Disney Vacation: Day 1

Friday, July 18, 2008

It’s 8:34 a.m. We’re just beginning to stir.

We took our time yesterday in getting up here. The cast recording to Mamma Mia and Wicked were our travel companions. Even with a stop at one of the service stations for a bathroom break and to stretch our legs, we still walked into our room at the All Star Music Resort at 3:30.


The All Star Music is one of Disney’s “value” resorts; polite parlance for no-frills. The decorative theme here is anything and everything musical. We’ve stayed here many times before. Once, just to see how it would compare, we stayed at the Pop Century. Even though we liked the fun, decade-oriented decor, we opted to come back to the All Star Music. The layout here appeals more to us, it’s much less crowded, and the rooms are less noisy here.

The All Star Music Resort has a total of 10 buildings, each with it’s own theme: country, rock, jazz, calypso, and Broadway. Guess which one we’re staying at?


We always ask for the Broadway section. It's a bit further away from the lobby; especially after a day when we hit two parks and our feet are so tired they're burning, but it's worth the trip because it's away from the noisy pool which remains open until midnight.

After we rested for a bit, we hopped the bus to Downtown Disney to meet up with Larry (a co-worker), and his new boyfriend. We had dinner at Raglan Road, an Irish pub/restaurant that we absolutely love. They have terrific appetizers, great food and a fun atmosphere; especially when the band starts to play!


It was wonderful to see Larry again. He’s one of those people that you can’t help but like the instant you meet him. Warm, friendly and approachable with a smile that will melt anyone’s heart. We don’t get to see him often so when we do we like to make the most of it. Larry, if you guys are reading this, thanks again. We had a terrific time!

After dinner we hopped on the bus (one of the best things about staying on Disney property!) and came back to the hotel. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep. But that tends to happen whenever I’ve done a lot of stuff in one day. It’s as if my mind needs the time to absorb and process everything I’ve seen and experienced before I can finally shut down.

And now, it's time to get ready. We're going to MGM Hollywood Studios shortly.

Niko's gone to get us breakfast, and me some coffee. Can you imagine? Niko, who is the antithesis to coffee as I am to . . . well, collecting stuff . . . so to say that he's getting me coffee is no small thing. I guess maybe this place truly is magical!

Mickey Mouse, Music, M&Ms, and Mamma Mia . . . mmmmm

This blog entry, though posted today, Monday, July 21st, was originally written Thursday morning, July 17, while Niko and I were driving north on vacation to Disney World. I was hoping to not only share with those who read the blog and have never been to Disney, but also for myself so I can read it at a later date, when it no longer felt as if we had actually gone there. Mind you, we've been there 7 or 8 times in the 12 years we've been together. I find, though, when you take pictures and write about it, that's when you truly remember the experience.

So, without further much ado, the first of various entries concerning our vacation. I hope you like it.


It’s Thursday morning, July 17, 2008. Like Muslims in the Middle East making their pilgrimage to Mecca, Niko and I are traveling north to the Land of Mickey Mouse and the Magic Kingdom.

The first part of our trip to Disney started off a bit wonkey, though. I woke up with a headache that is due either to barometric pressure and a storm headed our way, or perhaps ear wax build-up; it’s happened before. Add to that (I apologize ahead of time if I’m being gross) the fact that once I actually got up and out of bed I couldn’t stop going to the bathroom. It was like I was saving it up for days! Of course it doesn’t help that I went to bed at 1:00 a.m. because, like the little kid in the Disney commercial, I was too excited to sleep!

An hour and a half after we originally intended, we finally managed to get out of the house. There was a quick stop at CVS to pick up my ear was removal kit, Einstein's for coffee and a couple of breakfast sandwiches, and we were finally on the road.

Right now we are traveling north on the turnpike and it’s just a little past noon.

When taking a road trip, one of our favorite things to do is pack the CD case with music. Show tunes to be precise. As many show tunes as we can play in the car. It makes the trip more fun, no matter where we’re going, and puts us in a mental vacation mode.

Presently, we’re listening to the cast recording of "Mamma Mia." And you know? There were portions that illuminated me as though I had never heard the words before.

Now, you make ask yourself: “What illumination can you possibly derive from ABBA?”

Even in the fluffy, bubble gum, pop way that ABBA’s music is delivered in Mamma Mia, there are certain universal truths. And when a certain truth rings within me it rocks me to the very core. I get all goose pimply, my breath might catch and my eyes tear-up; as if I am recognizing a life lesson that I have long since forgotten and have just now reacquainted myself with it.

For instance: “I Have A Dream.”

There’s a line that says “If you see the wonder, of a fairy tale, you can face the future, even if you fail.”

I never really thought about it before but in a way our lives are a bit like a fairy tale with all the things we do, the strange encounters, the beautiful things we see and the joys we experience. And even if fail at something, the very fact that we try is wondrous. At least, that’s how it appears to me. And how appropriate to guide us to Disney World; the very land of Fairy Tales!

Then there’s “Thank You For The Music.”

There’s a line that says “Who found out that nothing can capture a heart, like a melody can?”

Again, I’ve listened to this disc a million times. I’ve always been grateful for music as it is the most perfect art form. But the bit about capturing a heart with melody struck me so brilliantly because that is exactly what happens. A piece of your soul is captured with the nuance of a melody. So I say, yes, thank you for the music!

I have seen “Mamma Mia” (the musical) three times now. And I’m sure I’ll see it again. Naturally, I’m also looking forward to seeing the movie. I know it will be just as much fun as the musical and the music. Mind you, I love to see a dark, deep-thinking movie that makes me numb and puts me in a funk. But I also love light and fluffy.

As far as Mamma Mia goes, you can’t get any lighter and fluffier. The difference between this light and fluffy, however, is that like Mickey Mouse, music, the M&Ms I’m eating as I write this, Mamma Mia reminds us that even through the myriad and mayhem of life experiences, there is fun to be had. No matter what.

So, what’s the wonder in your life? Mine is as simple as the ability to wake up in the morning. And although I might not be actually living in a fairy tale, that’s okay. The fairy tale is in visiting Mickey Mouse, letting the M&Ms melt in my mouth, listening to music that takes me to a different place and letting myself get swept off my feet by the fun and levity of Mamma Mia and other musicals.

Besides, how boring would life be if we all lived happily ever after? Now, making it up as we go along . . . what can be more of a fairy tale than that? Oh, wait. That's right. Going to Disney World where, or so they say, dreams come true.

Independence Day, or . . . What Freedom Means To Me

Before you read this blog, I am placing a disclaimer. If you are a politician, conservative, republican, white supremacist, supporter of any of those already mentioned or any other form of member to any party or religion that does not allow the diffference of another race, religion, culture, or sexual orientation to be recognized, I strongly recommend and urge you to leave now.

You have been warned.


As a child, I never liked Independence Day. Now wait. Before you go calling me un-American, hear me out.

As a kid, Independence Day meant nothing to me. It was just another day revolving around a whole lot of loud stuff that went boom. And growing up in a Puerto Rican household, in the East New York section of Brooklyn, I didn’t understand the need or desire for those loud things that went boom. Maybe it was my upbringing and the culture. Or maybe it was the fact that on Independence Day, the people in my predominantly black ghetto neighborhood of Brownsville, could only get their hands on cherry bombs, firecrackers, and M80s. Either way, even as a child I didn’t understand how blowing up someone’s car, scaring the crap out of someone and possibly losing a couple of fingers in the process, was supposed to be celebratory or fun or even connected with a day that had so much significance.

Until I got older and history repeated itself.

And I’m thinking that maybe we, as a society, have forgotten what it’s all about. Independence Day has gotten lost in the shuffle. It's become the 4th of July, just . . . another day off; for most of us. Oh, sure the fireworks have become more sophisticated and prettier to look at but many have forgotten what it's all about. Independence Day is not about the loud things that go boom. It’s not even about the pretty things that explode in the air and make you go oooohhh and aaaaahhhh.

It’s about telling someone that you’ve had enough of their tyranny and you’re not going to take it anymore.

Indepence Day is about the simple act of a very young country telling King George that they had had enough of taxation without representation; enough of the British military knocking on your door and demanding to be housed and fed or you would be accused of treason to the Crown. Enough of the British police smashing through your door and arresting you . . . just because. Enough of the British and The East India Tea Company charging so much for something Americans had grown to like and depended on.

Any of this sounding familiar?

Thousands, if not millions, of bold and courageous men and women who dared to stand up in unison and tell King George to simply fuck off because we were tired of wire tapping, slowly being stripped of civil rights, getting screwed over by fat cats who charged triple for gas, something we all need, while the richer get richer and the poor get poorer with no hope in sight of national health plans to help millions of American men women and children and . . .

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. For a minute there my mind merged and the past 232 years disappeared. My bad.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for another revolt. Time to declare war on the political machine and tell them that we’re tired of their tyranny and lies and want our Indepence. No, not with guns and cannons or sparklers, but with words.

The old fashioned way.

Join the ACLU or Working Assets or any other activist group you support. Protest in your own way. Donate money if you can’t organize with them and raise banners or picket sings.

Write your Congress person. Tell them that you’re tired of having religion crammed down our throat; after all, it’s a choice, not a mandate. Wasn’t this country founded by people in pursuit of religious freedom? I’d like to think that by the same token we are free to pursue the lack of religion; after all, too many people have died at the hands of others because of religion.

Actually our country was founded because the prisons and poor houses of England were overflowing with people who had been arrested for protesting against the King and good old Georgie, tired of hearing his people, traitors that they were, how dare they, complain about him.

So, tell your representatives that you live in fear of losing you’re job because it’s going to be shipped out of the country. Tell them you’re tired of being hungry and not having enough money to get by and pay your bills. Tell them you’re tired of getting deeper and deeper into dark pits where the sun doesn’t shine. That you’re tired of our tiny, beautiful little planet being used, and pillaged and plundered. Don’t be afraid to ask for a National Health Plan! In one of the richest countries in the world there is no reason why thousands of people of all ages and from all walks of life, should die each year because they cannot get the health services and medicine they need.

Stand up for your right to marry, or not; to hold hands in public without fear of being killed; to be able to walk down the street and not worry about how you look at someone because now they have the right to shoot you if they think you looked at them cross-eyed.

I don’t mean to paint a grim picture. After all, we are very lucky. For the most part. We could be living in Iran or Iraq. But guess what? There are still several hundreds of thousands of people who still go to sleep hungry each night, do not have a roof over their head, do not know how they will survive one more day. And some day, if we’re not careful, it could be you.

Remember what Ben Franklin said, and please forgive my paraphrasing as I cannot remember the exact words. “We must stand together because if we do not, we shall surely hang together.”

I hope we remember over this 3-day weekend, as many of us enjoy time off from work and attend pool parties, barbeques, get-togethers with friends, that this freedom we enjoy is not a guarantee. We can wake up one day and it will all be gone because freedom, the choice to do pretty much anything you want, at almost any time, is the true meaning of Independence Day.

And freedom is something we must fight for. Not in another country pretending we’re fighting for democracy. But in our hearts, our minds, and yes, even in our souls. Some of us every day, some of us only every few years, when the embodiment of good old King George and his administration decide to take over again.

Remember that this government, our government, is of the people, by the people, for the people, and not just for the select few who are in the minority, making rules they can wiggle out of, but affect all of us. Perhaps our political figures should be wise and remember that the very guns they are fighting to allow are the very guns that can turn against them.

Now, in the words of the immortal Mork, “Fly! Be free!”

Go celebrate your Independence and your freedom; blog . . . and spread the word!

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.