Papagni Pages

Tag: writing

  • Growing Old Minus the Graceful Part

    Oh this is going to be fun.

    I’ve written about growing older before, but I held back in the past; not this time.

    The most awful thing about being a man and being past 50, is prostate problems. I’m not comparing it to menopause or any other female aging realities, so please don’t throw stones. I understand that prostate issues are extremely common for men over a certain age, leading me to believe that many of you will relate to this. The urge to pee many times day or night; the feeling that you haven’t evacuated completely, the fear of prostate cancer, the taking of meds to get any sort of relief, and the trickling of urine in six directions when you urinate — all horrible and unpleasant. Sleep, when your bladder is waking you, adds complications to an already elusive reality. I’m convinced a scientist or doctor somewhere has found a cure for prostate enlargement and cancer, but big pharma is keeping it from old dudes like me — it’s an industry worth billions; therefore a solution isn’t happening anytime soon.

    The next worst thing is the aches and pain everywhere. Yes, yes, yes, I’d still rather be alive than dead, but that’s not my topic this week. The joints hurt, the back aches, the tendons are tight, the knees click, the hernia causes soreness, the ears itch, the blood in the legs doesn’t circulate, and looking in the mirror at that big bald head hurts your ego. And again, there is little you can do about it.

    One day, can’t say which day; it may have been 200 days in a row that all meld into one. You look in the mirror and realize that the only part of your body not sagging is your pinky finger on your right hand. There is excess skin everywhere and it ain’t pretty.

    It’s difficult to admit this to yourself, but you get tired. I’ve done a personal survey of all the older men I know and they all confess that at some point during the day they run out of steam. It makes sense, you just don’t have the energy of a 25 year old. If you partake in activities that are strenuous, you will get tired sooner than you once did. Naps are great, I highly recommend them.

    One thing that doesn’t happen to all older men, however, it can happen if you fail to do something about it. After leaving your career or job, you could end up feeling a loss of purpose. Doing something meaningful with your life is essential for maintaining the desire to live. Personally, I don’t think watching TV or scrolling social media cuts the mustard.

    Most of the garbage I’m spewing is universally true for many older men, but there is one particular thing that might only be true for gay men of a particular era and/or gay men who were closeted for a good part of their adult lives. If you hid your sexuality from the world for a long time and then consequently came out late or have never come out — more gay men than you’d think — you might be very envious of today’s young gay men.

    From the outside looking in, young people appear uninhibited and perhaps sexually active early on. Obviously not true for some and not prevalent in certain parts of the world. But if you only got to be out for a small portion of your life or late in life, you’d be envious of today’s youth in a large part of the world. This could be a blog post by itself, but I fear that speaking for others might be inappropriate. So much of the activities of this sub-population is kept hidden for obvious reasons.

    The “invisible” factor can be painful if one lacks self-esteem. Studies showing how older people are often ignored or discounted in society, is heartbreaking. I feel it sometimes, but as an introvert, in many ways I welcome the anonymity.

    Some of the annoying things my fellow elders choose to keep hidden: hair that grows in the wrong places, body tags, thinning skin, excess gas (a lot of it), multiple medications designed to regulate all of the functions that are out of control or disruptive, and of course the loss of hearing, sight, and necessary lubrication. And there’s more that might plunge you into deeper depression.

    Losing people you love is a harsh reality as you age. Friends and family who have been a part of your life for a very long time. The feeling of loss is profound and heavy. Does it make you stronger? I don’t think so, I think it makes you sad and sometimes lonely. I recall a conversation with my 87 year old father before he passed. He told me that losing people he loved was the worst part of aging. He had eight siblings and I believe he was the last to go. I don’t know if you can ever prepare for that kind of pain. Losing a life partner or your own child, unimaginable.

    There are a few realities that are actually positive, at least for me. The first is work drama. I don’t miss it at all, none of it. The second is libido, as in there is none . . . gone, zip, only a faint memory. I’d rather this than thoughts of sex all day everyday, don’t miss that.

    Eight older adults seated together around a coffee table in a sunny lounge
    This scenario may be more pleasant than you might think.

    It’s easy to allow all of the unpleasant actualities to ruin your day, but that doesn’t have to be the case. I’m embracing it all; celebrating survival and good health. There will be further posts on aging, as I age further — I guarantee it!

    A friend of mine posted this and I laughed out loud. I hope you appreciate it as much as I do.

    State-of-Mind

    I’m a difficult person, but I’m fully aware of it. I know that I challenge people who treat me poorly. I know that I sometimes lack tolerance and put people off. There are more awful traits I own, that I don’t really need to name, because I know who I am and you don’t have to know everything about me. If I further state that I am working on being a better human, that’s only half true. I know that sometimes I cannot and will not hold my tongue. I know that cheering for the underdog is not always popular or wise. I know that people who I thought were friends, have walked away from me and people who judge me, speak ill of me when I’m not around. I’m so happy to say, these people no longer matter to me (I lie I tell myself). What matters to me are those individuals who love/like me for who I am: the good, the bad, and the pompous. Stick by me and I’ll be loyal and true.

    I’m trying to avoid being an angry, bitter, reclusive old man by acknowledging what has already begun or what is coming. I might be able to develop coping mechanisms, store up some patience, and make the best of all of it.

    No quote this week, I’ll let these be my last words for now.

  • Remaining True to Yourself

    And Enjoying Life

    Warning: If you believe revealing feelings or deep personal thoughts is inappropriate, read no further.

    Those of you who have followed my blog for the past nearly nine years, know that I went from writing about my travels and immigrant life in Portugal, to writing about whatever popped into my head weekly, to most recently, fiction. Because writing is one of my favorite pastimes, I want to continue. But because I easily become bored, I’m going to change things up a bit. I imagine I will occasionally throw in a bit of fiction with the current non-fiction.

    I’m going to cover topics I think might be relatable. Like most people, I suffer from daily ambivalence. One day I know exactly what I want and the next, I haven’t got a clue. I can’t help asking myself why that happens. So, for today, I’m going to be asking some difficult questions. I promise to attempt an answer that will be both authentic and useful. Perhaps helping me and others toward a clearer path moving forward. Always feel free to chime in.

    How can I navigate the difficult days?

    What I have learned (sure did take me long enough), is that when a difficult day comes along, there is little I can do to change things; especially if it’s about my mood, airport issues, illness, politics, etc. The best I can do is to take it easy on myself to soften it a bit and/or go with it. I do this knowing that the difficulty will eventually pass. It’s usually something beyond my control, so rather than fight it, I just try to wait it out. Always easier said than done.

    How honest can you be with the people in your Life?

    This is one of the hardest of life’s dilemmas. What I know to be true is that my truth is sometimes another person’s struggle or pain. People do not always have the tools to face or see certain things about themselves and there are all sorts of reasons for this. I can be thinking, I’m going to be honest so that they can acknowledge whatever it is and respond favorably. This rarely happens, more often than not, the person resents you and puts distance between you and them. In addition, my standards and values may be very different from those of some of the people around me. I have realized that the more grace I extend to others, the more fulfilling my relationships are. I think I may be one of those people who like to stir the pot.

    “Learn how not to be mad at people for not being who you need them to be.”

    – Ancestor Healing Magic, Marva

    What compromises can you make without losing your integrity?

    I once thought that I shouldn’t compromise or budge. Now I know that compromises must be made in order to achieve harmony. There are times when a red line is drawn. If someone wants me to do something illegal or criminal, I usually bow out. I also believe the isms, such as racism, sexism, agism, and several others, are a hard no. MAGA has no place in my heart and/or life.

    Can grief teach you something about your life?

    I have had a great deal of loss in my life. I have come to realize there are many ways we grieve, further, sometimes grief is stronger depending on where we are in our lives or the circumstances surrounding the loss (i.e., the age of the person or the way in which they passed). The greatest lesson for me has been to allow myself to feel the loss. Whether it’s facing a difficult memory or being swept up in your emotions. A good cry can be incredibly healing. Realizing life isn’t tied up in a pink ribbon is also healthy and it can initiate growth.

    Is picking and choosing your vices wise?

    There are things in life that I know for certain are not good for me, yet I partake anyway. I can’t name all of these vices; I’m too embarrassed and by naming them, I would make them too real for comfort. I have a simple philosophy that helps guide me: if it makes me feel good and poses a minimal threat to my existence, I welcome it. For example, I love wine. I don’t drink wine to get drunk, I drink wine because I love the taste and how it pairs with food. I drink it in moderation because it’s high in calories and if I overdo it in the evening, my trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night become disruptive. Another one of my vices is chocolate. I may even love it more than wine. Dark chocolate is my drug of choice and I indulge at least once a day. If I was given a choice to add five years to my life if I gave it up, I’d happily keep eating it. Add nuts of all kinds and I’m pretty happy indeed. Any good vices out there I should know about? TikTok is a social media vice, but I love it and I can’t stop.

    Older man sitting on a park bench with a cane in autumn
    An older man relaxes on a park bench beneath colorful autumn trees (AI generated),

    I stopped at that last question for several reasons: 1) keeping it brief, keeps people engaged, 2) I’ve learned that the difficult questions we ask ourselves can be exhausting, and lastly, I’ve learned when to stop.

    I’m thinking that next week will be about accepting getting old(er).

    “You’ll learn, as you get older, that rules are made to be broken. Be bold enough to live life on your terms, and never, ever apologize for it. Go against the grain, refuse to conform, take the road less traveled instead of the well-beaten path. Laugh in the face of adversity, and leap before you look. Dance as though everybody is watching. March to the beat of your own drummer. And stubbornly refuse to fit in.”
    ― Mandy Hale

  • He Saw Me

    (fiction with a touch of realness)

    ​Turning 60 was a mind fuck, but not because I was older. It wasn’t the aches and pains that were my new constant companions. It wasn’t family, they were as aloof as they’d always been. Friendships had benefited from longevity and a shared history, and for that I was grateful. It was the reality of being a single gay man in a world where older single gay men primarily want to be with pretty young things; arm candy they can parade through high end restaurants. I knew this when I decided to go to a gay club in Barcelona when I was visiting there last month. I knew that I wasn’t 25 anymore, my hair was growing, but on the wrong parts of my body. I still loved music and dancing, but I was shy about the old moves that were no longer trending. I was certain I would walk into that club of 200 gay men and that I’d be completely invisible. It would almost feel as if I were shrouded in a cloak that rendered me unseen. I knew this, but the lure of possibilities was stronger than my fear of being invisible.

    I paid the cover fee and rapidly walked over to the bar. My fear was quickly realized as I stood there for what felt like light years, completely unnoticed. The young, shirtless, hot bartender approached several boys without even a glance my way. I fought the urge to flee and remained steadfast in my mission to finally get the bartender’s attention. I wondered if I should confront him or push my way ahead of some of the boys directly in front of him. I opted to go the martyr route and passively waited, rolling my eyes and sucking my teeth. He eventually saw me and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a double scotch on the rocks thinking that the opportunity may never present itself again.

    Drink in hand, I dragged my wounded ego to a corner of the club that was quieter and darker. Beating myself up came easily, hiding even easier. I sipped my scotch and scolded myself for thinking that there might be even a remote chance of meeting a stranger. I considered leaving several times, twenty times to be exact. My head was bowed, shoulders slumped, and a frown permanently plastered on my face. I was aware of these things, but since I was invisible, it didn’t matter. I took out my phone and read my emails; disgusted, pathetic, defeated. So involved in my own melancholy, I didn’t notice the man standing in front of me.

    “Do you mind if I sit down?”

    What? I asked.

    “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

    Do as you please, I said.

    He extended a hand and said his name was Carl. I looked around to see who Carl was talking to.

    He said, “And you are?”

    I’m David, I replied matter-of-factly.

    “Hi David, are you okay?”

    I was immediately defensive. Why wouldn’t I be?

    Carl was unguarded and looked into my eyes. He said, “Would you prefer to be left alone?”

    No, no, I said, you caught me off guard. I didn’t expect to speak to anyone tonight.

    We spent the next couple of hours getting to know one another. I shared some of my manic thoughts and Carl listened. He listened hard. He told me that he had similar thoughts not too long ago, but felt emboldened after fighting testicular cancer. His cancer was in remission. Realizing how uncertain life can be, he no longer cared about what others may or may not think about him. Carl was free and for a brief moment in time, so was I.

    Older man holding a drink at a crowded, brightly lit nightclub bar
    David finally gets his drink

    I’ve joined a writer’s group here in the Algarve. On my first meeting with the group, the facilitator provided a prompt for our first piece. It was an interesting process of sharing what invisibility means to each of us. We were asked to spend some time alone (in a beautiful and inspiring setting in the hills of the Algarve) writing a piece which we would later share. My group provided praise and support for the draft edition of “He Saw Me,” so I decided to clean it up and share it with you.

    State-of-Mind

    In a pretty good place actually. Still some sad moments, but I know that will be the case for some time. What do they say, “It’s the price we pay for love.”

    Some trips planned for the fall. Still considering there might be a hobby I have yet to discover. I guess we’ll see. I’m looking forward to the fall.

    “This strangely still pause between summer and autumn, greenery and gold, and the heat and rising wind that is once again readying itself to rush it all away in a climactic symphony of color and scent is—in my opinion, one of the best parts about living on earth.” — Victoria Erickson

  • Problem Child, Complicated Adult

    Stevie was never easy. When he was only three weeks old he refused to eat and had to be fed intravenously, at 24 months he decided he would no longer speak, and at 17, he packed a bag and left home without saying a word to anyone. The only reason his parents knew he was alive was his continued presence on social media. Stevie was troubled, he caused trouble for everyone around him, and he got into trouble with the law without much effort to avoid it.

    Anyone who is a parent knows that parenting is not easy; never has been, never will be. Mistakes are made and small victories are celebrated. But what to do about a deviant child; that’s a nearly impossible problem to navigate. Many give-up.

    Stevie’s mother, Lee Anne, was tired of hearing about gun violence, drug related tragedies, and the consequence of street gangs, on the news. She didn’t know exactly what Stevie was involved with, but her instincts told her it was criminal and potentially dangerous. His father Carl was less concerned. Carl was too busy with work and basketball, to be bothered. When Lee Anne tried to talk to Carl about Stevie, he tuned her out. It wasn’t that Carl didn’t care, he just didn’t have the right tools to deal with Stevie.

    It seemed at times that there was hope for their son. There was this one time when he volunteered for an animal rescue shelter. He went to the shelter after school for weeks. Stevie was focused on the animals, finding them a home and their overall happiness. But even that became a problem when he tried to prevent the shelter from euthanizing some of the older, unadopted animals. The shelter had to ban him from volunteering there; it destroyed Stevie.

    When Stevie decided he’d plan and execute a break-in at the Brooklyn Federal courthouse, he knew it would eventually land him in prison. His moral compass prevented that eventuality from deterring him. He knew in his heart that he wasn’t a hero, that he could never take the moral high ground, but there were things that truly got under his skin.

    Stevie was watching the news one day while hiding from the world. He’d seen where this federal judge was deliberately misleading the jury in a tax evasion case. It was really getting under his skin because the defense lawyer, who was court appointed, was ignoring or not calling attention to the judge’s obvious obstruction of justice. The prosecutors were often tongue tied and bewildered. Something had to be done.

    Of course Stevie knew that breaking into Judge Lindell’s chambers wasn’t the smartest thing to do. He’d done similar deeds in the past and hadn’t gotten caught, making him feel emboldened. The problem being, that the more he got away with, the more righteous he became. Stevie convinced himself he could do this, so stopping him would have been impossible. A above the law, assisting the law.

    Friday afternoon at 5:45 p.m. when the courts were set to close, Stevie put his plan into action. He walked into the security area carrying an Uber Eats bag. He knew security would be lax so close to weekend recess. He also knew that they probably wouldn’t bother to check with the clerk; he’d witnessed several late deliveries that went unchecked on days he was observing. He wore a very convincing wig, eyeglasses, and a baseball cap. He looked like every other male delivery person. He scribbled a signature and he was quickly ushered in. He silently laughed about how easy it was to enter the halls of justice.

    Judge Lindell’s secretary was not at her desk, her computer had been shut down. He opened the Judge’s Chambers knowing for certain that the judge had already left for the day. Security was aware of the back door exits. He was hoping the old school judge kept paper files; he wanted to take what he needed and head for home. A pile of folders on Judge Lindell’s desk were neat and in alphabetical order; his secretary was clearly tidy. There it was, Kenneth Jackson’s file right in the middle of the pile. He quickly sorted through the file and noticed ten pages clipped together, marked “omit for trial.” He was disgusted by the judge’s blatant breaking of the law. Stevie photographed the pages and closed the file. Not being able to help himself, he attached a post-it note, reading, “Your honor is cooked!”

    Stevie could barely sleep a wink, he was excited to expose the corruption. He woke early and went straight to the Fedex office to send what he had found to the district attorney. He was certain that even if the DA was in on the corruption, he’d be forced to take action because the evidence was out there and would eventually be leaked to the press. A note Stevie attached to the evidence, made it clear that unless the judge’s cover-up was brought to light, there would be further consequences. The very next day, the New York Times reported on a Grand Jury that would be hearing the case against the judge. There was to be a quick indictment and a new judge appointed to the Jackson case.

    Stevie got to have four days of glory before the police came calling. He was arrested on two counts of illegal entry to a federal office building, and eight counts of the theft of state’s evidence. Stevie’s parents were made aware of his arrest and crimes. A family attorney was hired to represent Stevie. Carl and LeeAnne were of course upset about Stevie’s actions, but they were also proud of their son. They hoped for leniency due to the nature of Stevie’s case. They assured Stevie that once released, they would help him in whatever ways they could. Now that they knew that their son was “on the right side,” their support would be unwavering.

    After pleading guilty, Stevie was given a light sentence of six months, four of which he had already served while awaiting judgment. The mayor of New York was made aware of the case and decided to put Stevie in charge of a corruption task force. That office went on to bring hundreds of cases to trial, with equal numbers of individuals exposed and brought to justice.

    Carl and LeeAnne Page, who never gave up on their son Stevie, created a foundation designed to help young people who may be morally and ethically inclined to justice, direct their energy in a way that would help them change the world.

    Young man wearing headphones sitting on a train, looking out a window with raindrops and countryside view.

    This piece is fiction

    State-of-Mind

    First, thank you to everyone who reached out to me after losing Paco. There have been some really bad days and some upbeat moments. Those of you who have lost a pet will understand.

    I’m not so fond of extreme heat. I feel fortunate to live in the Algarve where we often have a nice breeze off of the Atlantic ocean.

    Loss can help you put things in perspective. I feel like I’m finally beginning to focus on the things that matter.

    I am admittedly hyper focused on managing different aspects of my life. If something is broken, I work hard to figure out a way to fix it. One of the many things coming up for me as I grieve Paco’s loss, is that he had a medical issue and I could not fix it. I was frustrated, angry, and l lived with the inability to correct a problem I was certain could be eventually solved. Aside from the infection Paco was living with, he was fairly healthy. I was hellbent on killing that bacteria. In the end I failed. That failure has been more difficult to cope with than I imagined. How is it that the medical world has allowed many antibiotics to become ineffective? Do people realize that there are strains of bacteria that are killing us? I don’t think humankind understands the weight and scope of this problem.

    I know my writing is weak on this one. I haven’t gotten to a positive, creative place. Time and patience.

    “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes… and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.” — Jamie Anderson

  • The Balancing Act: Speak Up or Stay Silent?

    I admit this post is a mind dump.

    I keep a journal. If I were to look back over the past forty years, I have no doubt that I have written ‘keep your mouth shut’ 698 times, at a minimum. At this point I should just accept defeat, but it’s not in my nature to do that. In keeping with my list making proclivities:

    • When you speak your truth you risk having the person you are speaking to declare that your truth is not a shared truth.
    • What you share might be perceived as confrontational, therefore, angering the recipient.
    • Bringing up an issue can cause a problem to explode; becoming larger than intended.
    • Not sharing can cause resentment because the problem will not usually go away on its own.
    • You might share a confidence only to learn the information has been shared with others.
    • Not sharing may mean trust issues with others who sense that you are not being forthcoming about “stuff.”
    • Sometimes small issues fade away and lose their importance. For example, you are upset with someone because you’ve done something significant for them and they have not said, “thank you.” Time goes by and they share their gratitude about something unrelated. You may come to realize that the person may believe that they’ve already expressed their gratitude or they might be so caught-up in major concerns, that relaying thanks unintentionally slipped their mind. Forgiveness is essential, but grace isn’t always easy. A sincere thank you has always been a requirement for me.
    • Your thoughts can become distorted over time. It’s human nature to fill in blanks and see only what we desire to see. Speculation can be a disaster.
    • It’s important to first consider who the recipient of your words is — is it someone you trust and care about? If the answer is “no” for either or both, you should consider keeping it to yourself. One of the reasons I journal, make an entry and move on.
    • Do you have a proven track record with the individual who will hear your words? Some relationships are built on speaking your mind. A foundation can become stronger and more durable (or it can crumble to the ground).
    • Can you live with yourself if you decide not to share? For example, you suspect your best friend’s boyfriend of cheating. You might have irrefutable proof, but you have to ask yourself if you are prepared for the reaction you might or might not get.
    • You firmly believe a friend is an alcoholic. Is it up to you to get them help or guide them to assistance? Is remaining quiet even possible for you? Is it fair to discuss the issue with others who are close to the individual? Are you willing to risk losing a friend or family member? If a person doesn’t recognize that they have a problem, you will probably fail in convincing them. I have always found this to be a difficult dilemma. You can of course apply this to any substance abuse.
    • You may be wrong. You need to be prepared to learn that and make an apology.
    • Politics has become a hot button for many. I don’t mind sharing my POV, but I know my leftist woke values can be controversial.
    • If you know your words will not be heard or considered, why bother?

    Obviously, not an exhaustive list. I’m more consumed by outcomes than I believe is healthy. I admire people who question their thoughts, shrug and move on. As I stated earlier, that’s not who I am. My sister recently told me that she was listening to some great communicator who said, “Don’t spend too much time thinking about what others think of you. These people are more than likely not thinking about you at all.” I’m paraphrasing, but I think I captured the gist of what she was trying to convey. Yes, I do believe there is some truth to this, I think most of us care a great deal about what others think; especially when we respect and value these individuals. As I’ve gotten older, I feel like I care less. Retirement has a way of helping you set boundaries, manage priorities, and dwell on things a bit less.

    This took time: I couldn’t care less what certain faculty members I worked with thought or still think of me, because I have little or no respect for many of them. It’s like believing something a liar says; if a liar lies most of the time, why would you think the one thing you know is probably a lie, might be true just because they said it?You’re giving the liar too much credit. I should also be clear that there were many that I did respect and admire.

    Caring about the little things a little less probably has something to do with knowing that you have already lived more than two-thirds (or more) of your life.

    Please share other scenarios where speaking up or staying quiet might be a consideration.

    State-of-Mind

    I’m not going to lie, I’ve been in a funk. There are several things happening around me that are beyond my control. I’m a fixer. If I cannot fix something or improve upon a situation, it makes me anxious, so . . . I’m anxious now. And this too shall pass.

    I love spring and early spring has come to southern Portugal; birds are singing and flowers are blooming. I’m hoping nature will lift me up. I’ve never suffered from depression; however, I occasionally go down a dark rabbit hole. I know the only way out is to switch to more positive thoughts and practice gratitude. I realize that I have a great deal to be grateful for.

    “The best use of creativity is imagination. The worst use of creativity is anxiety.”  ― Deepak Chopra

  • Night Sweats, Memory Loss & Sterility

    She sits by herself, trying as hard as she can to blend in with the locals. This isn’t the first time she’s escaped her home town; running from demons and ex-lovers. Samantha or Sammy as her friends call her, is often filled with remorse. She doesn’t intentionally cause harm, but when she does it, she leaves a wake of doubt about ethics. When people talk about her, and they do talk about her, it’s always a singular theme that makes her a villain; she’s intelligent, perhaps too much so.

    This time Sammy left in a hurry. She was fleeing a past no one would understand. Evan was not to blame. It’s true he was a Greek god with an ego to match his perfect jawline, but he was flawed and Sammy knew it. She’d warned him to stay away, let her move on and forget him. But Evan didn’t listen and he didn’t care; Evan had two goals: the first was to bed Sammy and the second was to hold her up like a trophy. The latter would be impossible, the former more complicated. Sammy didn’t give-in to good looks and promises; her desire for a conversation that went beyond money and small talk, made Evan seem petty. In fact so much so, that he faded into a background of discarded has-bins.

    Here she sat, alone; questioning her choices and her future, but not her mind. She knew she’d find a way out. It wasn’t the law she was running from, it was her mother. Sammy’s mother Felicia was beautiful, quiet, and dangerous. At first meeting you would never suspect how horribly driven this woman was. And Sammy always covered for her; making excuses, being her alibi, and hiding her secrets. Felicia was a brilliant surgeon. Top of her class at Johns Hopkins Medical School and one of Duke University Hospital’s leading researchers. Felicia’s singular goal was to perform as many vasectomies as possible.

    That lofty goal in and of itself wasn’t so bad, it was her desire to perform the procedure without the men knowing it. Sammy was her enabler; hiding the truth became more difficult as each procedure was performed. Choosing her victims was easy, anaesthetizing her victims was easy, performing the surgery was easy — relocating the sleeping men to their beds with no memory of the situation wasn’t so easy. Securing propofol was the difficult part; ensuring the scumbags could land in the twilight zone having no memory of how they got from the couch in Sammy’s apartment to their own bed. And the pain, what was that pain? And what brought it on?

    Felicia had an impeccable reputation — never botched a surgery; no malpractice lawsuits. Sammy knew what her mother was doing was wrong, but Felicia was convincing. Having the satisfaction of knowing these lowlife men would never sire children was incredibly satisfying for both of them.

    The fear of getting caught was a constant. Would they snip the wrong guy? Sammy didn’t like living on the edge. Barbados was only a temporary refuge. Lately, there were two men her mother had her eyes on and Sammy wasn’t certain she was right about them. There were only two character flaws Felicia regarded as criteria. The first was a man who lies, and the second was a man who wouldn’t go near a child. She relied on Sammy for information and a steady supply of unknowing victims. Perhaps it’s unfair to call them victims, patients is a better description. Patients being treated for the betterment of society. The two knew they were only making a small dent, but each contribution to a better future made it worthwhile.

    Thus far, no one had suspected Sammy. Yes, there had been phone calls about some pain and discomfort, but Sammy made it clear that one she had no idea what might have happened to their private parts, and two, she assured them that when she’d last seen them, they seemed fine. Most were too embarrassed to even say something. The men did sense that there was something off about her, making a second date improbable.

    About a year ago, one guy did contact Sammy a few weeks after their first date. He’d said he wasn’t well, explaining that this was the reason he hadn’t been in touch. Sammy told him that too much time had passed and she was no longer interested in seeing him. She always tried to teach them a lesson, as she let them down.

    It wasn’t that she and her mother hated men, mind you; they felt strongly that bringing children into the world is a privilege that should only be extended to those deserving of such.

    A week in Barbados helped Sammy clear her head. She decided to tell her mother that their mission was becoming too dangerous; therefore, it needed to stop. Felicia would, at the very least, be disappointed.

    After flying home to North Carolina, Sammy asked her mother to come and see her at her apartment. Felicia agreed to stop by the following day. Sammy felt resolute about her decision. She hoped her mother would be agreeable. To her surprise, Felicia was angry and argumentative. She threatened to find someone else who would help her. Felicia shared that she was hoping to train other women and surgeons to further the cause. She left Sammy in tears; not saying goodbye and slamming the door.

    Sammy decided to allow a few days to pass before she contacted her mother. Unfortunately for the two of them, the law made the decision for them. Their last patient woke up remembering being dragged by the two women. He went to his doctor and explained the pain he was feeling in his groin area and learned that he had undergone a vasectomy without his consent or knowledge. He contacted the police and the police leaked it to the media.

    Most lauded the two women as heroes. It is estimated that mother and daughter had performed 36 vasectomies in Raleigh and several others in neighboring cities. Felicia lost her medical license. Although they are awaiting trial, few expect them to serve jail time; after all, most of the men did not wish to press charges and nobody died.

    Fiction folks, fiction. The photo is as far as I’ll go with AI.

    State of Mind

    The Supreme Court ruling on Trump’s tariffs provided some hope this past week. It seems like all we have are these small victories for now.

    Paco is finally doing well. There are no signs of the bacterial infection and he is finally off of the antibiotics. This has been an 11 month battle I’m hoping never to fight again.


    The beautiful spring came; and when Nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also.

    Harriet Ann Jacobs

    I hope you like the new design; change is good.

  • Prepared or Overplanning?

    Those of you who know me will just read this with a knowing smile. Hopefully this blog will help you understand the decisions I make. If you don’t know me, you may read my content and relate to how my brain works or you may think me mad. I often have to remind myself that we are all wired differently. I have a neighbor who is 97 years old and in the hospital in Faro for the second time in a few weeks. I’m fairly certain he will not make it out. I’ve known this man since arriving in Portugal and I have observed him with fascination and awe. He lived in a house nearby until a few years ago; I spent time with him in his former residence; wine, a few meals, some laughter. His father was one of the individuals responsible for building the building I live in. Apparently he wanted to build a home on the building’s corner lot and the city would only allow a high rise. So he built a large seven story structure in the 60’s that is now part of the city’s historical register; the building garnering multiple architectural awards. I feel fortunate to reside in this building. He and his partner decided to move into an apartment he had been leasing to someone else. On the day he moved in, I went out onto my terrace and I observed him helping the movers carry boxes and other belongings into the building. I couldn’t help but be blown away by this. A few days later, I got off the elevator and I found him on the lobby floor filling a small hole in the marble. The man was 93 years old. That level of care for the common area where we reside got me thinking about my own intentions and what I am most passionate about.

    I know that every human is different: how we see the world, how we navigate life, and how we think about ourselves in relation to the rest of society. I know that nature and nurture play a major role in our orientation to the world. When I look at this man, I see someone who is 100% invested in every aspect of life. When he is not in hospital, he conducts experiments, he enjoys eating, doing so slowly and with delight, he shops, he listens to music, etc. This is how he was only months ago, I can only imagine what he was like as a young man. When his light is extinguished, we will have lost a rare human indeed. Back to how this relates to me.

    In some ways I am young — well compared to him I am. Still, when I think about my life, I consider this my final chapter. I have no idea why I am this way. I have mentioned in an earlier blog post that I purchased a term life policy when I was ten years old. I paid the premiums with my allowance. To be fair, because of my age it was only a dollar a month, but looking back, I think it was a bit premature to have such a policy. I didn’t want to leave my mother with debt. Lulu just laughed at me hoping it was just a phase; it wasn’t.

    I continue to plan way too early. When I was 12 years old I flossed so that I’d still have my own teeth later in life (was repulsed by my father’s false teeth sitting in a glass in our shared bathroom). I had a bank savings account when I was 13. Trust me it only had a few dollars in it. The bank used to give you a little book, the teller made handwritten entries when you made a deposit or withdrawal. I mostly saved for Christmas gifts. I started paying rent on an apartment when I was 17 years old; I didn’t like giving my money to a landlord, so I saved for my own place. I knew in high school that I wanted a Ph.D. I didn’t really understand what it was, but I knew that if I was to get one, it would mean something . . . and it does.

    There are many other examples of this kind of compulsive behavior; perpetually trying to get ahead of what might come my way. The operative word there is “might.” It’s pretty obvious that a life insurance policy at 10 years old was not practical, I should have been buying toys or candy. The big question is: Is it helpful or hurtful to look so far into the future and anticipate one’s needs? I imagine the answer is that it is both.

    For example, being determined to earn a higher degree was very positive. I didn’t really have the acumen for a Ph.D., trust me it’s true. What I had was grit and determination and that’s what got me through it. Had I not thought seriously about it early on, I would never have gotten the grades needed to be accepted into NYU’s doctoral program. I kept my head in the books when everyone I knew was dancing the night away. Do I have regrets? Yes, in truth I think my desire to succeed academically meant that I pushed too many things to the side. I normally don’t like to play the coulda, shoulda, woulda game, but since I’m writing about it . . . I feel like I missed out on a lot of fun as a young person (excluding sports which I didn’t like because I was uncoordinated and bullied).

    Hanging out with friends, sleepovers, weekend trips, concerts, and all of the other things young people did back then were not a part of my world, because I was too serious. I’m not sure what came first: being an introvert and, therefore, avoiding group interaction or spending so much time studying, I became a loner. I’m not sure it truly matters. I’ve come to accept who I am, the good, the bad, the insane.

    The danger is that I will look into the future and decide that the obvious next stage of my life is to stay in, read, watch streamed films or series, eat, drink, rinse and repeat. I’ve already trimmed my travel schedule because getting on an airplane has become such an unpleasant and unpredictable experience. I’ve decided to mostly stick with brief, local experiences. The States is the furthest away I will travel and I will only travel there in order to see the people I love.

    I’m fortunate to have friends who put up with my excessive planning. I’m sure that some will humor me and go along with plans for a trip over a year out. I’m certain others talk about how anal retentive I am behind my back. No matter, as they say, “It is what it is.”

    The question is, will I plan for my own death? I’m pretty certain I will (probably because I already am). I am too much of a control freak to allow someone else to decide on the details.

    Things I do to prepare:

    • my bedroom for sleep in the early afternoon (shades, pull back duvet, lighting)
    • several meals days in advance. I love the anticipation
    • I start to pack about 10 days before a trip
    • If I know I’m about to have a difficult conversation with a professional (i.e., attorney, doctor), I take notes prior to our meeting
    • I started taking supplements for middle and old age when I was in my early twenties
    • I’m usually the first to RSVP
    • I’m usually waiting for people at a restaurant or meeting place
    • I did a living will in my 30s
    • I look at the weather 10 days ahead (as you know, it often changes)
    • I used to lay out my outfit the night before. I stopped doing this because I don’t care about what I’m wearing anymore.
    • I save addresses in Google Maps long before a trip.
    • I replace things in my pantry and cleaning supplies closet long before I run out. When I die, someone will inherit paper towels for a lifetime and enough tuna to feed Japan.
    • I used to remove my guest’s plates from the table while others were eating. I’ve since relaxed a bit.
    • 90% of the time I tell my guests it’s time to leave. I usually use walking Paco as the reason, but most people are smarter than that.
    • There are things that I’m too embarrassed to include here.

    State-of-Mind

    Paco update:

    For those of you following Paco’s health issues, I thought I’d let you know how he’s doing. His prognosis is extremely involved and precarious, so I’m not going to say much. A bacterial infection in his outer ear spread to other places. His treatment began in early March 2025 and it’s been a physical roller coaster ever since, causing the two of us a good deal of grief — Paco pain and discomfort and me, doubts about medical procedures and of course, concern for his future. He’s been on eight different medications, four antibiotics administered three different ways, steroids, painkillers, dietary supplements, and he’s had three surgeries in the last two months. He had a procedure on Friday that may or may not have helped; I won’t know for a week or two. In the meantime, I’m giving him daily injections of his forth antibiotic and local antibiotics (this treatment being our last hope). I’ve never been through anything quite like this; it has taught me patience and more about bacterial infections than I care to know. This particular bacteria is known to resist most if not all antibiotics. I wish I could say more about it. I appreciate those around me who have provided support and comfort.

    Further update (since I started this blog): his vet says she sees signs that Paco is finally responding to the treatment, but I hear congestion in his lungs and it worries me.

    I’m taking a quick trip to the Loire Valley in southwest France to clear my head a bit. Stepping back has always been good for me. I think when you’re in the thick of something for an extended period of time, you sometimes lose perspective.

    I will go back to short stories very soon. I just needed a little break.

    “You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius 

  • Redemption From Beyond III

    Last Chapter of a Three Part Novella

    It was no longer about what Steven had asked of him, it was much bigger than that. Jake was more driven, less concerned with what others thought of him. He was beginning to feel more alive, more empathetic, more like himself. He noticed his interaction with others was becoming fluid and genuine. What had brought this about he’d wondered.

    When he left Esther’s house, he was feeling euphoric. The look on the old woman’s face was imprinted in his memory. In the car, on the way back to Berlin, he called Eric at Arolsen to let him know what happened in Rüdesheim. He felt that he could trust Eric at this point and share everything, but before he could tell Eric the details of what took place, Eric asked him to meet him for dinner.

    “Jake, this is exciting news, can you tell me all about it over dinner tonight?”

    Jake was pleased to be able to ask Eric for another favor in person. He could probably do some research on Rachel’s child himself, but Eric had been such a big help and he seemed eager to do whatever he could for Jake. Jake was grateful for Eric’s invitation. He thought to himself, what a great guy that Eric is.

    They met at a very nice Thai restaurant close to Jake’s hotel. Eric was probably the most soft spoken man that Jake had ever met. He realized only moments after Eric arrived, that he was both nervous and excited; feelings about another man he had not had for a very long time. And then Eric said this:

    “Jake, I hope you don’t mind my inviting you to dinner. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we last met. I’m usually not this forward, but then, I’m usually not this smitten.”

    Jake felt himself blushing. He did not hesitate to let Eric know that the feeling was mutual. He proceeded to fill in the Esther Roseman story with more detail. He watched Eric’s smile grow broader with every word — together they shared a moment of absolute satisfaction.

    Eric knew this dinner was not just to spend time with Jake, although he was happy to do just that. He asked Jake what it was he wanted to speak to him about.

    “I was able to find out that Rachel Schwartz was moved to one of the other camps, but also that she was pregnant when she left Auschwitz . I know this won’t be easy, but I was hoping you could help me find out if her child is still alive. Also, if he or she is living, where they currently reside. I’d like to find the rightful owner of Rachel’s ring.”

    There was no question in Eric’s mind that although he’d need to do quite a bit of digging, he’d eventually find one of Rachel’s relatives. The rest of the evening would be all about getting to know one another, indeed they did just that.

    Eric dove into the files the very next day. There were so many Rachel Schwartz’s listed in the database, but he had an approximate age, her pregnancy, and hopefully a record of her having given birth. He combed over the files from each camp for hours. Finally it was at Bergen-Belsen in Northern Germany where he finally got somewhere. Rachel Schwartz was recorded as deceased, however, she left behind a baby boy named Ian, with the same last name. Unfortunately, Ian’s whereabouts were unrecorded. Hmm, another common Jewish name, but he had an approximate age and a possible location. Ian was hopefully still in Bergen-Belsen when the war ended.

    Eric discovered that anyone who remained alive at Bergen-Belsen, was put on a train to be processed in Berlin. He’d go through those records in the morning. He phoned Jake to let him know that he had made some progress, but that Jake shouldn’t get his hopes up. Jake was happy to hear Eric’s voice; this time it was Jake who asked Eric to dinner. Eric happily accepted. The two were enjoying getting to know one another.

    When he got back to his hotel, Jake called his friend Ashley in New York and told her he’d met someone in Germany. Ashley could only say,

    “Well it’s about fucking time.”

    Dinner was even better than the night before. Jake surprised himself by not thinking about little things that bothered him. By now there were usually red flags and petty considerations; Jake had a huge crush. Eric didn’t want Jake to leave Berlin, but he also knew it wouldn’t be fair to prolong the inevitable.

    The next morning he sat down with his laptop and found Rachel’s son — Ian Schwartz was living in Vienna. Ian was in his early seventies, director of the Holocaust Museum Vienna, and he was married to Isabel. Eric went straight to Jake’s hotel and called him from the lobby. Jake could tell Eric had good news from the sound of his voice. They had coffee and the hotel’s café and Eric shared what he’d learned.

    Jake jumped up to hug Eric; Steven’s task was nearly complete. The two sat with one another in silence. Hope and adoration filled the air around them.

    “Eric come with me to Vienna to meet Ian. We need to do this together.”

    “Are you kidding, I would have gone whether you’d asked me or not, but you’ve made it easier.”

    They arrived on a Friday afternoon. The next few days were some of the best days of Jake’s life. They stayed in a very sweet boutique hotel across from the Holocaust Museum. Eric knew and loved Vienna; showing it off to Jake was a pleasure for him. They were having a wonderful weekend while waiting for the museum to open. They weren’t certain Ian Schwartz would be at work on Monday, but at that point Ian didn’t know about Steven and the stolen ring, a few more days before he’d learn of the found ring wouldn’t make a difference.

    When Monday morning came, they had a quiet breakfast at the hotel. They had more time at the hotel than seeing the sites and they were both okay with that. At 9:30 a.m. they crossed the street to the museum. They both realized they were a nervous wreck; Eric even more so than Jake. The Museum staff led them to Ian’s office where they waited to see him. They had informed a staff member that they had urgent business and that Ian Schwartz would be interested in their news; Eric’s Arolsen Archives business card didn’t hurt.

    After five minutes with Ian, it was clear that Ian was Rachel’s son and he had survived the camps. When Jake told him about his mother’s ring, he fell silent. When he spoke, he informed Jake and Eric that he had no memory of his mother whatsoever. His life’s work had been about bringing this atrocity to light. For Ian, the ring represented his journey and how it had come full circle. For Jake and Eric to experience Ian’s joy was a true gift; an experience that would be a part of their story.

    After a few more days of exploring Vienna, Jake and Eric held each other at the airport knowing that this was the beginning of a love that would have pleased Steven; perhaps it was part of his plan.

    The Camps

    I know, it was a shmaltzy fantasy, but I’m in a good place and I wanted this story to have multiple happy endings. I also realize I speed up my stories at the end — I’m enjoying the writing, but I’m ready for the next thing. Thank you for indulging me.

    State-of-Mind

    Personal list — does not apply to all. I prefer to stay out of trouble lately.

    Ten Things I Care More About As I Get Older (not in order of importance)

    • My health and the health of the people and pets I care about
    • How I spend my time
    • My finances (can I stretch my savings/retirement allocation until my death?)
    • My safety
    • My comfort (physical, mental, and emotional)
    • The well-being of my friends & family (beyond health)
    • What I will be remembered for (but I care about this less and less each day)
    • Being more practical
    • Peace and the quality of my sleep
    • Good food & wine

    Ten Things I Care Less About

    • What others think (I stopped shaving every day)
    • Partying excessively
    • Things I have that would impress others
    • Expensive meals
    • Doing risky things that might put my life in danger (no more skydiving, hang gliding, climbing tall ladders, running across the street, recreational drugs, etc.)
    • Fancy products
    • Checking every item off off my bucket list (I destroyed mine a few years ago — self-imposed pressure)
    • The past (in terms of reliving or regretting)
    • What I could have accomplished
    • Finding the right partner

    What did I forget?

    “In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” 

  • Redemption From Beyond

    It took his death to get to know him. I’m not sure why that’s such a big surprise. Do we ever truly know someone? I say I “know him” because when it was over, after he’d taken his last breath, I read the words he couldn’t speak.

    Steven died on Sunday morning after a six month battle with pancreatic cancer; ironic because it’s the only cancer I fear. I had recently found out he was sick by accident. I was on line at Walmart and a mutual friend told me. He apparently kept his illness to himself; Steven was always very private and he despised people who shared private matters publicly. Out of respect for Steven, I waited.

    I received a call from his family’s attorney on Wednesday, after Steven was cremated. Tyler asked that I stop by his office at my earliest convenience. I was eager to know what it was all about, but I knew Steven had no money and no other assets. Maybe there were diamonds in a vault somewhere. I had been Steven’s partner for over ten years, so if he owned anything, I would have known. We stayed in touch after we split and there was never talk of money under the mattress; Steven was a civil servant.

    In truth, Steven and I didn’t talk. We chatted about this and that, we kidded one another about every imperfection, we talked over one another, and we argued, but we didn’t talk. I recall this one time when I thought we’d had a breakthrough. Steven came home from work, took a shower, spent some time at his desk and finally ended up in the kitchen. He was more quiet than usual, so I asked him if everything was okay. Whenever I would inquire he’d just shrug his shoulders and grunt. But this time he looked right at me and told me that his father died that afternoon.

    “Oh Steven, I’m so sorry, what happened?”

    Steven looked down and said, “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

    When I tried to continue the conversation in bed, he turned away. I knew from experience not to prod. I thought we’d be attending his father’s funeral and that perhaps I’d be meeting his family, but none of that happened. His father never came up again. And this was the way we communicated for ten years.

    I was anxious about the visit with his attorney. Was Steven leaving me the task of clearing up his hospital bills? Did he have a child I didn’t know about? It could be anything and a part of me did not want to get involved. But curiosity was getting the better of me, so a 2:00 p.m. appointment that day was scheduled.

    It was a few hours until my meeting with Tyler. I had time to kill, so I decided to take a walk downtown to see if the loft Steven rented was empty. I arrived at his building, checked the front door, found it open and climbed the four flights of stairs to his apartment. The entrance was taped off with police tape. I was confused and concerned. I knew Steven died in hospital from cancer. I assume someone would have told me if there had been foul play.

    I tried his neighbors, but no one would answer the door. Feeling frustrated and anxious, I went downstairs to a coffee shop a few doors away. I ordered a coffee, sat for a bit and then decided to ask the guy behind the counter if he knew anything.

    “Hi. I have a friend who lived in a loft a couple of doors down. His name was Steven and he used to come here for coffee. I’m pretty sure he sometimes also used your internet. If I show a photo can you tell me if you know him?”

    “I think I know who you’re talking about. Yes, he came here quite a bit. I hear he died a few days ago. I’m sorry for your loss.”

    “Thank you. I went up to his apartment and it was taped off with police tape. Have you heard anything about it?”

    “Only neighborhood gossip. I’m not sure if what I heard is true, only that it happened in the middle of the night; sorry.”

    “Wow. Do you know anyone around here who may be able to give me more information?”

    “I don’t know man, you might want to go to the police.”

    At that point I was even more anxious than I had been earlier. What the hell. Steven was quiet, but I cannot imagine him mixed up in anything illegal. It was getting close to my meeting with Tyler, his attorney, I figured I’d learn more then.

    Tyler was a one person operation; no secretary, no assistant, no colleagues. He shook my hand and asked me to have a seat. I told him that I was surprised by his call. He told me that this sort of thing happened fairly often; the living are reluctant to share certain aspects of their will for fear of a negative reaction. I shared my experience at Steven’s apartment prior to meeting with him; I watched for a reaction, but Tyler had none.

    “You’ll soon learn why Steven wanted you to come and see me.”

    The silence although only seconds seemed like an eternity. Tyler then slid an envelope across his desk and asked me read the contents. He left his office to give me privacy.

    Dear Jake,

    If you’re reading this letter, I have passed. I apologize that I did not tell you about my illness. As you know, I have never been able to communicate my feelings very well. Rather than make a big mess of the whole thing, I figured it would be better for you to discover who I was, after I died.

    I didn’t ever expect for the two of us to become serious. I tried to push you away; I hoped you’d walk away, but now matter how horrible I was, you stuck with me and endured the torture. I’m sorry for what I put you through. I’m not sure I ever had the capacity to be a good partner. I did have tremendous respect for you and no doubt a strong attraction.

    Things happened before we met that I was not able to speak to you about; circumstances I was born into and did not choose. Nonetheless, I was forced to deal with it in my own way and now I have to pass it along to you.

    If you recall, when my father passed I was unable to speak about him. My father was a Nazi war criminal. He hated Jews and homosexuals. You being both, made it especially difficult to discuss. I hated my father, I hated his ideology and I hated the pain he’d put others through. I’d always considered my mother was complicit, as she knew of his crimes and stayed silent.

    My father was on trial in Nuremberg, however, they were unable to prove his guilt. I did not learn of any of this until I was in my 20s. A first cousin currently living in Berlin made me aware of his atrocities. Marie shared things with me that I knew I had to take to my grave. He was a horrible human being with no redeeming qualities. This is where you come in Jake.

    In addition to being a murderer, my father had the habit of boasting about anything and everything. He had a friend who would come to the house when I was a teenager. My father was not aware that I was listening. Even though I had no idea what his words meant, I heard them and they remained with me. My father spoke of having a ring and a necklace in his possession. He said the ring was from a woman by the name of Rachel Schwartz and the necklace was taken from Esther Roseman. He joked about how no one could have possibly known that he had the jewelry; he also said that they were probably both dead anyway. I had not even thought about what he’d said until I was informed of his death. He didn’t have much money when he died, but he had a safe deposit box at a bank in Cleveland where he lived prior to his death.

    I lied to you and told you that I was going to Cleveland for work. I apologize for lying, but again, I couldn’t speak of my father. In the safe deposit box were three things, the two pieces of jewelry and a letter my mother had written to him, blaming my father for all of the bad things they experienced in their marriage. She said that it had all to do with his devotion to Hitler. My mother said that she’d hoped he would have been convicted of war crimes. She further regretted not testifying against him. It brought me some comfort and closure, at least when it came to my mother.

    Finding the jewelry reminded me of the stories he repeated to his friend. I can hear my father bragging as the names of those women were stamped in my brain. I can’t imagine that these two Jewish women could still be alive, but I’m certain they have family somewhere. I’m hoping you can find the rightful owners of these pieces. My father often spoke of a small town outside of Frankfurt where he’d spent most of his time serving in the German army. The name of the town is Rüdesheim. I hope you will be able to find their families or someone who knows them.

    I know this is a lot to take in. I’m hoping you understand why these memories couldn’t cross my lips. I didn’t want to lose you Jake. I suspect my father’s friend shared that my father possessed the jewelry; these meaningful pieces in the wrong hands would not allow us to make this right. My attorney has the two pieces for you when and if you are ready to find their rightful owners. If for some reason you cannot do this, Tyler will donate the jewelry to the Jewish Museum in Berlin.

    I loved you Jake; I know not the way you would have chosen to be loved, but I loved you the only way I knew how.

    Yours,

    Steven

    I sat holding Steven’s letter for a long time. Tyler stayed away from his office to give me time to take it in. I thought about all of the moments I was furious with Steven for his silence and avoidance. I felt his love, trust, and absolute kindness; it filled me with hope. I would do what Steven asked of me without hesitation.

    When Tyler returned he told me about the break-in at Steven’s apartment the day he died in hospital. He assured me that no one else knew where the pieces were. He brought them out to show them to me. It was obvious that they were beautifully crafted, fine and valuable pieces. I held them and asked Tyler to keep them safe until I could locate their owners.

    There will be a Part II to this story . . .

    State-of-Mind

    I have recently been to the pyramids, satisfying a lifelong desire. It’s a strange feeling. On one hand you’re glad you did it, but on the other, you feel a little let down. Don’t get me wrong it was a surreal and extremely rewarding adventure. It was the hours and hours it took to get to Cairo and what I went through to make it happen.

    The most notable of all obstacles was strep throat. Two days before arriving in Egypt my throat was so sore I was fairly certain Cairo and the pyramids were not in the cards. A major mind fuck and disappointment. A member of the ship’s crew told me about an English speaking Egyptian doctor I could see in Alexandria. I was achy and drained of all energy, but the pyramids were only hours away. The doctor diagnosed strep throat right away, prescribed antibiotics and he told me they’d start working quickly; indeed they did. The treatment cost me less than two American dollars. Grateful, surprised, and relieved, I had a 13 hour hazy experience in Cairo I’ll never forget. One day earlier and it would not have happened . . . probably ever. Life is a strange and glorious proposition.

    I visited many other places on this trip (mostly documented on Facebook and Instagram).

    Not looking for sympathy, that’s not my style. I think there are times in life we are afraid to share our feelings for fear that others will judge us. Judge me if you wish, I’m finally getting to the point where I don’t care. It’s amazing how much happier you can be when you decide what matters and what doesn’t.

    “Nobody can hurt me without my permission.”

    — Mahatma Gandhi

  • Kyle’s Final Moments

    It was another ordinary work day. Kyle showered, dressed, and drank his coffee in two large gulps before heading to the subway. It was the kind of day New Yorkers loved to hate: hazy, hot and humid. Kyle’s thoughts were all over the place; yesterday’s work screw-ups, not answering Lily’s texts, the laundry he hadn’t touched in two weeks and all of the other potential calamities he had no control over. The subway platform was crammed with faceless commuters he was happy to never meet. Large droplets of sweat ran down his back as he boarded the train. With only a tiny bit of space between two other passengers, Kyle closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

    About 10 minutes into his ride, the train screeched to a grinding halt. Everyone in his subway car was propelled forward and then backwards. He had to apologize to several people whom he nearly knocked to the ground. Subway riders normally show no signs of concern when this happens; it being an almost daily occurrence. Seconds after the stop, all of the lights in Kyle’s car went dark — this too happens often. Everyone held their breath while they waited for the lights to go back on and for the train to start moving again.

    Kyle started feeling anxious after several minutes of no lights and no announcement. It was normally the one thing you could count on, a moment of quiet and then you’re on your way.

    “Passengers, we are experiencing some signal problems, but we will be moving momentarily.”

    What Kyle waited for, but no announcement was heard. Passengers began talking to one another. The AC had gone out when the lights went out, the subway car was quickly becoming sweltering hot — it felt as if the air was being sucked out of the train. It was a faint odor, but Kyle thought he smelled smoke. Someone yelled,

    “Does anyone else smell smoke?”

    At this point they’d been sitting in the dark for about eight minutes. Kyle asked the people around them if they were okay. He assured one of his fellow passengers that this happened all the time and he was certain they’d start moving in a matter of moments. A very pregnant woman on his right seemed distressed. He asked her if she was okay and she shook her head from side-to-side.

    People started coughing as the subway car filled with smoke. The emergency lights had come on, but it was too dark and smoky to see anything. It wasn’t until that moment, that Kyle realized they were in a tunnel. He was surprised how quiet the car was despite the circumstances. Coughing and sniffling were the only sounds heard. And then finally an announcement:

    “Passengers, this is your conductor, please remain calm as we assess our situation. I’ll be back with another update soon.”

    I began to sense panic all around me. People were opening the doors between the two subway cars only to discover the car next to us was also filled with smoke. The pregnant woman grabbed my arm and spoke,

    “Estoy embarazada de ocho meses y tengo mucho miedo.”

    My high school Spanish kicked in and I told her to stay calm. I let her know that I would help her.

    “No te preocupes, solo quédate cerca.”

    She squeezed my arm and put her head down. I was happy to see that she had a bottle of water. She held it out to offer me some, but I was too preoccupied to think about how thirsty I was. It had to be 110 degrees and there was no ventilation. A few passengers managed to open the windows, but the smoke had filled the tunnel as well, so it made no difference.

    “Okay people, here’s the situation: there is a fire about 50 feet in front of the train. The fire department has been notified and they’re on their way. Sit tight and drink water if you have any; and if you have extra, share it. The train can’t move so we just have to wait for help.”

    After the announcement people started screaming. Kyle was concerned about the amount of smoke filling the subway car and how packed it was. He could hear children crying in another part of the car.

    He started thinking he might not get out of this alive. He looked at his cell phone, but he had no bars; who would he call anyway? Kyle was a low-key kind of guy, but he loved outdoor adventures; he hadn’t yet had a chance to skydive, hang glide, or rock climb in Thailand. These thoughts entered and exited quickly, bringing him sadness and remorse. Why hadn’t he been more aggressive about pursuing his dreams.

    Of course he knew the answer. He just buried his father weeks ago. Sam, Kyle’s father, had been suffering with a rare bone disease for the past two years. At first it was just minor aches and pains, but by the time they figured out what was wrong, Sam was in a wheelchair and his bones were brittle. Kyle made the decision to spend every weekend and all of his free time with his father. That was a decision he’d never regret. Another announcement interrupted his thoughts:

    “Okay people, help is on the way. They’re putting out the track fire, but we won’t be able to move. We’re going to have to evacuate the train and make our way through the tunnel to the station. The good news is that the station is not far away.”

    The pregnant woman holding onto Kyle started quietly crying into his elbow. At that moment, he stopped caring about his own escape; his life. This young woman needed him, that’s what mattered. He asked her what her name was. She told him it was Cara. He calmly whispered,

    “Listen Cara, we’re going to get out of here. I promise I won’t let you go. You’ll be breathing fresh air in a few minutes.”

    Cara nodded and moved closer to Kyle. Everyone around them was crying. The heat and smoke were causing some people to pass out; Kyle was hoping Cara would stay awake. He removed his t-shirt and told Cara to cover her mouth with it. She did as he asked and once again offered Kyle some water — this time he took a big gulp.

    A commotion could be heard in the tunnel. Kyle wasn’t sure if they’d started rescuing the passengers, every second seemed like an eternity. Kyle heard one of the doors of the subway car opening. People were slowly exiting the car; the hacking coughing sounds were drowning out all of the other sounds. The smoke inhalation was keeping the passengers from rushing to the open door. Kyle signaled Cara to walk toward the door. She held onto his arm and motioned for him to lead. When they reached the door it was too smoky to see the inside of the tunnel, but someone was telling them to step down carefully.

    Once in the tunnel, people were shouting:

    “Get as close to the ground as possible.”

    Kyle was hoping the smoke was killing the rats — he hated rats and he knew from seeing them race across the tracks daily, that they were well fed and large. For now, getting Cara to safety was his priority; he erased all other thoughts.

    “Stand wherever you are and wait for a first responder to get to you. If the electricity returns, you could be killed by the third rail.”

    Cara was shaking at this point and he could feel her tear drops on his arm. They stood in silence for a long time. Kyle decided he should shout out to the rescuers:

    “There is a very pregnant woman here. Please come for her first.”

    Cara seemed to understand the message. Moments later a masked first responder was asking where she was.

    “She’s here, she’s here.”

    The responder approached them asking for the woman to wave her arms in the air; Kyle did it for her. He stepped up to them saying,

    “Put this mask on and hold onto my belt.”

    The man told Kyle to wait and someone would get to him. It was too dangerous to walk in a group. Kyle told Cara in Spanish that he’d see her soon. She didn’t want to leave him and he had to almost push her away. Cara reached over and kissed him on the cheek,

    “Muchas gracias, amigo. Nos vemos pronto.”

    He hoped Cara was right. People all around Kyle were being led away, he’d assumed to safety. Each time an emergency worker in a mask approached him, he told them to go to someone else. After some time Kyle felt sleepy. He got down onto the edge of the tracks and closed his eyes. He knew at this point that he wouldn’t make it out alive, but he was certain Cara would. He was grateful to his family and friends for having been in his life. Kyle was not a religious man; however, he knew that the natural order of things would make things right. The thought that gave him comfort, was that he’d made a difference; he closed his eyes with the absence of fear and regret.

    _________________________

    When I lived in New York City, there were two things I thought about every time I took the subway: fire and rats. This fictional story has probably actually taken place in reality several times. We live among heroes.

    Current State-of-Mind

    A bit anxious about Barcelona on the 9th. Portugal’s airport staff is striking until midnight on the 9th and apparently they will be cancelling many flights. If mine gets cancelled, I’m not sure how I’d get there. I haven’t travelled for a while and I’ve been looking forward to this trip. And even if they don’t cancel my flight, the strike starts back up the day before I’m scheduled to return home. Not much I can do except wait and hope that it works out. I wish there were other ways for workers to impact corporate management. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

    My Paco has had a left ear and left nostril infection for six months. Two different vets have tried multiple medications and the problem is not going away. It’s either a resistant bacteria, mites, allergies, or a bigger issue in his ear canal or nostril. They’ve suggested invasive surgery, but for me, that’s a last resort. It bothers me because it bothers him.

    The political situation has me wondering how bad it will get before it gets better. When I consider the plight of the people of Gaza and Ukraine; my personal concerns seem small in comparison.

    “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorns have roses.” – Alphonse Karr