Therapy

I think maybe something's wrong with me...I think I should see a shrink or something.

I was half joking, but my best friend, the only person whose genius I find intimidating, was serious in her response. That's what I've been telling you for years.

And because we are so much older now and so much more mature, I retorted, You need to see someone too. You're just as crazy.

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I wrote the above 5 lines in June 2015.  I had started this excerpt, got distracted, and forgot it all together.  And here I am, 6 months later, seeing a therapist...through series of events that had nothing, yet everything, to do with me.  Maybe I'll blog about that someday.

But I started the above entry after seeing a dental hygienist who said, "Do you grind your teeth?" And I said, no.  Then, she said, "Do you clench your teeth sometimes, maybe when you're tense?" And then I realized, yes, I do.  Although not sometimes. Not often.  But ALWAYS. Whenever my mouth is closed, even with a smile on my face, unknowingly, my teeth immediately clench.  I now have to be very aware whenever my mouth is closed to unclench my teeth and loosen my jaws.  And then I tell myself, For heaven's sake, Chic, relax!

And so here I am, prodded by colleagues in the mental health field to go "see someone."  That mental health check ups are really...healthy.  And I hear their prodding as: Hey, you're a nut case. Go get fixed.

And I immediately want to yell, Have you driven through the Staten Island Expressway?? Try crossing that highway, then the Verrazano, then the BQE, and then come back for another 26 hours of traffic for YEARS and you tell me if YOU wouldn't turn into a nut case yourself!!

Anyway...my first session took place 2 weeks ago.  It wasn't my appointment, but I decided to take the spot and show up for myself.  Maybe because deep down I realize that I have been trying to figure myself out.  I mean, this 4 year blog is made up of me comically expressing myself to my readers while trying to discover the truths about who I really am.  And frankly, I am tired of having to consciously unclench my teeth.

It was dark when I went and the office was in a basement and the dark, tired look of the place gave me the creeps.  Once I got comfortable, I told the therapist, "Your office is creepy."

He looked up, clearly surprised by this.  "Really? You think so?"

"It's so dark," I said, pulling my jacket close.  "Your patients are probably developing phobias so they keep coming back to be fixed."

He laughed and I thought, this kid looks like a good Mormon.  Buttoned down shirt, khakis, dirty blonde hair parted on the side...is he from the Midwest?

We started by talking about family and I talked, nonstop, for a full hour.  I don't think I took a breath. And he seemed overwhelmed and then said, "Wow, you're telling me a lot...it's good, it's good...Usually people don't open up right away."

"Yup," I said. "Getting my money's worth."

Another laughter. Not sure if it was nervous laughter from my newfound therapist.

When we finished, I said, "It's so dark outside, I'm afraid I'll get nabbed then murdered."

"Would you like me to walk you to your car?"

"No, I'll just run. And then once I'm in my car, I can die from the anxiety."

The curious thing about therapy is realizing that this Mormon will not fix me. My second session, which was last week, comprised of me asking questions that I answered myself.  And whatever questions the therapist asked, I answered with further questions which I eventually also answered.

"Hey, I'm doing all the therapy here," I quipped. "I'm going to pay myself today."

I told my husband that I should just sit in front of a mirror and ask myself a bunch of questions.  That way, I don't have to wait week to week for therapy or run across a dark street hoping a serial killer won't discover me.

"I always tell my patients that it's like being in Nascar. You're the driver, but I'm on the passenger seat.  Every time there's a sharp turn, you seem to crash straight into the wall. Well, I tell you that the next time you come to that turn, you should move your head away from the wall and into the road. But when we get there, you keep looking at the wall so...I gently move your head towards the road.  And guess what you'll do?  You'll move the steering wheel away from the wall and onto the road, and this time, you won't crash. Your body will follow the movement of your head. Because the mind is an amazing thing."

A--ha.  Okayyy.

That was my honest reaction when the Nascar analogy was explained.

But 3 weeks later I am watching the intensity of my responses, clenching my teeth less, and have committed to taking one day off a week, no matter how tempted I am to go into work.  Okay, today is that day off and although I am home writing up this blog, I have responded to emails and at-least 45 text messages from employees---I am a work in progress and the wall is bigger than I realize. Clearly, I will have questions for myself in this week's therapy.

I'll have to get in that race car and listen to the "Passenger."  And so far, the ride has been this:

Why do I work so much? 

The passenger: "Do you really have to work seven days a week when you own the place?"

Why won't I relax?

The passenger: "You have to loosen up, you really do."

Why am I such a control freak? Wait, I'm such a control freak!

The passenger, laughing, "There you go!"

Why won't I turn the wheel?

To think that I told a close colleague, I'm going to flip this therapy session. First, I made the therapist reflect on the creepiness of his office (he bought extra lamps the following week), then I'll tell him he reminds me of a Mormon, and then I'll ask if he's heterosexual.

CRASH, CRASH, CRASH.

The past 4 years have really come down to this.  This was supposed to be the pursuit of the Virtuous Woman.  Really, I've been in pursuit of myself.  I think I overwork because I'm running away from me. And so, here I am. On this car ride, racing through these laps and confronting several walls.

One. Crash. At. A. Time.

Introvert

I took a day off today. A real day off. No work. And I stayed inside, perfectly secluded in my bedroom.  I didn't vegetate, of course not. That's just not my personality.  I cleaned like a madwoman, taking advantage of finally being home. After throwing my back from vacuuming and cleaning up the bedrooms, I sat up in my bed and thought, "I can do this for the next 100 years."

Stay inside.  Minimal human interaction. A good book. A foreign film on Netflix.

Those who know me well, which is less than 5 people, know that I'm an undercover hermit.  I dread social events, idle chatter, and perfunctory greetings. My husband knows where to find me during a party in my house after 3 hours. In my bedroom, in front of my laptop or an open book. His reproach is always the same:

Babe, these are your family downstairs and you're here hiding!

And, eventually, my sister-in-law will find me and chuckle.  Here you are. Getting to be too much, huh?

What's funny is her daughter, Amber, is always compared to me. She's exactly you. She looks like you. She talks like you. She acts like you. Except Amber thrives in the spotlight and attention is key to her energy.

I am the complete opposite.

It is true.  I can easily be the loudest in a group and I will not shut-up.  And I have one of those laughs---HA HA HA---over simple and mundane comments that are merely amusing and far from hysterical. But the laughter comes out and I laugh easily. It's an inherited thing. It's also cultural. Filipinos love to laugh.  And growing up a pastor's kid, I talked to everyone, I greeted everyone, and I joked around all the time.  And laughed at my own jokes. HA HA HA!

But I could never wait to stop talking, to stop being amusing, to stop laughing and get to my bed and hide. Enough with the chatter, enough with the noise, enough with the charm.

"Do you think I'm a snob?" I asked my husband yesterday.

"No," he said, thinking. "But you're only comfortable around very few people. People you're familiar with."

And when interactions with those familiar people stop, they fall under the category of people who now make me uncomfortable.

I'm 41 now so I've taken ample personality tests that revealed what hardly anyone who was around me in my 20's would believe: I am an introvert.

I sang solo in college, I preached in the pulpit from the time I was 17, and I had the reputation of being a dynamic youth pastor.

I found out later in life that "introvert" is not synonymous to "shy."

I did not play with children when I was a kid. Actually, I just did not play. I had, at most, 2 friends. And I never let anyone know, ever, how I was truly feeling inside. Strangely, what I do for a living is create treatment plans for some children who have those same social deficits.  My Aspie clients remind me of myself. They're perfectly content in their own universe and need no other peer to interact with to stay perfectly content.  And sometimes, while developing their treatment, I think, But why should he have to engage in social interaction!  Of course I know the answer to this:

It is socially valid. This is a social universe. We have to interact.

But...I want my bed. I want my book. I want my laptop. In the privacy of my own bedroom.

And I look at those Aspie kids and think, I know. I understand. But we gotta do this. Now go say hello to the other kids and look at their eyes when you do it.

If we don't interact, if we don't socialize, it is rudeness. People think you're a snob, or that you don't like them, or that you're mad. And there are always those who think, What is your problem?

I can't keep up with the amount of people who, I later on found out, thought I did not like them, or that I was mad at them, or, in the case of one, I genuinely hated them. Sadly, I did not even know the person's name, nor how he looked, or what he was like.  I just never looked up whenever he was around.

Oddly, at 41, I can only come up with one person I genuinely did not like.  Recently, another person joined that small group but overall, I genuinely like people.

It's not a matter of liking for introverts, I don't think.  It's a comfort level. I don't mean surface, social interaction. I'm actually a pro in that. I can engage and interact and be charming like a true PK (Pastor's Kid) and enjoy the experience.  But a level of plutonic intimacy requires a much deeper level of comfort and safety. I think most introverts have to feel safe enough to peek outside their very private shell and let a person in.

Once in, an outsider will find that inside my shell reside…absolutely nothing. No secrets. No hidden personality. No rare treasure. No psychedelic lights with sparkling stimuli. Nothing inside but a workaholic who enjoys watching documentaries and foreign films on Netflix.

And it's exactly how I like it. No clutter. No noise. Quiet and private.

On Relaxation...

After years of workaholism and emotional stoicism, the verdict came in:

"Degenerative Disc Disease," my doctor said, looking over the recent result of my cervical and lumbar spine x-rays.  I would google it later on and find that it sounds far more alarming than it really is.

He read some medical words and said,  "Your cervical spine is completely inverted. A perfect C."

Then, he proceeded to draw a picture. He seemed amused. He's had me as a patient for a couple of years now and although he is my doctor, we had developed a rapport like two colleagues. I jumped from where I was laying.

"Let me see that," I said, standing next to the doctor and reading right along with him. "All from stress? This is all from stress?"

The lower back pains, the unbearable migraines...

"Well, stress can definitely be a factor."

I kept reading, as though I understood the terminologies. "But what does this mean? What does it mean?"

"It means," my doctor said, "that you're a mess."

I rolled my eyes. He had told me to de-stress. He had told me to exercise. He had told me to cut work. And in each visit, he had told me to learn to relax. I even got a history lesson on how he went from running his own practice and covering hospital rounds to working a few hours just 4 days a week. "I'd rather enjoy life and live like a person, not a machine."

He even wrote me a medical note for work to let my boss know that stressful situations weaken my already compromised immune system.

"What are you so tense about? You gotta just relax!"

And then the chuckle. A chuckle from a successful professional who has learned the art of not falling into the trap of the work wheel. The chuckle made me anxious.  Professional medical advice ensued, followed by a prescription for muscle tension and extension of physical therapy. I was going to be just fine, my doctor assured in a serious tone. Really, I was going to be ok. I needed regular exercise, continuation of physical therapy, and relaxation techniques.

So today, Friday, was my day off. A day of nothing. An empty day. A day dedicated to relaxation.

By 12 noon my lower spine started to throb. I had been returning emails, developing treatment plans, answering phone calls, and the stress of the morning finally found itself in my lumbar region.

What's wrong with me? Why don't I know how to relax?

And so on impulse, I called a spa and made an appointment for a 45 minute deep tissue massage. It wasn't going to be one of those feel good ones but I could feel the tension knots everywhere and I needed a good work up. And then, something on the website caught my eye. A relaxation bath. Scented oils. Soothing. Healing. Etcetera, etcetera.

It was just what the doctor ordered. And so at 2:30, I set off for my very first relaxation, scented bath.

"This is your locker," the woman at the spa said. "Just remove all your clothes and put this robe and these slippers and we'll get your bath ready."

I smiled awkwardly then locked the door behind me. I removed my clothes quickly and locked them in the locker. Then, I realized that bare necessities could not follow me in the bath. Neither could my cozy socks. So off everything went and I was suddenly filled with awkward dread and anxiety.  I would be much more relaxed in front of my lap top.

Once done, I went outside, wrapped in an oversized pink, fluffy robe that dragged by my feet. I could see a woman working by a buzzing tub and I could see some bubbles forming. She called me in the room. The bubbles had risen above the tub.

Was the temperature ok for me?

It was scalding hot but she assured me that was ok. A hundred and ten degrees was the norm and she only had it for a hundred degrees, but I suddenly saw myself standing outside in the middle of Summer under a scorching sun in a hundred degree weather and somehow I wasn't convinced.

The bubbles continued to rise. You don't think the bubbles will spill when I get in?

No, it was ok, the woman said nervously. Really, it was ok. But the bubbles continued to rise and the woman from the front, the woman in charge, joined us.  She told the bath lady to turn off the water and she left the room. But the bubbles continued to rise and I don't know what happened but the woman walked out for some reason and I somehow found myself alone in the room with this volcanic bubble bath and it began to spill on the floor.

"The bubbles are spilling!" I yelled.

The women ran in and I walked out. I could hear them talking. Turn it off.  But it won't turn off! Shut the water. The water won't shut!

I peeked in and saw that the bubbles had risen close to their height and its excess was seeping at the sides of the beautiful, white, clawfoot tub. The two dark haired women were frantically working on the knob and then finally, silence.

"We are going to drain the tub and do it again. It will just be a minute."

I waved my hand, no problem. It wasn't an issue. I was used to walking around wrapped in an oversized bathrobe with a sheepish grin on my face in a place with complete strangers.

Finally, the wait was over.

I looked at my buzzing bath that now had categorically minimal bubbles and low water.  I reflected for a few seconds. My bath lady was too afraid to put the scented bubbles in and had shut off the water before armageddon happened again.

My relaxation bubble bath, my soothing, healing, scented water, had anxiety written all over it.

I looked around the room and saw a mountain of bubbles on the sink, covering the mirror. They had gathered the excess bubbles from the disaster and placed them neatly on the sink.  The bubbles were thick and hard and sat like a tall, white, sculptured art piece on the sink.

My bath lady walked out and I attempted to get in. After a few ow, ow, ow! from the scalding heat, unable to sit, much less lay back, I adjusted the tub with blasting cold water and then settled in.  The force from the jacuzzi was too strong for my small frame and it shook me around side to side. I laid down thinking of what the experience felt like, the buzzing, the jerking, the convulsive flow of the water. My relaxing, healing, soothing bath felt...epileptic.

"How was your bath?"

"Uhmm...I could've gone without it. I...I...don't think it's for me."

"No?"

"No."

"I'm sorry to hear that. We'll give you a 10% discount."

I beamed. Thank you, that's so nice and considerate.

I was relieved that she did not ask for an explanation. That I did not have to recount the fact that I had tipped the temperature off balance and eventually shivered in the tub, watching my pruned fingers tremble. And how I had buried my face in my hands in exasperation, only to find my finger tips stained in black, quickly realizing that I had just smeared my mascara all over my face.

It was indeed an experience, but not a relaxing one.

And so I left wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, I really am just not meant to relax. Ever. And if I try, I will pay the price. Even if it is at a discounted rate.

Don't mind the Nails

I took a test recently--one of those mindless, facebook quizzes that rate a little about yourself and if you're half gullible you would believe that your aura is golden, you were a cat in your past life, and your real profession should be in the medical field, specifically,  that of a surgeon.  I take these quizzes because I'm addicted to them. Yes, dumb, superficial and mundane. But I take them. And then, as always, I say, what idiots. I'm not 21, I was never married to a musician, and I do NOT have 3 kids.

Going back to this recent test.  I took a girly test that gave me a score of 25% and I was dubbed a tomboy.  True, I hate pink. True, I can't relate to my oldest sister's obsession with Hello Kitty, and I don't know what to do with an eye liner but I'm no tomboy. I can't climb trees, I won't know what to do with a flat tire, and I'm petrified of snakes. But girly things? It's been my lifelong obsession to be a girly girl. And so, it's also been my lifelong failure.

About 6 weeks ago, the Board of Education showed up at a UPK I run in Brooklyn. It was an insane day, the first day of school.  The very first day we opened our doors to 4 year olds from the board of ed. Just the night before, there were no tiles in the second classroom and I threw construction papers on random tables hoping it would distract the inspectors and they would think the classes were fully supported with materials. Maybe they won't notice that only 5 blocks were in the block center and that the paint area only had brushes and that the science table only had one piece of paper that read, "Science Center." The paint, the books, the blocks, the toys, the manipulatives...they were all still in Amazon, waiting to be ordered.

I sat in front of 2 women. One seemed very eclectic, the other...polished.  My posture was erect and when I'm under tremendous pressure I tend to be a bit more articulate, punctual with my responses, and competent in my tone. I was hard at work not to reveal that I did not know what I was doing. That although I ran a successful and difficult program for children with autism, Universal Pre-K, Common Core, and all the rules and guidelines of the typical early childhood world eluded me.  I didn't find the task intellectually challenging, but there were a lot of bullets on my paper and they were too much too soon for an unprepared educational director and the idea of merging the world of autism with universal pre-k was daunting.

They asked questions, I answered. They made suggestions, I wrote furiously.  They offered advice, I took them. But one of them, the polished one, did not say much. She seemed a bit preoccupied. She was kind and understanding and helpful, but she was preoccupied. And then I realized why. She kept glancing at my nails. They were chipped, dirty, with old nail polish that should have been removed or re-done 6 weeks before.  I curled my fingers into a ball to hide them and then eventually, I placed them under the table, where they would neither distract nor appall anyone. I wondered what she was thinking. If she can't take care of those nails, how is she going to run a school? I wanted to say that I was good at what I did because I was psychotically dedicated. I neglected the woman side of me because I poured everything into my work. But who was I kidding? What excuse did I have for overgrown, chipped nails? I wondered if she noticed my unwashed hair, pulled carelessly into a messy bun? I started biting at my cracked lips and wondered if she thought my glasses were too big. After all, one of the students had asked me if they were goggles.

And then, ever so discreetly, I looked at her. Not a hair out of place. Make-up flawless. Lips intact. She looked like she smelled good. Some women know how to be professional and pretty at the same time.

I'm just not one of them.

And so, the UV gel nail era began for me. I ran home and found a nail salon down the block. Two weeks later, I got them done again. And then before another three weeks were gone, the nails had been redone--this time blue, with a hint of sparkle.  I couldn't commit to make-up and hair, but the nails, the one hour I gave myself every 2 weeks, felt good. They felt right. I was finally doing something for myself that I deserved. Something nice and pretty. Something girly.

"I guess you didn't watch that segment on Dr. Oz about gel nails?"

It was my best friend on the phone. The only woman I know busier than me. The brilliant World Health Organization doctor.

"What did he say?" I panicked, looking at my flawless nails.

"Don't worry about it. They can cause skin cancer but don't worry about it. Just cut down on red meat."

"I don't eat red meat!"

"Oh," she chuckled. "Well, then, maybe exercise. That may eliminate the dangers of you getting your nails done."

Laughter from my friend. Silence from me.

"How can you say that? You know I'm the most paranoid person! How can you say that? Just when I finally turned into a girl, you'd say that!"

"Well, maybe you can get manicures instead?"

"They take forever! I have to sit under that blowing thing forever and it makes me crazy. I can't go get a manicure done every 3 days! They chip after I wash dishes and then I have to sit under that thing forever for them to dry!"

And so, I am sitting here today, my last set of UV gel nails slowly but surely fading. I am wondering and calculating and deciding whether or not to go to the nail salon. Of course I will never get gel nails. That's out of the question. But do I really want to get a manicure? A manicure that will chip and fade within days only for me to keep going back religiously to get them done?

I can see that Board of Ed woman in my mind. I can see her glancing, distracted, preoccupied by my lack of girly-ness.  I know what will happen the next time she comes. I will curl my fingers, turn my hand into balls, and hide them under the table. At-least I'll know, deep down, that I tried to be better. I tried to be more girly. Three weeks. For those that know me well know that that's a very long time.

I think that should count for something.

The Scars

"Easy," my new doctor, the rheumatologist said, placing the stethoscope again on my chest, "your heart is racing. Take it easy!"

That was right before he told me I had lupus. And that for 20 years the disease had spared my organs, although there was extensive scarring around my heart and my lungs. Twenty years. Untreated. My blood vessels feeding the major organs of my body had been flaring up for years, and I was still alive. The prognosis was good.

"Low level lupus." That was what the doctor called it.  I googled it later on and couldn't find it anywhere. There's mild, there's severe. Low level...low level that has me gasping for air sometimes and wincing in pain as I rub my chest. Low level that scarred the engine and transmission of my body. Low level that has had me in constant pain for years. Imagine high level.

It would be a week tomorrow since I was in that office, where my heart raised wildly and I clenched my fists and I took deep breaths so I would not burst into tears. Crying is something I don't do. But I did take the next day off. I needed some time to process this new diagnosis in my life.

Just a week before, while sitting in heavy traffic, I found myself frustrated at how tired I was.  I was angry at myself for feeling drained and exhausted, especially since I had to go to my second and third jobs and wouldn't be home until much later that evening.  It was always this way since college and every doctor ignored me. Waves of sudden exhaustion, my body trembling in fatigue. My hair would fall. The soles of my feet would be filled with red, painful bumps. And then I would feel like I'm tingling, like I'm buzzing.

I laid in bed that night and said, "Buzz...buzz...there goes my body buzz-zing all overrrr!"

My husband shook his head. There was not much he could do married to a living cartoon. "You want me to get you something?"

And then, of course, I find out through discussions and forums that this buzzing was one of the signs of a flare up. Lupus. The very word is foreign. How can something that's been my companion for the past 20 years be so unfamiliar?

Serositis.  It's the specific kind that goes after your heart and lungs.

And so, I took advantage of this all week at work. Whenever I forgot something, or made a mistake, I sighed dramatically, "What do you people expect? I have scars on my heart and lungs!" And I don't think my staff knew what to do except chuckle, then shake their heads.  Early this year, all they've heard me say was, "What do you people expect? I'm forty!" And now it's been replaced by something much more sinister, but exclaimed in the same ridiculous manner.  I made sure during First Aid training, that all the teachers in my room knew how to administer CPR. And I raised an eyebrow, "Anyone who doesn't pay attention will get fired. You people need to keep me alive." More chuckles across the room and declarations of, "Miss Anna Marie, you're not going to die! Such a drama queen!"

Only once, only once this past week have I broken down and cried. And only for a minute.  I told my husband, "All this time I've taken pride in never being sick and something so much more sinister was happening inside me." And then, just like that, the tears fell.

I think I cried really because I've been told that I now have to listen to my body. I cannot drive it to the ground. I have to rest when it's tired. I no longer can skip lunch and dinner. I had to let go of my afternoon jobs...and then, the hardest of all: I must try not to be stressed.  The very idea of not being stressed stresses me out.

I thought immediately of the traffic, the slow cashier, the teenager in a Mustang changing lanes without signal, the hairdresser speaking about me in Chinese...the everyday stuff that stresses the (bleep) out of me. I'm never, ever going to be able to do it!

But really, I am grateful and I have nothing to complain about. I think, 20 years...imagine what they could have discovered by now? What my body has been through...God has surely spared me. If scars around my important organs are the only things to show for after 2 decades, then I have much to be thankful for. And then I think of my son, my Aaron who has lived with diabetes before he was even 2 years old. The most calm, well adjusted child battling the meanest autoimmune disease.

I cannot complain.

But I can ask for prayer. Prayer from you, my blog friends, to ask the good Lord to keep me healthy. Prayer that I learn how to read the signs and symptoms...how to listen to my body.  And to do the miraculous: stay stress free while living and breathing in this great demanding city.

A month's worth of pride at 40

I wanted to reflect on every week of my first month being forty:

First Week:  It involved running everywhere to prepare for Wlad and I's 40th birthday bash.  I pride myself in being thrifty and wise with money but a dollar here and a dollar there heaped up to more than a couple thousand and I was upset at myself for spending so much for a birthday party.  Jennifer Covelli, who was my assistant teacher for a while, was the brains behind the event (Roaring 20's theme) and she had to keep reminding me that I was only going to be 40 once; that everyone will remember this day, and that yes, Wlad and I were well worth it...It turned out to be a party worth every penny and more. A night Wlad and I would never forget.

Second Week: Baby Paris, my cousin's daughter, who was 2 1/2 years old,  died two days after that birthday bash.  I learned that I was not as strong as I thought. I pride myself in being able to muster cerebral strength no matter the situation and I could focus on anything, especially when it involved work, no matter what was happening at home. The day after Paris died I wrote my boss and told her I could not come to work that week.  I could not sleep. I could not eat. I cried everyday.  For me, it wasn't about losing Paris, although that in itself brought its unbearable weight of sorrow.  I could not function because I had witnessed my cousin, Nightingale, and her husband, Chris, wrestle with their sanity in the process of losing their first born.  I watched them in that hospital room, overcome with anguish and pain...their sorrow was maddening.  I had never felt so helpless, so useless in my life. I walked out of the ICU room at one point, found a corner in the hallway, and sobbed. I wasn't weeping at that moment for Paris. I was in agony for my cousins...

Third Week: The day after we buried Paris, Alanna got sick. The next day she tested positive for Influenza A, the same flu that eventually put her on life support four years before. I pride myself in staying calm and cool in front of others, nomatter the situation. But by Tuesday, when we had to take Nana to Columbia Presbyterian, I bursted into tears at work. I never burst into tears. I do not cry in front of others over my pain. I cry for other people's pain but I do not cry over my own, especially not in public. We had just buried Paris. And now we were back in the hospital with my daughter.  I was physically, mentally, and emotionally spent...but I knew, deep down, that Nana would be ok. And she was...I learned that it was ok to break down and cry. Earthquakes do not follow as a consequence. The world does not fall apart. Sometimes it is quite ok to burst into tears.

Fourth Week: The last week of March was my busiest at work. I had 5 tours and I was finishing a course online. Toward the end of the week, I had an interview with a clearly well educated and wealthy parent. I had prided myself in not accepting a child impulsively in our program--but that day, I went against my own protocol.  I did not complete the interview the way I normally do. I did not consult with the teachers in the room who were assessing the child. I accepted the child impulsively. And by the time that interview was done, every fiber of my being knew I had made an absolute wrong decision. I went home angry. Before the night was over, I knew I was angry only at myself. I have learned from the past that impulsive acceptance always had a consequence, and I had made a vow to follow protocol. But because I set the rules, I freely broke them. I learned, once again, that even if you're the one calling the shots, you have to abide by the regulations set in place. Rules are there for our own protection.

What a roller coaster it was for my first month being forty; I realized that even at this age, the things I think I can pride myself over are dependent on the situations going on in my life. I have entered 40 so full of confidence at knowing who I am. In one month's time, I've discovered I am still in the process of getting to know me.  It was a rough month and I am so thankful for God being there, and I am relieved it's over.

And now, April has begun...

Baby Paris

(I was asked to speak at my 2 ½ year old niece’s Wake. This was what I read for Baby Paris that night.)

I did not plan to stand before you tonight to speak…I know my cousins did not plan to ask me or anyone who spoke to stand tonight before you to speak. But God, in His sovereign wisdom knew that this day, at this moment, we would gather here together to send Paris home.  I want to be transparent with you…I don’t want to stand before you today.  I stand as a broken family member, a confused mother, full of questions, and filled with agony. 

What can I say about Paris?  I can’t reach into my treasure box of memories without chuckling a little.  She was so feisty. She had more spunk, more energy, more life than what was supposed to be humanly possible in that little body.  I don’t think that it was because she wasn’t aware that she was supposed to be frail, supposed to be too sick to be happy---I think Paris just did not care that she was supposed to be too frail or too sick to be happy. She just was.

I remember just a few weeks back visiting the family in the hospital.  We were at the Ronald McDonald home and Night and Chris gave me and Wlad the update.  I was filled with dread. She was in the ICU, so obviously, she was very sick.  I pictured her laying there, fatigued, eyes closed and I dreaded to open her door.  But when we went into that half lit room, she was sitting up, her famous pig tails bouncing around, and she had a bed pan in her hand and she was banging on it like a drum.  She looked up and laughed at us.  I’m sure she was thinking, “What strange, worried faces! Do you guys need this bedpan?”

To Paris, that hospital room was her playpen and she was going to have a good time.

I had many encounters with Paris; I wish I had known to treasure every second of it…My encounters were mostly when she was in the boxing ring of life, swinging her arms at challenges and winning small and big feats.  But my favorite was when Night and the family came over at our house and Night tried to take a picture of me and Paris. I was holding her, of course, and Night would count 1…2…3…cheese! Paris would smile real big at the camera during 1…2…but when it got to 3, she would quickly turn to look at me to see if I were smiling. She did that a couple of times. 1…2…3, are you smiling??  We finally had to click at number 2 because she was just too busy making sure I was doing what I was supposed to do.

I think, for sure, Paris learned to laugh and smile at adversities through her grandmother, her Lola.  One of my earliest memories of her was in the hospital room in Long Island and Auntie Estella was there and I had tried and tried to make her acknowledge me but she wouldn’t. But whenever her Lola picked her up and said, “Hi, Paris,” she would squeal and laugh…and I don’t think she did anything but smile through every difficulty and every hurdle after that.  I think, Auntie, you taught Paris to smile through it all.

And then Paris taught me and tried to teach all of us, to smile through it all.

To fight adversities like a trained boxer,

To face fears without flinching,

To be feisty and look at pain in the eye, turn an object like a bedpan into an instrument, and laugh.

It’s partly genetics, really. Last night, I watched my cousin Nightingale comfort many who wept in her arms. I watched Chris walk with people up to Paris and be their support and strength. And amidst the muffled cries, I heard the sound of laughter from my cousin, Night, and I thought, there it is. There is Paris. That baffling laughter amidst all the pain. She will always be with us.

I say the strength in Paris was partly genetics, but all God.

After the Lord came into that hospital room to call Paris home, to end her fight, to give her rest—after what felt like forever of brutal agony, my cousin Nightingale managed to pull herself together, step out of that room for a moment to call everyone to let them know that Paris was no longer with us.

I was in that hallway with her and I had been given strict instructions by a hospital staff to be strong for the mom. So, I put on a strong front. But deep down, I kept asking God,  “Where are you? Where are you?”

And Nightingale, trembling in agony and anger, overcome with sorrow, her face drenched in tears, looked at me and  said, “I have peace.”

And I knew, I knew then where God was. He was right there in our midst.

Chris and Night, I can’t pretend to know the measure of your pain but in your pain, in your sorrow, Jesus is there.

And in those moments, because those moments are going to be many, when you feel that excruciating pain of loss,  know that the Prince of Peace is with you and remember Paris and her smile...and if you can, find a bedpan,  bang on it and keep on marching.

That’s what Paris would do.

The Bag Lady

I have become the bag lady.  Not the kind that collects bags--although I admit that's a weakness that needs a soft intervention--but a bag lady associated with long coats, drooping hats, mismatched socks, and a smeared red lipstick.

You know the kind. The crazy ones.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this past Sunday, as I frantically made my way to meet a post graduate student I needed to supervise and I had to stop and glare at my reflection.  I was wrapped in a black, floor length wool coat, the belt clumsily tied across my waist, a hand knitted scarf wrapped 3 times around my neck.  You couldn't see my hair because it was covered under a drooping newsboy hat, my eyes hidden behind dark rimmed glasses.  I think my head tilted a bit and I examined myself for a quick second.

A nutty professor.  I looked like a nutty professor.

I had turned 40 the day before.

I think what disturbed me the most was the psychotic giggle that escaped my lips. For that split second I felt like I was at a crossroad.  I mean, I was 40 now.  I had always held intelligence over beauty on a pedestal and here I was, middle aged, looking like a scattered nut.  My hair under the hat was in absolute disarray, knotted and frizzy.  My eyebrows were growing in 5 different directions.  And as always, the corner of my lower lip was peeling.  I was the visual antonym of my student who was young, with piercing blue eyes and long, shiny luscious hair.  But she clung onto my every word because I was the expert across the table.  She was brilliant herself but clearly, she found me a genius. How could you not?  I looked like a lunatic, and aren't all geniuses teetering on the side of insanity?  I thought, I like this...this feels right. And I felt a little emotional at the possibility of joining a small army of eccentric bag ladies, the kind that students look up to but crack jokes about.  The very thought of students cracking jokes about me was disturbingly appealing.

But then a few days later I went to visit a school I supervise.  I cloaked myself in the same fashionable hysteria and the lack of acknowledgment bothered me. I sat there, looking at these young teachers who did not seem moved or startled by how knotted my hair was and how dry my lips were.  They were clearly accustomed to my clumsy appearance. But they are equally used to hearing me come up with ideas that don't work and my level of genius does not impress them. I drove away from that school ruminating on beauty and womanhood and being 40. And then I thought of what Audrey Hepburn once said: "The only beauty that doesn't fade is elegance."

And so I faced my crossroad at that moment as I drove through Coney Island in Brooklyn.  I can be a brilliant nut like a handful of my professors in college who did not care to bathe or change their clothes. Or, I can be a Diane Sawyer, who clearly does not trade elegance in exchange for smarts.

The next day I woke up slightly earlier to iron out my hair and to pluck my eyebrows.  I don't have to go downhill just because my age is going uphill, I decided.  I will maintain a level of poise and beauty, along with some level of expertise that come with education and with age.

But today I woke up and looked at my reflection in the mirror. Hair in disarray and lips hopelessly dehydrated.  I realized that a bit of toothpaste had dropped on my black shirt.  I got to school and one of the teachers, tall and pretty and young and perfectly put together, went to my office with a wet paper towel in her hand.

I'll clean your shirt for you, Ms. Anna Marie.

I looked down at my shirt then looked up. Nah...who cares?

I could tell she did not know how to react. She chuckled a little then walked away.  I smiled after her, a psychotic giggle escaping my lips.

So much for that crossroad.  Hello, Bag Lady.

Motherhood

I don't get intimidated easily.  People's level of wealth or education neither truly impress me nor make me cower with insecurity.  What I do have is absolute respect for intelligent people, especially well accomplished women who have a commanding, self-confident presence about them.  I tend to want to be around such people, to glean from their knowledge and learn from their experiences.  It wasn't always this way for me, I admit. I was raised to be in awe of people's profession and money, that for a long time I thought you had to tiptoe around such people.  Then, I became a full pledged adult, read plenty of success books, engaged in conversation with intellectuals, and eventually concluded that while successful folks deserved genuine respect, they were people who truly fit the ultimate cliche--you tickle them, they laugh, you cut them, they bleed, etc., etc., (I've never tickled nor cut such people but you know what I mean.)

I remember interviewing a couple in a school I run in Brooklyn, who hoped that their child would be accepted in our program.  I've interviewed many parents from all walks of life but for the last two years, I've found myself sitting down with more and more successful parents.  I remember seeing the couple by the door, the wife a picture of beauty, a tall redhead who was perfectly put together.  Her husband, like many fathers, was dressed in a suit.  But you could tell that the suit was of the highest quality.  It didn't take a long time for me to realize that he was used to people shuffling quietly around him; his very presence evoked wealth and unfortunately for him, arrogance.  He had an air of impatience about him, glancing at his expensive watch repeatedly, as though his precious time was being wasted in my small, crowded office.  I leaned forward and said to him, "You know, the teachers out there are assessing your daughter to see if she is a right fit for our program. Do you know why you're in this office with me? So that I can assess whether I like you and if you're the right fit for me."  It wasn't true, of course, and I am almost always an advocate for the parents walking in, but he was smug and his energy suffocated me.  He humbled down immediately, and I relaxed. I was able to proceed and tell him truly the reason for the interview.

I realized at that moment that I had strayed far away from my upbringing.  Wealthy professionals no longer floated in the air.  They no longer sat on gold plated pedestals. Not once had I ever sat across any of these parents--or anyone of great caliber for that matter, and felt inadequate.

Unless...I sit across a pinterest, super mom.  Any form of confidence and self-assurance come crashing down.  I'm not just talking about any kind of mom. I mean, moms that bake cakes and decorate them with pretty flowers. Moms that knit matching hats and scarves for their little girls. Moms that show up at every PTA meeting and are at a first name basis with the principal.  Moms that have squeaky clean homes and squeaky clean hair and squeaky clean nails.

I stay far, far away from such women so that I can manage to still keep my chin halfway up.

How do these women do it? I couldn't knit a 2 inch line with full manual guidance from an expert.  I've never successfully baked a cupcake. I mean, my kids are alive and are fed. That's quite an accomplishment in my book.  My nails are cut to prevent dirt from building up underneath.  I have no idea how the principal looks like in either one of my kids' schools.  They go and do well. Job done. Let's not even talk about my hair...

I dropped off gift bags for my daughter's birthday last month and I came home to my husband chuckling.  "Nana said you wrote the wrong room number on the bags."

I wrote her room number?

"I told her you never go to her school so she can't expect you to remember. I said, 'You know, mommy is never there. She can't remember what room you're in this year.'  And you know what she said?"

What?

"She said that you never forget anything about work but you never remember anything with her school."

I stood in that dining room, hands in my pocket, in absolute silence...

My husband continued talking, chuckling every now and then.  He said something about explaining to Nana about my work schedule and something about her somewhat understanding, etcetera, etcetera.  I couldn't respond.  I found a chair and sat down, my hand finding my mouth.

I said, She didn't say that.

"She did."

No, she didn't say that.

"Yes, babe, she did."

Forget the knitting, baking moms. I was outdone simply by present moms.  I was overcome with horror and gut-wrenching guilt.  What I always feared--my children believing work was more important to me--has happened.

I canceled meetings and home cases the following day and called off work.  I drove Nana to school and picked her up after and took her out for pizza. Then, I brought up the wrong room number.  I explained how even though she'd rather stay home sometimes, she has no choice but to go to school.  Mommy's work was the same way. I'd rather be home but...

"Daddy explained all this already," Nana said dismissively, waving her hand.

Okay...Do you understand?

"I don't hate school," she said. "You don't hate your work, do you, mommy? But you have to go.  I have to go to school."

I nodded quietly.  I doubted she truly understood. I didn't understand it myself.

I called my best friend that evening and left her a voicemail.  She was probably in the operating room, or doing her rounds, or saving another life at the number one hospital in the country.  The notion that somewhere, someone I know is just as absent from her children as I was, was not comforting that moment.  We exchanged texts the next day.  We planned to drive and meet each other halfway to work with our hectic schedule so we can sit, catch up, and exchange guilty mother notes.

Motherhood.

Who knew that it would be the hardest, most intimidating role?  The judges are brutally honest and their verdict constant.

I've cut some hours off my work time.  I make sure I'm home most days to look over homework, to supervise shower time, and to say prayers and cuddle up at bedtime.

I will never be able to knit or bake or have perfectly manicured nails and know the principal's nickname.  I continue to duck around such women.  To me, they float on air and sit on golden pedestals.  I know my limitations and I know when I'm inadequate. But I can at least be present.

And I recite a room number every now and then. 202. 202.  Just in case I'd have to write it again on gifts.  Not remembering just isn't going to cut it.

Excuse me, will you be my friend?

I have only 3 friends.  I mean, 3 that I consider best friends. I try not to analyze what that word really means and how those 3 fair up to its meaning because if I do, I may actually have less.

The strangest thing is, I'm extremely social on the surface. Throw me at a cocktail party and I'll have everyone engaged, laughing with me, or at me, sharing various experiences, personal or business, talking easily about the past, the present, the future.  But when that moment comes, that awful desperate moment of needing someone to talk to...well, I'm virtually friendless.

I've been thinking about friendship for several months now. One of the teachers I work with, who I love dearly, had the unfortunate experience of losing her best friend to cancer right before Christmas last year. That best friend was her mother. Of course, my upbringing prevents me from ever knowing what that remotely looks like, but what I should've been able to relate to was the army of other best friends who stood by her side at her most difficult moment. Friends from childhood. Friends from the neighborhood. Friends who knew her worst and best traits and loved her unconditionally.  I remember being at the hospital, then at the wake, and eventually at that devastating funeral, and seeing the same group of girls rally around her. I was overcome with a deep sense of lack.  In her sorrow, in her loss, she was shielded by a wall of true, faithful friends.  I did not know what that was like. Not that level of devotion in such great number.

I always tell my husband that I will be surrounded by admirers at my funeral, but friends will be scarce.

"You've always had a wall," my husband once told me. "From the moment I met you. You can tell only very few are allowed in."  And then, because my husband is into metaphors, he proceeded to tell me that that wall had a foyer and a handful were allowed to hang around there. But deep inside the wall?  He hugged me and sighed, "I'm glad I'm in there." He named maybe two more people but he wasn't sure if anyone else was in.

There really is nothing mysterious about me. Like I said in my last blog, I'm really quite a bore so if anyone walked straight inside that wall...well, nothing exciting would await them.

"It has nothing to do with mystery, babe. It's your guard. It's never down."

And I argued to my husband that it has everything to do with my upbringing. Really.  I was taught that friends are there to deceive you, to take, and to mistreat you. And that those that seek friends are lonely, shallow people lacking intelligence and self-worth. And if you know me a little, you would know of course that beauty is of little importance to me. But self-worth? Intelligence? Depth?  They are descriptors that mean the world to me! So while in my youth normal girls were on a quest for true friends, I was on a quest to avoid them. (Also, I do believe my entry, "The Reason Why I Don't Cry", holds the answer to my isolation.)

But this month, as many of you may know, I attended a wedding at Martha's Vineyard. The event was lovely as could be expected, of course, and the groom was tall and handsome. But the bride...the bride who is in her early 30's was not just beautiful and charming, she is immensely smart. She is a graduate of an Ivy League school and she teaches at NYU while running her own clinic. And to my absolute surprise she was surrounded by an army of wonderful, devoted best friends. And they were all, likewise, smart and beautiful. I thought of the teacher I work with. She is by far one of the smartest girls I know and her best friends were all college graduates, from nurse practitioners to pharmacists.

Clearly, smarts have nothing to do with being friendless. Being unfriendly has everything to do with being friendless.  I mean, even the Bible says so.

I told my husband that it's too late for me. I've tried, really, to recruit friends, only to find myself finding a myriad of reasons why the friendship can't work. How do you learn to become a trusting friend at 40? The idea of working on such a relationship exhausts me. I can't picture myself sewing random people into the fabric of my being without careful assessment. Hence, the reason for my solitude.

So, I've turned my attention on my innocent victims. My children.

I ask my son every now and then if he has called his friends, if they wanted to hang out, if he needed me to take them to the movies.  And I'm always more excited than Alanna when her friend in the neighborhood knocks on our door looking for her.  I went by her house recently and asked her mother if they would come over for dinner. I'm not looking to make friends with the mom. I'm looking to make our girls lifelong friends.

"If ever we should both die someday when they're older but without their own family, I want them to have true friends," I told my husband. "I mean really good, amazing friends who will love them unconditionally."

As for me, who knows. Like that wonderful, intelligent bride who found a couple of lifelong friends while walking down the street, I too might stumble on a friend. She would have to be incredibly patient at how guarded I am, how unwilling I am to share my deepest thoughts and my true feelings. She would have to understand that I cannot be on the phone on a daily basis and that hanging out constantly suffocates me. She would have to find my scattered thinking charming and find humor in the fact that I forget every birthday and every anniversary. She would have to realize that I'm psychosomatic and I think every 2 weeks I may be dying of something...and she would have to love me through it unconditionally.

I suppose I should be thankful I at least have 3 friends...I think.

I was born a sloth

I think I was always a sedentary child growing up.  You wouldn't know it by looking at me and glancing at my brakeless schedule.  But really, if it were not for work and occasional obligations that require moving my joints, I would lay at home all day, surf the web, or read a book, or think about life, or stare into nothingness.  I would go nowhere, see no one, do nothing.  I stay at kinetic energy because when that's interrupted and my true nature kicks in, that energy goes into a screeching halt and I start to gather more moss than should be allowed.

I'm on vacation now, visiting my sisters and their families, enjoying the presence of wild and happy children around me, reveling in the sounds of laughter--with the occasional shrieks of sobbing hysteria because "he hit me, she hurt my feelings, he snatched my toy", etc.,  In between this daycare chaos, my ever outdoorsy sister with her toned legs and flat stomach would ask, "Do you want to go take the kids out?"

Out where?

"Anywhere! We can take them to the park or the zoo or the museum..."

But see, I am now operating only on potential energy and I have started gathering my moss and the idea of slipping off of the couch and putting on my shoes fill me with dread. I am the laziest workaholic I know. And although one would think that self-awareness is half the battle, the war is lost because being self-aware is where it pretty much ends for me. The desire for change is nonexistent.

I have two jobs, I go 100 miles an hour at work, but when that's done, it is downhill from there. Couch, computer, TV.  Unless there's an earthquake, I'm not moving around.

"Don't you wanna see St. Louis?" my sister asked in what I detected to be a restraint voice.

Uh...not really.

"I came to see the kids," I said, scanning the room and wondering where they all went.

"We can take them to the science museum." 

Science Museum. I want to stab my eye.

"Or take them to the Art Museum.  I haven't been there."

I had a quick vision of the 2-year-olds discussing Van Gogh. 

"There's a park nearby," my sister said, putting away toys in the toy box for the third time that hour. Why doesn't she stop moving? I don't remember her moving nonstop like this when she was in New York.

"Okay," I said, hoping that response would settle her a bit and then a couple of hours later she can ask again and I will say ok, and buy a couple more hours until the sun goes down. And who goes to the museum at night? Not me.

Why am I such a boring, lazy homebody? I remember living by an hour per hour schedule in my 20's, from 7AM to midnight, running constantly, going to work, going to class, speaking at rallies, counseling students, planning events, and needing to pencil in a time to see my boyfriend. I was beyond busy. And, really, even now, I've always worked more than one job, registered in school for some certification, my foot on the gas. But whenever I get home or the weekend comes or vacation hits...I transform into the human sloth.

Always on the quest to get to know myself, I've been reeling on this seemingly organic form of laziness. Why, oh why, am I this way?

And no, it really isn't because I'm so busy all the time that I inevitably just crave for some down time.  I truly think I intentionally stay busy because given the opportunity, I would never leave my house and I would just hibernate the whole year through and never bathe or change my clothes.

I fished for a memory in my childhood because I'm convinced that every gift, every deficit, every strength and every defect can be traced there.  I was 7 again in the Philippines, occasionally watching my siblings and the neighborhood kids through the window. I could see a game of stick baseball, kickball, marble flicking, etc., The combination of the noise, the social interaction, the physical activity were enough to make me hyperventilate.  I stayed in my room, drew pictures, read books, and pretended I was adopted waiting for real wealthy parents to claim me. I laid around, moved in slow motion, observed everyone and stayed by myself. No one came and said, "Okay, Chic, time's up. Your schedule now requires activity." I was left to myself, drooling in welcomed boredom, staring at the ceiling, feeling my little soul fall into an endless abyss. That would be interrupted every now and then by an invitation.  "Do you want to play tag? We need one more person." The invitation/demand would often come from my oldest sister who only exerted one kind of energy: kinetic.

"Okay..." I was afraid of her.

"You can't pull out last minute or I'll beat you," she'd snarl.

"Okay...but...I think I may be getting sick."

"You're always sick, you're always sick, you never want to do anything!"

It was true. I was always sick. But it was also true that I never wanted to do anything. No game was ever that interesting. No group of kids were ever that fun. No childhood event was ever that exciting.

When my husband and I started dating, I said, "I'm really boring. You will find that I'm really boring."

But I was the youth pastor, a performer in college, and a school ambassador. I had an infectious amount of energy, I was charming and gregarious, able to hold any type of conversation. I was full of dry humor and wit. How in the heavens could I possibly be boring?

But I was. I preferred to be sedentary and I liked my solitude. I was the human sloth.

Today is our last day in St. Louis and because I had only been to my nephew's school and the thrift store the past 3 days, I reluctantly agreed to go to the zoo with my sister and the kids because I started to feel guilty.  The zoo grounds were fantastic, with manicured grass, forest trees, clean pavements, and a collection of exotic animals ranging from flamingos, to orangoutangs, to tigers and lions. We had a small lunch then we stopped for ice cream as we made our way to check out geckos and pythons.  My brother-in-law was with us and he pretended to be an expert tour guide armed with useless information and we laughed and egged him on.  The kids ran and oohed and ahhed, and they called each other's names and pointed at unknown animals.

"I'm so glad we're here," I said.  "This is such a nice place and we're having such a good time."

And then I felt myself fill up with shame.  I'm a mother now and I have children.  This isn't about a game that's interesting enough or a group that's a lot of fun or an event that's exciting.  This is about family time and as much as what comes natural for others is an effort for me because it is outside my true make-up, I have to stretch my joints and slip off the couch and put on my shoes and get out.  My preference to be sedentary and to be in solitude has to have its own time and only when it does not make my family suffer as a consequence.

So, I've made a promise to myself to do better. That although I was born a sloth, I would do my best to become any other kind of animal that gets up and walks around. And should a moment come when my true nature wants to win the battle, I'll just speak to me in my sister's voice: "You can't pull out...or I'll beat you." And hopefully, that voice will be strong enough to get me off my backside, on my feet, and out the door.

The Samaritan

I've told myself that the next time I write a post, it will be lighthearted and fun, that it would evoke laughter and reflect my personality.

But, alas, there's a huge part of me that's deeply reflective and it affects the way I write. So, here it is, the entry I have thought about writing hundreds of times, rehearsing the lines in my head, wrestling with the right time to do it, the right way to do it...to share it with my readers as an objective event in my life without coming across...preachy.  Because that isn't my intent at all.  I just want to share with you something that made me look at everything in my life in a different light, an event in my family's life that my husband and I reflect about almost on a daily basis.

I grew up in a deeply religious home.  The fear of God was placed in me as far back as I can remember. There were rules and regulations that were glaringly from the Bible, sound and true: Do not lie, do not cheat, honor your parents, believe in one God, etc., Then there were rules that were not so categorically Biblical and needed interpretation and explanation and pulling in of other scriptures that likewise needed some explanation in order to make the case of such rules viable: Do not own a television, do not wear jewelry of any kind (wedding rings permitted in some circles), Do not go to the movies, A woman must not cut her hair (not even to trim it) or put on make-up, She cannot wear pants, etc.,

Because I am a cynic by nature, those closest to me knew what I thought about such rules. Some made sense, others did not. I followed all, not because I was convinced God made every single one, but I was convinced that obedience and a humble spirit pleased God above all else. And there was and is that simple fact in my life that remains unshakeable today: I love God deeply and I want to please Him.

Out of all the beliefs that could be questioned, there was one I did not, and I believed it without waiver: We are the chosen ones, the redeemed ones. Our lives are a true definition of Christianity. Everyone else is lost.

And then my daughter, Alanna, became gravely ill and I never would have thought in a million years that not only her life would be on the line, but so would my view of Christianity and the definition of what it meant to be a child of God.

Those weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds, were the most horrific of my life.  I had never felt so vulnerable, so desperate, so void of hope, and so full of agony.  I had watched Alanna deteriorate so quickly that I was inevitably in a state of constant panic, expecting the worst at every turn.  In her fifth day at the hospital, when both her lungs blew while connected to life support, I buckled down on my knees to the floor and yelled out her name and I was sure, so sure, that my little girl was gone.

She was transferred to Columbia Presbyterian that Friday, at noon time, amidst an expected snow storm, and we would stay at the precious, miraculous hospital for the next thirty days.

You cannot go through a difficult moment in your life without an army of support. My brother, the pastor, and my church family were of course there, praying, interceding, fasting.  My oldest sister drove every week from New Jersey and seized the heavens for a miracle.  My retired mother-in-law flew in from Florida the very next day, and stayed with my son, and cooked, and cleaned our house.  She visited Alanna everyday, many times taking the subway. My sister from California emptied her savings and flew in within two days and used up all her sick, vacation, and personal days and was an integral part of my sanity those first two weeks. My closest friends provided time, money, and most importantly, strength. Alanna's godmother, a doctor, drove straight from the operating room of her hospital at Maryland, stayed by Nana's bedside for a couple of days, and drove straight back to the hospital, without a moment of sleep.  One special brother from the church, Omari, who had no car, took the bus, took the boat, took the train from Staten Island more than once...to stand awkwardly, not knowing the right words to say. He was just there.  A sister of a friend drove hours from Washington DC, in the snow. She had heard about Alanna's ordeal and she wanted to just give me a hug and a cup of coffee.

There were phone calls everyday and family and friends from all over the world prayed. The support was overwhelming.

But there was one support, one consistent, unexpected support that took the journey with us from the beginning to the very end.

My cousin, Charles.

Because of complex family function worthy of day time TV, unlike all my other cousins, I did not have a relationship with Charles. We did not grow up spending Summers or vacations or holidays together. In fact, Charles did not know about us until he was almost finished with high school, but of course, I had always known about him and his siblings.  My cousins from the Philippines stayed in New York for a short while and it was in that equally short time that I was able to get acquainted with him.

Years later, married and with two kids, I would come across Charles at a neighborhood CVS near my home. We were elated to see each other and I introduced my husband to him for the first time.  My husband would later on comment that Charles was perhaps the nicest of my family he had ever met. We would run into each other a few more times that eventually led to casual birthday party invites for the kids (although, I was the only one inviting at that time!)  I was reacquainted with his wife (she was a girlfriend years back) and I would meet his two children at last in one of those accidental run-ins around Staten Island.

I wanted to stay connected to Charles because eventually, I wanted to save him. He was the only family who did not grow up like the rest of us.  He was nice but he needed redemption.

And then, Alanna got sick...

I remember Charles coming straight from work in that ICU room, dressed in a suit. He was a director of a department in a hospital in Queens. He had had a long day and a long commute and he stayed with me until close to ten o'clock. My husband was home sick with H1N1, the same virus that ravaged Alanna's body.

Charles came back the next day, and then the next.

The day Alanna was placed on a ventilator, Charles and my best friend sent me home. They stayed by Alanna's side. The next day, we almost lost Alanna and she was transferred to Manhattan.

Charles took off work.  He was there, a grave face, standing with his wife.

Alanna's journey of miracle took many sharp turns, uphill climbs, down falls, and large bumps on the road. My unsaved cousin called in sick, took vacation time, and personal days from work. And every Saturday, without fail, his whole family, his wife and kids, would spend the day with us at Presbyterian hospital.  Because Charles is a natural comedian, he brought laughter. Because he was always so full of energy, he brought joy to the room. Because he was simply there...he brought great comfort.

And there were many moments when Charles spoke to me about prayer, and hope, and faith, and holding on, and trusting in God.

I remember being alone by the lobby of the ICU, looking out through the large windows, speaking to God. What was going on here? Where were the religious people? Where were the preachers and the pastors and the ministers who knew about our agony and our desperate moment? Was Manhattan too far of a trek for the righteous and the redeemed?

Except for a handful of people, those who had sacrificed their time and given of themselves, were people we considered lost! The woman who drove hours to give me a cup of coffee and a hug, my Catholic mother-in-law who came instantly, my sister who cut her hair and wore pants--they were not following the exact rules and regulations from the same, exact rule book---and now, here, Charles, the only unsaved relative, was showing the most consistent, deepest display of compassion and support!

God, what is going on here?

I will never forget God's answer: Charles is your neighbor.

I must admit that I stopped for a moment. Then I knew what God meant. He was talking about the Samaritan. The Samaritan who helped the half dying, beaten man in the Bible. The most righteous of men walked the other way, but the Samaritan tended that fallen man back to health.

I was the fallen man. Charles was the Samaritan. My cousin, my unsaved cousin, was saving me.

God taught me the true meaning of Christianity. It wasn't in the rules and in the regulations. It wasn't in the holy clothing and in the Sunday services.  There were preachers and ministers I knew who were aware of our desperate moment. They were no further of a drive than Charles. And yet not once, not once, did they come.

I no longer follow the same rules and regulations. That event in my life had made me less religious but hopefully, more Christ-like.

My relationship with Charles today is quite different. He does more of the inviting than I do. We do not miss each other's events and we are at each other's homes for dinner whenever possible.  I call him, I spend time with him, for no other reason than I love his company.

I know he has started going to church and I'm really happy about it but even if he had not, Charles to me would still be the greatest Christian I have ever met.  I live my life now hoping that I could be the same.

Ode to Facebook

I'm not proud of it but yes, I am quite addicted to Facebook. I'd like to blame this on my addictive personality but I think idleness keeps me socially connected. Or perhaps, the social connections ensure my idleness.

For Christmas, my husband and I finally let go of our archaic phone plans and purchased iPhones (just the 4, we're quite cheap). And now, I'm addicted to the Scrambler game, howbeit the game reminds me humbly that I've overestimated my genius. In fact, based on my results, I might have some cognitive deficits. The deficits may have been brought on by hours spent on Facebook.

Facebook has some advantages, really. Yes, of course, it is overall superficial and should have an age limit---only for under 30, otherwise this site should insult your level of maturity. But aside from random posts ranging from useless (at the mall, woke up tired, eating dinner) to dramatic (I know no one cares about me...This weight just makes me want to give up...I know no one's going to respond to this...) to personal (if you're going to say something, say it to my face!!! some women should just keep their opinions to themselves!!! Grow up, and you know who you are!!!), Facebook has some important function.  It keeps us connected to friends and family (or disconnected, depending on how your responses come across), it allows us to show our creativity (a thousand ways to post a picture), and it gives way to self-promotion (I will be posting this blog on Facebook as soon as I'm done).

But Facebook, I think, might have made me a deeper thinker (except with Scramble, apparently).  The responses of people are quite interesting. You find out so much more about character, principle, and personalities much more than you would at a cocktail party, or perhaps even at a drunken bar.  It is amazing the exposure of the self that takes place in Facebook and because I am egocentric, it brings self-reflection. Am I that way? Do I rant when angry? Is this post craving for attention or pity? Are my vacation pictures shared for the joys of others, or do I just want to brag?

So many times I've read posts on Facebook and thought, "Oh my, I never knew how clever this person was!" "I don't remember them being this funny back in college!"  "Ok, that made absolutely no sense..."

And too many times I've read posts on Facebook and as many of you could probably relate, had to practice restraint.  I sooo want to respond to this post!!! I sooo want to give them a piece of my mind!!!

But I don't. And Facebook has done more than a therapist could accomplish: increase my level of tolerance and self-control. (Okay, I might've fallen victim a few times and posted away, clicked send, and the damage that resulted was irreparable but as in all things, we grow from regretful actions, hopefully...) 

But truly this is what I've learned from this social setting: our responses to our experiences reflect our character. I read an article on Facebook by a mother who lost a child in Newton, Connecticut. I couldn't keep the tears from flowing. Her response to her loss was raw and honest but it was full of love and hope and lacked the bitterness that the rest of the nation would expect.  I saw a video on Facebook of one of the fathers in that same school. He spoke, in a broken voice, about strength and redemption and love and gratitude.  I responded to a friend request from someone I didn't know, thinking he was one of the new volunteers in our church. He wasn't. He suffers from Chron's disease. His friends tagged pictures of him in Midland area helping Hurricane Sandy victims, and he posts pictures of himself in the hospital when flare ups happen. He is the most positive young person I know, so altruistic and full of courage. He never has a post of complaints, just appreciation for healthy moments. I find myself looking for his posts on days when I'm a bit down and I want my spirit lifted. I don't even know him, but I'm so glad for his friend request. His life on Facebook, I find, has helped keep my responses and my character in check.

Sometimes I want to write a dramatic post. Other times, I am tempted to write a personal one. But, thankfully, on those days, I opt for useless ones. Once in a while, I get philosophic and religious. And although I've received several grateful inboxes for those posts, I'm afraid they expose only my serious  side.

Attitudes.  Facebook is laden with them. It's not an honest measuring stick of our true nature, but it does give everyone a peek on what we are about, what we are made of, our intestinal fortitude, our level of maturity.  And although we surrender ourselves helpless to the reading of others and their interpretation, there is a pattern in our posts that reflect the truth of our nature.

I've deactivated several times for this reason. But I keep coming back.  Perhaps it's because I'm a behavior analyst. The behavior of people intrigue me.  Perhaps it's because I crave to share a bit of myself to others. I am outgoing but painfully private. Perhaps I feel the need to stay connected.  One of the rewards is keeping contact with faraway friends and family. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it's truly because I'm addicted.