One Week and Two Days Later

This post was originally written this past Friday, June 20, 2008.



So here I am once again, sitting at Starbucks, sipping on my still too hot Venti Pike Place Roast. It’s 8:09 a.m. and I’m due at work in less than an hour when I would rather be sleeping. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I got back from NYC.

I’m trying desperately to catch that same vibe I picked up on when I was there. The energy, the “real” weirdness rather than the faux, affected people I keep running across here in Fort Lauderdale. There’s some real weirdos, mind you, but the concentration is far less and much less effective. But it’s not even that. There’s a lot less people which only magnifies how annoying some people are. Like the guy sitting at the table next to me waving hello to everyone, laughing out loud, regaling everyone with his opinions and how he didn’t have enough money to get his second boat because of the market being so bad, blah, blah, fucking blah. WHO CARES????? SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!!!!

Jeez. I just can’t seem to get back with it. I feel . . . like I shark that’s stopped moving and is now slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor. My mind is numb, my spirit dulled and my brain feels like it’s got cotton stuffed in the grooves and wrinkles.

Oh, fuck. Now the asshole has accumulated another loudmouth. No wait, there’s a 3rd who looks and sounds like Mr. Drummond!

I spoke with my mom last night. She is back home after surgery. After much debate and worrying and talking, she chose to go with the mastectomy rather than the removal of more tissue, radiation, and the possibility, years from now, that the cancer could come back to ravage her. It makes me wonder if I would be as brave as her if I were ever diagnosed with testicular cancer.

She’s in good spirits. When I spoke with her yesterday my cousin Noemi was with her as was my sister Gisela, and my nephew Chris. And mom was going to watch her telenovelas. Always a good sign! The rehabilitation will be difficult for her, though. At least I think it will be.

The stay at the hospital was, apparently, a horror. But then again, Coney Island Hospital appears to be the kind of place where you go to die. It’s oppressive and the people who work there don’t seem to care or know what they’re doing. The doctors who worked with my mom were good; she was very happy with both the surgeon who removed the breast as well as the plastic surgeon who did the reconstructive surgery. But the staff and administration leave a lot to be desired. They were supposed to have a room for but didn’t. Instead, they left her in the recovery room. They didn’t even have any pillows! I know hospitals are not hotels, but, come on! Not one pillow in the whole fucking place?

They pumped her full of morphine in order to get her to sleep but it caused her to throw up repeatedly. And, unfortunately, while throwing up, she peed herself from the force. The nurses were apparently very slow in getting her cleaned up and since she couldn’t really do it herself, she laid in it.

My frustration is and was immense. I find myself wishing I had been there, that I hadn’t left. But they jerked us around so much during the 6 weeks I was there. And then, the day before I was scheduled to leave, during the last appointment, the surgeon could not give us a definitive date because he needed to confer with the plastic surgeon. The “it could be’s” did me in and after talking about it with my supervisor, we both agreed it would be best if I came back to work at the Lauderdale office. This is the first time I wish I had not listened. But that’s all now over and I guess I just have to put it out of my mind. If my mom can do it, then so can I.

And now, I’m afraid I must end this rambling because I can’t take sitting here anymore. The lead asshole loudmouth has now accrued another 4 people; one of them a woman, and I can’t stand to listen to the verbal diarrhea of the ahem, non-ethnic people (a minority really) bitch and moan about their lack of money and yet talk about boats and Mercedes and Lexus and Porsche and all these things that conflict with their supposed lack of money. Oh and let me not forget the audacious comment, in a how dare he tone, about how Obama wants to put this tax on people who make all this money. Fucking bastards. Maybe they should be the ones left at Coney Island Hospital to lie in a pool of their own piss and vomit. Let’s see how quickly they’re humbled.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate the privileged. Envious to a degree, perhaps, but I don’t hate them. It’s the ones that have the attitude that they deserve, the attitude that anyone outside their social circle is far less than they, the attitude that they are the chosen and the righteous that piss me off.

I love people with money who have no pretensions. They’re just people who happen to have money. When I come across that, it’s refreshing and delightful and, because I established a relationship with them as a regular human being first, the money is usually not an issue. Not that I know that many people with money, mind you.

But it’s the people with money who are loud about it, rub it in your face and . . . ugh! They make me so fucking angry I can’t even find the right words!!

Let me close my eyes a moment and breath. Like Gary said, "Have you meditated today?"

Heavy sigh.

Life, I’m noticing, in all it’s beauty, richness and grandeur, contains so many injustices. There are the prvileged and pampered who can afford to have people cater to their every whim. And then there’s the rest of us, swaddled in pampers with no one to change us. Fuck.

Leaving New York - Part 2

The second leg of my journey back to Fort Lauderdale today was challenging, though fairly uneventful; nothing like this morning!

After saying my goodbyes to various people and sending out a general thank you e-mail to the entire New York staff, I gathered my belongings and schlepped downstairs to the train station. This time, no getting stuck in the turnstiles for me! Imagine that. Take THAT police lady!

The hike to 42nd and 8th, normally an obstacle course on a light day, seemed an insurmountable challenge with all the crap I was carrying; dodging the thousands of people that traverse the tunnels on a daily basis, the steep stairs and incredible speed with which everyone whizzes past.

But I finally made it through to the airport.

And again I repeat: how is putting our stuff into plastic bins supposed to keep us safe? How does taking off my shoes, my reading glasses, even my headphones (which I forget were draped around my neck) along with the iPod safe for everyone? Strange what travel has become. The things we do to give us that false sense of security and how quickly we buy into it. Still, I suppose I should be grateful. Perhaps in giving people the power of feeling like we are in control of “safety” we remain calm to some degree.


On the plane now and we’re scheduled to depart in about 15 to 20 minutes. I just wish I could find a way to drug ALL children and annoying LOUD adults who fly so that the plane is quiet and silent and the seat in front of me stops shaking. Thank god I’m in the very last row! Hopefully I’ll be able to get my good old DD coffee soon!

This time spent at the gate, waiting for everyone to board and stow their items while the crew gets the plane ready for flight is, for me, one of the worst things about traveling. Especially because it gives me way too much time to think, to reflect on the last 6 weeks I’ve experienced in New York. It’s been an adventure, filled with extreme highs and extreme lows. Very little, if any, in between stuff.


I think about my arrival here, the cool weather, almost to the point of being cold. I think about how long it lasted, soothing and refreshing and the extreme heat that has gripped the city this past few days; a reminder of what awaits me in Fort Lauderdale!


I think about Times Square, glittering and glowing like a jewel in the night, beckoning like a seedy whore in the light of day; one you cannot resist, even as it cleverly parts you from your money.

I think about all the people at our company’s New York office; a mini solar system all of it’s own. Sara Jane who will have her first CD out this November. Her website will be added to the list on the right. And I STRONGLY recommend you give her album a listen! Her voice goes from wonderfully coy, playful, wistful and romantic. Can’t wait for your CD Sara Jane! HELEN!!!!

I think also about the people who work for Broadway Across America, the company I work for, and how the executives, approachable and genuinely interested in their staff, pulled together for me and made it possible for me to help my mother during this trying time in her life by allowing me to work in the NYC office.

I think about my friend Gary who is helping to keep me inspired and continue with my writing and other projects. I think about his charismatic, French partner with an other worldly feel about him, a feel of an era gone by. I think of their beautiful apartment downtown Manhattan and the plays Gary took me to see, our conversations afterwards. I think of how he got me hooked to Wil’s blog and his candid writing.

I think about meeting Marsha Norman who wrote the book for Color Purple and Secret Garden, meeting Edward Albee as well as John Guare who wrote Six Degrees of Separation.


I think about the subway, gritty and sometimes smelly, yet a comfort as it rocks and rolls its way underground, making it’s way to the end of the line. It opens up on the B and Q, near my mom's house.

I think about all the handsome, sexy, boys and men next door walking about, taking the train, rubbing against you as the train barrels through from one station to the next, walking the streets as they get to work, go to lunch, enter peep shows.

I think about Union Square and the hordes of people enjoying one another, talking, laughing, kissing, holding hands, roller skating, skateboarding, selling their art. The beggars, the street musicians. All the people, so many people, each and every one their own little planets in their own little solar systems.

And the rush! No, the joy, of soaking up the atmosphere, their energy, grooving on all those people simply BEING or going about their business as if they didn’t have a care in the world.


I think about Niko, the walks we took during the time he visited me, along the West Side Highway where, in broad daylight, he gave me my first public kiss; the West Village and Pommes Frite in the East Village.


I think about my sisters; one out on Staten Island with her husband and autistic child, the other in Brooklyn with her husband, her 18 y.o. and 3-year-old.

And of course I think about my mom. My wonderful mother of 67 years who will be seeing the plastic surgeon this Friday to discuss the reconstructive surgery options after she undergoes the mastectomy she’s decided to have.

And I feel homesick. I am lonely for New York City.

Through tears I write this.

It’s not that I’m not glad to see Niko, our dogs, our friends. But Fort Lauderdale is just not home. It hasn’t been for many years now. In fact, I’m not sure it truly ever was.

I will hug and hold and kiss Niko fiercly when I get home. Hopefully neither one of us will be too tired to get a little sumthin, sumthin. But after that? Tomorrow when I have to go back to the Lauderdale office and get back on the phone? Back to a dull, boring routine? It will be a difficult adjustment to life back on the farm after having tasted and experienced the Wonderful Land of Oz and all the strange things it has to offer.

Yes, it seems that I’ve left my heart in New York. Well, maybe left it is not quite how I want to put it. You can leave your heart in San Francisco, willingly. But in New York, it is taken from you. I guess that’s how some cities are; they claim you. And, once claimed, you belong to them forever. I know this because no matter where I roam, no matter what I call home, this tiny piece of rock island will always be my first lover.

In their eyes is a place that you finally discovered
That you love it here, you've got to stay
On the bottom of the rock, an island
On which you find you love it when you twitch
Ooh La - THE KOOKS

Leaving New York - Part One

This portion of blog was written yesterday, Wednesday June 11.



So I'm here in the office at Times Square. It's just past 8:35.

After hugging my mom repeatedly (she didn't want to let me go), more eye problems (goop leaking from my left eye) as well as congestion, thus far the morning has been more like Escaping New York rather than leaving New York. To make matters worse, at the train station where my mom lives, there were two very pale little girls (slavic? nordic?) with HUUUUUUUUUUUUGE roller bags obviously headed back home, where ever that was, and successfully blocking 4 of the 5 turnstiles. So while the police woman helped them, naturally i'm going to show them how much smarter I am at using my metro card PLUS getting my fat, hairy ass through the turnstile WITH a knapsack on my back, my laptop over my right shoulder AND my medium roller bag in front of me. You with me so far?

I got stuck.

The same police woman (trying to hide the smile on her face; bless her little heart) tells me: "You can't shove that big thing in that tiny space!"

Oh yes, she went there!

"Sir, you gonna have to put this bag down." She taps my laptop bag. I put it down on the other side of the turnstile.

"Okay. Now you gonna have to jump over."

"What?" I looked up at her. I've never done that in my life! Mind you, when I was a little boy I snuck underneath the turnstiles, back when they were huge wooden ones. In fact I bonked my head on it once, real hard, but that's a different story.

"Go on! Jump over. Don't worry. I won't arrest you." She's now full-on grinning. Obviously the kind of black woman that likes to give little latin guys a hard time. And we all know how black women sometimes LOVE to give little latin guys a hard time! Then she adds. "You DID pay your fare didn't you?"

I ignored the remark and jumped over.

So, after one of New York's finest showed me just how she good she was at pulling people out of jams, I managed to extricate my bag from the clutches of the nasty metal turnstile and humbly made my way down the stairs to catch the train. Even caught a seat!

And now here I am. I can't WAIT to see what adventures I'll get into next just trying to get back down to the subway and to the airport! I feel like I'm on an episode of Amazing Race! Well, probably more like Go, Diego, Go! Live!; much more my speed given my current energy level.

P.S. The photo at the top of the blog is courtesy of Kurt Russell, a still from "Escape From New York," and Shane Bell who thought he would humour himself and . . . well . . . you see.

Hurry Up and Wait

Have you ever heard of the term, "Hurry Up and Wait?"

After my sister called and told me that my Mom had DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ; polite parlance for early stage of cancer) I hurried to try and hop a flight to get up here as quickly as possible. I wanted to be here for her for anything she might need.

The time in between was spent making arrangments for bills to get paid, the suspension of certain things, and figuring out how to work while up here. I was lucky and I'm very grateful that I work for a company that allowed me the flexibility to travel up here, work out of the New York office, thus allowing me to be here for my Mom.

From the first phone call to my arrival, it was all rush, rush, rush.

And then I waited.

Hurry up and wait; it's all that ran through my mind. And that's kind of how I felt after about two weeks of being up here. Mom seemed fine. She was talking all upbeat and chipper. She sounded like she really had a good grip on herself and what was happening. Even after that first follow-up appointment 4 weeks ago (God have a I really been here that long?) she was totally, well . . . coolio!

Naturally she wasn't happy with the fact that they had to go in a second time to remove more tissue. She wasn't happy with the 30% probability of cancer returning, and more aggressively. She wasn't too happy with the fact that if the cancer did return, that she would have to undergo a full mastectomy.

But she was still coping. She still looked fine.

Then, after we started talking about all the aspects, trying to figure out the different variables; after she started taking the Tamoxifen, things kinda started to slip and get wonky. Usually it was late at night when fear has a habit of tapping us on the shoulder, whispering in our ear and settling in for the night.

There was one night in particular where I really thought she had totally lost her grip. It was the strangest thing to see my mom's confusion, frustration and fear bursting forth after all this time and spewing madly. I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. She had been pretty strong thus far; I think she wanted to spare us some grief.

Her strength has been admirable but somewhat shocking. I would have been hysterical if it was me! But her tears were worse. I've seen her cry before but not like this. A part of me wanted to ask her who she was and what had she done with my mother. This was NOT my mother! Needless to say, she kinda wigged me out as well. I managed to calm her down and get her to bed. Later that night, in my room, I barely slept at all wondering what was going to happen next? I just couldn't turn the brain off; even after taking two Valium!

The following day, though, since our server at work was totally down, I left a bit early. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I got home and caught my mom off-guard. She was pleasantly surprised. In fact she was caught so off-guard that we just got into a natural conversation about everything that she been going through. We sat down and talked about her fears and worries. She told me about how she was home alone when, after a shower, she did the breast examination to find that first clear liquid, then dark blood, oozed out of her nipple. She was also alone when the doctor told her the diagnosis after the initial visit. She told me about the initial cold paralysis that took her and the overwhelming sensation that she was going to die, as well as many other things.

To make a very long story short, she cried, I cried, we held hands and she said she had made her decision. And as she told me her decision the church bells across the street started to chime and it was a very strange affirmation that some other hand, something greater and bigger than us, was at work here. It sent chills up and down my spine.

Fast-forward to yesterday. She is now fully healed from the previous surgery and the doctor has given my mom the Green Light to either go through with radiation and, eventually, further tissue removal or full mastectomy. We told him what she wanted and he just nodded and said okay. The date has not yet been set but he sent her to get another mammogram yesterday. I think he wants to check the margins, see if any further calcification has occured and, I think, make sure that she is sure this is what she wants. Of course, I'm sure he wants to cover his ass as well.

We see him again next Tuesday afternoon to review the results of the mammogram and set the date for the mastectomy. Unfortunately, I leave the next day and I'm not comfortable leaving. I almost feel like I need to see this through with her to the end.

There have been times when I wondered why I was here. There was nothing happening, no radiation since the healing took longer than the doctor anticipated. I SAW NO RESULTS!!!! In fact there are so many variables it seems as if any outcome is probable; do I stay? do I go? do I let the sisters take care of her now? Do I come back? It's all still kind of up in the air but one thing is certain; I needed to be here in order to help guide my mom and support her wishes. I do not regret for one moment having come up here. And I'm glad she wasn't alone the times she broke down in front of me.

What happens next? I don't know. It's a hurry-up-and-wait kind of thing. And since I can't rush life, I guess I'll just wait.