She reaches home and sprints to the bed. She no longer has any feelings, she is numb. There is only the monster, who had taken up residence inside her brain, telling her to cringe and contort her body in every which way. She lay on the bed squealing and jerking as her mother and father sprinted in, holding each other’s hands and crying. They peered down at her with sympathy; “Honey, please…I’m sorry” her dad spoke. She barely heard him. The monster is taking control.

After many fits she was told what she had. Tourette’s syndrome was the name of the diagnosis the doctor had derived. This was the monster she needed to defeat. She stayed out of school for a week. When she went back she learned to cope with the disorder. The first day she was back in school she spent her time in the nurse’s office, confessing her problems. She couldn’t tell anyone else, she knew she was different. Her good friends Jan and Zack asked her what was wrong when she went back to class. “Nothing,” she explained, with a calming and unique smile spread across her face, almost fake, like a painting. She looked like she was mimicking the Mona Lisa, a painting her father had shown her at the age of five. She kept having doubts of her sanity, of her normality. She wished she were just a painting with no feelings or thoughts, just a bland and pretty face. The thought still lingered in the back of her mind. “Am I a freak? Am I no longer normal?” She wished she didn’t even know this about herself. It wasn’t fair and that was all she knew. The monster was trying to take control. Continue Reading

The day I killed Cyril grinded down to slow motion a little before 4pm. It was as though Earth had slowed her journey around the sun for the evening just to rest her old bones. The days immediately following went by quicker than usual, in an effort to catch up with time. In effect, my mind had ample time to imprint even the finest details into my memory. I was wearing my dad’s clothes, a white t-shirt from the local rodeo club, a pair of black pants that zipped off at the knees and a knitted purse that I laid in the seat next to me. My car was fairly clean for my standards. The weather was beautiful. The sky was so blue and the sun shined like it was smiling down on me. Van Morrison’s The Mystic was coming through the speakers, and I was singing along. I was coming to an intersection just a block from work and saw a small blue car approaching a stop sign at the road crossing mine, but didn’t think much about it. His car passed through the stop sign and into my path. There was no time to do anything. Continue Reading

“Love is all we can take with us to the grave…”

A bit morbid isn’t it? But I must admit that there’s a grain of truth in it. You can’t take money, clothing, and any earthly thing with you when you die. But what about love? Indeed you could take the love of your family and your friends with you to the other side, for it’s in your heart and soul and nothing could take that away from you. Not even death itself. You might be wondering where am I going with this or what has this got to do with kidney failure or dialysis? Well, for two reasons, actually, that I’ve decided to blog about this subject. One is that Love is an essential need of a dialysis patient, and Two, Death is not such a peculiar matter for them anymore. Continue Reading

My angel is named Erica. Erica Palomino.  My son Charles was 16 when he met her. He was still in the aftermath of mine and his Father’s divorce. He was confused and still hurting. Erica brought him out of all that. They had a love that anyone would say was impossible for people so young. I was there to see it though, so I know it transformed his life.

Charles was 18. Erica 17.They were asked by his older brother Don and his girlfriend to go on vacation with them to Florida. A free vacation to Florida, then they would begin their life together as adults.

I myself believe in intuition. When they were getting in the car a thought ran through my mind “This will be the last time” . I overlooked it. However I look back at it as a forewarning of the pain to come. Continue Reading

I was named after my father. He was borne on the second day of January, 1949. When he was young, he always dreaded his birthday, as that was the day he was due back to school following the holiday break.

He was the third of four brothers, the first two of whom each had a separate biological father of their own- a family secret which remained unrevealed to all save their mother until only a few years ago. When my father was fifteen, his next eldest sibling- Steven, was very much involved with his high school sweetheart. They felt sorry for my father, as he was an overly well-mannered albeit slightly overweight science fiction fanatic; and as such, tended to be extremely awkward in all social environs. Steven and his girl had a plan, to fix my father up on a blind date with the girl’s sixteen-year old kid sister. On the night of said encounter, something went horrifically wrong. A night of notorious evil that has haunted my family tree to this day and undoubtedly beyond. Continue Reading

You know the routine. That is how nightmares get played out, in your sleep dreams. Or if you are like me, they happen in the awake times too, when you know, it is no dream, you will feel pain when the hands, belt, fist, what ever object finally reaches you. That sickening sensation, you can’t get away fast enough, you know what coming and you know how it will hurt. First its the jarring vibrations that thud through out your body, twisting you off your trajectory into some other place. Then the slam as the body meets an unmovable earth or furniture or what ever stopped your motions. Then the heat as what ever was hit on both sides, fill with broken blood vessels flooding the area, and you rush again, trying to some how get around or out of the way of what will be the next blow. You beg, you reason, you cry, knowing its all fruitless, but doing so for lack of any other method to try and stop the monster. The monster who sometimes wears the face of someone who is supposed to be loving and safe, or another child / peer like you, and there are no other adults / authority around to save you (yet again). Continue Reading

He walked into class grinning from ear to ear; he always did. The students around him secretly admired him, including me. They wondered how a person could be so happy every single day of the freshman year. We walked outside feeling the heat of August on our sun-tanned skin. I watched him board the bus, still smiling and talking to his friends. He was excited for the field trip; we all were.

I sat on the bus alone while secretly watching him. There was a certain quality about him that nobody could ignore. He was friendly, charming, and when he smiled it was contagious. His wavy brown hair blew freely in the breeze as another student opened a window on the bus. Continue Reading

My not being a big fan of organized religion has less to do with being the daughter of a Holocaust survivor than it does my aversion to organized anything, except perhaps, chaos.  It also has to do with my being a seeker.  I spent the first two decades of my life hearing and believing one version of the truth as it was told/explained/offered and served to me and the next three unraveling, dissecting and uncovering another one.  I am spinning my yarn in reverse.

When you grow up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood and your father is the local poster boy for Holocaust survival, you wear a certain badge of honor and earn the guilt by association that comes along with it. As if by extension, family members are defined by this label, without most people having any understanding of the fibers or material from which the cloth is woven.  How much of it is organic or manufactured?  Is it raw or processed?  Does the suit feel as well as it looks or is it over worn?  Whether you like it or not, it’s assigned to you and every day you wake up, take attendance, become that person and dress your part, even if the bigger part of who you really are is often notably absent. Continue Reading

In high school, I never played football. It is still one of my biggest regrets to this day. I was always small growing up, so soccer seemed like the natural choice for my skill set. By the time high school came around, I had to make a choice; risk being a tackling dummy for a sport I loved to watch but never played competitively, or play varsity soccer and basically use it as conditioning for hockey. I chose the latter, and don’t get me wrong, I had an unbelievable experience playing soccer at my high school.

The coaches were as good as I’ve ever had, but my heart was never in the sport. I was the semi-joke who could cover anyone, but had bricks for feet when dribbling. 
On Saturdays, our games coincided with the football team’s matchups, and the fields would be absolutely packed, as they were close to each other.

Our soccer team was a damn good draw, making the NE tournament multiple times in my tenure, but it was the football team that garnered the most attention and one star player in particular.

My friend Darren was an unbelievable running back, cornerback, and kick returner. He defined agility, and his No. 21 became his calling card. Odds are, if you were an opponent, you got to see the back of that jersey enough to have it memorized. 

His senior year was ridiculous. He put up seven touchdowns—in one game—and this wasn’t against the Perkins School for the Blind, it was a league game, and a huge one at that. Continue Reading

Most of us remember our sister’s birthday, our parents’ wedding anniversary or our first date with “the one”. For me however, I remember the day that I killed my baby. I remember the day I found out I was pregnant, the day that she died and the day that she would have turned another year old. I know these dates. They are infused in me as much as she was.

This isn’t a “story” about my great loss or an anti-abortion rant. To the contrary, I am still very much pro-choice, pro-choice with information however. With support and guidance and the knowledge to make the right decision. Had I had these things my decision would have been much different. I would be the mother to a beautiful, rambunctious, happy little 5-year old girl today. I would have called her Finley. Continue Reading

The room was silent except for a steady beat of the monitor, scribbles like cracks in pavement frantically drawn on the black screen.  He lay motionless on the narrow hospital bed in excruciating pain.  There was a feeding tube, like the hole on an inflatable toy, on his chest.  He was completely deflated…emaciated, his legs like twigs outlined by a light blue blanket.  A large cross necklace rested on his bony chest and murmuring heart.  His name was Timothy, and he was barely twenty years old.

He hadn’t eaten in three days due to intense nausea and vomiting, and he hadn’t taken his normally high dosage of morphine.  Cancer had metastasized throughout his body.  I listened in shock as he listed affected body parts: legs, bones, brain, lungs…

He couldn’t turn over in bed while the nurse drew blood for numerous tests, so we shifted his body position by slowly pulling a sheet under him.  The nurse tied a tourniquet over his elbow and palpated with her fingers, searching for a vein.  Needle in place, I watched his dark blood fill vial after vial as his face twisted in pain.  He was so fragile and weak, struggling to make it through.  His wife held his hand in hers and his brother carefully massaged his feet at the end of the bed. Continue Reading

There are two different sides of Mexico City.  The area where the wealthy reside shines with gorgeous mansions and luxurious apartments that line the streets, humming together in unity. The ground sprouts flowers and trees that smile at their inhabitants and the obnoxious voice of the city is silenced. Families can be seen strolling the worn down pavement, grinning amongst themselves, obliviously ignoring any foreigner to their class. On sunny days Mexico City appears to be not a city at all, but instead a perfectly painted picture that is worthy of a king’s hall. Then, right down the street there is another world, panting from exhaustion and muted by a small portion of the population. It’s littered and clustered streets beat anxiously, driven into depression by poverty and loneliness. There are no police; instead the roads are governed by manipulation and blood. Houses are built on top of each other and small, cold beds are shared. It is a sad scene, one that when stared at for too long can drive one into a madness deeper then their bodies can bare. This sad scene is inevitable; even in the richest areas of the city there are lingering beggars who wake up in the chill of dawn to walk to their streets job from the squalid area they call home. Continue Reading

Speaking to my aunt Janice is always like a refreshing boast of confidence. Whenever I’m unsure of my direction in life, she always seems to give me that nudge in the right direction. Glancing at her life and seeing how her passion for children has led her have an extremely happy career as an elementary school teacher, has always acted as a huge support for my own personal goals. During one of our weekly gabfests I was reminded of just how special she was, not only to me, but also to her students. She boasted with so much pride on an event that occurred in her class recently.

A wasp that tragically wandered into her class, met his fate by the slamming of a classroom door. It turns out the executioner of this creature was my aunt, and upon discovery of the incident her class began to deem her a murderer. Being a muse of creativity and quick-witted charm, my aunt used this situation as a medium to flex the children’s writing muscles. What seemed like an image crushing blow for her, turned into one of the proudest moments as a teacher she has ever witnessed. Assigning her class to construct a multitude of eulogies, poems, and songs led to a created funeral service for the poor diminished stray. Not only was a piece of her humanity reestablished in the eyes of the tiny beings she loved, their writing and creativity flourished. This event seemingly was brought on by the death of a rejected insect. Continue Reading

It should have happened sooner. Possibly when my husband and I outgrew the Young Married class at church. Or perhaps the day the cute grocery sacker called me a respectful “Ma’am” instead of flirting with me. At least I should have realized it the day the nurse handed me my firstborn child.

But at age forty, with a husband and four young children, I was woefully unprepared for adulthood when the doctor looked from my eyes to my mother’s ashen face against the sheet: “I’m sorry, it’s cancer. Its spread so much, there’s nothing we can do.” Continue Reading

I commute to work on the subway. For the most part, it beats sitting bumper to bumper inching along on a superhighway, but it does have its drawbacks – sardine-like conditions, arid platforms, interminable delays among them. It isn’t often that I get a seat during rush hour. By happenstance, today I am standing in front of someone who gets off at the Park Place station. You can’t hesitate for a moment if you want a seat on a crowded train. Polite people stand a lot.

I’m engrossed in my latest read when the woman to my left asks me a question.

“Do you know what this word means?” She points to solidify in her book. She has a pleasingly round face and shaved head with a five o’clock shadow. The lack of hair makes her pink lipstick stand out against her chocolate skin.

“It means to make stronger.” Continue Reading

Individual beads of sweat rolled down the center of my back while simultaneously tears glided down my flushed cheeks, and leapt from my sorrowful face. There were so many tears, and each minute drop felt larger than those that preceded it. I was sure that we would have a massive flood on our hands or at the very least, that these tears would dehydrate me. A sterile medical stench crept through the halls like an invisible ghost that came only to haunt me, and it made my stomach turn. At the same time an obnoxious beeping noise fills my ears. The annoying noise stemming from machines, their tubes fused to my wrists like handcuffs imprisoning me by surrounding my bed. These machines were no doubt controlling the morphine drip that confused my mind, but only masked the pain for which it was meant to control. Continue Reading

Why is everybody screaming?

Why is everybody running?

What did I just get myself in to?

These were the questions that were bouncing around my mind as I ran and screamed and tried to get my head re-wired to my feet. The last six hours of sitting, trying to wrap my thoughts around my future had just exploded into a very real “right here” and “right now.” I didn’t know where I was running to, but apparently, I should have been there five minutes ago, and now I had five seconds to get there… and they being counted down by someone who was none too happy with my performance. Continue Reading

His hands are his most distinct feature. They are long and thin, but inexplicably expressive, particularly when drawing. Holding charcoal in both of his hands, he pushes the color across the canvas. Never hesitating, he moves his hands in rapid succession, making strong dark lines that fill the empty space. He takes a rag and smoothes the hard edges, shaping the curves of the body. Quickly, he turns his eyes toward the canvas then returns his gaze to the subject. Repeatedly, his dark eyes survey the precision of his work. Standing back from the drawing, he places one hand on his chin, the other on his hip. His hands unthinkingly touch the brim of his cap, adding to the smear of black stains. His thin body bends at the middle as he stands looking. He moves to one side of the drawing, tilts his head to the right and purses his lips. Then he takes hold of the drawing and turns it, first to the left, then to the right, viewing it from all angles. Pulling a cigarette from his jean pocket, he lights it, takes a drag, holds it in his right hand, takes the charcoal in his left and continues to draw. I sit on the ground with my back leaning against a wall and watch as he works. I can’t take my eyes off of his hands. Continue Reading

On a lonely patch of stale October earth is a near perfect line of pebbles – tombstones – under which I have laid to rest the lifeless corpses of three pill bugs who have met their unfortunate demise when I put them in a mason jar but neglected to poke air holes in the lid.  Having just used it to dig the graves, I take a popsicle stick – the sticky remains of yesterday’s sour apple saliva still lingering on one end (though I have since forgotten the joke on the back) – and in my fledgling penmanship scribble the word: “Cemetery”.  I meticulously place it in front of the pebbles and the memorial is complete. Continue Reading