“Dad”

“Dad”

Dad: How far is your house from here?

Me: About 14 miles.

Dad: I’m tired. I think you should go.

Me: But I promised Mom I’d watch you.

Dad: Where’s Mom?

Me: In Mexico. Visiting her family. She’s coming home today.

Dad: I’m fine. I don’t need you here. I’m tired. You should go.

Me: Okay.

That’s when I called my sister…

The day didn’t start out this way.  That exchange happened around 6 pm. We’d made a day of it, Dad and I. We ran errands, had lunch, even went to a movie together. Then things got a little complicated, ending with my saying to my older sister, “Thank God for pharmaceuticals.” In the end, I had to turn my Dad into Neely O’Hara to restore order. Under normal circumstances, this day out with Dad should have been like it was 40 years ago when we were father & young son. Now the roles are reversed, but with one crucial difference: Alzheimer’s.

Being with an Alzheimer’s patient is a bit like being in a scene from “Groundhog Day.” Repetition is the name of the game and it requires a decent amount of patience and humor when they are this stage. You push away thoughts about the silence still to come when they enter a state of haunted immobility as they no longer engage with the world. For now, we can still have conversations. These are comprised of lightning rounds of the same group of questions as they fixate on specific topics. In my Dad’s case, it usually involves the measurement of space or time.

I was assigned one day to sit and care for Dad, which was also the day Mom was to return from visiting her family in Mexico. Dad’s mental long play record was stuck in one groove. His current jam was the track about where was Mom and when would she return. My younger sister had gone to work and I was chuffed by the idea of getting to spend time with Dad in during the regular week.  I sat in our family home living room, taking care of Emails as Dad took his usual spot, the outside porch. Yet, for the next 90 minutes, he’d rotate from the living room to the porch. Each time Dad would enter the room, he’d ask:

Dad: Tu viniste a cuidarme?

Me: Si, papá.

Dad: Muy amable.

He seemed touched to know I had been asked by the family to take care of him. He’d rap on the table, an emphatic gesture that made me smile. An hour or so later, his pacing evolved into that of a caged animal. His eyes glittered in a unique way and the rapping, which at first felt like a war buddies fist bump, now had a tone of anger. Without hesitating, I took Dad on a Target run.

My Dad has been afflicted with Alzheimer’s for well over a decade. We’ve been fortunate to have him mentally present with us for so long. He recognizes my mom and sister, who care for him 24/7. As for the rest of my siblings, we are in iPod shuffle mode. Sometimes he knows who we are and we ignore the times he doesn’t.

Sometimes we are simply “los muchachos,” a catchall term that refers us as being his “kids.” It offers its own comforts, being part of that group memory. We’re still his children. Then reality takes over. One time, he told Mom I couldn’t be his son since I’m too old as he’s only in his 50s. I go, “Mom, that makes you an OG cougar.” We both laughed. You have to laugh, otherwise, you cry.

Dad’s eating habits are changing. Texture matters, in addition to the color of his food. At times, he can forget when he’s had a meal, then he’ll insist that he hasn’t. He is losing weight. He’s irascible at times, the Latino machismo surging to a boiling point when contradicted. Again, those glittering eyes are a sign for us to be calm. That’s when he’s in that “mad” mode.

My mom and sister have learned to wait out the tantrums instead of fueling them further, although I see now why Mom has no fuse at all anymore. Their matrimonial sea roils and it calms itself just as suddenly as if nothing happened at all. Yet the after effects are revealing the wear on her, too. The one saving grace? Whenever things do get too intense, Dad’s physician has prescribed Dad a mild sedative. Yes, it is on par with giving a screaming toddler Benadryl, but sometimes…

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I can see Dad’s age now. He’s 92. I regret not getting him on record to capture his view of the world, the chronicle of a Mexican immigrant father, businessman, and world traveler projected against the canvas of contemporary history. Today, he can’t differentiate what he sees on the television screen, fictional or otherwise, from his real life.

When we do receive those treasurable moments, though, it is on par with winning the lottery. Like the time, I went to meet Dad and my younger sister for a showing of “Atomic Blonde.” As they entered the cinema, he saw me and instantly opened his arms for a hug. Usually, he just offers a gentlemanly handshake and a pat on the shoulder, which was his way. But this was wonderfully different. For a moment, we were on the track many grown sons are with their older parent.

Families, particularly Latino families, do not like to share the truth of their loved ones’ health, especially serious conditions. For whatever reason, illnesses are a “private matter.” We become traffic wardens, telling onlookers, “Move along. There’s nothing to see. Everything is alright.” But everything is not alright. Our parents will get sick. They will change because of an illness, not because of some cosmic punishment.

I understand the desire, particularly when it comes to our parents or grandparents, to want people to remember how they were and not as their infirmed selves. It is such a waste of time, time left with us that we can’t possibly measure or gauge. Family can become so entrenched in denial. Better living through chemistry, at least when it comes to Alzheimer’s, yes. But the truth is it is just a stop gap.

I see where we are heading with Dad. That’s why I choose to laugh now about his, “Yo soy el dueño de esta casa” demeanor. It wasn’t easy knowing he wanted me to leave his house. My work caring for him was done and he wanted his independence and space back. Later that night, I regaled my Mom and younger brother about how Dad refused to go to sleep because he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to “steal his shit.” Eventually, like a toddler, sleep caught up with him. Granted it was aided with the sedative I gave him a few hours earlier, but our cherished Poppadoodles was finally having a well-deserved rest.

I do not regret the frustration I felt at times that day. At times, I wanted to just yell, “Why don’t you understand?” I felt robbed because I can’t stop thinking about the conversations we could be having now we are both able to communicate again. It all seems so unfair. I can’t tell him I finally understand what he tried to teach me when I was a kid. I can’t tell him how he hurt me when I came out to him 17 years ago. I can’t tell him that I forgive him. I can’t share with him how I think this full circle reality we share is so good and inspiring to me.

Like “Groundhog Day,” we will be back at the same starting point the next day and the one after that. Our “Dad’s Day Out” will be forgotten, but how marvelous to know that when we do get to do this again it will be like a brand-new adventure. We have nothing to mourn or feel sorry about here. Dad is a part of many lives, not just with the family here and in Mexico, but our friends, too. As long as that smile still shines through I will remember what his mind can’t hold anymore. It’s the ultimate privilege and the best story I am ever going to be able to tell.

From the Alzheimer’s Greater Los Angeles website:

“Alzheimer’s Greater Los Angeles is a leader in developing culturally and linguistically appropriate programs and services, including those for Latinos.  Research shows Latinos with dementia are low users of formal health services and less likely than non-Latinos to see a physician.  Given the significance of familia in the Latino community, families (particularly daughters) provide a disproportionate share of Alzheimer’s care.

In order to reach these women (and their families) ALZGLA has taken a creative approach…we produced a bilingual, educational telenovela.  Lost Memories tells a story familiar to many Greater Los Angeles families.  It also disseminates complex medical and health information to caregivers with the goal of raising awareness of Alzheimer’s, fighting stigma, and encouraging Latino families to seek help sooner.

In honor of Latino Heritage Month,the 4-episode web series will debut September 19 at alzgla.org and on YouTube.

 

“Glen”

“Glen”

Dad was a big fan of Glen Campbell. That these formidable men have been afflicted by Alzheimer’s is still tough to fathom. Today, Mr. Campbell succumbed to this disease. He leaves behind generations of fans, a loving and supporting family and a legacy of art that is without compare.

I will never forget the sound of his music playing over the car radio as my family and I drove through the Southwestern desert on our way to visit family to Mexico in the early 1970s. My Dad would hum along, tapping the steering wheel, offering back-up. It was a late night, our family Impala cutting its path through the star-filled darkness. Dad didn’t know I was awake, his silent co-pilot, determined to remember it all.

Years later, before Mr. Campbell retired from touring, my siblings and I took Dad to see him perform live at the Pala Casino outside of San Diego. His own family shared the stage, with his daughter carefully guiding her legendary father through the songs. I remember holding back tears as my father smiled and tapped along to the music, clearly engaged by the Campbell musical experience like it was those many nights long ago.

Both men were in the throes of dealing with Alzheimer’s at that moment, never knowing what they had in common that evening. That one of these two men is no longer with us fills me with a surge of fills me with a surge of emotion. I am very blessed t still have my father in my life, despite the hardships of this disease. While Dad was far from being a rhinestone cowboy or a Wichita lineman, he still towers in my heart and life. And the music created by Mr. Campbell? It is a shame I can’t tell him it will forever be something so profound and poignant for my family and myself, now and forever. Thank you, Mr. Campbell, for leaving us this gift, too.

As posted on the Glen Campbell website: “In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Glen Campbell Memorial Fund at BrightFocus Foundation through the CareLiving.org donation page.

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 8, Day 45 — “Control”

Diary of an Angry, Hungry, Fat, Gay Mexican — Week 8, Day 45 — “Control”

So let me take you by the hand, and lead you in this dance
Control
It’s what I got, because I took a chance
I don’t wanna rule the world, just wanna run my life

From “Control” by Janet Jackson

Weight: 246.2

Glucose Reading: 102

I recently gave myself a little test on control around the start of week 7. I wanted to see if I could enjoy a snack of raw walnuts without turning this tasty, crunchy treat into a marathon of eating my feelings at a single sitting.

Guess what? I failed.

It’s a subtle test, trying to limit yourself to “enough.” I’ve never been good with “enough.” I’m all about “more.” I wolfed down half of that damn bag of walnuts on the drive away from Trader Joe’s. I didn’t even try to wait and make it home! The mania surged in that familiar way is staggering because it is uncontrollable. It’s this powerful sense of hunger, of feeding this ravenous, desperate beast that can’t seem to be sated. It scares the shit out of me, this feeling of “more.”

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I had this flashback to when I was a kid, this one afternoon when my dad took me to Baskin-Robbins for a treat. I was down for an ice cream cone, but when we got to the store, I changed my mind and eagerly asked for a pineapple shake. Dad bought it, but when we were in the car, he turned to me and said something that struck me as odd at the time. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something along these lines:

“Whenever you go with someone to a place like Baskin-Robbins and they offer to buy you something, don’t just pick something expensive. You never know if they have enough to pay.”

My dad was always trying to instill in me this lesson on frugality, which I never heeded. Not until it was too late and even then I still could do better. The consequences of my errant ways with money are on par with my eating disorder. I can’t consume — or spend — enough. It always had to be more…for me. Looking back, I realize that my dad went without so I could enjoy that frosty treat. He didn’t have enough for us both. Two cones yes. A cone and shake? No. I don’t even think I shared it with him. Irony? We’re both diabetic and can’t have such sugary drinks anymore.

Every time I go anywhere with my dad today, I think about these selfish moves I pulled on him, of my lack of control to put such machinations aside. That is why I work extra hard to make sure he feels so cared for and appreciated whenever we go out together. It doesn’t wipe away how awful I was to him all those years ago. I don’t want to be redeemed in that respect. It’s my own issue to reconcile. However, I do want him to know that I was able to control my own wicked tendencies in the end, that I listened and took his lesson to heart.

I’ve been trying to compose this diary entry for several days now. Talk about a lack of control. More like a lapse in focus as my career reaches one of its many rises we all experience throughout the year in productivity. A few things have happened of late, some of which have nothing to do with my current weight loss journey, yet the theme of control is not far behind.

While I continue this struggle to stop letting my emotions tyrannize my health, I’ve been scanning my motivations in other areas for similar problems, too. Like my relationships. I learned after my break-up with the Ex that you can’t control or maneuver someone into becoming the person YOU think they should become. It strangled the life out of our relationship. While it was a bitter lesson in the end, true to form, it remained a lesson I didn’t seem to want to heed. The results of trying to control ALL relationships can come undone.

I’m not sure how to explore this situation as a diary post at the moment. I can only say that my intentions were honorable, but realities exist when you all of your worlds collide together. Is it worth compromising one’s rust. Worse, what do you do when the view from the other side is disturbing to you, cold and unwarranted.

Part of me recognizes how much control I’ve given people over my interests, values and decisions these many years. I’ve let it rule me to not so great effect, allowing for real regrets to be honest. I could chalk it up to wanting to be liked, of wanting to be the peacekeeper, but really it was an evasion from reality. I think up better narratives than the ones I live or at least I’ve convinced myself of that. Complaining is so second nature to me, I often wonder if it, too, is just a manifestation of my inability to live an honest, contented life.

My desire to wrest control back of late has not been without its roiling points and it’s made me question more than just how I live my life. I was never going to be an industry player. I was never a shark in that regard. It has been a struggle, changing how I perceive my career and its importance in defining myself. I am privileged to be with people who see beyond the false trappings of the entertainment industry. They seek to nourish themselves in ways that is comprised of real sustenance, of seeking knowledge on things that make us question our world as we live it. That is what crave so much more these days.

If you recognize the foods that can cause you harm, you avoid them, right? But how far do you go with people, no matter if they are well intended or not? How do you reconcile the changes you are going through with those who are in a state of arrested development? As I continue on this journey toward wellness, I will continue to ask myself these questions. Whatever the answers, I do know they will be achieved on my terms.

I don’t want to rule the world.

I really do just want to run my life.

 

 

“Vivir con miedo es cómo vivir a medias” (Cuentos de la vida real 2)

“Vivir con miedo es cómo vivir a medias” (Cuentos de la vida real 2)

 

En ver las imágenes desde Mexico últimamente, siento una tristeza muy profunda. Se ve miedo, rabia, caos y desesperación. Ha llegado el momento de enfrentar la corrupción y violencia que ha deteriorado la imagen del país.

Vivir con miedo es inaceptable en un mundo moderno. Pero donde hay miedo si se puede encontrar esperanza y el deseo de rechazar lo que nos agobia. No pretendo comparar mis propios miedos con los que se vive en México hoy. Pero si recuerdo el poder que se realiza cuando pierdes el miedo y empiezas usar una voz alta y clara. Es lo básico de nuestro ser.

Era el año 1977 y ese verano fue el momento que terminé mi primera decada como Jorge Carreón Jr. Durante casi 10 años, me quedé con la determinación de vivir al lado izquierda del centro. Solo pensé en cultivar los intereses que eran cualquier cosa menos lo que era normal en Pico Rivera. No tenía muchos amigos, pero eso no me importaba. Quería perderme en todos los libros y películas que podía procesar antes de regresar a la primaria en el otoño. La mayoría de los niños tenían ganas de ir al parque, tomar clases de natación o tener días lánguidos en la playa. Yo quería saber más del artista moderno Andy Warhol y leer mis libros de Nancy Drew. Pero mis planes se quedaron en supsenso cuando mi papá me dijo que yo iba con él y mi hermana a visitar a su familia en el D.F.

Era como si el pusiera un alfiler en el globo de mi sueño de verano.

Así que fui, inocente al siniestro plan que mis padres habían inventado sin mí. Papá sólo tenía dos semanas de vacaciones de la fábrica. Eso significaba que junto con mi hermana, quien mantuvo la primera de una vida de secretos, tendríamos que quedarnos con nuestros familiares durante todo el verano. ¿Y cuándo llego el momento que me enteré de eso? El día que mi papá se regresó a Los Angeles sin nosotros.

Me dio una rabia feroz. Le grité. Lloré. Lo seguí a la puerta de la casa de mi tía en la mejor manera que aprendí de las telenovelas: “¡No me dejes!” Nunca se dio la vuelta. Caminó con buen paso a la puerta sin decir otra palabra más. Nunca me sentí tan lejos de mi vida real en California. Fue demasiado. Casi no hablaba el idioma. Ne dejaba de pensar: “Yo no soy mexicano. ¡Soy americano!” Pero todo mis gritos cayeron en el vacío. Estuve en esta casa sin esperanza para el resto del verano.

Pensando en este momento, me doy cuenta que no sabía ese verano con mi familia mexicana sería un regalo. ¿Cómo podría saberlo? Yo era sólo un niño. No pude ver mucho con mis ojos llenos de lágrimas. Tenía miedo de lo nuevo, de enfrentar la fuente verdadera de mi identidad: México. Nunca paramos de enfrentar lo “nuevo”. Gente, ciudades, costumbres, situaciones, todo lo que nos une como la raza humana. Fue el primero de muchos miedos que tendría que conquistar en mi vida, pero sí los conquisté.

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Tenían que pasar 37 años para entender que la vida es demasiado corta para cualquier sentido de temor. Nacer latino es obstáculo suficiente en un mundo que valora la vainilla sobre el picante. Como ya he madurado, me emociona y me preocupa ver como nuestra narrativa nacional se conforma con la comunidad hispana. Espero contribuir a esta narrativa, para que refleje lo que realmente es ser un american en 2014. No tengo mucho espacio para el miedo con el fin de lograr ese objetivo. El miedo casi me dejo mudo durante todo un verano. Pero yo tomé ese paso que me llevó a un grupo muy especial en este mundo. Me convertí en un americano bilingüe, realizando el sueño de existir dentro de dos mundos que he llegado a representar con orgullo.

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Miércoles, 24 de noviembre. Escrito y subido desde Wayne Avenue Manor en South Pasadena, CA

 

Lo mejor de lo peor de Las Hermanas Coraje — #freakshow

Lo mejor de lo peor de Las Hermanas Coraje — #freakshow

Todo tiene su final.

Cuentos, obras, películas…familias.

Después de días de vida y muerte, de perdida and desenlace, nuestro tiempo con Las Hermanas Coraje ha llegado a su último capítulo…por fin.

I guess it is human nature to prefer extreme situations to rational ones. We joke it ain’t drama unless it’s Mexican drama, but in this case I can’t see it as anything else anymore. It is time to put the novela that is my life on hiatus for a moment to focus on more inspiring — and less revealing — topics. But, don’t begrudge me this chance to not go so quiet into the night just yet. You won’t believe the freak show that has become “Los Hermanas Coraje.” This is just a preview of what’s under the big tent they’ve staged — a circus from which they will never escape:

  • Behold The Sisters of the Coldest Heart, defying the warmth of family and preferring the frost of rancor, manipulation and bitterness.
  • Witness The Puppet Man’s strings pulled by the Sisters, who script his every word and plot his every move as they peel away the last shreds of his masculinity.
  • Thrill to the amazing control of The Invisible Matriarch, whose presence is always felt, even though she doesn’t bother to appear at all.

United they stand, but divided we’ve become for the moment. Some of us want their heads on a stick as payback for the show of disrespect they’ve forced us to view. But I don’t want to be in their center ring anymore.

I contributed to the Great Divide, which I don’t regret. Sure, I am angry that they took to not only insulting members of my family as being the reason for this split, but not enough to stir more blood in the water. What I cannot abide with is the disrespect shown to the memory of someone who did nothing but open her home and heart — only to see it belittled as an act of convenience and greed.

Now we are grappling over who gets to have the last word, that last grand gesture that becomes family legend; the one that begins, “We showed them…” But showed them what? The truth?We already know they prefer fantasy to reality, so what’s the point of stripping the bark off their grossly idealized family tree? A better expressed kiss off statement? Who gives a shit if we have a stronger, nuanced vocabulary, we still only mean to say “fuck you!”

I wish it would stop. All their “mean girls” maneuvering is bad enough and we are all just grinding the gears further down. As for parents wanting to protect their kids’ honor? There is nothing honorable about making phone calls or showing up at someone’s door to start a fight. (Although, the idea of warring matriarchs, “Falcon Crest” style would make for one AWESOME YouTube video. Now that’s reality TV!)

My younger sister practically has “I don’t care” on a dialogue loop right now. But she’s right. Why do we care so damn much? Why do we even need to discuss sides —  much less los Coraje — anymore? It’s O-V-E-R!

We had one last last Hail Mary pass at reconciliation, but it didn’t matter. I did find their polite, almost normal, demeanor during our last encounter as being somewhat curious. Especially considering the amount of vitriol they’ve spent on discrediting me and, particularly, my older sister. A glimmer of hope was shown for a moment, but it was a mirage. Any statement of renewal would have fallen on deaf ears. The reality is the final episode of “Las Hermanas Coraje” was a callous, juvenile and destructive one. If this is what they regard as “being there” in support of a grieving uncle, I hate to see what contempt looks like.

Oh wait, we already have.

It is all pointedly clear: they’ve moved on without us. In the end, the last thing to be said between us should be: total silence. And, I know that’s incredibly hard for a family that personifies “the beautiful noise” of life. But I truly believe silence in this case would be the most powerful sound in the world. We are going to walk away our own versions of the truth anyway, forever played to our respective audiences for as long as we live.

So, I’m dropping the curtain on this show, at least for now. Truth be told, characters like these can never be kept down for long. They are destined to live forever, for the good will always need a unifying cause like vanquishing the bad. I just hope cooler heads will prevail because such poison has a tendency to spread. I almost think the insidious agenda of “Las Hermanas Coraje” includes infighting as a way of further undermining that which they tried to destroy.

I think…no…I am certain we are stronger than that.

No crying out loud when this circus leaves our town. No sawdust or glitter will be left here. All that will be left will be a family living a healthier and happier life.

Jamas nos dañaran las hermanas Coraje con sus mentiras y arrogancia. ¡Que se vayan, gente infiel y grosera! ¡Regresasen a su cuna de víboras!

Al final, sobrevivimos estos capítulos de la novela de nuestras vidas. No temo los avances porque estamos juntos, unidos por siempre, querida familia. 

Nunca los dejaré.

#Iwillneverleaveyou

Wednesday, October 14. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor, South Pasadena, CA

The return of Las Hermanas Coraje — #heythere

The return of Las Hermanas Coraje — #heythere

“Hey there. Sorry about your loss…”

That’s all he got. Not a phone call.  Not a personal visit. A text. And that text, perhaps delivered in a show of support, instead felt like a crushing blow to a family already down.

Las Hermanas Coraje did not disappoint this bittersweet week of loss and family bonding. Only one of the Corajes made their way to the house that first, emotionally complex day.

We had been waiting for the other Corajes to make some show of support, offer a comforting gesture, anything. Instead, the Coraje matriarch stayed away, even though she lives just a few blocks away. To date, she’s only limited herself to a single, minute-long conversation the day before my aunt died.

As for Las hermanas C?

After their one-off performances of “The Pendeja Monologues” via phone prior to my aunt’s death, they have resurfaced to exist in a series of brief texts. The best part? These texts felt like they were written between stop lights as they ventured to the next destination in their carefully maintained lives. To be honest, anything more would probably require us using a defibrillator on them.

Just when things couldn’t get any more strained, the younger Coraje was moved to write what is now known as the “Hey There Text” to my grieving uncle. Maybe that “hey there” was just one of those little nudges we give people when we want to be tender in getting their attention? Maybe that “hey there” was how my uncle and the younger Coraje always addressed each other? Maybe it’s a musical cue, a Rosemary Clooney “Hey There?”

Maybe.

I hate texts for this reason. There is no context to feeling! And it is so easy to jump to an irrational conclusion. However, the rules of grief and consolation are very specific. You need to hear a VOICE, see a FACE, not read “HEY THERE…”

But that’s just me…and probably most people with a normal heart.

Whatever their intent, the “Hey There Text” was received as a cold gesture of fulfilling an obligation, not the warmth of a niece offering care and support to her uncle, to all of the family members who are inconsolable. In the end, it’s the one moment that finally unleashed a response text of no longer pent up fury from his daughter.

There it was. In black and misspelled white, but it didn’t matter. The emotion behind each letter registered loud and clear. You could practically hear the keys on a phone being slammed, punctuated by a “send” stroke that screeched “Fuck You!” instead of “whoosh.”

I don’t know what the aftermath will be thanks to this latest salvo of hurt feelings and incredulity. More than likely it will be spun faster than the already tangled web these spiders have created to shield themselves from us.

What happened to los C? Whatever the supposed beef against certain members of the family, fine. That score will be settled in its own time. But why are they offering so little consolation to the man who has been NOTHING but their champion these many years? At the very least, they should honor his grief. God, the level of disrespect and selfishness they’ve shown is staggering. It’s next to impossible not to think, “Yup. They’ve shown their true faces.”

As we reviewed the photo albums that day, searching for photos to illustrate my aunt’s legacy, we noticed a specific narrative in those first books. It wasn’t my own family present in the many pictures reviewed through tears. It was la familia Coraje who dominated the frames.

These fading pictures might as well be bats trapped in amber at this point. Worse, as the paper and chemicals are decomposing in these fragile albums, so are the ties that kept the Coraje bound to my uncle and his family.

We know time is not in big supply in this life, but los C can still turn this around. A mea culpa is not necessary. However, accountability should be on their minds. A show of respect would go a long way, as would an acknowledgment that my uncle was indeed “married” in the spiritual way to my aunt.

As hurt turns to anger turns to retribution, perhaps it is best we all retreat to our corners. Still, something tells me a bell will be rung one more time. Only then will we witness the KO punch that will end this chapter of “Los Hermanas Coraje.”

Hmm. There’s a good use for “Hey there!” followed by “You won’t believe what happens next!”

But truth be told, I realize this entire narrative is causing so much unnecessary pain. My uncle has already lost his soulmate! He doesn’t need to lose more family members through petty displays of poisonous manipulation. It’s so bad, he’s worried the Coraje shenanigans will add my family to the list of the departed.

Rest assured, dear uncle. We’re not going anywhere. Period.

Dammit. It is time for a truce, not pull focus from the devastating loss of my amazing aunt. And no, I don’t want to hear about Emails and other careless whispers delineating “secret meetings” with my already burdened uncle or references to my family as being “instigators,” either. That trick of playing the victim card is as tired as a bunch of aging nags on a barren field. If you aren’t happy with this record? Go to the source, you cowards!

By the way, when you do, it better be face to face. Don’t just send some bullshit text that starts off with “hey there.”

So, here’s a message to all for us: Live the lives you want. Just don’t confuse drama for happiness. (Thanks, Parks & Recreation for that profound truth.)

Wednesday, October 1. Written and posted from Wayne Ave. Manor.

“She’s Gone.” (9.29.14) — #thiswomanswork

“She’s Gone.”  (9.29.14) — #thiswomanswork

I still can’t process yesterday’s events.

Around 4pm on Sunday afternoon, I gave my aunt Susanna a little wave and she waved right back, even offering a trace of a smile. But she was in great pain. It just wasn’t a good day for her. Most times she would rally, and she’d be lucid, funny and fiercely specific.

By 11am on Monday, we were given the news she had passed away. Not even 24 hours.

That’s the simplicity of life and death.

It is safer and easier for me to retreat onto a blank page, but not so easy to fill this space. Is it enough to say that I feel too much? My aunt Susanna was fond of saying “I love you too much.” Is anything ever too much?

We have lost a woman who was more than an aunt to my siblings and I. She was our second mother.

I just know I wanted a little bit more time. We all wanted a little bit more time. Knowing someone you love is going to be gone soon offers little consolation. We were told “two weeks to two months.”

Susanna lived for us for one more week.

That’s all she could give. And we are forever grateful. She was a strong-willed woman. That strength is now passed on to us, her legacy.

My friend and colleague John wrote to me, “Too many strong, beautiful women have left us this year.”

He’s right.

As I drove to work this AM, one of my favorite songs, “This Woman’s Work” came on my iPod. Hearing Kate Bush’s lyrics interpreted and given a striking context by Maxwell gave my feelings a new landscape to roam. I cried, I sang, I felt and loved too much all over again.

I’m sure as these days lead up to her memorial and burial, we will continue to feel too much. Feel and love, because that’s all that matters right now.

Tuesday, September 30.

#SusannaCV


“This Woman’s Work”
Written by Kate Bush — Performed by Maxwell

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
That we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.

(I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.)

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things we should’ve said,
That were never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
That we never did.
All the things that you needed from me.
All the things that you wanted for me.
All the things that I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go away.
Just make it go away now.