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Mia: Shaken Not Stirred |
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Saturday, March 14, 2009Go n-eírí an bóthar leat It’s been a sad week at my internship some of us as get really emotionally involved with our clients something my sensei does his best to discourage. I guess this is his way of making sure we’re emotionally protected. A couple of events this week made me understand his reasoning. Personally it's not a reasoning I can embrace as my own. All of the people I deal with in my life become part of my heart only time proves whether that's a wise choice or not. Sometimes the end result makes my heart sing other times it weeps. My sensei interrupted Wednesday’s staff meeting with the news that one of our clients had been found dead in her apartment. We weren’t told the cause of death but sometimes what isn’t said speaks volumes. All eyes turned towards her therapist. The client had come in the day before needing to talk but the therapist had called out sick. The therapist who had once been my sensei’s mentee seemed to take the death in stride. If she had any emotional attachment towards her client she’d hid it well. I wondered if the therapist felt remorse over her client’s death… you know one of those ‘if only’ moments. While everyone gathered around the therapist and offered her their condolences I walked out of the meeting with an aching sadness in my heart. My thoughts turned to the other clients who’d been her friends. I worried about how they’d take the news. For the next couple of days sadness hung in the air, we were all affected by the beautiful singer’s death. The therapist who has taken me under his wing was angry; “some one should have seen her.” he’d fumed. Later on during a group session he addressed his clients “If I’m not here and you need to talk to someone don’t take no for an answer, ” he said as he turned his head to look at me, “you find someone. You all have my number call me if you need me.” When the meeting was over he pulled me to the side, he was angry and needed to talk. He was angry about the emotional detachment towards our clients that is encouraged in the name of maintaining boundaries. My protector likes my style of therapy it is similar to his own except I don’t cuss while in session. My style is a constant source of irritation to my sensei. He’s trying to mould me into his image; I fight him all the way. My protector grabbed my hand and jerked his head in the direction of my sensei’s and former mentees offices, “Mia, don’t you ever become like those assholes. No matter how hard they try to change you. You hear me?” I nodded my head. I thought of the client. “I promise.” I repeated. The world is a sadder place without her she added beauty to it and now she’s gone. She was well known on the indy music scene, one of her songs,“Under My Skin” had even been featured on an episode of Dawson’s Creek. I’d loved the song when I’d heard it and years later when I met her I never connected her with it. She was a singer was all she’d say. She was a beautiful woman with the voice of an angel,but more than that she was a beautiful soul in a world that is always not so pretty. I’d met the Irish woman named Maura during my second semester when I was shadowing the man who would become my mentor. From the very start we’d connected through our love of music and our twisted sense of humor. She’d always send me into fits of laughter with her funny stories. My favorites were when she’d talk about her family “I’m going to go all Lucky Charms on you Mia.” She’d warn whenever she was about to launch into a flawless imitation of her mother’s Irish accent. I’ll miss her. Her parting has left a void but I’ll always fill it with remembered joy. I know I’ll never forget her. Whenever we parted for the day she’d lay an Irish blessing on me. Now it’s my turn. Maura, Go n-eírí an bóthar leat. (May the road rise with you.) Labels: death, internship Click here to read entire post.  @
2:17 AM
2 comment from:  Unknown, Mia,
 
 Wednesday, April 16, 2008My Kingdom For an EpiPen Jackie aka she who plays with dead things called. Jackie is a mortuary science major and because no one in her family was willing to give their lives for the good of her education she turned to me. She’s going to be working on death certificates next week and wanted to know if I’d be willing to die. There was a time in my life when I’d been so ill that I had actually died and the only thing I came away with that time other than my life (duh) and the possibility of some brain damage (jury is still out on that one) was a killer sore throat and laryngitis from the breathing tube shoved down my throat and kept in place for a month. As an added incentive for meeting my maker Jackie promised that this time I’d actually get my own death certificate. The best thing about this proposed field trip with the Grim Reaper besides the fact that I didn’t actually have to go with him was that I’d get to choose how I died this time. Last time I had no choice in the matter but this time was different. Without any hesitation I gave Jackie the permission to go ahead and kill me. Hey sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and sacrifice yourself for the greater good people. Not content just to drop dead I wanted a background story, so Jackie and I went to work on the death of Mia. I don’t like doing things half-assed if I’m going to kick the bucket I wanted it to be unique. After a few scenarios it was decided that I died while hanging with Jackie. I always knew that chick would be the death of me I had just always assumed it was going to involve some smoke and booze not anaphylactic shock which by the way kills less than 1,000 people per year in the U.S. I suggested shedding my mortal coil via some cross contamination of food at a restaurant involving shrimp but Jackie wanted to make sure I was good and dead. We’d gone out to dinner at an Italian restaurant the story went and I’d ordered the stuffed artichokes. As I ate my dinner I began to feel ill. Shrimps had been added to the stuffing, I wish I had thought to ask the waiter what the damn artichoke was stuffed with before I ordered my dinner. I’m allergic to shrimps. I was having trouble breathing and with no epinephrine in sight I was in big trouble. “An EpiPen, my kingdom for an EpiPen!”, were the last words I was able to gasp out as Jackie tried to comfort me. An ambulance was called but it was delayed and by the time they got there I was gone. As my spirit formed hovered over Jackie I let fly a string of curses mad at myself for not having ordered the chicken parmesan instead. Labels: anaphylactic shock, death Click here to read entire post. @
10:36 AM
6 comment from: Goggles Piasano Ritardo, Goggles Piasano Ritardo,  , Mia, Jaclyn, Mia,
Sunday, January 13, 2008Because I Loved Life... We recently got word that my great-great-aunt passed away of cancer at the age of 90 plus. My grandfather asked that my mother sketch something in honor of his aunt Minin for her memorial service to be printed into prayer cards. Minin loved mom's angels so mom drew her as a youthful angel dancing with death. “Why are you making her young?” I asked. “Because in my eyes she never seemed to age. She always had this youthful spirit about her." Minin also an artist was the first person in the family to realize that her great niece had talent one day as she watched the six year old drawing at the dining room table. Several days later my mom received a package full of artist’s supplies from her great aunt and every year after that on her yearly visits from Spain she’d introduce my mother via books and museums to a famous artist. The quote on the sketch is something that Minin often said even before she found out she was terminally ill. It is from Amelia Burr one of her favorite poets. Labels: death Click here to read entire post. @
11:32 AM
8 comment from: Mia, , Goggles Piasano Ritardo, Mia, , Mia, DannieS72, Mia,
Sunday, October 07, 2007The Elevator Ride The elevator door opened and I jumped back scared shitless. There was a man... an old man crumbled over on the floor his walker inches away from him. I called out to him,”Are you okay?” He didn’t respond and from where I stood he didn’t seem to be breathing, not that I had any intention on getting close enough to check. Hey i’m a social work major people my heffa Jackie is the mortuary science major, dead people are right up her alley. “Mia what’s wrong?” my mom asked several times. Despite the fact that in my mind I was screaming “DEAD MAN!” I was actually speechless, the mouth was willing but the vocal cords weren’t cooperating. Trust me people that is a very rare thing indeed. In fact there are quite a few people out there in the world that would pay mega dollars to see me struck speechless. I pointed towards the elevator, “Ma I think there’s a dead guy in there.” As mom stepped forward to check it out the door slammed shut and the elevator started to make its way up. Mom quickly reached over for the button to bring the elevator back down . Just then we were joined by a teen girl and a guy. When the elevator arrived ma stuck her head in called out to the man and when she got no response she got in and checked on him, she then instructed me to call an ambulance. What happened next goes down in the annals of WTF history. Despite the fact that there was a dead man on the floor of the elevator the teen and the man got in and pressed for their floors. I was shocked WTF? When did people become so apathetic? They didn’t even take a second glance at the man as if dead men riding elevators was a common thing. Ma’s plan had been to hold the elevator until the ambulance arrived but these two people were having none of it. This was the only working elevator on our side of the complex and they weren’t about to walk up the stairs even if it meant having to ride with a dead man. Mom shrugged her shoulders and called my dad. She told him to meet us on our floor so he could shut the elevator down until the ambulance arrived . Years ago dad had been given the spare key to the elevator bank by management just in case of an emergency. Ma told him she didn’t want the dead man going up and down just to accommodate thoughtless people who were too lazy to take the stairs despite the fact that our elevator had become the dead express.. As she talked to my father ma gestured for me to come in. I hesitated and shook my head now shooting a quick glance at the dead passenger. "Get in here I’m going to need you to hold the elevator if you’re dad is not by the door. Besides it’s the living you have to be afraid of the dead are harmless.” ma said as she reached over and yanked me in. As I stepped past the dead guy I said sorry and excuse me. It seemed wrong just to walk by him and not give him the same courtesy I would to the living. By the time we got to the last floor our floor it was just ma, the dead guy and me. The other occupants had gotten off several floor below us. It turned out my dad knew the guy, he was a tenant’s brother. The gentleman was terminally ill with cancer and had moved to NY to live out what life he had left in the care of his sister. My dad decided to take the elevator back down to the lobby to make it easier for the ambulance and then left my brother guarding the body while he took the stairs to let the man’s sister know what was going on. As the elevator made it’s way back down to the lobby my mom yelled out for “William hurry up that poor man must be tired of riding up and down. This elevator is not the express to heaven you know!" Click here to read entire post. @
5:01 PM
4 comment from: Mia, DannieS72, christina/ohio, Mia,
Friday, August 17, 2007Rayquon Sunday morning my brother was awakened by a phone call. His childhood friend had been murdered on the subway . The kid was 19 years old on his way home from a party . An argument between two groups of guys had broken out at the party and continued when one group of guys followed the other onto the subway. According to witnesses on the train the 19 year old tried to act as a peace maker between the two groups telling them both to “chill out.” One of the guys all of 16 years old had a gun and opened fire in the subway car. Several were injured but only the peace maker was killed. Now a pregnant mother mourns the death of her only son and friends struggled to comprehend the reason for it all. In the days that have followed my brother has been upset by the fact that the local media keeps bringing up the victim’s past as if it had any relevance to what happened on the train that night. The kid had a rap sheet. It wasn’t anything major by ‘hood standards. He didn’t rob, beat, or kill someone. He was caught with some marijuana on him at the age of 16. Big whoop. I try to explain to him that we as people will always be defined by the actions of our past...it doesn’t matter if you jump in a river and save a bus load of kids if you’ve ever been arrested that will be brought up when the story is reported...”Ex-con becomes a do-gooder!” would be the headline. I can not say that I really knew him the way my brother did. Until the media mentioned it I never even knew he’d been arrested . I knew him in passing as the charismatic kid who was working hard at achieving the goals he’d set for himself. I knew him as the kid with the infectious smile and the great laugh. Oh man he loved to laugh. I searched my brain for memories of him and in each and everyone of them he was always laughing or smiling. His was one of the many teen faces that breeze in and out of my house on a daily basis. He was one of the many friends my brother has that kiss my mom when they come in and call her “ma”. When he entered my house he’d remove his hat and make sure that anyone who had accompanied him did the same. His name was Rayquon Story and he was my brother’s friend. I last saw him in June the day of the Puerto Rican Day parade. My little sister was excited about going to the parade by herself with some friends. It was a rite of passage for her. Mom and I were apprehensive about her going to the parade without us but this was a big milestone for her. Rayquon was going to the parade as well and sensing our nervousness about letting her go the young man with the beautiful smile assured us well out of my little sister’s ear shot that there was no need to worry he’d be keeping an eye on her. He was going to be far enough for her to think she was on her own but close enough that if she needed him he’d be able to reach her before she even realized she needed back up. His name was Rayquon Story and he was a gift to this world for the 19 years he graced it. He was loved by his mother and cherished by his friends. He was thoughtful, respectful, affectionate and polite. Years from now when his life is forgotten by all except those who loved him I’ll remember him as someone who looked out for my little sister. I’ll remember the sound of Rayquon and my brother's laughter as they played video games in the living room a plate full of cookies, a huge bag of chips and a jug of iced tea at their feet to hold them off until dinner was ready. I’ll also remember that he died trying to be part of the solution when it would have been so much easier for him to just walk away and mind his business. Most of all I’ll remember his smile. Labels: death, rayquon story Click here to read entire post. @
12:57 AM
5 comment from: christina/ohio, Louise, DannieS72, DannieS72, ,
Friday, May 11, 2007Don't Fear The Reaper A lot of people think of New York as this strictly glass and concrete city but this isn’t true. All over the city hidden in plain view are parks and gardens. It’s typical once the warm weather arrives to see people spread out all over the grass taking in the sun. This was the scenario the other day when it first hit 80 degrees here in the city. On my way to meet a friend I passed a businessman on his way into the park take-out lunch in hand. Instead of sitting on a bench he headed straight for a spot underneath a blossoming cherry tree. He had a lot of company that day the park was packed with people. Hours later at the height of rush hour I was on my way back home and passed the same park. The businessman was still there under the tree. He was lying on his back one leg bent, his arms cushioning his head and appeared to be napping; at least it looked that way although it was hard to tell because of his dark sunglasses. Besides him were the remnants of his lunch and his shoes with his socks stuffed into them. I found it kind of odd that he would still be there, I guess I was not the only one. As I waited for the bus across the street I saw as a couple of police officers approached the man. They said something to the man but got no response. The cops looked at each other and shook their heads. One of the officers then pulled out his night stick and attempted to startle the man but got no reaction from him. Then he began nudging the man with his night stick. It then became obvious that the man was dead. The officers called who ever it is that they call in these situations and stood watch over the man. By the time my bus arrived a small crowd had gathered. Riding the bus home I thought about the man and about the family that must have been waiting for him at home unaware that he wouldn't be returning. I thought about how happy he must have felt to be in the park. The feel of the grass under his feet, the smell of the blooming flowers drifting around him every time the gentle breeze kicked up. I thought about him eating his lunch underneath the shade of a beautiful tree on a picture perfect sunny day. I thought about how despite being surrounded by all that beauty death had managed to find him. I guess what my mother says is true, fearing death is pointless because when the reaper comes for you nothing will dissuade him from his job. Even a beautiful day when dying seems so wrong and unfair. Song: Don't Fear The Reaper :: Blue Oyster Cult Click here to read entire post. @
10:08 AM
6 comment from: DannieS72, *~*Cece*~*, Mia, christina/ohio, J@ckp1ne, Just Jane,
Sunday, March 19, 2006Mourn in Peace I heard music coming from my parents’ room early this morning. Mom was sitting by her window. She was oblivious to the fact that I was standing in her doorway. The window was open, she was staring out at the water. She closed her eyes, resting her chin on her hand covering the slight cleft in her chin with her thumb.I thought she was meditating. I noticed her old 45 record player sitting on her night stand on it was one of La Negra’s old 45 records playing. The air was filled with an old romantic ballad “Somos Novios” written and preformed by the legendary Mexican composer Armando Manzanero . I remember this song; it was my grandparent’s song. In this country it was a hit in English for Perry Como entitled “It’s Impossible”. I was about to say something to her when I noticed she let out a deep sigh. I felt as if someone had reached into my chest and wrung my heart with their bare hands. My mother was crying. I stood at her doorway watching the stream of tears escaping from her seemingly closed eyes. My eyes glanced over to my parent’s bed there was a crate of photos on it. My parents had been cleaning out their closet which explained why the old record player and 45’s were out. On top of the bed were several photos of my late grandmother. I now understood why my mother was crying. Thirty seven years old is far too young for a woman to pass away and leave her only daughter motherless and even though twenty years have passed there are days when the pain and the longing make it seem like it was only yesterday. It seemed wrong to approach her, to intrude on her grief. I softly closed the door behind me, sometimes words are of no help and a person just needs to mourn in peace. ::Somos Novios:: by Armando Manzanero:: Powered by :: Castpost Click here to read entire post. @
4:28 PM
5 comment from: Mr. Khurram, Mia, Just Jane, Mica, Emory Mayne,
Sunday, February 05, 2006Don Cristobal Several notable people have passed away recently and the world has mourned them. Here in The Bronx someone passed away and only those in my small world cared. He wasn’t well known outside of his community but like the famous that’ve passed on this past week his life touched many. His name was Cristobal Sandoval, he was my neighbor. Don Cristobal was of a rare breed, an old world gentleman; he stood up when a woman entered the room and tipped his hat when he saw you on the street. He was a decorated WWII veteran; born in Puerto Rico he settled in New York after serving in the military. Even though he was well into his 80’s he was robust, full of grace and stamina. He was a credit to the old school Boriqua. He was a beautiful man or perhaps it was the beauty of his soul that was reflected on his face. He was a kind hearted man with a wonderful sense of humor who drew you in with his smile and his warm gentle manner. My first memory of him was when I was 10 and had just moved to The Bronx. He shook my hand as he introduced himself to me, he promised that I would be making new friends here and then made a quarter appear from behind my ear. His son didn’t approve of the fact that his dad had taken the job as our day security guard just to fight the boredom of retirement. Don Cristobal was in excellent health. He looked to be 30 years younger than he actually was; he walked several miles a day and would run up the 14 flights of our complex several times a day when doing his rounds. During his tenure as our security guard there were about 70 kids living in the complex and he knew all of our names, to whom we belonged to and even memorized our birthdays. Don Cristobal was kind of like everyone’s surrogate grand dad. Whenever our birthdays rolled around we’d find a birthday card with a lil’ something in our mailboxes from him. He celebrated our milestones with us and we all loved him the more for it. The little ones of the building always hugged him on the way out to school. The older ones like me were too cool for that so we’d always wave good-bye and in Boriqua tradition yell out “Bendicion!” (Blessing) and as he waved back to us he’d yell back the traditional blessing, “Que dios me lo bendiga y la Virgen Maria me los favorescas” (May God bless you and the Virgin Mary favor you.) Everyone loved Don Cristobal , especially my generation who had grown up with him watching over us. One of the things about Don Cristobal that stuck with me was a song he always sang while making his rounds. Every time I’ve heard this song in the presence of an elderly Puerto Rican the reaction is always the same, they get this far away look in their eyes and sing along with heartfelt emotion. The song “En Mi Viejo San Juan” tells the story of a man who left Puerto Rico for a strange new land but cannot forget his beloved island. As he lies dying of old age his last thoughts are of Puerto Rico. He regrets not having been able to return to his island the place where he says he left his heart. His dying words are are “El tiempo paso and el destino burlo mi terible nostalgia y no puede volver al San Juan que yo ame, pedasito de patria… mi cabello blanquio y mi vida se va… ya la muete me llama y no puede volver al San Juan que yo ame, Puerto Rico del alma…. adios Borinquen querida , adios mi diosa del mar, me voy pero un dia volvere a buscar mi querer, a sonar otra vez en mi viejo San Juan. Translation: Time passed and destiny mocked my longing . I was unable to return to San Juan the one I loved, my small piece of homeland. My hair has turned white and my life is slipping away, death is calling to me and I can not return to the San Juan I loved, Puerto Rico of my heart…. Good bye beloved Borinquen, good -bye my goddess of the sea, I am leaving, but one day I will return to find my love, to dream again in my old San Juan. Don Cristobal was married to his childhood sweetheart Dona Mercedes. Despite being married for over 50 years you could tell by the way that they looked at each other that their love was alive and kicking. Every Friday he’d enter the building with a huge bouquet of flowers and a box of candy for “my best girl” When her son would drive her home from errands Don Cristobal would meet her curbside and gently take her out of the car, kissing her hand before placing his arm around her. A couple of years ago he started becoming forgetful. My dad found him a few times up the block unable to remember where he lived. This is when he retired for good. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and last year when he started getting really bad the decision was made by his son to place him in a nursing home. Mercedes never left his side, every morning at 7am someone from the building would drive her to the nursing home and she’d spend the entire day with him. She never missed a day not even when he couldn’t remember who she was anymore. I arrived home a couple of days ago to find a notice posted in the lobby that he had died. A group of us “kids” now all in our 20’s read it in disbelief. None of us could believe he was gone. As I made my way to the elevator I felt a lump rise in my throat, my hand rising to my eyes trying to stop the tears that were building up and making my eyes sting. By the time I got into the elevator it was futile the tears couldn’t be stopped. After having been waked in NY for three days Don Cristobal ‘s body was taken to the airport yesterday, he was finally going home to his beloved island. Mercedes squeezed my hand in amazement when she saw the number of people who had shown up to escort him to the airport. It seems the entire neighborhood showed up. We had about 50 cars/vans packed with people, on each car flew a Puerto Rican flag and an American flag handed out by the local veterans club. As we got ready to pull out several cop cars from the local precinct showed up to escort us to the airport. I don’t know who arranged that but it was a fitting tribute. We circled the neighborhood in a last good-bye and people stood on the side walks some placed their hands over their hearts others saluted as we drove by. As we made our way to the airport a gentle rain began to fall. There’s a legend in my family that says whenever a good person dies the angels weep with joy when the person is admitted into heaven and embraced by God. The tears fall to earth as a signal to the deceased ones families letting them know that their loved one is back with his heavenly father. As the rain fell on me I looked up towards the sky and blew a kiss towards the clouds. We were all blessed to have known Don Lt. Cristobal Sandoval. Que Dios te bendiga y la Virgen Maria te favoresca . In memory of Lt. C. Sandoval : En Mi Viejo San Juan::Daniel Santos Cast Post Labels: death Click here to read entire post. @
1:28 PM
3 comment from: Mr. Khurram, Emory Mayne, Mia,
Thursday, December 02, 2004Rigor Mortis Is No Excuse....Why do people take photos at funerals?I’m not talking about photographing family which only seems to gather at funerals and weddings...I’m talking about the photographing the deceased...the dude in the casket.
Labels: death, friends, funerals Click here to read entire post. @
2:21 PM
0 comment from:
Tuesday, November 30, 2004Sometimes Death is welcomed....One of my best friends elderly grandfather just passed away yesterday morning..She had been here for Thanksgiving showing me a pic of her grand dad that had been taken hours earlier.. til that moment I didn't know much about the man but I remember that seeing his picture tugged at my heart.. he was bed ridden and suffering from alzheimers..I remember thinking what a terrible way to live..It also brought back memories of my own grandpa who died a year ago.. he too was bedridden after suffering a series of back to back massive strokes that left him severly brain damaged and unable to walk...I remembered going to the hospital to see him and thinking, "this is not my grandpa" eventually I had to stop going.. I couldn't take it no more.. he didn't even know we were there...I missed him teasing me and calling me "Maruca".. my grandpa lasted like that for 2 years...countless infections, pneumonia more times than I can remember... in the end they wanted to amputate his legs...my mom and her bros decided against it at most the amputation would have bought him a few more weeks..they drugged him up and made him as comfortable as possible...I remember the staff was in love with my family b/c of the way they took care of grandpa... everyday someone from the family was there.. we bathed him, shaved him, gave him manicures.. talked to him as if he heard us.. decorated his room with cards... yet as much as we loved him it was a relief when he died.. because we knew his suffering was finally over...when she got the call that he had passed on in his sleep, my mother smiled and said, "Thank you God".... I understood why she was thanking God.. so when my friend called me this morning to tell me the news about her grandpa passing away in his sleep. I thanked God as well for taking him as he slept and ending his suffering... I guess sometimes death is welcomed...sometimes it's a relief as well as a release... Labels: death, friends, funerals Click here to read entire post. @
8:40 AM
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