson, I finally made it to the restaurant, not before making it inside when I heard a familiar voice say, “so do you get a detention for being late?”  What a witty ambush greeting! 

Sitting across the table during happy hour with my former teacher that taught me when I was eleven and twelve was a delightful and unreal encounter!  Over the course of the night as we shared nachos, a quesadilla, sipped our booze, and shared highlights and low-lights with each other from the past ten plus years.  Much to my pleasant surprise, commonality of many things are surprisingly shared between former student and former teacher: a parent who battled, and is now battling cancer, similar travel experiences and aspirations, parallels in family roles we both have in common, and a similar outlook and attitude on many a things.    

As I sat there across the table from my former teacher, I thought: what an awesome moment!  For a teacher who once taught me as a shy and tubby girl, to now sharing how far I’ve come in all my endeavors thus far: unreal.  For a teacher who inspired, and delighted me as a child, to now be speaking on adult terms with, and all the swear words that come with it (and without the threat of a call home): amusing!  For a teacher who taught me more than just reading, writing, and arithmetic, but how to be confidant, bold and determined, to now be sharing more in common with her than the fact that I can now drink, but that we could exchange stories of teaching, of cancer battles, of family drama, of dating and life: sublime! 

At one point over the course of appetizers and conversation, I felt a full circle of sort of feeling.  Here sitting across from me was my former teacher, who I adored (and still do), and hearing her recall and remember all these traits that was me when I was a quite girl with big rimmed glasses, but also someone who she saw took care of people around me, to hear in so many words give me affirmation of who I was then, but to affirm how far I’ve come, and the growth she saw in me that night.  To put that feeling in a word: uplifting! And for that there is much gratitude!

Before this delightful rondevu of sorts I was invited over the thread of emails back and forth to address Ms. Johnson by means of her first name.  Suffice it to say, I couldn't quite bring myself to initially.  If memory serves me right, I said that was more surreal than the thought of having “adult beverages” with her.  Yet after a night of good food, drinks, conversation and a pleasant reunion, she referred to me as a friend, that she’d enjoy doing this again.  And so it goes, I could finally make that leap from looking at her as my fond teacher Ms. Johnson, to a new mentor and friend, Gloria!  

At a Loss with the Hard Truth.

Suffice it to say that the past two weeks have been an emotional roller-coaster! 

With the news via phone call that my dad was rushed to the ER one night for 14 and a half hours, and a week later learning that further chemotherapy treatment would be in vain, and in turn hearing three more months to live (at best), I’ve been a wave of delicate emotions. 

The first news came right after an amusing phone call from a dear Philly girl friend of mine.  We caught up like we always to, with our dear added friendly factitious commentary, and spoke of things that are ahead for both of us, that we’ll be eager to hear more of later for sure.  After getting off the phone, I noticed I had a missed call from my mother.  Naturally I called back, but alas, got the voicemail.  Being a dutiful daughter, I called the next person in line who might know something – Joey, my brother.  The words, Dad, and the emergency room came out of the same breath; and I stopped!  Now, as expected I started asking lots of questions, of why?  For anyone who knows my little brother, knows that those answers are sometimes difficult for him to articulate.  Worried, and scared of the reasons, I rushed home; not before sending a mass text to friends of what I just learned!  I didn’t know how else to cope at the time.  Rapid lane changes and many tears later, I got home to find only Joe home.  Getting voicemail after voicemail from my mother’s cell, I didn’t know what to do. 

Thank God for friends who stepped up to the plate, and who were able to think more rationally then I at the moment.  A dear friend, Amy, called right away, and after a very short conversation offered and insisted with the company of Ruwanka,(another friend), to take me to the ER with my younger sister; of whom walked in the door moments after I got in. 

As we drove the 7 minute drive to Kaiser’s ER, I didn’t say a word.  It was all I could do, to hold back my tears.  After, getting in to a crowded and distraught ER (not that I’ve ever been to a chipper one), the four of us sat down and waited for my mom to come out, so we could take turns visiting with my frail and weak dad.   As I walked into my father’s ER cubical defined by a curtain, what struck me the most was how fragile he looked as he laid there on a narrow ER bed; hooked up to I.V.’s and monitors, beeping and flashing like a quite metronome.  At this moment, I thought: is this the beginning of the end?  What’s the next defining moment in this awful battle with cancer? How much more will this hurt? 

As I sat next to my dad, and listed to him speak of this ER visit, it took everything I had to stay composed.  He spoke of his doctor receiving CAT scan test results back, and noticing that his four cancer lumps had grown, and that there were even more lumps that formed as well.  Yet what alarmed the doctor the most was a blood clot in his lung.  As I sat there listening to my dad; gazing at my dad, all I thought was, how much I love him, and how much more time I wanted with him under different circumstances.  Now, as I sat in this ER cubical with my dad with a terminal illness, that is slowly taking his life, I finally – since the rapid lane change car ride back to the house – began to shed tears. 

After my time with him, I walked back to the waiting room, so as to let my younger sister have her turn with our dad.  Many moments later, she too came out, in tears, probably thinking similar things as me.  It wasn’t until the next afternoon (14 and a half hours later, and my mom staying every minuet), that my dad was finally released. 

Now, a week’s time later, both my parents come home from a doctors meeting, with grim news.  As both sisters and I sat and stood on the back porch, we listened to an update that revealed to us that the cost of further chemotherapy would outweigh the benefit – in other words live out the rest of your life.  And the rest of that life is three more months at best.  I watched my little sister shut down and break down inside, and my older sister seem confused as she struggles with being detached, and having a sense of emotional implications.  And as for myself; I pushed the emotion down, walked away from the conversation with a simple statement: “well I’ve gotta get ready for work.”  And work I went to that day, and all was fine, until I was off the clock, and I sat in my car, about to put the key in the ignition, when the grim news from the morning finally hit me.  Three months at best to live, after all the chemo, after all the hope, at best: three months.  The tears came rushing down… 

In that week, I remember breaking down and balling over the phone to a friend, as he gave me words of comfort.  In that week, I remember emotions being high, and tensions being higher as my members of my family (and I) continued with the week.  In that week I remember spending time in morning Mass and breakfast at I Hop as my friend embraced, comforted and consoled me in word and hug.  In that week I remember it finally affecting me at work, and feeling embarrassed about it too, (as I pride myself being able to detach from any stress or drama once I’m in the work place).   In that week, I remember getting chocked up about it as girl friends and I cracked open two bottles of wine. 

As I look at my dad now, he’s impressively kept a constant calm over the whole situation and illness.  He’s not afraid of death.  Talk to him about it, he’ll say he’s lived a full life: went to and graduated from college, raised a family, and did a fare about traveling.  On top of that, he calls himself a cat with nine lives, as he recounts facing death a number of times throughout his life, and lived to tell the tale.  Once as a young boy; where some rough housing went wrong, an injury was inches away from a deadly injury.  A number of times, he tells of his time when he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, and dodged bullets while serving in the Vietnam War.  Even during his time in and after college while living in Chicago, he tells the story of when he missed a flight, and subsequently that plane crashed, and killed everyone on board.  Even a time when I can remember – while I was in high school – he suffered a massive heart attack and went into cardiac arrest, before emergency crew people revived him. 

And so it goes now, as he lives out the remainder of his life; as he looks back one his life, he’s acknowledged his some regrets or demands he’s battled, but also treasures the triumphs.  As he says: “I’ve lived a full life, I’ve made right with God, and am doing my best to make right with my children and family.”  Truly, I’m very happy for my dad – that he’s at peace with his fate.  Honestly, I don’t know if I would be as calm. 

At this point, I’d conclude with some words of wisdom; a reflection of sorts; a moral of the story if you will.  To be quite frank though, I got nothing!  The fact that I’m watching cancer take my father’s life, has me beside myself.  The emotions are real and raw, and I’m powerless to stop it.  There is anger, as I feel as though I'm being robbed of time with my dad.  There is sadness, as I watch my dad suffer, and knowing I'm losing someone I love.  And there is fear, as I wonder what will happen after he passes.  At twenty-six there’s so much that I want to do and share with my dad; things that only come at a certain point in my life; and I the fact that my father won’t be around for all those life moments breaks my heart.  It’s not fare!  So once more, if everything happens for a reason, there’s no reasoning I can find out of this thing.  

Nothing Quite Like the Present

“Knowing, may be a blessing, but it’s a difficult blessing to bare at times.”

This was the phrase I said to a acquaintance of mine in the a car ride to smuggle greenery for a certain wedding, as I expressed to her my dad’s cancer diagnosis, and the reason I had returned to Southern California in the first place.  Inevitably I gave her a reader’s digest update on his treatment… 

Nearly a month ago I braced myself for a new update of how chemotherapy was favoring my dad.  Since then, I feel more stable than I did after hearing how six rounds of chemo have favored my dad.  Initially, I was in a fog, and admittedly suppressed the disappointment of the reality of the uncertainty.  It’s not looking promising.    

Back story: when my dad received news of his final diagnosis there were three cancer lumps on his lung; after the first three chemo sessions, doctors determined that the three had indeed gone down in size, but that unexpectedly a new (larger and faster growing) one had developed.  So for chemo sessions 4, 5, and 6 doctors adjusted the chemo according.  Well, much to our dismay, adjusted chemo hadn’t reaped the results any of us had hoped for.

Even though I felt the possibility of the worst on a grim July rainy evening when I heard on a cross country phone call, stage 4; lung cancer; terminal; and 12 months to live, all in the same breath before collapsing in a sorrowful agony, I’m finding there’s really not all that much I can do to prepare myself for this roller coaster of fateful cancer updates.  It still fazes me – deeply.       

With so much at stake at this point my dad asked the doctor, “You told me in July my life expectancy was 12 months at best.  Given the treatment that I’ve gone through, can you reassess the expectancy?”  With so many factors in play, (including the risk of his cancer spreading to other parts of his body, and the fact that cancer is dangerously close to his heart) the the doctor simply shrugged his shoulders.  Not the kind of response to help calm nerves. 

At this point, my dad and mom were given the option to participate in a cancer treatment study.  The risk is, out of the three treatment groups he runs the risk of being in the placebo group; which would effectively do nothing to treat him.  The other option was to continue chemotherapy, which would be more aggressive, and in turn make him increasingly fatigued, in more in pain and extra nauseous; not something any of have an easy time with.  In truth, neither option, nor any option for that matter comes without a weighed emotional effect. 

As it turns out my folks decided in December to continue chemotherapy for my dad at the end of this month.  With time off of treatment that deems my dad exhausted much of the time, he now has a bit more energy to do things he’s always wanted to do.  So him and my mom jetted out for Europe for two weeks, with destinations including Paris, and Rome.  It’s a valuable lesson, as you look at the end of your life, what haven’t you done that you’ve always wanted to. 

Indeed as I’ve confided this roller coaster of sorts to some valued friends they have said to me all the while, but more so since the last update, “take this time to really spend with your dad; you have that time that so many others don’t,” or “clear the air, or talk about things that need closure from your relationship with your dad,” or “write heartfelt letters to your dad – anything that you’ve ever wanted to tell him, but for whatever reason haven’t,” and “get to know your dad better; find out things about his life that you don’t know yet”

Which brings me back to my first statement of this post, “Knowing, may be a blessing, but it’s a difficult blessing to bare at times.”  Am I grateful for this time to spend quality time with my dad; yes.  Does it make the fateful and very possible fate easier; no.  Am I eager to clear the air with my dad on certain issues; sure.  Does it make it watching him suffer under treatment to stretch his life a bit longer easier; not at all.  Do I want to write a heartfelt something to him; definitely!  Do I appreciate seeing my dad overly fatigued and in pain as treatment side effects lingers; hell no!  Nonetheless, I am blessed to have this time to make right with my dad, because the truth is so many others loose someone they love suddenly, without warning, and the grief of should’a would’a could’a often haunts.   

As the continuation of treatment lumes ahead, there’s nothing that is more important than this time, right now.  

Feeling Nostalgic

It’s not often I’m provoked to think of my days since, from a recent flick.  Typically a song might conjure emotions from a significant moment; a picture will incite reminiscing memories from times past; or a long lost friend will rouse me to think of “the good old days.”  But a movie?  Never!   

Some time ago I went to see “The Silver linings Playbook,” starring Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence.  Admittingly, the factor that drew me in was the hunky and charming, blue eyed babe Mr. Cooper – and yes that it appeared to be a classic chick flick!  But after watching the plot I left with a number of thoughts. 

One being Cooper and Lawrence are far too far apart in age to be stage mates.  Two being that I was pleased to see REAL struggle and tragedy in a main stream movie I wasn’t expecting; and to see the personal fight of the two lead roles.  It wasn’t a typical chick flick – yes the guy got the girl in the end – but for the better part there was real ups and downs, and hard struggle, and it wasn’t pretty.  Isn’t that the reality most of us live in too?  Real life struggle!  Then again thou, aside from all that, I felt nostalgic for my once Philadelphia home – as it’s set in the city of brotherly love! 

At the start of the movie there are classic shots of freeway signs and familiar street exits; spans and shots of the center city skyline with its iconic buildings that I often walked by, and all I found myself doing was thinking of my experiences there in the East Coast, in Philly. Riding down 95 to the Sports Complex for a boisterous Phillys game; an iconic Philadelphia pastime!  Taking the El (subway/elevated train that runs east and west through the city) through center city and walking through and past the iconic sky scrapers as I meet friends and go about my appointed rounds, run my errands or seek some clarity as I walk the coble stoned streets. Feeling the chill of the autumn and winter air as the seasons change, as I walk or run the lovely Kelly Drive, or quaint sub neighborhoods was always held promise of a picturesque seasonal site.  It all was coming back to me: the moments, the memories; the people and the places. 

Above all the sites and hot spots of that city, and as I was watching and listening to the actors portray this Philadelphia, I found myself missing the personality of people in Philadelphia the most.

I often will tell people of my time in Philly, and remark how hard edged Philadelphians are; how they’ll just tell it like it is; they’re often and sometimes guarded and difficult to get to know; and sarcasm is common place in conversation.  As I was first being aquatinted to this east coast town, I can recall having somewhat of time adjusting to the sense of people.  People would often tell me, "you’re so Californian; you’re so easy going and friendly."   And I’d intern say, "yea, well how come everyone else around seems so hard to warm up to??"  Into and after my second year living my life in Philly, I found myself establishing some more friends and roots; I hadn’t really stopped to think how these hard edge people had decided that I was alright; I hadn't fully acknowledged this till recently. 

The truth is Philadelphians are real salt of the earth kind of folk; down to earth, loyal and authentic kind of people.  They aren't fake – if they don’t like you, they’re not afraid to make it clear.  They’re honest – sometimes to a fault.  They’re tough to get to know, (real guarded) but if one befriends you, they got your back!  It’s evident they've accepted you when they sarcastically poked fun at you; friendly sarcasm is common place in conversation.     

In many ways – as difficult as it was to get use to initially – it did me a world of good!  Friends in my home turf at times will say I come off abruptly upfront, or abrasive.  Or situations or people don’t get under my skin as much – I’m tougher skinned. 

Besides or despite the fact I know I have some pretty loyal friends back East.  Like my friend Seth mentioned to me over the phone as I was expressing how much I missed my Philadelphian folks, “even though friends move geographically, really, we aren't going anywhere.”  It gives me comfort.  I know it to be true too when another close friend – Chris – and I can be real with each other with how things are – on a day to day basis.  Or when yet another close friend – Colleen – and I can chit chat, gab, and make light heart of life’s tough situations for close to two hours – I know I’m not going very far from their lives & hearts. 

All these memories; all these sites; the people and thoughts cause me to stop and think of what a colorful and exiting life I've lived thus far.  In all, I am appreciative.  And so, as I think of "the good old days," I also think of the good old days before the Philly old days: my time in San Francisco, abroad, and before that even.  The cliché saying rains true: appreciate the moment.  And so, even though I miss my former life elsewhere, I have been welcomed with open arms by many a friends and family alike to this new phase of my life; this new chapter in my life.  In some time, I’m sure I’ll likely look back and reminisce on this time as well.