She had never been keen to routines and rituals. She was too lazy and distracted for this type of commitment. But despite the lack of sense on waking up, existing and going to bed everyday, she just kept going. She can't pinpoint exactly when the mundane act of living stopped making sense to her. Certainly there were big losses in her life could explain her acts devoid of meaning, but for awhile she carried certain emotion inside herself that she would lend to the facts around her like a lace window treatment covering a dismayed landscape view.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
What if I was called Goodluck Jonathan?
It was certain inside of her that one day she would find no use for being alive anymore and it would have nothing to do with health, need or desire.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Mourning by numbers
She had this friend from work that use to count his steps all the time. He couldn't help it. He knew how many steps from his car to the front door, how many steps from the front door to the elevators, how many steps from the elevator to his desk, his whole life counting steps. It was a savant-like talent, to live surrounded by number of steps.
When she lost her son, numbers started to hunt her.
"On July 22nd of 2009 my youngest son, born on may 12th of 1984, took his own life. He was living in Rio de Janeiro, RJ, Brazil, Latitude: 22 54' 0" S Longitude: 43 56'-1" W.
His body was found by his father when he came home after work. His father called the emergency dialing 192 while trying to give him CPR. When the paramedics arrived my son was pronounced dead and the paramedic told his father that nothing could have been done to save my son.
His father called me at 6:02 PM US Central time, which was two hours behind Brasilia time. I was in Bentonville,AR. I had to call my husband in Richardson, TX to make flight arrangements so I could go to the funeral in Brazil with my other son. It took me 3 hours to make all the arrangements to leave from Bentonville and go to Richardson. A friend of mine drove us (my son, my daughter and me) to Richardson,TX, covering 346.5 miles in 5 hours and 35 minutes. We boarded the flight AA 963 from DFW to GRU at 7:00 PM at gate D33. I took the seat 45D by my son at seat 45F. The flight took off at 7:45 PM for a 9 hour 55 minutes flight. Arriving at GRU airport, the plane had a 30 minutes delay due to weather conditions until we could land.
While we were flying, my son's remains were transported from Rio de Janeiro to Belo Horizonte (Lat: 19 55'0" S Long: 43 56'-1"W), 210 miles, lasting 3 hours and 49 minutes. We stayed at GRU airport 3 hours waiting for the flight GOL 1648 from GRU to Confins airport in Belo Horizonte, MG. My brother, a nephew and a niece joined us on this leg of the trip. At this time, my mother told me that 3 masses had been prayed in my son's memory. The flight GOL 1648 took off at 10:40 AM. I was in seat 21E and we arrived at Confins at 11:50 AM. It took us around 45 minutes to retrieve our luggage and we had to take two cabs to go to the funeral home. It was a very long ride. We arrived at the funeral home at 1:30 PM. I could spend just 3 hours with my son. He was buried at Parque da Colina cemetery, on a steep hill at the roses zone, block IX-1150 by his grandmother's grave at 4:30 PM.
The paramedics estimated that my son probably died in 4 minutes. There are 240 seconds in 4 minutes. The time that took to show all these pictures about his life.
Flávio, we miss you so dearly. We love you forever."
When she lost her son, numbers started to hunt her.
"On July 22nd of 2009 my youngest son, born on may 12th of 1984, took his own life. He was living in Rio de Janeiro, RJ, Brazil, Latitude: 22 54' 0" S Longitude: 43 56'-1" W.
His body was found by his father when he came home after work. His father called the emergency dialing 192 while trying to give him CPR. When the paramedics arrived my son was pronounced dead and the paramedic told his father that nothing could have been done to save my son.
His father called me at 6:02 PM US Central time, which was two hours behind Brasilia time. I was in Bentonville,AR. I had to call my husband in Richardson, TX to make flight arrangements so I could go to the funeral in Brazil with my other son. It took me 3 hours to make all the arrangements to leave from Bentonville and go to Richardson. A friend of mine drove us (my son, my daughter and me) to Richardson,TX, covering 346.5 miles in 5 hours and 35 minutes. We boarded the flight AA 963 from DFW to GRU at 7:00 PM at gate D33. I took the seat 45D by my son at seat 45F. The flight took off at 7:45 PM for a 9 hour 55 minutes flight. Arriving at GRU airport, the plane had a 30 minutes delay due to weather conditions until we could land.
While we were flying, my son's remains were transported from Rio de Janeiro to Belo Horizonte (Lat: 19 55'0" S Long: 43 56'-1"W), 210 miles, lasting 3 hours and 49 minutes. We stayed at GRU airport 3 hours waiting for the flight GOL 1648 from GRU to Confins airport in Belo Horizonte, MG. My brother, a nephew and a niece joined us on this leg of the trip. At this time, my mother told me that 3 masses had been prayed in my son's memory. The flight GOL 1648 took off at 10:40 AM. I was in seat 21E and we arrived at Confins at 11:50 AM. It took us around 45 minutes to retrieve our luggage and we had to take two cabs to go to the funeral home. It was a very long ride. We arrived at the funeral home at 1:30 PM. I could spend just 3 hours with my son. He was buried at Parque da Colina cemetery, on a steep hill at the roses zone, block IX-1150 by his grandmother's grave at 4:30 PM.
The paramedics estimated that my son probably died in 4 minutes. There are 240 seconds in 4 minutes. The time that took to show all these pictures about his life.
Flávio, we miss you so dearly. We love you forever."
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Things that my mother forgot to tell me
She remembered when she was a child, during catechism, when her mother explained to her about: "sins against chastity". She told her about Aída Curi, which chose to die instead of losing her virginity. It was not suicide, it was martyrdom. Suicide was never mentioned, like cancer.
Poor Aída... She didn't die, she was killed.
Her mother's version of "the birds and the bees" was full of sin, pain, fear, shame, secrecy, whispers, fate. That was the original sin, not that women would go through labor pains to deliver their children, but that they had to have sex in order to get pregnant.
One way or another, she learned about the birds and bees, she had lots of conversations with her mom, how her mom felt impotent to teach her, to control her, to make her have good manners.
At 13 she asked a cousin to teach her how to shave her legs. Her sisters wouldn't go into these feminine details with her, because she wasn't one of them. She was a tomboy. When on vacation with friends, traveling without her family, she had her first period. Her friend's mom helped her. If her mom got surprised, if she talked to her friend's mom, she never knew. At 15 a bohemian poet fell in love with her. He didn't have a job, he was a college drop-out, chain smoker, madly in love with her. Her mom didn't like him. She was afraid that he was dragging her to bad company. He liked her because she was small, looking like a 12 year old. he thought he was Lewis Carroll, perverted like him in his adoration of little girls. She left him, because as a matter of fact, too much infatuation wasn't thrilling anymore. Things changed quickly in her life at that time. Since he had lost her father, she never confided in anyone else in her family. She always had to fend for herself, because her siblings always accused her of being daddy's little girls. Now that he was gone, she had to take care of herself. She got pregnant at 17 and her mom just had an attitude of resignation, that this was her fate. Her mom thought that she was going to live like other teen moms that are finally subdue by their parents' wisdom and economic power. But her mom didn't seem to possess either and she wasn't the one to be subdued. She went on and got married, she had her son and he was very special. She cried at the hospital when the nurse gave him for her to hold.
Still, one way or another, her mom told her about several things, and she loved and respected her, like so many people. Her mom, with her beautiful, supplicant eyes. Her soft hands, her pitch perfect voice, her songs, her cooking, her stories. She still has a notebook with her mom's recipes for everyday cooking, her favorite dishes, holiday meals... Her neat handwrite. The recipes popping from the pages to her ears every time she referred to the cookbook for something, as if her mom was there, looking over her shoulders while she tried to cook like her mom.
Her mom was her first grade teacher. She learned how to read and write one year earlier, watching her mom tutoring kids from school. From all the things that her mom told her, one thing she never mentioned: menopause.
And menopause was what caught her by surprise while she was grieving the loss of her son. If it wasn't hard enough to lose a son, now not even the despicable "at least you can have another child" wouldn't be applicable to her.
One would think that losing a child is really the end of all aspirations and wishes for a mother. But a mother is also a woman, even when she is grieving, and menopause makes the woman question her femininity.
When she thinks about it, she realizes that her mom too had to go through menopause while she was grieving the loss of her husband. She sees the similarities of what they both went through. Her mom was even younger than her when she lost her husband. It should have been even harder for her mom. And she doubts that her grandmother would have told her anything about it. It was the fate of women. Grow, marry, procreate, die inside and wait to die outside.
Poor Aída... She didn't die, she was killed.
Her mother's version of "the birds and the bees" was full of sin, pain, fear, shame, secrecy, whispers, fate. That was the original sin, not that women would go through labor pains to deliver their children, but that they had to have sex in order to get pregnant.
One way or another, she learned about the birds and bees, she had lots of conversations with her mom, how her mom felt impotent to teach her, to control her, to make her have good manners.
At 13 she asked a cousin to teach her how to shave her legs. Her sisters wouldn't go into these feminine details with her, because she wasn't one of them. She was a tomboy. When on vacation with friends, traveling without her family, she had her first period. Her friend's mom helped her. If her mom got surprised, if she talked to her friend's mom, she never knew. At 15 a bohemian poet fell in love with her. He didn't have a job, he was a college drop-out, chain smoker, madly in love with her. Her mom didn't like him. She was afraid that he was dragging her to bad company. He liked her because she was small, looking like a 12 year old. he thought he was Lewis Carroll, perverted like him in his adoration of little girls. She left him, because as a matter of fact, too much infatuation wasn't thrilling anymore. Things changed quickly in her life at that time. Since he had lost her father, she never confided in anyone else in her family. She always had to fend for herself, because her siblings always accused her of being daddy's little girls. Now that he was gone, she had to take care of herself. She got pregnant at 17 and her mom just had an attitude of resignation, that this was her fate. Her mom thought that she was going to live like other teen moms that are finally subdue by their parents' wisdom and economic power. But her mom didn't seem to possess either and she wasn't the one to be subdued. She went on and got married, she had her son and he was very special. She cried at the hospital when the nurse gave him for her to hold.
Still, one way or another, her mom told her about several things, and she loved and respected her, like so many people. Her mom, with her beautiful, supplicant eyes. Her soft hands, her pitch perfect voice, her songs, her cooking, her stories. She still has a notebook with her mom's recipes for everyday cooking, her favorite dishes, holiday meals... Her neat handwrite. The recipes popping from the pages to her ears every time she referred to the cookbook for something, as if her mom was there, looking over her shoulders while she tried to cook like her mom.
Her mom was her first grade teacher. She learned how to read and write one year earlier, watching her mom tutoring kids from school. From all the things that her mom told her, one thing she never mentioned: menopause.
And menopause was what caught her by surprise while she was grieving the loss of her son. If it wasn't hard enough to lose a son, now not even the despicable "at least you can have another child" wouldn't be applicable to her.
One would think that losing a child is really the end of all aspirations and wishes for a mother. But a mother is also a woman, even when she is grieving, and menopause makes the woman question her femininity.
When she thinks about it, she realizes that her mom too had to go through menopause while she was grieving the loss of her husband. She sees the similarities of what they both went through. Her mom was even younger than her when she lost her husband. It should have been even harder for her mom. And she doubts that her grandmother would have told her anything about it. It was the fate of women. Grow, marry, procreate, die inside and wait to die outside.
Friday, April 11, 2014
little moments that reveal the greatness in you
She open the utensils drawer and the messy content of knives, forks, spoons, chopsticks, all sizes, shapes and materials crumbled together made her smile with tender memories.
She remembered the perfectly aligned silverware drawer at her brother's house. Everything sorted by type and size. She remembered the perfectly organized pantry, where every can had its place, every box was in reach and no bags left without a proper container.
She wasn't ashamed at her inability to organize her things or at how unkempt was her house. She knew that every time she would look at her pantry or her utensils, her heart would feel warm with the memories of her brother and his family, the long talks around the kitchen table when she was visiting with them, all the wisdom they shared. It was a constant reminder of how much she needed them to keep in touch, to stay close.
This thought made her wonder of all these little things that keep impressions of the loved ones in her soul, because it's not the big gestures that leave an impression on the soul. For the soul is like a very thin tissue paper that is easily destroyed by big actions. Only small things, that are written gently on it can be further read again and again.
The big things are planned, are revisited all the time, are reconstructed by our memories, but the little things don't need rework, they fit as they were absorbed and they keep their place undisturbed inside of our brains. We don't manipulate them, they become icons, that concentration of meaning and action.
From all the huge achievements of her father, that hero praised by so many people, her most dear memory was that hug, from that frail man that was about to die. The sound vignette from the radio station calling the morning news, the image of him sitting with is legs crossed, the fedora straw hat that he used when taking them to the beach. Little things that she could revisit in her memories at any time and they would always reveal themselves and their purest semiotic value.
She remembered the perfectly aligned silverware drawer at her brother's house. Everything sorted by type and size. She remembered the perfectly organized pantry, where every can had its place, every box was in reach and no bags left without a proper container.
She wasn't ashamed at her inability to organize her things or at how unkempt was her house. She knew that every time she would look at her pantry or her utensils, her heart would feel warm with the memories of her brother and his family, the long talks around the kitchen table when she was visiting with them, all the wisdom they shared. It was a constant reminder of how much she needed them to keep in touch, to stay close.
This thought made her wonder of all these little things that keep impressions of the loved ones in her soul, because it's not the big gestures that leave an impression on the soul. For the soul is like a very thin tissue paper that is easily destroyed by big actions. Only small things, that are written gently on it can be further read again and again.
The big things are planned, are revisited all the time, are reconstructed by our memories, but the little things don't need rework, they fit as they were absorbed and they keep their place undisturbed inside of our brains. We don't manipulate them, they become icons, that concentration of meaning and action.
From all the huge achievements of her father, that hero praised by so many people, her most dear memory was that hug, from that frail man that was about to die. The sound vignette from the radio station calling the morning news, the image of him sitting with is legs crossed, the fedora straw hat that he used when taking them to the beach. Little things that she could revisit in her memories at any time and they would always reveal themselves and their purest semiotic value.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Freedom is the greatest gift
Freedom is the greatest gift
I was on a business trip and I took Flavio with me. He was a little boy, 4 years old.
I stopped on my friend’s Jeffrey Katz apartment on my way to flying to my assignment, but he wash’ there. I went to see him, he was on a park, sitting on the grass having a picnic. I talked to him a little and I remembered another time in the past when we had a picnic there. I told him goodbye and I kissed him. I told him that I would visit him again, but now I had to go to work. On my way back to the apartment to pick up Flavio I was informed that his father had passed away.
I didn’t know what to do, if I would go to my assignment and then tell Flavio afterwards or if I would tell him and take him to the funeral. I didn’t know how to tell him. I packed everything and then told him what had happened. It was very hard to tell a little boy that his father had died. He was inconsolable. I took him back to Brazil and I called his father’s girlfriend to ask her about the funeral arrangements and where should I take my son. Flavio and I were crying a lot. I was sad to realize how important his father was for him and how I had failed to noticed that while he was still alive.
I woke up with the end of the radio documentary on BBC about gtmo detainees: Freedom is the greatest gift.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01sg4cm
I was on a business trip and I took Flavio with me. He was a little boy, 4 years old.
I stopped on my friend’s Jeffrey Katz apartment on my way to flying to my assignment, but he wash’ there. I went to see him, he was on a park, sitting on the grass having a picnic. I talked to him a little and I remembered another time in the past when we had a picnic there. I told him goodbye and I kissed him. I told him that I would visit him again, but now I had to go to work. On my way back to the apartment to pick up Flavio I was informed that his father had passed away.
I didn’t know what to do, if I would go to my assignment and then tell Flavio afterwards or if I would tell him and take him to the funeral. I didn’t know how to tell him. I packed everything and then told him what had happened. It was very hard to tell a little boy that his father had died. He was inconsolable. I took him back to Brazil and I called his father’s girlfriend to ask her about the funeral arrangements and where should I take my son. Flavio and I were crying a lot. I was sad to realize how important his father was for him and how I had failed to noticed that while he was still alive.
I woke up with the end of the radio documentary on BBC about gtmo detainees: Freedom is the greatest gift.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01sg4cm
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Passing time
She took the pillbox and saw the day of the week: Friday. With i sigh she took her pills and reminded herself that it was one less day to live, one week closer to the end, so this was a good thing after all.
Sometimes she was not even sure if it was really Friday or if it really mattered which day it was. She just needed the pills organized by days and she needed to remember to take them daily, only once.
It looks simple to have just one thing to remember, but the issue was not to remember just one thing, the issue was in fact what that one thing reminded her everyday. Her fragility, her losses, her chronic condition, the social disapproval for her dependency.
She would wonder why she developed a chronic depression. She would compare it to diabetes type II or a heart condition, that one is not born with, but once it has developed, one cannot get cured anymore. Maybe her brain was an elastic band that was stretched way too many for way too many times and now is incapable of going back to its original position. Then she would say to herself: "what the heck is that? Here I am using sweet adeline's imagery to explain my condition... And I always despised the visualization exercises, they never did anything for me..."
Such was life in this infinite valley of constant sorrow. You count off the days on your pillbox.
Sometimes she was not even sure if it was really Friday or if it really mattered which day it was. She just needed the pills organized by days and she needed to remember to take them daily, only once.
It looks simple to have just one thing to remember, but the issue was not to remember just one thing, the issue was in fact what that one thing reminded her everyday. Her fragility, her losses, her chronic condition, the social disapproval for her dependency.
She would wonder why she developed a chronic depression. She would compare it to diabetes type II or a heart condition, that one is not born with, but once it has developed, one cannot get cured anymore. Maybe her brain was an elastic band that was stretched way too many for way too many times and now is incapable of going back to its original position. Then she would say to herself: "what the heck is that? Here I am using sweet adeline's imagery to explain my condition... And I always despised the visualization exercises, they never did anything for me..."
Such was life in this infinite valley of constant sorrow. You count off the days on your pillbox.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)