Dec 13, 2011

Why you should write something too.



Writing is nothing more than tossing experiences onto a page, with the solitary hope that those words will help one person feel a little bit more understood. I urge you to toss vulnerability to the wind and share your days with the world. I promise, they will not fall on deaf ears.


It is still dark outside.
Surgery was scheduled for early that morning. We were told that surgery could last from three to twelve hours. I stare at the hands on the clock hanging above the sink. Next to the sink are different types of tubes and red see-through toxic containers.

The door opens. The surgeon is tall with an understanding gaze and a calm demeanor. He walks into the small room, he presses the hand sanitizer on the wall with the dexterity only years of practice can produce. Last week he was wearing dress pants and a white jacket; today he is wearing blue scrubs head to toe. Several nurses and a fellow follow with clipboards, there are in scrubs and clogs as well. One of the nurses hands me two small white pills and a cup of water. I relish the cold. The small waiting room is getting smaller. My parents and Andrew sit in the chairs across from me. I sit cross-legged in sweatpants waiting until they hand me the forbidden hospital gown.

He shakes hands with all of them. And then he pats my back before sitting on the classic swivel chair and says, “You all get enough sleep last night?”

We respond, “yes” in unison. He then asks if we have any last questions. We had four appointments and numerous emails and telephone calls with him in the last seven days. The biopsy was nineteen days ago. The diagnosis was seventeen days ago. The MRI was thirteen days ago. We flew to Mayo for the first time eight days ago. There were the catscans, more MRIs, blood work, and PET scans. There were no more questions.

His hands are large. I imagine him with knitting needles, or mending a button. I’m curious if that is a prerequisite before he could start sewing on humans. I look down to my chest and imagine that it will never look the same again.

The thoughts are cloudy. They’re not coherent. The medications were moving through my blood stream. The nurses usher my parents and Andrew away. My Dad stands up first and kisses the top of my head. And then Andrew lightly kisses my forehead. They walk out together. I know they’ll find the chilly waiting room and read the WSJ on their ipads. I watch my mom hesitate. She bends down, so we are level with each other. She holds my chin softly and looks into eyes in the same way I imagine she has since the day I was born. She says, “Sweet Angel, I promise this will be over soon. I love you so much.”

I hear the door click behind them. The nurses help me into the thin hospital gown, the kind that opened in the front. They reach to cover my naked feet in ugly socks with white rubber soles on the bottom. I’m led into the clean sterile room, which doesn’t register as the operating room.

I vaguely remember the nurses tucking my braids behind my head and laying the white chair back, pulling the gown down and across my shoulder. I remember the chill of having my breast exposed, the texture of the cold washcloth gently rinsing off the area. Then there was the sting of needles, which broke the pain into seconds and then into hours.

The bright lights and voices had long since faded, when I felt intense pressure on my chest. Deep in my conscious I knew that the incisions were being made.

The first segment of the surgery lasted two hours. The first round was to remove the tumor. And then they would take it to the pathologist, they would stain the slides, they would “bread loaf” the cells, the hope would be he would return to the waiting room with good news.

Two hours later, he explained to my parents and to Andrew that they the results were still positive. He would need to remove more.

He cut deep into the muscle. Physically detaching the roots of the tumor, which had begun to wrap around my clavicle. The cells were stained and sent back to the lab. It took another two hours.

It was early afternoon by then. The nurse was slowly putting a straw in my mouth. The juice drenched my thirst. My head throbbed. I waited falling in and out of darkness.

It is all fuzzy. I hear the surgeon talking, he sounds so far away, “Auna. Auna can you hear me?”

I mumble through the ice melting on my tongue. I’m not sure I can hear him.

Auna, the margins tested clear of cancer. It's over now. It’s time to sew you up.“

It’s foggy. They’re explaining why I need to stay awake. Then I feel needles, pain is searing through consciousness, and suddenly I’m sobbing. He is giving directions to the nurses, “the local is wearing off, we need to wash the wound and set the internal antibiotics.”

He says softly, “This might hurt a little bit, but we’re going to do our best to keep you comfortable.

My body doesn’t want to move, the needles enter my body, I know the syringes are going deep. My body convulses in pain. These thoughts aren’t registering on the surface, but deep in my subconscious, what they’re doing, I envision them sewing my muscle together, the innocent muscle, the skin that did no wrong. I fall asleep again, but the pain doesn’t end. It stings.

An hour later… A female voice is in the room. I know it isn’t one of the nurses. She is talking to me. I want to see her, but I'm caught in the dark. Then I hear my Dad talking, and then I hear Andrew, he is asking someone when I will wake up.

Then my mom’s voice feels closer; I can sense her, “Honey?

The light bleeds into the dark room. I squint. I expect a sunny room, but the windows are dark, dusk had since left us, and the room was lit with the cool tones of ambient medical lights. I try to sit up, but I hear my own scream before I can register my pain. It shoots through my chest, I am afraid to look down.

There is gauze. There is tape and white taped from my breast up to my neck. I cannot see anything. I don’t want to see anything.

We all sit in silence for a while. We’re not in a rush anymore. There is no hurry to see a doctor. To find specialists. There are no more scary Google searches. No more biopsies. They’re waiting for me to say something.

It’s gone.”

Nov 22, 2011

Décolletagé



At 3:10pm I was a healthy, carefree 26-year-old. And around 4:10pm I wasn’t.

One week ago
“Do you see lines, or at least that one line? Can’t we Botox that?” I lift my chin and point to my throat and say with excitement!
“The imaginary lines, right?” She laughs. “You’re not getting old, I promise.”

The large mirror is reflecting a woman with green eyes staring out from a thick, white, gooey facial mask. Ahem, me. I’ve seen the same eyes behind various masks for the last ten years, but the woman hiding underneath has changed drastically. From where I call home, to where I work, to my beau, to my weight, to my friendships, and even to my goals and desires. I love how even when our ages chance numbers, our noses and ears grow, our skin sags and smile lines frame our face, our eyes stay the same.

Tanisha has been the skin-care solution, a savior to every woman’s blemish or sunburn in my family. I began visiting her warm office that always smells of sweet citrus when I was thirteen and teenage acne was galvanizing my face. Pre-emptive was my motivator. Tanning beds were for quitters. I was determined to be the hot and sexy chica, well forever. I was frustrated because I spotted some freckles under my clavicle bone and sunspots on a twenty-something were gross. I was a fan of micro-derm… eye crèmes, latisse.

She places cool cucumber slices over my eyes. She asks, “So what are you doing for Christmas?”

“We’re actually going to the Caribbean. Maybe go scuba diving; my family hasn’t done a vacation in years. I’m excited for the ocean breeze and dolphin watching. I’m headed to go swimsuit shopping tomorrow.” I said with a grin.

I was counting down the days until we could abandon reality as the five of us and disappear into the British Islands. It had been a hell of a few years and I was ready to laugh and play monopoly with my mom, dad, little brother and sister. Adulthood hasn’t turned into strangers, but communication now consisted of phone calls and organized dinners. I missed wholesome spontaneity of the nuclear family.

Last week my biggest problems included finding a swimsuit and finishing a term paper. And I thought my life was over when I noticed a solitary crinkle above my nose. This week I’m trying to find specialists at Mayo. And I’d give anything for a few wrinkles.

Now….
It’s 7:41pm in Denver. It’s 9:41pm in New York. I’m in the first row of a plane and we’re flying somewhere over Kansas, but the clouds block any signs of life below. I know there are Moms and Dads, young couples, friends pushing shopping carts through the grocery store picking out that special Turkey. There are kids doing homework, dogs being brushed, people falling in love. However the signs of life inside of the airplane are prevalent and very loud. There is a woman knitting a blanket with the red yarn with silver threads woven in. There is a woman feeding twin babies, switching breasts every thirty or so minutes. A man eating some sort of chicken salad. And Andrew is sitting next to me engrossed in his Travel & Leisure. And I sit here with my headphones keeping me company, trying to figure out how to describe the event that unfolded a few hours ago.

After we got the phone call on Friday I walked into his office armed with optimism. In theory I relished the image of me smiling and beaming, embracing the idea of surgery. I’d be a rock star. But once I felt the cold chill and heard the hum of the air conditioners, and then saw the man in a white jacket holding a clipboard, the image of me being a badass disappeared.
I’m shivering. Why do doctors always keep their offices so freaking chilly? I guess it’s a more conducive environment to misery. There is no possible chance of feeling cozy on metal chairs with plastic cushions.

Andrew then turned to me and kissed my nose softly, “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”
“I hope you’re not going anywhere.” I say quietly.

The surgeon walks back into the room handing us several sheets of papers, they’re typed with complicated terms and directions. There are orders and names of specialists. Titles under the specialists include “limb preservation”. His white jacket giving him the feeling of authority, I’m safer when he is near me. I always feel safer in churches and hospitals.

He turns to me and then turns to Andrew and then turns back to me, “This isn’t something that is an emergency, but let’s get this taken care of in the next week or two.” He says sincerely.

“So it’s like a really bad cyst?” I say. Trying to better understand what’s going on.
“No, actually this is a tumor.” He says.
“But it’s benign, right?”
“I don’t want to call it that. These quickly can become malignant, so I think it’s best to operate sooner rather than later. The specialists can better answer that specific question.”

Andrew interjects my lame questions with, “Can you explain the surgery to us?” he asks.

I squirm.

“Do you see the biopsy area?” He lightly touches the bandage under my clavicle, where there are ugly black stitches and gauze. It’s difficult to miss.

“We’ll remove the skin around that entire area and then we’ll cut out the tissue up until the fascia, and then we’ll scrape the fascia for any remaining cells. And then we’ll also cut a 3-5cenimeter margin around the affected area.”

“And then will they put her skin back on that area?” He asks.
I’m silently pleading for the conversation to stop. I need a break. I need a soda. I need a week. “Actually, no. It is important that her skin is permanently removed in that area; that’s why we’ll do skin-graphing.”
“What skin will you use?” He asks.
The surgeon pats his own thigh. “The donor skin will come from her leg.”
“And then that is sewn into the area?”
“Precisely. And we’ll actually sew in a protective layer for two weeks while we wait to see if the body accepts the graph. The patch will be around 4x4 inches in total and then there will be about a ¼ indention. And obviously there will be discoloration.”

I pipe up, “Isn’t there a way that they can do a filler or something to even the skin out?”

He looks at me with gentle eyes, “I’m afraid not. The skin will be very thin and fragile area and they’ll need to be paying very close attention to the area to make sure the tumor doesn’t come back.”

Andrew interrupts, clearly not concerned with the aesthetic issues, “What will be the time in the hospital, the recovery, etc…”

Their voices become fuzzy and I’m caught in a hazy realization that what they’re talking about isn’t skin, it’s her skin, and her is me. This isn’t just a conversation. They’re talking about a procedure. And there isn’t an option. I like my choices. It’s one of the reasons I dig being American.

I walked into this office several weeks ago with a bump on my chest. It’s a bump that a million doctors have always said, “it’s a fluid-filled cyst. It’s nothing to worry about.” Every single dermatologist, family practice, nurse said, “leave it alone.”

But whenever I put lotion on and felt the raised area I would shudder. I didn’t like it. So I visited a plastic surgeon, “Do you see this bump?”
“Yes.”
“I want it out. I know that it isn’t necessary and insurance won’t cover it, but I think it’s just, I just want it out.”
“It’s going to leave a very visible scar. Are you okay with that?”

I went home and slept on it. I figured a scar was worth the peace of mind. I called the next morning to schedule the appointment. When I arrived at the office several days ago to get prickled with local and a few milliliters lighter, the surgeon said, “I think it’s a good idea for us to send this to a pathologist, just in case.”

“Sure.” His suggestion didn’t even register.

He started off by numbing my chest with reassuring comments about how it would only take a few minutes. But fifteen or twenty minutes into the procedure his eyes were incredibly focused, and his voice wasn’t one of reassurance, in fact he was silent until he asked his nurse to, “We are actually taking two samples. Can you label the second sample? And then let’s sew her up.”

The word sample is when I realized this wasn’t a stubborn pore, or scar tissue.
“Okay Auna, well this is much larger than I suspected, however we got enough of a biopsy for the pathologist.”

And then on Friday night we were packing for Vail and received a phone call that the made the insomnia come back. It made the stupid stuff in life more stupid.

They both turned to me. What am I supposed to say? It’s requiring every iota of effort to keep the dam in place, to prevent the landslide of tears that will submerge my mascara if I’m not careful.

So I fake the biggest, toothiest smile I can muster, “Sounds great. Thank you for all this information. I will start making these phone calls right away.”

Their expressions are startled. But they don’t understand why I need out. I need fresh air. The cold office that smells of sterile gloves and iv’s are all too familiar. I’ve been here before. I had staph infection that nearly stole my life and my leg five years ago. I got it. I was an expert in things not normal.

I feel shallow now. When a woman is standing in line at Nordstrom and there is something weird or wrong with her face or neck, I notice. Who doesn’t? We’re all used to seeing the norm and so when something atypical arrives it takes a few seconds to adjust, to calculate; to observe.

I used to feel bad for myself because I had a massive dent in my hip, but now I’d take a dent in the other hip than an indention in my chest. It will be ugly and it won’t go away, or get better. This is one of those forever things. I don’t want to be ugly; I don’t want to be abnormal. I want to be pretty when I dress up and get fancy. I don’t want to be the one girl who people can’t figure out what’s wrong with her chest.

But the second thing is more… there is a tumor growing next to my heart. It sits under my skin, slowly snaking around the muscle tissue, creeping near my arms and my throat. It’s foreign, it’s uninvited and yet, it stays. I don’t know how or why this tumor found residence in my chest, but for some reason it did. I want to run away from it, I want it to disappear, but tumors don’t work like that. They get comfortable, they’re bossy, they’re insensitive; they cause pain and anguish and scar people’s lives.

And I guess I’m no exception.

I’m supposed to be enjoying a week with my boyfriend’s family. Tomorrow I’m supposed to be spending the night in Manhattan catching up with my dearest friends. And now, we’re trying to schedule an MRI over Thanksgiving. I can kiss the Caribbean goodbye, no working out, golf, skiing, etc.. For a while.

And so final question is… I so desperately want to be the optimistic person shielding shallow fears with a grateful attitude, but I can’t shake it. The bible says that God hands us troubles because he loves us. In so many ways, I have to agree. Usually our success stories impress others, we leverage ourselves farther in the great ladder of life, but success doesn’t teach us to love ourselves, it’s survival that puts up that test.

It’s when we have no choice, but to endure. And then I get grateful. It could be so much worse, I could be so much sicker, less fortunate, without insurance and so on… So maybe this will give me a different reason to look in the mirror and smile, not because my eyes are green or I can’t find any lines, but because there will be a reminder that I endured.

Nov 19, 2011

Green, Green Grass


You know it’s going to be an awesome night when your surgeon leaves his cell phone number on your voice mail.

It’s hard to call yourself a writer, if you don’t write anymore. At some point, I’ve sold myself to magazine articles and then to term papers. Somewhere in the process I’ve forgotten about creative grammar, spelling errors so ridiculous they can only be made past 3am, and the words spilled across the pages solely for the purpose of being said. Pure writing is for the soul, however antiquated and cliché it sounds.

It’s late. My significant other is slumbering in the room over. Ambien seems to be broken and my mind is on fire. This white couch is comfortable, cozy, it has years of stories, naps, kisses, long conversations huddled over apple spice decaffeinated tea. The periwinkle and silk blanket covering me was a gift several Christmas’ ago. My tortoise shell glasses perch on my nose, and fingertips glide over the keyboard as effortlessly as a classical pianist finds her notes.

Thank GOD for plastic surgeons. This scar won’t be too bad. I’m stubborn as hell and so insist on local anesthetic. All those stories of patients who wakeup mid-surgery make me shudder. I don’t want to be interviewed by the Channel 9 guy on with a microphone shoved in my face, “So, what type of conversations did you over hear? Did you feel anything? Did you have an out-of-body-experience?”

I say no to all of the above. So instead I voluntarily clench every muscle as he injects the painful poison past my epidermal layer. To numb me. He leans over so closely the scent of altoid fumes fill my nostrils. I assume his hands are cold, but the skin on my chest is anesthetized, so I’m not sure. I insist upon bringing my iPod with me. Everywhere. Dentist included. Jim Brickman strikes his final thunderous cords and the harmonious meditation soundtrack is about to quench my nerves and send me into a relaxed state of mind. I’m undergoing a minor surgery to get a cyst removed from my chest. I know, gross. Usually when you trip across my blog I’ll feed you stories about dating or democrats, but today is a happy story about feeling positive when shit hits the fan. Or not. I was told the results from the pathologist would be back by Tuesday or Wednesday.

It’s Friday night. I’m not sad or angry. In fact, the Christian and optimist in me is thrilled! Yay! But, the realist in me and the aesthetic fashionista who likes her scoop neck tees is scowling in the corner. Andrew and I are supposed to be in Vail with our friends right now. We’re supposed to be hitting the man-made snow-slopes in several hours. However due to the lovely phone call we received several hours ago, our plans have been rerouted to the couch and pizza boxes and we’re staying in tonight. I’m jealous that my friends aren’t enduring this. The grass, or I guess the snow on the other side of i-70 always seems a bit more beautiful.

Message from Said Doctor: “Auna, Hi. I just received the results and had a long (emphasize long) conversation with the pathologist, well. I want to talk to you. So the good news is that it isn’t malignant, but I have some other news. So the other news (clarifying there is more news) is that the cyst has the potential to become malignant. (I’m praying he can stop using the M-word). We need to take the rest out, as you know I was not able to do before. (I’m now staring at the huge patchwork piece of Frankenstein skin on my chest from two days ago.) Which is a more invasive surgery and will probably require skin graphing. (Yay!) I want to get you in on Monday so we can begin calling specialists. Here is my cell phone. (He repeats the number.) I’ll be available all night.

Click.

My first reaction is to jump on the “wah wah wah” bus. News is funny, ironic, whatever. Here I was, expecting to hear option A: “Benign” B: “Malignant”… but instead I got option A with some additional insight. Nobody said, “Auna, you should get this cyst removed.” In fact, every single doctor has said, “Watch it. See if it grows.” But something deep inside my psyche told me to get it out. And that’s when I learned the power of trusting oneself. Which freaks me out even more. Western medicine, my arse…

Reaction B: I turn to my boyfriend, who not only threw me a surprise birthday party at a country western concert, he engulfs food I attempt to prepare, and also has told me I look beautiful at 2am with eyeliner spewing from my tear ducts, and a runny nose… and I cry, “You will love me with a dent in my chest, right?”

He responds, “Of course. I would love you if you had three eyes.”

I'm lucky to have such a romantic. I’ll go into the doctor on Monday and then I’ll go one step at a time. I cannot go any faster. I’m a bit bummed about not going scuba-diving over vacation, but I’m also not starving in Africa, so I’m sure I can get over it. Scars are the reliable reminders that you’re durable. Scars are the souvenirs of life. They’re like photographs and stories you can tuck in your back pocket, so if you’re bummed, alone, frustrated, you have proof there you’ve survived hardship, and you can do it again.

Life is great. And while it took a little (big) pep-talk to remind myself of the obvious; I have the most amazing, healthy and supportive family and friends and lover. (He loves it when I call him that.) Albeit the warm and fuzzy stuff just mentioned, I’d be a liar to say there isn’t something unsettling about the phone call I received earlier tonight. I guess it boils down to making peace without having to make peace about something. I'm aware that sleep is a distant activity far, far away, so I thought I’d do what I do best; type about myself.

I intend to write more. I’ll be raunchier, risqué, whatever you want next time. But in the meantime, I wish something for you.

I wish for you blue skies, true love, a long life and the kind of grass that only grows greener with time.

Aug 16, 2011

The Climb



4:27:01
My body is sucking lactic acid like it’s water. It’s scorching and muggy, late August afternoon. The tendons, the muscles are screaming out in agony. I’m thirsty, I’m angry; I’m out of shape. My right foot pushes the pedal; my left knee pulls the pedal. They work in unison. They hate each other. My back, which is drenched in sweat stretches over the gears. I ascend. My ass hurts. I refuse to be defeated.

I dramatize the situation, I say to myself, “Auna, If you were to die at the end of this battle wouldn’t you have wanted to enjoy yourself.”

My response to myself is, “Bugger off.”

4:28:54
The salty liquid is pouring from every pore. I taste the bitterness. The numbers won’t change. I breathe. They don’t change. I beg and plead with God.

4:29:21
They are moving slowly. I try to motivate myself, “Enjoy the moment Auna. Love the moment. Love it. Embrace the pain. Use it as fuel. Fuel damnit. The carbs I enjoyed last night, along with that red wine don’t seem to want to be fuel.” So instead I turn the music louder. I turn to Britney. Help Britney. Give me rhythm. Make me love torture, loosely coined for cardio.

4:29:52
The red seconds flirt with my lungs. Britney encourages me from my iPod and every ounce of purpose in me envisions a sexy pair of jeans. My jeans. On me.

My mantra: “Me in jeans.” “Me in jeans”

I choke. Then gasp.

4:30:00.

The end. It’s over. My heart rate slowly dips into the 150s. I growl, I pant, I gulp. I glance at the woman on the elliptical glider next to me; she is lazily reading a magazine. I judge.… “Why bother if you don’t exhaust your heart rate. I see my own magazine thrown to the floor and reconsider. She is probably nice and not in the mood for self-mutilation today. The man behind me is wearing too short of shorts. He is checking out the woman reading the magazine. He is bench-pressing 280.” I forget that I’m miserable and my heart is pounding too loudly for my rib cage and I’m embarrassing myself.

My clock reveals 4:30:43

How did forty-three seconds just pass? I only glanced around the room.

The cool down goes so fast. I’m not hurting; I’m not begging the clock to change. There is no personal friction: Me against time. I’m instead just going, rolling, and being part of the clock that dictates our lives. It’s different when you’re not watching it end.

4:31:11

Where do the seconds go?

They, those philosopher types say that youth is wasted on the young. And as my birthday is quickly approaching I don’t happen to disagree with them. The more we have, the less it means? Does the more time equate to the more, value we can create? Not the material kind, but rather the intellectual, the experiential, the beautiful memories that require depth and certitude; the relationships that are delicately woven together through years and seasons and holidays and sadness. The adventures where strangers rescue you, and you in turn find yourself. I sound esoteric; work with me. Can we ever find enough time to have fun? To pound our chest like Tarzan and throw worry to the wind?

If there is one characteristic I would permenty remove from my plethora of characteristics (you know my whole balance sheet theory) it’d be pride. Well pride + stubborn = waste of time.

How could we prevent ourselves from wasting the precious moments that eat up our nights, the days in which we can never return? The Chinese food gone gross, and the compliments gone unheard. The conversations left in the closet, and the text messages waiting as drafts on phones lost in a cab somewhere in New York City. (Clearly I’m speaking in first person.) We operate in a microcosm where we’re so tightly knit, so closely connected and moving so fast. We jet around in small cars, communicate via internet and fly to the other ends of the earth and help starving infants as means to “get away” from our gluttonous, American lives.

Why is that? Should we change? Should we adopt Vegan characteristics and roam with the animal herds before we outsource more innovation to India and China? Not to sound like a Debbie Downer, but when I think of time I often wonder, is time relative. Or rather are we too busy accepting time, ignoring the moments and finally too lazy to fight the calendar. What if we pushed time – worked so hard and sweated so much that every second counted for something, assigned to a success, donated to a cause. Each second would become a building block; hours became the info structure of our lives. And the late nights turned into dawns, and the sleepy Sundays so relished, become the strength that ultimately defines us? Let us not be afraid to live our lives with passion and hunger.

And then, maybe, we can understand the importance of fighting time. We have already mastered the art of maximizing oxygen every time we inhale, especially when standing in a rose garden.

Now our job is to linger as long as possible, to make the scent last forever. It isn't that we must remember every moment; it’s only to remember not to waste it.

Aug 3, 2011

The Pillow


“You’re going to wake up the girls.” I squeal.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be so loud.” His fingers tickle me relentlessly.
Ducking under his arms, I point to the other side of the room, “Hannah? Sweetie. I’m sorry. Did we wake you up?”
He turns toward the staircase.
The penalty of arousing slumbering toddlers would be more bedtime stories, and they preferred that he narrate the fairy princess voice. And by his terrified expression I’d guess he’d rather be playing footsie on the couch then playing babysitters’ assistant.
But nobody was standing there.
“Oh, no you didn’t.” He grinned, reaching for my waist.
“Oh yes, I just did.” I say mischievously. Standing up from the couch I kiss the top of his curly brown hair.
“Hey, come back here. I thought we were watching a movie.”
“We are. I’m just grabbing some water. Do you want some orange juice.”?
“No, I’d prefer some of those lips.”
“Oh don’t you worry… they’ll be right back.”
The kitchen was dark and as I reach for the light switch I hear the click of the front door, “Hey babe. I’m running out to my car I’ll be back in a flash.”

The room lit up a large photo of the family. The two girls are wearing matching dresses and sitting on the laps of the beautiful mother and father. I had babysat them for years; the poster family for the American dream. Which made me wonder where would I live in ten years? Would I be married, would I have kids? Would I even live in Colorado?
Getting comfortable on the couch, he walks back into the living room Instead of sitting next to me, he pulls a large bag from behind his back. “Do you want a surprise?”
“Umm. Yes.” I say, surprised.
Pulling out tissue paper I feel an unfamiliar fabric. I pull out a bright pink pillow. It was so soft, the type you take on an airplane. “I thought since you’d be traveling to Boston a lot to visit me that you might need something to help you sleep on the airplane.”
His eyes searched my face to find any reaction.
“It’s wonderful.” I swoon.
“Oh good. Oh here I forgot the card.” He added.

Goosebumps crawl up my arm as I read the sweetest words, “Falling in love with you has been amazing.”
I set the card on the coffee table and stare into his chocolate eyes, wishing tonight would never end. “I love you too.”

It’s a sweaty July afternoon and I’m trying to locate sunscreen. I cannot stop sneezing because of the dust. Ripping tape off the random cardboard box, I hope to find sweaters and avoid spiders, but my fingers brush against an all-too familiar fabric. I don’t have to see the color to know exactly the texture, to taste this exact memory. That was the first night anyone ever told me they loved me. And while it felt so many centuries, cities, so many relationships ago, however much has changed since that night, perfect moments are never far from reach.

It was one of those things I’d forgotten about entirely. It was still in pretty decent condition.
“Hey Auna, here is the Boston goodwill bag.” My friend said. We were both hot from hours cleaning out the storage unit.
“Yep, one more thing.”

It had been eight years since that Valentines and now as an adult madly in love with the man who wasn’t my first love, but knew would be my last. The one now would be next to me in the family portraits, I had no need for this anymore, so I hugged the weathered pillow to my chest and closed my eyes for just a second, and then added it to the clothes and shoes and random knick knacks headed to the homeless shelter. Hopefully someone could enjoy the pink heart shaped pillow just as I had once.

Apr 21, 2011

Hello Beautiful...


“When you have big eyes, you shouldn’t roll them so much.” He says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it makes people feel stupid. You make me feel dumb Auna.”

“How am I supposed to respond to that? Thanks for the advice?” I laugh.

“You’re welcome.” He smirks.

“I wasn’t actually thanking you; it was hypothetical gratitude.”

“One day when you’re talking to an important person with a low IQ, you’ll thank me.” His dark eyes sparkle with wisdom, or so he thinks.

He leans over the bar, “So beautiful, tell me about this new man. Are you happy?” He is genuinely curious. He has this way of calling women beautiful so platonically, it’s as innocent as a grandmother complimenting your prom dress, but yet, not ingenuous in the slightest.

“I don’t know Raj. It’s sort of an odd sensation, a tingling all over when I see his number light up on my phone. I can’t quite explain.”

“Odd, eh? Like heroine or more like herpes?” He retorts.

“Like neither. Get your head out of the gutter.” I try to smack his arm.

“But why…. It belongs there.” His vowels slowly drool over consonants, his voice sing-songy in a masculine way.

“Like butterflies. Like lemonade on a hot summer day. Wholesome. It’s effortless. You should try nice on for size. It might fit. Are you still dating, that woman?” I pry.

“Of course not.” He pauses, and then continues. “Okay, maybe. But back to you. Whatcha been writing doll face?”

He knew my soft spot… my favorite topic, and he was an avid reader of my articles and blog, but I couldn’t veer of course, “She isn’t healthy for you. Is she still pushing for more?”

“Oh boy is she. Screw her research on stem cells she is the new expert on diamonds. She even took up fly-fishing. Can’t she hold out the baby talk for awhile?” He whines.

“How old is she? I ask, pushing his buttons.

He counts on his fingers like a kindergartner, then stares at his feet in shame, “She turned 33 a few weeks ago.”

“Well, duh. Her clock is ticking and is only getting louder. Dude, if you don’t want to be in this, then gets out.” I say.

“What’s so wrong with playing it by ear.” He answers honestly, visibly exhausted in his batman sweatshirt.

“Playing it by ear doesn’t have ovaries.”

“Ha. You’re a funny one.” He says.

“I’m serious Raj, you should consider ending it. If not for her sake, then for his own.”

“It just sucks, the whole alone thing,” He says in complete vulnerability.

“I know, but it’s better than staying miserable.” I reply.

He face reverts from sullen to excited instantaneously, “So, I want to meet this nice man of yours.”

I know at this point he already knows his answer in regards to his love life. It just took some courage, and I could tell right now he couldn’t find any.

So I talked about some cool articles and my big authorial dreams, because for the last three years we’ve been friends, I’ve learned that he cares. He is one of the few who actually give a damn. Maybe it’s the Gemini in him, maybe it’s the way he was born. So I give him permission to change the subject so he can listen to the details of my budding relationship, my woes around work and pretty much anything else I felt the need to share with my loyal, free therapist. Our interactions always ended with, “You know I love you, right?”

And I’d respond, “Yeah dude, love you too.”

And that was that.

A brilliant investment banker from New York, he wears flip-flops in December. He has two pet cats and randomly inserts quotes from Shakespeare or statistics from the Economist into elevator conversation.

Eccentric, they all are.

April 17.

Slung over various limbs I’m balancing three bags, they’re overstuffed with clothes, shoes, books, a bottle of vino and lord knows what else. I’ve reached floor 25 and cursing whatever reason the buildings electricity went out. The stairwells are empty and the echo of my heavy breathing is reminding me I need to visit the gym. My guess is that this is a screwed up fire drill and all 600 residents must be in Vail or the Rockies’ game.

And I’m so irritated because for the first time, in a long time, I was actually going to be on time to dinner. I’m notoriously late. And now karma had her plan and insisted I trek down 28 floors. Grrr.

When I’ve finally pushed open the last door on the ground floor I’m greeted with dozens of worried faces. John, the guy who works our front desk is breathing through oxygen tubes and firefighters with intense black masks are whispering things of gasses being found in an apartment. John finding a dead body. I’ve entered the twilight zone and unfortunately I don’t really have enough minutes to figure it out. Running out to 16th street there are cameras from TV stations and orange cones blocking off the corners, my car is in the middle of all the drama. My only option is find a cab two blocks over. Sweating through my cute top and running mascara, I book it to 17th.



It was Tuesday and quite possibly already one of the worst days of my existence. My life at the magazine had reached its end. It was a shocker. And I was trying to identify my new existence; a student, a writer. Who knows? Climbing into my car, late to a birthday dinner, I run into a dear friend from the building. Sitting on the bench waiting I tell her how much I adore her jacket. Then she sits down next to me for no apparent reason.

“Isn’t it sad.” She says.
“Yeah, totally sad.” I glance at my watch, not in the mood to recount our building’s newest drama.
“My boyfriend is really upset. We saw him earlier that day and were going to meet up for beers.” She has tears in her eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know who it was, right?” Surprised I’m so nonchalant.
“No, who?” I figured it was one of the older workaholics, who commuted and gave up their families, one of the people I’d never met. So it didn’t really affect me.
“It was Raj.”

Silence. Then face fell into my hands.
“What? No.”

“Yes, they found him that afternoon. He was such a troubled soul.”

“What?” I repeat.

“Yeah, we’re all really bummed.”

I started crying. Raj had sat up on my leather couch so many nights, complimenting my orchids, toasting Pellegrino; we explored the innards of our lives; our decisions, our futures. I knew he was depressed and I often asked him about it. He would shush me and say he was fine.

I weep and through my tears tell her, “I saw him on Friday and I was on the elliptical glider. I brushed him off. I was busy. Then he emailed me to hang out. Oh my god he emailed me, and I never responded.”

“An email wasn’t going to save him. There’s nothing you could have done.” She says.

“I know an email wasn’t going to save him, but maybe I’d get another beer or another talk, or a hug or something. I’d get a few more minutes of him. Now there’s nothing.” Then it wasn’t just silent tears, I was sobbing.

“It’s going to be okay.” She comforted me, I know she meant well, but each of us had a special relationship with Raj. During my darkest hours he always picked up the phone. I could knock on his door at 2am, an insomniac like me, he never yawned at my bailiwick, he’d give advice, and he’d tell me stories of his childhood and his family back home.

I started missing him Tuesday night, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

People always say that suicide is selfish. Religiously, I want to agree. But something deep inside holds me back from being angry. Sure, there is that plea I could tried to save him.

But, life isn’t simple. And while it sounds crazy, death is very simple. A person just leaves. Everyone loved being his friend, but at the end I don’t know if he had any. He mastered the art of loving people, because maybe for some reason he never felt loved. I’m convinced wherever he is, he knows love now; he is hanging out up there watching out for the rest of us.

He wanted out, someplace new… a mood antidepressants won’t fix, a place where planes can’t fly.

He wanted out and so he left us. I wish I could hug him again and at least say goodbye.

Jan 6, 2011

The Intangible Asset: Hollywood




The Intangible Asset: Hollywood

While the world is running to our movie stars, they’re running away from our financial systems. What gives?

“Inside Job” narrated by Matt Damon was a film I saw several weeks ago at an Arts theatre on Broadway. I found it surprising that Matt Damon would take the time and energy to create and produce a documentary, abundant with facts and interviews exposing the Wall Street crash in 2008 and its global implications, but more so a documentary with such a political bias.

He marketed the film on the Internet and through interviews by claiming it as a “historical documentary” which truly broadcasts the global financial crisis… But never infers there is an obvious political agenda woven throughout the film’s seemingly benign credentials. The first scene is a beautiful landscape of Iceland, where simplicity equates to happiness and those who habituate the small country take pride in the culture and work ethic. Then, the capitalistic conglomerate banks appear on the scene and financial chaos ignites. But before the rabid bankers hungry for unrealistic returns, the audience sees how the banks literally manipulate academics into supporting these false reporting systems.

While their still remains arguments in Washington on how to approach large financial institutions, there is no doubt in any international mind that bankers took total advantage of the flexibility the free market system has embraced. That said, many believe that the debt DC has undertaken, and endorsed, whereas a happy-lending China can easily buy has thrown us into a spiral far more injurious than the economic collapse.

What Damon disregards in the documentary targeting and exploiting Wall Street is that the same argument could be turned around on Hollywood. He blames the loopholes, the middle class for buying into what Wall Street is selling, and the result? Job losses across the globe, utter chaos and some would say anarchy. Albeit the circumstances, which are transparent and easily calculated, Damon doesn’t dare look in the mirror at his own paycheck, or the “art” that this free market, first amendment country has provided to him and his fellow filmmakers. There is a convergence of government rights… the right to make films, the right to produce media.

So while Hollywood is capitalizing on the Adam Smith ideology that has shown proven failure in the banking world, the rest of the world is waiting to see the returns of many decades of bullets, cursing and sex…. Drama. Scientists at the same universities (Harvard, Stanford, Columbia) Damon condemns argue that his work in Hollywood has indeed exploited the minds of innocent civilians, suggesting through media something that the American dream is not.

Americans have bought into the Simpsons and US weekly, the reality shows and trash television that takes up hours and hours of time… Indian, China, Africa, South America… many nations which are fighting us for international market share, not only in exports, but pure intellectual property aren’t wasting their time eliciting in a fantasy land. Matt Damon makes $20 million a movie, if not more…. While by and large creating things that are in no way feasible? He fights for the second amendment to be removed, but readily uses guns in his action packed movies. Who are the predators? Which is worse, selling a house to someone who can’t afford it? Or influencing the minds of young children? Why bother pouring money into the education system, when Hollywood has already figured out how to capture the attention of American’s future generations.

While sure Damon donates a large percentage to charities, he still reaps those tax deductions… is he really someone who can jump up on a pedestal and tell America where NOT to put their money, but more importantly… their minds.

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