To you Sensi

The numbing feeling of shock and then the coverup, trying to pretend that everything is OK. Hearing about the death of a loved one makes my body go cold, especially at the extremities. Instead of circulating evenly around the body, all my blood flows inward towards my heart, making sure my vitals keep ticking normally despite the news that I am receiving.

Sensi died on Thursday and I was told of her death on Friday night, to protect me and allow me to get through my busiest and most difficult day of the week. I had finished school after 14 hours of work when I received the news. Before hearing the news, all I wanted to do was have a glass of wine and unwind after such a stressful day but my body and mind were now tense, not to be unleashed until I allowed my sorrow to consume me.

Sensi was not a human being (it hurts me to say “was”), she was a dog but to me, for me she was so much more.

Sensi was born on July 7th, 2000. I was ten years old and my mother’s parents had just died of cancer in England. We had spent the summer with them, waiting for what we all knew would come. Our previous dog, Sam, a Schipperke, the same type of dog Sensi, had died the same year. Sensi was a breath of life in a family where death had hung over for months. During my grandparents’ funeral, this six week old puppy made me laugh and feel that everything would be OK.

We picked up Sensi on our way to the funeral in the Midlands. We were at the time based in Hamble, in the south of England. My mother felt that it was a good idea to get another dog and found a Schipperke breeder in Wales. One of the breeder’s dogs had given birth to a litter recently. After having a male dog (and suffered his wanderings) we decided that we wanted a female. There was one female in the litter. The runt of the litter.

My first memory of Sensi is walking into this woman’s house in Wales and hearing a piercing scream. Sensi had been recently weaned from her mother and obviously did not like visitors. She hid under the couch and would not come out for awhile but we slowly won her over.

Sensi then accompanied us on our journey (by boat) back to the Caribbean. She was a treasure to us all. A promise of life after everything that we as a family had been through.

From the age of ten to the age of 24, Sensi was a constant in my life. When we sailed around the world for two years, she was my only friend and confidante (Who better than a dog?) and throughout my teenage years, despite the changes in identity that I was experiencing, she was there without judgement.

Because we welcomed Sensi into our home during a time of hurt and sadness, I never took for granted her presence. Every moment I had with her was precious. In the Spring of this year I was lucky to have her all to myself for two weeks while my parents travelled to Nevis. I treasured every moment. We walked the streets of Greenpoint, travelled to upstate New York and even went to Coney Island together. Sure, I was a little jealous that she paid so much attention to Barney but I lived with it and realized that it was a good omen.

This year we were again in a difficult time. Dad was diagnosed with cancer and we were in shock. Sensi helped pull us through. When Dad was in hospital I smuggled her in so that he could see her. At Christmas I got to see her play in the snow and she loved it. She kept us going.

And almost as if she realized that we would all be OK again, she herself became sick.



When I returned to the States after spending the Summer in Paris I finally saw Sensi’s fragile mortality. She had developed a tumor in her mouth, making it hard for her to eat and breath. The rapidity with which the tumor grew was frightening and astounding. I didn’t want to admit it but in my heart I knew that we were reaching the end.

Sensi, you will always be missed by both myself, Mom, Dad, Barney and the many people that you touched during your life. The hole that you have left in my life is unfathomable at the moment but I know with time, I will be able to navigate that space and just be thankful for the time I had with you. You were an angel in more ways than one and I will always miss you.

Sincerely,

Your Sister

In Recovery

Boston Commons in the snow.

It’s like entering the Starship Enterprise when you walk through the constantly rotating doors of Mass General Hospital. There is a swarm of human activity, of nurses, doctors, cleaners, loved ones, sick ones, every human characteristic, both emotional and physical, can be seen here. 

At Mass General, there seems to an electric static in the air that makes the place pulse like a heart. This is all subjective of course. Only those that work there may perhaps give a more objective, more drab description of the place, but for the rest of us, we are there to either see loved ones who are sick or to see new life being given. Both highly emotional moments in our lives.

 I was there with my mother and we clutched to each other as we made our way up to the 14^th floor at 8:00pm on January 15^th. We had been told that the surgery had gone well and he, my father, would be brought to the Bigelow wing soon.

My father had undergone a laparoscopy surgery to remove a part of his colon which had been around the tumor. The tumor was now gone but the specialist wanted to be extra sure that the cancer would never come back. This also meant disconnecting his small intestine and giving him a bag for a couple of months as well as a monthly dose of chemotherapy.  

He was finally brought to his room at 9:00pm. He was groggy but that was to be expected after 6 ½ hours of surgery.

It was hard, so hard to see him in a hospital bed, so weak and seemingly so vulnerable. But we spoke and we cried and assured each other that this had to de done.

Over the next few days he improved. There were setbacks of course and sleepless nights, sometimes with a lot of pain, but he is certainly getting better.

We went for walks around the hospital floor, all three of us. We would then go to the hallway between two wings where the walls were windows, and gaze out over the city of Boston.  One day there was sun and we could feel the warm rays, reminiscent of a warmer climate that we called home. The next day snow fell silently onto the rooftops and pavement below. We watched it all. Mom and I willed him to become better and to feel that snow on his face sometime soon.

I find it hard to see strangers taking care of loved ones. Yes they are nurses, doctors, professionals, but strangers nonetheless. It is frustrating when they take that little bit of control out of our hands.

But they were good at Mass General. They saw our determination to care for him and left us to it. Of course, all the nurses love dad because he flatters them whenever he can. And he is a good patient to, one that rarely complains.

He will be out soon hopefully. All that is left now is to rest and heal. I am currently on a train taking me away from him, which feels altogether wrong. But I know he will be OK. He has my mother and he has the determination to make this his first and last lengthy stay in a hospital.

Welcome to Barcelona: Have a Nice Day!

Streets of Barcelona

This is a post from back in February from my old blog. I post it in honor of Barney after his latest episode of gastrointestinal woes. With much love......

It was supposed to be a nice getaway where we could relax and celebrate our birthdays.

Barcelona is just a two-hour flight from Paris and for me it was the most romantic city on earth- not Paris. I wanted to show Barney this city that I had fallen in love with a couple of years ago hoping that he too would leave Barcelona after a four day jaunt with amorous feelings towards the city.

So we arrive in Barcelona at 9:30 AM. Neither of us had been sleeping well that fateful week; both B and I had been working nights and we were all out of whack with our sleeping routine. So we hadn't really slept that much the night before- maybe  two hours or so- and we were looking forward to arriving at the hotel early enough to take a nap before going out to explore the city.....

We decided to take the train into Barcelona. I had taken the train last time I was there and it had only taken 20 minutes to get into the town center.

Easy.

There was also an bus available but we opted for the train thinking that we would get to town much faster.

.....an hour and a half later we are still waiting on the train. It is having technical difficulties and here lies the great difference between Parisians and Spaniards in general; everyone is waiting patiently for the train to leave the station.

Finally the conductor's voice comes through the speakers announcing that there is no chance of the problem being fixed any time soon so we might as well get off and try our luck with another mode of transport.

Barney looks like he wants to get back on the plane and fly back to Paris. I look at him and tell him "Welcome to Spain!".

We finally get to Barcelona by bus. We get to the hotel and everything is great, the people are nice and the room is clean but now it's twelve so we decided to forgo the nap and head out and see the city.

We head to the market first where all sorts of different foods are being sold- from nuts to pig intestines to lobster. The colors are beautiful and I remember why I love Spain.

We then go to a tapas bar nearby and naturally, order six different tapas. The food isn't that great but then again I am coming from Paris so I tell myself to stop being so picky and enjoy the experience.

We go back to the hotel and take a shower, change and head out again at around 7. I tell Barney that we will surely find hundreds of places with good food but we discover that most of the menus are the same: greasy paella and tortilla.

What happened to all the good Spanish food I remember?

Surprise surprise, we end up at an Irish pub for a drink. Its funny when you're with an Irishman, it's ingrained in them the ability to find the nearest pub. A bubbly Estonian girl is working behind the bar and she serves us our drinks and a bowl of traditional Barcelona peanuts which are salt encrusted on the outside. I somehow managed to gobble them all down before Barney has a chance to have one.

 I was about to learn what the repercussions are for gluttony. You have to love a good old Roman Catholic country!

So we leave the bar, in search of a decent restaurant and I suddenly don't feel that well. "Bad combination: beer and peanuts", I say to myself but why would one beer and a bowl of peanuts make me feel that bad?

I put it down to the fatigue.

We end up eating pasta boxes at a Que Pasta! since there is nothing that really pops up and all we want is a quick meal, go to bed and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to go the next morning......I eat very little of my pasta box....I'm really not feeling well now.

Back at the hotel, I leave Barney downstairs. I tell him I am really not feeling well and that I might have to throw up. He goes across the road to get a bottle of water and orange juice. I go upstairs and I feel it coming. It comes and I know that this is food poisoning.

I knew it was food poisoning by the force with which my body tries to eject all liquid and peanut matter out of my body.

.....so I throw up and that's it. I feel better. Barney comes in and I tell him about my situation. "I think I am going to be OK.", I tell him.......but I am not OK.......not at all.

All night I feel like I am dying. I keep saying to myself "Ok, if I throw up one more time, I am going to the hospital". Every time I take a sip of water, a fountain spews forth. At around 4 AM there is nothing left....even the bile has run out and it's some grayish liquid of unknown origin.

And it's not just vomit, oh no, my body is excreting whatever has caused this by whatever means possible. Thank god there was a bidet in the room because it allowed me to sit on the toilet and vomit at the same time.

Poor B is literally right on the other side of the door, in bed, listening to what must have sounded like an exorcism taking place.....I think to myself that if he still loves me after this, well, we're going to be alright.

By mid-morning of the next day I feel a little bit better. The vomiting has stopped, the other excretions are still active but under control. I just feel weak. And it's Barney's birthday. "Happy Birthday!", I sheepishly croak but I can't get out of bed at all. I feel miserable for having ruined B's birthday. He is gracious about it. He even buys me fans for my fan collection but I can't venture too far from the bathroom.

At dinnertime I decide it is time to venture out. It is B's birthday after all. Hotel restaurant here I come! I manage to get down to the restaurant and order a bowl of soup, a glass of wine but I can't do either. "Barney, I'm so sorry. I know its your birthday but I have to go." and I go back up to the room. I feel horrible about feeling horrible but now I haven't eaten anything in 30 hours and my body is telling me there is still a ways to go before I am worthy of having an appetite again.....those damn peanuts! I curse you!

So Barney comes up after his solitary meal and we both fall into a somewhat blissful sleep (I am still getting shot in the stomach with metaphorical harpoons but I am so tired that I can sleep).

......We are asleep for an hour and then I wake up. I go to the bathroom for the umpteenth time. I go back to bed.

 I realize what I have done.........I am horrified....I have had an accident.....a little one but enough to be completely and utterly horrified about. I feel like an incontinent 90-year-old.....I wait five minutes....should I wake up Barney? I mean, it is pretty close to where he is sleeping and after all I have put him through, that just wouldn't be nice. Then I realize that I have no other choice. I can't go to sleep. I can't just put a towel over it and pretend that nothing happened.

I start to cry. I have reached the lowest point.

How do I tell Barney that I just shat the bed? There is no way really. There is no life manual out there about how to deal with situations like this.

"Barney, I need you to do something for me. Please just go into the bathroom and stay in there!" A very confused and concerned Barney replies....."What is everything all right?", but I beg for him to just go into the bathroom and not to ask questions.

He understands.

So I change the bed and then all of a sudden it starts again...not for me this time but for Barney. Those same demons are now inside Barney and the only way to be rid of them is to get cozy with the sewage system of Barcelona!

The next day we are both weak and taking turns in the bathroom. The TV is on loud to try and drown out the noises but the evidence looms in the air thanks to the pungent odors coming out of the bathroom.

Around midday we venture out into the daylight. The room needs to be cleaned after all and I don't want to see the faces of those poor cleaning ladies.

We venture up to La Sagrada Familia but we can't quite take in the beauty of it since we are constantly on the look out for the nearest toilet.



When we get back to the hotel. The room is clean, the sheet are clean but we have only been given two rolls of toilet paper so Barney has to go out and steal some from their carts. Mission not so impossible but still not the mission that one wants to be on.

Barney pondering life.

For the rest of our time in Barcelona we progressively get better. A somewhat cheap holiday since we didn't eat anything. The cleaning ladies seemed to forgive us after that one, horrible day and started leaving five rolls of toilet paper. Lets just say it wasn't exactly what we had in mind for a relaxing trip away from Paris, but it sure was cleansing.

We are back to our normal eating habits again. I am certainly savoring my food more and appreciate the simple pleasure of a full stomach and a normal digestive system.......

....I will be laying off the peanuts for some time though

Nevis is Nice

Nevis from the car ferry

Before grad school and cancer, there was my mother and I. We were in Nevis and we were roughing it.

"No mom, I'm sorry. I feel really silly right now but I cannot, absolutely cannot move my body an inch closer to that water heater! There is a frog sitting on the heater and it nearly jumped on me when I pulled the cover off of it!"

 The poor frog was just a frightened as I was.

And so, with my head hung low, I climb off my precarious perch and allowed my mother to take my place.

She succeeds where I do not.

 Yes, the frog scared her some but she was not paralysed as I had been.

Oh the shame!

To back up some, we are in Nevis. Mom and I have come down for a two week vacation in paradise. You know, to do the normal things that people do when in paradise: lounging by the pool, drinking rum punch, enjoying beautiful sunsets.

We did enjoy beautiful sunsets but the rum punch was replaced by stagnant cistern water full of frog faeces and the lounging, well there were just too many bats and bees to get out of the house to bother with the lounging. 

And so to bring you back to my predicament with the frog. I had climbed out onto the thin frame that my father had ingeniously built around the love shack (the guest house) and I had climbed out there to turn on the water heater so that we would at least have hot water to bathe in. That is, once we had rid the shower of pregnant scorpions.

As you can now tell, my fear of frogs led me to scurry off the little frame and make my mother do the women's work in my stead.

Our trip to Nevis was one based primarily on checking up on the house, but also to give her and I some time to be together before grad school started. Little did we know that our time of "living the good life" was going to be so precious.

After we had rid the Monkey house of bees and cleansed the love shack of its bats, we returned to the U.S. -me to start school which would throw me under the bus as soon as I started and mom, well she would later find out that she had to keep it together for all of us.

Dad was diagnosed with cancer not long after mom's return and all of a sudden life seemed to spiral out of control. Yet, somehow we kept it together and locked arms to become a true fighting unit, capable of anything.

Beautiful Caribbean Sky

Mom and I escaped Nevis without much injury. We had a great time together and we saw in each other a strength that gives us comfort now, when such strength is needed.

So our Nevis trip was one filled with good times as well as a lot of hard work. We most likely won't experience Nevis together for awhile, but as the days grow shorter and darker, As Mom and Dad are looking at a winter that is forecast to be extremely cold, I know that her and I will be able to pick and choose memories from that crazy two weeks in Nevis, and that those memories will warm us and make us realise that seasons and feelings are transient.

That we will be happy and warm once again, on an island, surrounded by bugs and rodents.....

..... and that we will be laughing.

M.I.A versus Pussy Riot: the Reality of Rebellion

I recently saw a trailer for M.I.A’s documentary about, what I assume since the trailer did not divulge much, her life and her roots. M.I.A was born in London to parents of Tamil descent. Allegedly her father was one of the founding members of the Eelam Revolutionay Organisation of Students, otherwise known as EROS (ironically), an affiliate of the Tamil Tigers of Eelam, a separatist military organisation founded in 1976. Their objective was to create an independent state in the north and east of Sri Lanka for the Tamil people, a bloody mission which became known as the Sri Lankan Civil War, which continued to wreak havoc until 2009.

To be honest, I cannot tell you much about what the documentary is about. It seems to provide raw footage into the life of M.I.A whilst demonstrating that the world is truly against her and her rebellious mission to make music, all because she comes from a father who was once affiliated with the Tamil Tigers. And that seems to be M.I.A’s thing; the world is always against her. She tries to bring art to the world and they, the public, turn her and what she represents into pop culture; she tries to show them the ugly truth of the world and yet everyone ignores her; she constantly gets slammed by “haters” who obviously don’t understand her or her music. It seems like all M.I.A is doing is fighting an upward battle; truly trying to enlighten the masses of the type of world we live in.

In Russia, two girls have been sent to two separate penal colonies. One of these young women went on hunger strike for eleven days because she was against the heightened security control at her facility: a measure she believed was taken in order to cause other prisoners in the facility, many of them convicted of serious crimes, to turn against her. After 11 days, she terminated her strike since the conditions she demanded, that security be returned to normal, were met. Maria Alekhina is 25 years old and has a son who waits for her return.

Pussy Riot is composed of between 11 to 15 members. Those who have not been imprisoned have fearlessly talked to foreign media to demonstrate their outrage at the imprisonment of their fellow band members as well as explain, in a well-spoken manner, both in English and Russian, what they represent as a group: feminism, LGBT rights and opposition to Vladimir Putin and his relationship to the Russian Orthodox Church, hence their “guerrilla” performance in a Russian Cathedral.

I am not a fan of punk. I just have to put that out there. The screaming into a microphone about everything that angers you just doesn’t quite hit home for me. However, when it comes to political and social activism, I admire the members of Pussy Riot and their punk music; they fought and stood by their principles, even when it lead them to imprisonment. When you hear a member of Pussy Riot speak, they are eloquent and direct in their message. They have caused a wave, a spark to spread across the world and no matter what happens in the end, they fought for what they believed in and inspired others to do so.

M.I.A does not seem to know what she is fighting for. I have watched and listened to interview after interview, music video after music video and there are only very small moments where she comes across as an independent thinking, socially thoughtful individual. At times she is painful to watch, as she seems to have no words to make meaning of what she feels, and when she does, they come out in clichés. As for what she is fighting for, your guess is as good as mine.  Her music is considered by some to be “avant garde” and she was named by Esquire magazine as one of the most influential people of the 21^st century in 2010. Time Magazine named her one of the 100 most influential people in the world. Yet, I have yet to read or hear of what she is aiming to achieve.

This article is not trying to slam M.I.A. It is just a questioning of what she is about. I am sure she has a vision of the world she would like to live in and she has, in her music videos and music, made the Western world meet the East, but only to a point and only enough to satisfy the craving of pop culture for something rebellious. She and her legacy will pass within a blink of an eye. Pussy Riot, on the other hand, will live within the minds of all who wish to see a change in the mentality of their society. Is that what M.I.A truly wants but cannot seem to achieve?

A Moment of Quiet Reflection

We awoke on Saturday morning in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The sun was already glaring down on the city as it had been for the past two weeks. The heat of New York is, as I have learnt, intolerable. Especially when you are trying to save money on electricity bills. Barney had the innovation and the graciousness to put up fans in two of the three rooms in the apartment but it seemed that all they did was push around the hot, humid air entering the building. It sapped all of our energy, leaving us tired, irritable and very much in need of a getaway.

By midday Saturday we were well on our way to Providence via train. Greens and blues started to enter the landscape as we travelled further out of the city and with it, we became more and more relaxed, ready to commune in some way, with nature.

To me, the Cape used to be a prison. As a teenager, when everyone else was flocking to the Cape to soak up the sun’s rays and frolic on the beach, I was feeling sorry for myself; I was in a boring place where I was completely dependent on my mother and father to drive me around.

Alas, things have changed now and I appreciate the Cape for its natural beauty and freedom from the hustle and bustle of the city. In fact, my sentiments towards this muscular arm of land (the Cape is shaped like an arm with Woods Hole residing in the armpit) started to change last fall, when I began my internship at WCAI, the local NPR station; my first step towards my future in journalism. I began to appreciate the quiet certitude it brought me-- that tomorrow, I would see the same faces, go to the same coffee shop and the end of the day, be happy and at peace with the world. What brought on this sudden change in me was most likely a certain maturity and desire for quiet that I have never had before. Perhaps, but what is certain, Barney and I were so happy to be escaping the heat of NYC for something a little more refreshing.

Maybe it was the lack of natural colors in my life or the heavy spring rains Cape Cod has experienced, or a combination of the two, but the flowers were almost unnatural in their color and beauty: an attribute of the Cape I had never really admired before. Everywhere, flowers bloomed with extravagant glory, making it hard to believe anything so natural, could be so vivid in color.

It was heavenly walking along the quiet roads of Woods Hole and even taking a dip in the not so nippy Atlantic waters. For a change, we just were, just existed. There was no hustle going on, fewer angry individuals to deal with and no real schedule. Most importantly, I spent time with my two heroes: Steve and Irene, also known as my parents. I got to hear them recount tales, some that I was a part of, others that transpired before my time but all equally wonderful to hear and be a part of, whether vicariously or in the flesh.

And now we head back to the city that never sleeps, where the heat wave has yet to break. Yet we go back with the assurance that there is a place out there, that begins just beyond the city limits, where one can enjoy the sounds of birds, see flowers bloom and watch waves break along the shore.

And that gives me the strength to make the most of these next couple of weeks even if I am working a job that it not fulfilling and living in a not so cheap sauna parlor. Soon enough, all will come into perspective, not only for me, but for Barney as well. He will find a job that he loves and feels fulfilled doing and I will begin a Masters program in a field that I love.

It all positive thinking for the moment, at least until we hit the subway system of New York!

Le Metro

The metro of New York city is like no other in my opinion–never will you see such diversity nor as much craziness as the train wagons of the NYC underground. A constant slithering machine that never stops….well…it does…for long periods of times… and quite often but the actual life…the people of the underground never stop. People from all over, speaking every language you can think of can be found in this often sweltering, dirty, ugly place. The seats on which you sit and the pole that you reach for as the trains slow and starts breath germs of who knows what, but we sit and we reach for those bastions of hope in fear of not falling because we are tired and we don’t want to be the idiot that is on the ground that everyone is secretly laughing at.
Yes, it is ugly and dirty, but there is a beauty to it….the humanity of it all…here the beggar sits with the Wall Street banker….the punk asian kid sits next to Gothic-Hipster/Buddhist (I might have made that genre of person up but I am pretty sure it exists!).
I used to only listen to my Ipod on the subway to drown reality out but now, I read my book and I listen….and sometimes I listen to those telling me about what I am reading. I feel more in touch with myself and with the world because I no longer tune out the noise of the subway culture….in a sense it is a meditative process that, whether I am going to or coming from work, I feel more at peace at the end of my journey.
There are many places in the city that I have not seen above ground, but I can get a sense of what these areas are like by the inhabitants that enter and exit the metro cars….the Upper West Side for example, is inhabited by upper-middle to upper class whites who hire Hispanics as cleaners and black women as nannies (generally although sometimes Asian women are included in the mix as well). I know this because I see these women…these working women, tired, going back home to Queens, often at 2 or 3 in the morning to their families. The G train or the ” Gee, I wonder when this train is coming” train as a stand up Comedian once said, is filled with an interesting group of cultures and identities: from Court Square to the last stop in Williamsburg, the general demographic is comprised of Hipsters, young white, middle class couples and a smattering of Hispanics. Hipsters are a funny creature–they generally are either engrossed in a book about something interesting and “profound” or having a very loud conversation to someone else about the recent art exhibition they attended or were featured in so all may now just how interesting they are…..when the irony of it all is they are a dime a dozen who generally when asked a question about what they think….spew out the opinion of someone important that they have read about (so how do I really feel about hipsters right?..I know but I can’t help it).
After Court Square, things start to get real…here you have the more Black and Hispanic communities and then once you hop on the A or C train a little further down on the G line, well that brings you up to Harlem and the Bronx, but first to the Financial Street Area, so you have an interesting mixture of whites and black trying there best to ignore each other…pretend that the reality of the other does not exist in order to feel more justified in their own existence.
So there you have it; a brief synopsis of New York’s subway system….it is a place, a reality I have to deal with everyday and I have learned to deal with it through observing and analyzing and I really just can’t wait for the summer months when it reaches 100 degrees Fahrenheit….