Tuesday, October 7, 2008
rant and rave 9/27
My Week:I am struggling to find out who I am. I don’t know where I come from. I am more eager now than ever to attempt to find out due to the number of remaining family that is dying. I visited my grandpa’s mother’s grave. I never got the chance to meet her. I am barely starting to hear stories about her. But, the wave of emotion that took over me as I sat with her was a lot to take in. She was alone, no spouse beside her and no place for other family to be laid beside her. I felt sorry for her. From what I have been told, she wasn’t the nicest person to be in company with. She was mean to her grandchildren. She would call them names or criticize their character every time she came in contact with them. It hurt them even worse when she could only insult them in Spanish [not knowing English] and they [only knowing English] could not understand her. But there she lies, alone and no trace of there have been any recent visitors. It made me think about my mom. How one day I will be visiting her. The difference will be that her resting place with always be filled flowers and cards and letters. I will make sure she is constantly reminded on how much she will be missed. With that visit taking place, my mom tried to talk to her husband about his funeral. Since his secrets became exposed to MY SIDE of the family, he expresses a grudge towards them. I seriously can NOT stand this guy. My family has had to bite their tongue so many times with all of the stuff he’s pulled. But yet, being raised the right way, they always come out the bigger people. He has the nerve to talk poorly about them and yet on Thanksgiving and Christmas he shows up like clockwork. Always just in time for dinner. He eats their food and drinks their drinks and accepts their presents. Chewing away as he looks at them with disrespect, hate, and prejudice. It takes a special kind of character to pull that off, and to think he had accepted the job of raising children. Anyway, he made this comment and it makes me sick to my stomach to replay the words in my head but I cannot help it. “There is going to be a sign at my funeral reading: NO MEXICANS ALLOWED”. A man like that should seriously be taken out to the pastures and dealt with. And I am sorry to announce that there is more where that came from. He had to learn that talk from someone. His mom and sisters and brothers are all on that same page. I don’t claim to know them and I most certainly don’t claim to be related. This is also the reason I am so eager to find out about my family. I also keep thinking about my mom. I am a little worried about her. She keeps renting these movies that all deal with death. I think she is taking mental notes on how to deal with it herself. I keep trying to act like I don’t notice her pattern, but today I couldn’t help but ask if she was aware of it. She starting crying and just said that she was attracted to them. She is also losing confidence in her doctors. One [her liver specialist] is kind of hard to get a hold of. She has filed for state disability retirement and the CALPERS office needs some information that for some reason, had been hard to retrieve from him. The CALPERS [co. in charge of the claim] tries to reach him and can’t get connect, we try and get the same result. He also spreads her appointments out months apart, and she doesn’t feel he is taking her seriously. I am not too worried though. I think that if he was really allowing patient’s needs to fall through the cracks, he wouldn’t have a practice to maintain. It’s becoming more of a challenge for me to be strong for her. I want to hug her and cry with both tears of sadness and joy. I want to tell her how much I appreciate her spending so much time with me. I want her to know that I don’t take one second of her time for granted. I get frustrated with her disease sometimes for butting in on our time with its fatigue, and I want her to understand that the frustration is nowhere near being close to being with her. I want her to feel how proud I am of her to trying to protect my brother and me with her bravery. I want her to know that her efforts are not unnoticed and most importantly not unappreciated. Since I have two terminally ill parents whose disease involves a great amount of fatigue, and a brother holding a DUI title, I am the only one in this house with the ability to drive. I hate driving and it’s taking a toll on my person. I can feel myself aging with the stress and frustrations with the road. It also has taken over my life schedules. I no longer have my own personal free time. I can’t just go anywhere at any time anymore, it has to revolve around appointments and work schedules and school schedules. I am just ranting and raving a little right now, in the morning I will be back as the go getting taxi driver. I really don’t mind taking my mom and brother places, because I know that they would do it for me. To sum up the week, it has ended with yet another night of my “father” messing up. He was supposed to visit his mom in Riverside from Thursday until Sunday, but as usual, he’ll go tomorrow and tomorrow and forget it. My mom, brother and I arrived home tonight with him and his friend engaging in a YOUTUBE party. I curse the day my brother showed him that website, it’s all he ever does. Sit his good for nothing lard ass in the computer seat playing every hippie music video he can find. And he found a friend who enjoys them as much as he. There they sat, with their beer cans in hand, drinking the night away. They sat there for hours and then somehow arrived out in the backyard. They were talking so loud and yes it is a Friday night but he made himself look stupid. Last night he yelled at our neighbor because his dog is ALWAYS barking. And there he sat at midnight talking in concert voices. I went out to ask him to lower it down a notch, the boozie couldn’t even connect eyes with me and his friend was too busy smoking weed to notice I was in the doorway. I rolled my eyes and went to bed. It was at 2:30 am that he stumbled in my room looking for his puppy. I had mine, and in a pissed off no mood for his b.s tone, I told him that I didn’t have his dog. He turned to exit my room and under his breath said “well F*** you”. I laughed to myself. He isn’t even man enough to say it to my face. He is a coward. He is an idiot. Once again he can’t locate where he is in the wrong. His son just got a DUI and he displays himself in a drunken state. He refuses to be a responsible role model. It is 3:45am and I am wide awake. It is amazing to me how someone can be so ignorant. I am sad for my mom who when tried to seek a divorce lawyer, was advised not attempt that road due to her illness. She should be able to live worry free and not ashamed. Due to that man, no one visits anymore. Family and friends don’t want to be around him so we are lonely. However, we manage to get out once in a while for the sake of our sanity. Like the Getty, it’s on her bucket list. We can’t wait to go. See you all soon and thanks for listening.
Re: Mj Vs Kobe
“Is it fair to try to measure what’s inside someone’s chest or between their ears when so many other factors can potentially dictate an outcome?” – Stephen A. SmithDoesn’t this go along with the phrase, “Don’t judge a book by its cover”? Aren’t we taught not to do this during our whole upbringing? I feel that there are too many pressures for one to be perfect. One is bound to crack or be caught in a point of weakness at least once during their life. And things are only going to get worse. I’m not sports literate by any means, so I’m going to relate to this totally different.I don’t mean to keep putting my family on center stage but my brother would be a good example for this one. Thursday night [September 18th 2008] my twin got his first DUI. So many things went wrong for him that night. He wasn’t supposed to drive that night. The plan was that his best friend Dustin was in charge of that. Dustin sports a single cab, two seated, Chevy Colorado. So when Dustin started inviting all of their other friends, his car was no longer suitable. Erik, [my brother] HAD a SUV that seated 7. Erik was quickly nominated to be the driver of the night. He agreed only with the terms that he be reimbursed with gas money [which never happened]. He loaded his car and they set off for the worst night of their lives. First destination was Johnny’s Bar in Huntington Beach. They met up with friends already there, celebrating a birthday. They drank way too much and got the boot from Johnny’s. One had a desire to try their luck at a strip club in La Habra, so they took off swerving to a place four cities away. They proceeded to get kicked out of Taboo as well. Just then, Joy called and wanted to party with them too. They jumped in the car, speeding and swerving toward Silver Lake to pick her up. It was amazing that they made it that far without A) getting caught and B) hurting someone. It was the right turn leading into Dustin’s neighborhood [the place they were to stay and sum up their night of partying] that was does them in. Attempting a sharp right hand turn going 60 mph, my brother jumped the center divider and took out a “NO U-TURN” sign. The tires screeched, the contact made a bang, the air bags deployed, and the lights started flashing. Just as their world literally spun out of control, two cops just happened to be patrolling the neighborhood. My brother was taken in where he would spend the remainder of the night in a jail cell. The pressures to be perfect or that shining star isn’t at home. It’s within his group of friends. Erik is the party guy. The guys that everyone wants to know or have people know that they know him. They constantly call him to meet up a bar or party or work party. Younger idiots tell him that he’s their idol. [He is everything to me] but there’s nothing really that separates him from anyone you meet. Maybe it’s the occupation [Pirate, at Pirate’s Dinner and Adventure], or the rat tail [that everyone attempts to grow after seeing him], or the bands he’s played in or hangs out with. If he was cool before, the DUI doesn’t make him any cooler. He realizes that it’s not worth it. His friends could have gotten really hurt that night. And if they were his friends at all they wouldn’t have let him drive like that. The parties may be a blast that night, but not so much as hugging the toilet bowl is the next morning. Erik is tired of trying to keep up with his friends. He lost himself for a minute. This isn’t who he is. In one night, Erik went from the guy with the looks, the car, and the time; to the guy without car, whose money will go towards the DUI, and the time will be spent in alcoholic classes and AA. Which makes him that less attractive to the potential single female.In regards to Kobe, maybe he isn’t the speech giving, ass slapping, cheer leading, role model that everyone wants him to be. To me, there isn’t anything wrong with just being a great athlete on a great team. He doesn’t need to be MJ. He needs to concentrate on being Kobe Bryant. When we start trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations is where we get into trouble. Sandra was strong enough to stay true to herself and not try to be like her brothers. She succeeded and in the end everything worked out. Professor Hsiao, you mentioned that there is a tie to everything and I know you were referring to the blogs but I am seeing one in the class discussions and assignments. The constant energy you keep going in the class is inspiring. I look forward to class every Monday and Wednesday. =)
Sunday, September 28, 2008
P-A-R-T-Y'd I do that ?
P-A-R-T-Y’d I Do That?
Slap! Erik’s face made an unfriendly contact with the pavement of our driveway. All in a summer’s night that was supposed to host the party of the year at our house while our parents were away. We have all either done it or thought of doing it [throwing a party while the parental unit leaves tow], but where are the thoughts of the possibilities that things won’t go as smooth as planned? House parties are never a guaranteed success. When my brother Erik and my party went terribly wrong, the only guarantee of that night was that I would never attempt one again.
I had the whole night planned out. I would wave my parents goodbye as they exited our driveway and turned the corner, not expected to return from Monterey until after Labor Day. I allowed an hour for them return for anything they might have forgotten. When the hour passed, I was in the clear and the dialing began. I called and texted my list of friends alerting them of my vacant house and invited them to join Erik and myself in a booze fest. At the same time, Erik shadowed my actions with his list of friends. Since I was the only one of age, I elected myself the beer maid. I ran to the store to buy starter supplies [chips, drinks, ice, etc.] and alcohol. It wasn’t long until the knocking started and the party began.
Everything was going according to plan. Our house was wall to wall with drunk, smiling faces. The music fit everyone’s taste. New bottles were filling our counter tops as empty bottles were filling our trash cans. There were no signs of police. Our festivities were a success, right? One might assume we were in the clear. That’s when things usually take a turn for the worst. Which is exactly what happened.
I am not sure how the famous fight was started. I caught the middle and most important part of it. See, my highly intoxicated brother was graced with the genius idea to play drums in the house at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning [we had no specific time to wake up the next morning, but our neighbors work]. I chased after him to confiscate the drumsticks. As I approached his room, screams filled our living room. I turned around in time to catch a glimpse of a herd of boozies stampede through our house to our front yard. It was like a scene in a cartoon where all you see is a dust ball and an occasional fist pop out. It seems that punks and skaters don’t always mix as well as gin and tonic. It was a nightmare.
I ran outside. Not to join the excitement but to try and stop it. There was too much adrenaline and testosterone for one little girl to take on by herself. I kept trying anyway. I got to one of the guys yelling for him to get in his car and leave. He was so pumped he wouldn’t stop moving. He kept swinging and in the mist of his craziness, his fist punched my face. At the same time his fist was redirecting my face to the left, I felt my body lift. Erik saw him and grabbed me to take me into the house. Erik, enraged by the idiot’s actions, was determined to even the score. I begged him not to go outside. I tried holding onto him as tight as I could. I looked over to my right and saw our friend’s bloody face appear in our bathroom doorway. He too was being restrained from heading back outside. Astonished by the amount of blood oozing out of his head, I lost grip of Erik and he took off like a bat out of hell towards our front door. He sprinted off the porch toward the crowd. As he leaped off the last step of the porch he became absent minded of the rocks boarding our planters. His foot got caught on a rock. Slap! The combination of the speed he was going along with the pull of the rock caused him to trip forward and slam the front of his body onto the driveway.
I let out a dramatic, Oscar winning performance of a scream in fear that he broke his face. A mutual friend saw his fall and quickly ran over to assist him. Our friend is a pretty husky guy especially compared to my little 140lbed brother. So our friend was able to pick him up like an infant and cradle him back into the house. By this time our neighbors became aware of the fighting and came to help get everybody broken up, sorted out, and sent on their way. Erik complained of an excruciating pain in his arm. We believed it to be broken. We did a quick sweep of the house to get some things cleaned up and set off to the emergency room.
There was a good size crew with us. We got Erik checked in. He was rushed to get x-rays of his arm. When he arrived back into the room we were allowed to go back and see him. We waited for the results. The doctor approached us with a disappointed look on his face. He informed us that the arm was not broken, Erik was just a drunken moron with a contusion. We were lucky. The doctor put Erik’s arm in a half of a cast and sent all us home and out of their hair. We were all still pretty intoxicated and hungry. We got Erik (who was clothed in a stunning hospital gown) into a car and we caravanned to Denny’s to consume a sobering meal.
While at Denny’s everyone was going over the different versions we all had of the night as we swallowed our breakfast. In the middle of our tales and giggles, my phone rang. My dad was on the other line. “Danielle?” he asked. “Hey Dad, what’s going on at 5:30 a.m.? There isn’t a time difference in Monterey is there?” “No, but what’s going on with you guys?” “Why?” I asked as my heart started racing and my body started trembling. “Well, there weren’t any rooms available because of the holiday, so we decided to come home. The living room with filled with beer bottles, there’s blood on our walls, and no one is home.” “Oh that? Well, we kind of had some people over and there was a fight. Erik hurt his arm so we went to the emergency room. He is fine. We are at Denny’s getting something to eat.” “Oh, okay. I think we have some stuff to talk about when you guys get home, huh?” “Ya, I think so”, I replied. I hung up and didn’t need to explain what just happened since everyone heard me. Our friends expressed their sympathy since they figured we were dead. We finished our meals and Erik and I set off on our sad way home.
My parents were waiting for us. They demanded an explanation. We supplied a verbal itinerary of the night’s events. As I finished our party disaster story my dad took a deep breath. “Lucky for you guys, we remember what it was like to be your age and have the opportunity to attempt a stunt such as the one you attempted. So you aren’t in that big of trouble. I think your punishment is justified by the cleaning you will do of this entire house. And, seeing as Erik’s arm is in a cast, it looks like the cleaning is all on you Danielle.” He had me cornered. I couldn’t complain of the unevenness in the punishment because things could have been a lot worse.
It turns out that our friend with the bloody face ran into the corner of our wall in the hallway. So his wound was self inflicted. Erik’s fall was his own doing. The only people who really got hurt did it to themselves. What a couple of dummies.
That night could have gone a lot worse. People could have gotten really hurt. The police could have been called where they would have discovered a lot of underage drinkers. This would have gotten me in a load of trouble being that I was the “adult” in charge. Luckily, we were spared the dramatic possibilities. I will never forget that night. And I am happy to announce we can all laugh about it now. Even until this day if a group member brings up that night, we all start laughing and reminiscing the memories of that night. I won’t ever forget that with every party planned, there is no guarantee that things will go as smoothly as you expect. I can confidently guarantee that I will not attempt to do any party throwing on my behalf again.
Slap! Erik’s face made an unfriendly contact with the pavement of our driveway. All in a summer’s night that was supposed to host the party of the year at our house while our parents were away. We have all either done it or thought of doing it [throwing a party while the parental unit leaves tow], but where are the thoughts of the possibilities that things won’t go as smooth as planned? House parties are never a guaranteed success. When my brother Erik and my party went terribly wrong, the only guarantee of that night was that I would never attempt one again.
I had the whole night planned out. I would wave my parents goodbye as they exited our driveway and turned the corner, not expected to return from Monterey until after Labor Day. I allowed an hour for them return for anything they might have forgotten. When the hour passed, I was in the clear and the dialing began. I called and texted my list of friends alerting them of my vacant house and invited them to join Erik and myself in a booze fest. At the same time, Erik shadowed my actions with his list of friends. Since I was the only one of age, I elected myself the beer maid. I ran to the store to buy starter supplies [chips, drinks, ice, etc.] and alcohol. It wasn’t long until the knocking started and the party began.
Everything was going according to plan. Our house was wall to wall with drunk, smiling faces. The music fit everyone’s taste. New bottles were filling our counter tops as empty bottles were filling our trash cans. There were no signs of police. Our festivities were a success, right? One might assume we were in the clear. That’s when things usually take a turn for the worst. Which is exactly what happened.
I am not sure how the famous fight was started. I caught the middle and most important part of it. See, my highly intoxicated brother was graced with the genius idea to play drums in the house at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning [we had no specific time to wake up the next morning, but our neighbors work]. I chased after him to confiscate the drumsticks. As I approached his room, screams filled our living room. I turned around in time to catch a glimpse of a herd of boozies stampede through our house to our front yard. It was like a scene in a cartoon where all you see is a dust ball and an occasional fist pop out. It seems that punks and skaters don’t always mix as well as gin and tonic. It was a nightmare.
I ran outside. Not to join the excitement but to try and stop it. There was too much adrenaline and testosterone for one little girl to take on by herself. I kept trying anyway. I got to one of the guys yelling for him to get in his car and leave. He was so pumped he wouldn’t stop moving. He kept swinging and in the mist of his craziness, his fist punched my face. At the same time his fist was redirecting my face to the left, I felt my body lift. Erik saw him and grabbed me to take me into the house. Erik, enraged by the idiot’s actions, was determined to even the score. I begged him not to go outside. I tried holding onto him as tight as I could. I looked over to my right and saw our friend’s bloody face appear in our bathroom doorway. He too was being restrained from heading back outside. Astonished by the amount of blood oozing out of his head, I lost grip of Erik and he took off like a bat out of hell towards our front door. He sprinted off the porch toward the crowd. As he leaped off the last step of the porch he became absent minded of the rocks boarding our planters. His foot got caught on a rock. Slap! The combination of the speed he was going along with the pull of the rock caused him to trip forward and slam the front of his body onto the driveway.
I let out a dramatic, Oscar winning performance of a scream in fear that he broke his face. A mutual friend saw his fall and quickly ran over to assist him. Our friend is a pretty husky guy especially compared to my little 140lbed brother. So our friend was able to pick him up like an infant and cradle him back into the house. By this time our neighbors became aware of the fighting and came to help get everybody broken up, sorted out, and sent on their way. Erik complained of an excruciating pain in his arm. We believed it to be broken. We did a quick sweep of the house to get some things cleaned up and set off to the emergency room.
There was a good size crew with us. We got Erik checked in. He was rushed to get x-rays of his arm. When he arrived back into the room we were allowed to go back and see him. We waited for the results. The doctor approached us with a disappointed look on his face. He informed us that the arm was not broken, Erik was just a drunken moron with a contusion. We were lucky. The doctor put Erik’s arm in a half of a cast and sent all us home and out of their hair. We were all still pretty intoxicated and hungry. We got Erik (who was clothed in a stunning hospital gown) into a car and we caravanned to Denny’s to consume a sobering meal.
While at Denny’s everyone was going over the different versions we all had of the night as we swallowed our breakfast. In the middle of our tales and giggles, my phone rang. My dad was on the other line. “Danielle?” he asked. “Hey Dad, what’s going on at 5:30 a.m.? There isn’t a time difference in Monterey is there?” “No, but what’s going on with you guys?” “Why?” I asked as my heart started racing and my body started trembling. “Well, there weren’t any rooms available because of the holiday, so we decided to come home. The living room with filled with beer bottles, there’s blood on our walls, and no one is home.” “Oh that? Well, we kind of had some people over and there was a fight. Erik hurt his arm so we went to the emergency room. He is fine. We are at Denny’s getting something to eat.” “Oh, okay. I think we have some stuff to talk about when you guys get home, huh?” “Ya, I think so”, I replied. I hung up and didn’t need to explain what just happened since everyone heard me. Our friends expressed their sympathy since they figured we were dead. We finished our meals and Erik and I set off on our sad way home.
My parents were waiting for us. They demanded an explanation. We supplied a verbal itinerary of the night’s events. As I finished our party disaster story my dad took a deep breath. “Lucky for you guys, we remember what it was like to be your age and have the opportunity to attempt a stunt such as the one you attempted. So you aren’t in that big of trouble. I think your punishment is justified by the cleaning you will do of this entire house. And, seeing as Erik’s arm is in a cast, it looks like the cleaning is all on you Danielle.” He had me cornered. I couldn’t complain of the unevenness in the punishment because things could have been a lot worse.
It turns out that our friend with the bloody face ran into the corner of our wall in the hallway. So his wound was self inflicted. Erik’s fall was his own doing. The only people who really got hurt did it to themselves. What a couple of dummies.
That night could have gone a lot worse. People could have gotten really hurt. The police could have been called where they would have discovered a lot of underage drinkers. This would have gotten me in a load of trouble being that I was the “adult” in charge. Luckily, we were spared the dramatic possibilities. I will never forget that night. And I am happy to announce we can all laugh about it now. Even until this day if a group member brings up that night, we all start laughing and reminiscing the memories of that night. I won’t ever forget that with every party planned, there is no guarantee that things will go as smoothly as you expect. I can confidently guarantee that I will not attempt to do any party throwing on my behalf again.
The Allegory of The Cave
Thomas Danielle
Professor Hsiao
English 52
17 September 08
I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff and I’ll Blow My Cave Down
“When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities.” – The Allegory of the Cave
My dad is my cave. My cave is escaping through drugs and alcohol. My dad refuses to own up to any wrong doings that he involves himself in. He was a horrible alcoholic when I was a child. He was diagnosed with Hepatitis C which put a damper on his drinking. He then turned to prescription drugs. He bought a drug dictionary which helped him study which drugs would help him get high. He would approach his doctor with his own self diagnoses. His doctor would prescribe him anything that he wanted. He has over dosed about 5 times now. Sometimes we would call 911 for him. Sometimes the fire department would show up at our door step because someone else would call. My dad would call random people to say his goodbyes and they would freak out and call the paramedics. My family is numb to it now; we aren’t fazed by it anymore. All of these favors that the doctor was doing for my dad was hurting my dad in the long run; since his liver filters anything he puts in his system. And his liver is sick. As I am an adult, a “friend” of his exposed him to cocaine. He sniffles constantly and blows coke boogers out of his nose all of the time. What a waste of money. My dad steals from my mom and I. He scurries through the dark hallways at 3 am like a rat would. He goes through our rooms when my mom and I go out and takes whatever he wants. He picks at his face until tissue is exposed. He is an embarrassment. The part that is the worst is that he is the baby in his family. His family is constantly making excuses for him and rescuing him when he is a damsel in distress. They don’t live with him so they don’t see the truth. And he doesn’t tell them the whole truth. They just go by what he says. I have no respect for my dad or his family. Nor my dad or his family likes me. I know it’s because I am not naïve to his addictions, and that I am strong and opinionated. They constantly talk bad about me. But they don’t matter to me. Since becoming an adult and being able to make my own valuable decisions; I have escaped and freed myself from my cave by striving to be a good person. I have gone back to school. I am sober and have and will always be drug free. I am responsible. I am my terminally ill mother’s caregiver. I have set aside my life to make sure that my mom is always taken care of. I am honest to everyone I come across. More importantly I am honest to myself. I will never allow myself to stoop to my dad’s level. I will never allow myself to be anything like him.
Professor Hsiao
English 52
17 September 08
I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff and I’ll Blow My Cave Down
“When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities.” – The Allegory of the Cave
My dad is my cave. My cave is escaping through drugs and alcohol. My dad refuses to own up to any wrong doings that he involves himself in. He was a horrible alcoholic when I was a child. He was diagnosed with Hepatitis C which put a damper on his drinking. He then turned to prescription drugs. He bought a drug dictionary which helped him study which drugs would help him get high. He would approach his doctor with his own self diagnoses. His doctor would prescribe him anything that he wanted. He has over dosed about 5 times now. Sometimes we would call 911 for him. Sometimes the fire department would show up at our door step because someone else would call. My dad would call random people to say his goodbyes and they would freak out and call the paramedics. My family is numb to it now; we aren’t fazed by it anymore. All of these favors that the doctor was doing for my dad was hurting my dad in the long run; since his liver filters anything he puts in his system. And his liver is sick. As I am an adult, a “friend” of his exposed him to cocaine. He sniffles constantly and blows coke boogers out of his nose all of the time. What a waste of money. My dad steals from my mom and I. He scurries through the dark hallways at 3 am like a rat would. He goes through our rooms when my mom and I go out and takes whatever he wants. He picks at his face until tissue is exposed. He is an embarrassment. The part that is the worst is that he is the baby in his family. His family is constantly making excuses for him and rescuing him when he is a damsel in distress. They don’t live with him so they don’t see the truth. And he doesn’t tell them the whole truth. They just go by what he says. I have no respect for my dad or his family. Nor my dad or his family likes me. I know it’s because I am not naïve to his addictions, and that I am strong and opinionated. They constantly talk bad about me. But they don’t matter to me. Since becoming an adult and being able to make my own valuable decisions; I have escaped and freed myself from my cave by striving to be a good person. I have gone back to school. I am sober and have and will always be drug free. I am responsible. I am my terminally ill mother’s caregiver. I have set aside my life to make sure that my mom is always taken care of. I am honest to everyone I come across. More importantly I am honest to myself. I will never allow myself to stoop to my dad’s level. I will never allow myself to be anything like him.
Wake Up Peter Pan
Wake up Peter Pan; you’re Not in Neverland Anymore
Whoever was in charge of screening potential child conceivers must have been sleeping while on the job when my “father” was up for his interview. How dare my parents conceive me without my permission! What happened to the hard working, role models you see on T.V.? They just don’t make fathers like they use to. My father has been an idiot my whole life and it seems to just be getting worse with age. He was a terrible alcoholic when I was a child, a wanna be Elvis (as far as abusing prescription drugs) when I was a teen, and now he’s exposed himself to the exciting life of a coke addict/pot head. Did I mention that on the side he is abusing the Workman’s Compensation system? It is really a shame that in his case, stupidity is not a phase but a permanent resident in his personality.
Growing up as a child, I only have memories of him drunk. His intoxications sponsored by Coors Light. He would constantly pick fights with my mom. He’d scream at her using alcohol as a personal gateway to express his frustrations he was having with the marriage. I remember my mom trying to leave the room to get away from him. Carrying the responsibility of being sober, she was sound enough to know that 1 a.m. was not a good time to be screaming at each other. I remember shutting my eyes to give off the impression that I was asleep. My mom would tell him that he was scaring my brother and me and he would claim that we were asleep. I just wanted to avoid any excess confrontation with him. When he would leave our room after an attempt to prove my mom wrong about us being awake, I would go back to pressing my ear against the wall listening to everything going on. I was always terrified of him hitting her. I would sometimes just wait for that moment when I could hear the sound of his hand making contact with her face. What a man, huh? It wasn’t until a routine checkup that he discovered Hepatitis C in his liver that forced his drinking to come to a halt. That is when his doctor would become his new best friend.
Prescription drugs became a problem as I reached puberty. My father caught hold of this prescription drug dictionary that started a new drama for our family. The book would list the drugs, the effects, and what they are used to cure or help with certain health problems. He studied it like a college student studies for an exam. He would approach his doctor with a problem he read about and the pen would start flowing across the prescription pad. My father is probably the sole reason that our local Walgreen Pharmacy has been able to keep up their business. He started with Vicodin then Oxycontin, Dilaudid and Percodan. There are probably more to add to the list, but those were the only bottles I found in his room to help the paramedics know what they were dealing with when he overdosed. Yep, that’s my pa! He’s overdosed about five times. It doesn’t ever faze us anymore. With the third overdose my brother came home in the middle of the commotion. He had a friend with him. I informed him with what was going on and his response was, “Oh, again?” and went into the house to grab whatever it was he came for. His friend was confused as to why my brother wasn’t bothered by the news. How could we be upset? My father was doing this to himself! And if he didn’t overdose enough to grant him a stay at the hospital, he swallowed enough pills to make an ass of himself at family functions. He could be found trying to blend into the background. He would be sitting with his eyes rolling to the back of his head and drool running down his chin. He is an embarrassment. I am however happy to announce that this doctor of his (who didn’t challenge my father’s self diagnosis’) has lost his practice for handing out prescriptions to anyone who wants them. It shows how smart the both of them are since drugs/pills get filtered through your liver. They are both doing more harm than good to my father. I guess with any hobby, things can get boring. That’s when some “friend” of his introduced him to cocaine and marijuana.
I have never been exposed to a real life cocaine user or marijuana user for that matter. I have only seen the characteristics of one in movies or posters. It isn’t that hard to detect the signs though. I started to notice that my father would creep around the house at three in the morning. It would be pitch black, and he would be wandering around the house with a flashlight. I don’t think he was looking for anything in particular. Maybe he was looking for imaginary monsters. I also noticed that for someone who has never had a sinus problem in his life, he cannot keep a dry nostril if he tried. There are also periods where he goes through the coke head obsessive picking stage. Some days it looked like he tore his cheek off. He can go weeks without sleep. Our walls are paper thin and we can hear him rearranging his room twelve times in one night. He started smoking pot in the house. Even with his bedroom door closed, the rest of the house would be filled with the aroma of weed. He claims he can’t sleep without it. Seriously, who does he think he’s fooling? To give you a better mental picture, he started to keep up the attractive look that Nick Nolte tried pulling off in his mug shot. Even including the Hawaiian shirt. I don’t understand what goes through his head each day. It is one thing to be an alcoholic and pill popper; but what kind of father brings illegal drugs in the house? Not a responsible one.
He is lucky in some aspect though. With all of these drug experimentations, he doesn’t have a job to lose because of it. He has been on Workman’s Compensation for the past six years. He supposedly got hurt on his job and while recovering, was laid off. I guess it’s illegal to fire someone who got hurt on the job so he sued. He’s been waiting on a settlement forever but in the mean time was able to collect money from the state. The rest of our family is led to believe that this was his plan all along. He use to counsel my uncle on how he should get a trade job and when he gets hurt he can just collect Workman’s Comp. What a role model. It wasn’t “Hey, go educate yourself and get a good paying job”. It is “Hey, go be a loser like me and look even worse because I’m supposed to support and provide for a family that I made a decision to have”.
The parental screening committee has failed me. They should have spent extra time on my father, interrogating him with tough questions on what kind of example he was planning on being for his future children. Lucky for my brother and I, my mom was strong enough to teach us how to be compassionate responsible people. My father is long overdue to grow up and be a man. I will never be able to respect him, I can’t even stand the sight of him most of the time. So far in my brother’s and my case, stupidity isn’t genetic. I just wish my father would grow up and try to be a better man and not a lost boy.
Whoever was in charge of screening potential child conceivers must have been sleeping while on the job when my “father” was up for his interview. How dare my parents conceive me without my permission! What happened to the hard working, role models you see on T.V.? They just don’t make fathers like they use to. My father has been an idiot my whole life and it seems to just be getting worse with age. He was a terrible alcoholic when I was a child, a wanna be Elvis (as far as abusing prescription drugs) when I was a teen, and now he’s exposed himself to the exciting life of a coke addict/pot head. Did I mention that on the side he is abusing the Workman’s Compensation system? It is really a shame that in his case, stupidity is not a phase but a permanent resident in his personality.
Growing up as a child, I only have memories of him drunk. His intoxications sponsored by Coors Light. He would constantly pick fights with my mom. He’d scream at her using alcohol as a personal gateway to express his frustrations he was having with the marriage. I remember my mom trying to leave the room to get away from him. Carrying the responsibility of being sober, she was sound enough to know that 1 a.m. was not a good time to be screaming at each other. I remember shutting my eyes to give off the impression that I was asleep. My mom would tell him that he was scaring my brother and me and he would claim that we were asleep. I just wanted to avoid any excess confrontation with him. When he would leave our room after an attempt to prove my mom wrong about us being awake, I would go back to pressing my ear against the wall listening to everything going on. I was always terrified of him hitting her. I would sometimes just wait for that moment when I could hear the sound of his hand making contact with her face. What a man, huh? It wasn’t until a routine checkup that he discovered Hepatitis C in his liver that forced his drinking to come to a halt. That is when his doctor would become his new best friend.
Prescription drugs became a problem as I reached puberty. My father caught hold of this prescription drug dictionary that started a new drama for our family. The book would list the drugs, the effects, and what they are used to cure or help with certain health problems. He studied it like a college student studies for an exam. He would approach his doctor with a problem he read about and the pen would start flowing across the prescription pad. My father is probably the sole reason that our local Walgreen Pharmacy has been able to keep up their business. He started with Vicodin then Oxycontin, Dilaudid and Percodan. There are probably more to add to the list, but those were the only bottles I found in his room to help the paramedics know what they were dealing with when he overdosed. Yep, that’s my pa! He’s overdosed about five times. It doesn’t ever faze us anymore. With the third overdose my brother came home in the middle of the commotion. He had a friend with him. I informed him with what was going on and his response was, “Oh, again?” and went into the house to grab whatever it was he came for. His friend was confused as to why my brother wasn’t bothered by the news. How could we be upset? My father was doing this to himself! And if he didn’t overdose enough to grant him a stay at the hospital, he swallowed enough pills to make an ass of himself at family functions. He could be found trying to blend into the background. He would be sitting with his eyes rolling to the back of his head and drool running down his chin. He is an embarrassment. I am however happy to announce that this doctor of his (who didn’t challenge my father’s self diagnosis’) has lost his practice for handing out prescriptions to anyone who wants them. It shows how smart the both of them are since drugs/pills get filtered through your liver. They are both doing more harm than good to my father. I guess with any hobby, things can get boring. That’s when some “friend” of his introduced him to cocaine and marijuana.
I have never been exposed to a real life cocaine user or marijuana user for that matter. I have only seen the characteristics of one in movies or posters. It isn’t that hard to detect the signs though. I started to notice that my father would creep around the house at three in the morning. It would be pitch black, and he would be wandering around the house with a flashlight. I don’t think he was looking for anything in particular. Maybe he was looking for imaginary monsters. I also noticed that for someone who has never had a sinus problem in his life, he cannot keep a dry nostril if he tried. There are also periods where he goes through the coke head obsessive picking stage. Some days it looked like he tore his cheek off. He can go weeks without sleep. Our walls are paper thin and we can hear him rearranging his room twelve times in one night. He started smoking pot in the house. Even with his bedroom door closed, the rest of the house would be filled with the aroma of weed. He claims he can’t sleep without it. Seriously, who does he think he’s fooling? To give you a better mental picture, he started to keep up the attractive look that Nick Nolte tried pulling off in his mug shot. Even including the Hawaiian shirt. I don’t understand what goes through his head each day. It is one thing to be an alcoholic and pill popper; but what kind of father brings illegal drugs in the house? Not a responsible one.
He is lucky in some aspect though. With all of these drug experimentations, he doesn’t have a job to lose because of it. He has been on Workman’s Compensation for the past six years. He supposedly got hurt on his job and while recovering, was laid off. I guess it’s illegal to fire someone who got hurt on the job so he sued. He’s been waiting on a settlement forever but in the mean time was able to collect money from the state. The rest of our family is led to believe that this was his plan all along. He use to counsel my uncle on how he should get a trade job and when he gets hurt he can just collect Workman’s Comp. What a role model. It wasn’t “Hey, go educate yourself and get a good paying job”. It is “Hey, go be a loser like me and look even worse because I’m supposed to support and provide for a family that I made a decision to have”.
The parental screening committee has failed me. They should have spent extra time on my father, interrogating him with tough questions on what kind of example he was planning on being for his future children. Lucky for my brother and I, my mom was strong enough to teach us how to be compassionate responsible people. My father is long overdue to grow up and be a man. I will never be able to respect him, I can’t even stand the sight of him most of the time. So far in my brother’s and my case, stupidity isn’t genetic. I just wish my father would grow up and try to be a better man and not a lost boy.
Tick Tock
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, How Can I Stop an Inevitable Clock?
“Angels with silver wings, Shouldn’t know suffering. I wish I could take the pain from you.” – Depeche Mode
My mom is dying. I can say that phrase a million times over and it will never seem real. Yet, it is her reality. It’s a countdown that is killing me. My rock is smoothing down into a pebble and then, a speck of dust lifted to blow into the wind.
We don’t know how she caught the disease. She was never promiscuous; she never played with needles, and has never had a tattoo. Yet Hepatitis C is attacking her liver very aggressively. Cirrhosis decided to tag team her liver as well. This complicates everything.
My mom had never experienced symptoms of the disease until April of 2003. Her doctors, however, said she probably contracted the disease about 30 years ago. Hepatitis C is like AIDS in a way that it can stay dormant for a long period of time. But it was in that April of 2003 that my mom’s world would start to spin out of control.
We went to Vegas for a soccer tournament that I participated in. We noticed that when we got home from the tournament that my mom’s legs we extremely swollen. My mom was kind of proud of this, because like most Mexicans, we tend to have skinny chicken legs. But, I was concerned. My mom scheduled a doctor’s appointment and a blood test was assigned.
The test showed the ugly truth. She was infected. She started seeing specialists and constant checkups with her primary care physician. She was seeing a specialist who must not have any family or a mom, because he was anything but sympathetic towards her condition. He told her that she would die in a year, or maybe tomorrow. If he had a heart or a mom, he wouldn’t have phrased it that way. Or he would have tried to keep things positive and provide her with other doctors who may be more qualified to help her. Lucky for me and my family, my mom is a fighter and she surpassed that year. She sought out more specialists and we even started to go to every Liver Transplant seminars available.
But in my mom’s case, the cirrhoses set limitations on crucial tests needed to be done. The cirrhosis eats her platelets and the platelets are what we need to help heal open wounds. Biopsies are needed to track the progress of the disease but she could bleed to death if they cut her open. So CAT Scans, MRIs, and Ultrasounds are the only tools that can be used to try and grasp a hold on what they are dealing with. It’s better than nothing, but it’s not enough.
In January of 2007 doctors discovered an ovarian cyst the size of a grapefruit. All risks aside they insisted that it be extracted. It was a big ordeal. Our family and friends were needed to donate platelets for her surgery. That was frustrating because I was differed since I am an insulin dependent diabetic. My older brother was differed due to his visit to Europe during the 80s when the Mad Cow disease broke out. I was proud of my twin brother. He is deathly afraid of needles but he stepped up to the plate and donated. Thankfully the surgery was a success; however, this is when things would start to go downhill.
Two weeks after the surgery my mom caught a Staph infection. She had to be re-hospitalized. The surgeon reopened her stitches and had to leave the wound open. A vacuum like machine was inserted in the wound to suck out any excess fluid that was leaking. She had to be plugged in 24 hours 7 days a week. It was like having a baby in the house. When she had use the restroom I had to get up and unplug her. She couldn’t do any lifting what so ever, so I carried the machine into which ever room she wanted to go. The wound needed to heal from the inside out and this took a month and a half. It was in March when we would encounter a new complication.
We all have ammonia in our bodies. As long as the levels stay normal, we won’t have any problems. When they rise, all hell breaks loose. My mom’s levels raised and she lost all motor skills. She couldn’t talk, eat by herself, dress herself, and you can imagine the rest. It was the worst thing that a daughter can witness. The worst, most heart wrenching part of it all was the way she would look at me. She was either trying to identify who I am, or trying not to forget me. I couldn’t stop crying. I would stay up all night for many nights. I would stretch my ear to try and hear if she had any movement. It usually meant that she needed to use the restroom. In the worse cases, she would sleep walk for about a week. She would get up and try and sleep on the coffee table, or go through kitchen knocking things over. I would try and talk to her. Sometimes I would get a response but most of the time she was empty. Luckily, this would only last for a week or two. And this has been going on at least once a month since January 2007.
This has tested me. I have learned so much about myself in the past couple of years. I am patient, and mature. I have to be. My mom is now permanently disabled. She can no longer drive, so I drive her everywhere. I schedule her doctor appointments. I do the grocery shopping. We joke that I am her financial advisor, but I am. I make sure the bills get paid and everything balances. I have had to set all emotions aside and be strong for her.
I can only be strong for so long. I know that as she approaches her final stages, which are becoming nearer; that I am going to become fragile. I am lucky though, I get to spend so much time with my mom. And I am thankful for every minute that she spends with me. My mom is strong. She has yet to break down in front of me, she doesn’t wear fear on her sleeve, and she is fighting to live for my brother and I. She found a liver specialist in Pasadena who is willing to fight with us. She is scheduled for a liver evaluation with UCLA Medical. They will more than likely place her on the transplant list due to her liver function level. If she doesn’t get matched with a donor in time, a family member or friend can donate half of their liver. Together they will grow the other half. She’ll need this to be done within the next year or two. I have to be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance her body with reject the new liver.
That is where the invisible timer comes in. I can’t see it, or touch it, but it’s there. It’s ticking away at her precious life. My mom is dying, and at the same time I am dying to.
“Angels with silver wings, Shouldn’t know suffering. I wish I could take the pain from you.” – Depeche Mode
My mom is dying. I can say that phrase a million times over and it will never seem real. Yet, it is her reality. It’s a countdown that is killing me. My rock is smoothing down into a pebble and then, a speck of dust lifted to blow into the wind.
We don’t know how she caught the disease. She was never promiscuous; she never played with needles, and has never had a tattoo. Yet Hepatitis C is attacking her liver very aggressively. Cirrhosis decided to tag team her liver as well. This complicates everything.
My mom had never experienced symptoms of the disease until April of 2003. Her doctors, however, said she probably contracted the disease about 30 years ago. Hepatitis C is like AIDS in a way that it can stay dormant for a long period of time. But it was in that April of 2003 that my mom’s world would start to spin out of control.
We went to Vegas for a soccer tournament that I participated in. We noticed that when we got home from the tournament that my mom’s legs we extremely swollen. My mom was kind of proud of this, because like most Mexicans, we tend to have skinny chicken legs. But, I was concerned. My mom scheduled a doctor’s appointment and a blood test was assigned.
The test showed the ugly truth. She was infected. She started seeing specialists and constant checkups with her primary care physician. She was seeing a specialist who must not have any family or a mom, because he was anything but sympathetic towards her condition. He told her that she would die in a year, or maybe tomorrow. If he had a heart or a mom, he wouldn’t have phrased it that way. Or he would have tried to keep things positive and provide her with other doctors who may be more qualified to help her. Lucky for me and my family, my mom is a fighter and she surpassed that year. She sought out more specialists and we even started to go to every Liver Transplant seminars available.
But in my mom’s case, the cirrhoses set limitations on crucial tests needed to be done. The cirrhosis eats her platelets and the platelets are what we need to help heal open wounds. Biopsies are needed to track the progress of the disease but she could bleed to death if they cut her open. So CAT Scans, MRIs, and Ultrasounds are the only tools that can be used to try and grasp a hold on what they are dealing with. It’s better than nothing, but it’s not enough.
In January of 2007 doctors discovered an ovarian cyst the size of a grapefruit. All risks aside they insisted that it be extracted. It was a big ordeal. Our family and friends were needed to donate platelets for her surgery. That was frustrating because I was differed since I am an insulin dependent diabetic. My older brother was differed due to his visit to Europe during the 80s when the Mad Cow disease broke out. I was proud of my twin brother. He is deathly afraid of needles but he stepped up to the plate and donated. Thankfully the surgery was a success; however, this is when things would start to go downhill.
Two weeks after the surgery my mom caught a Staph infection. She had to be re-hospitalized. The surgeon reopened her stitches and had to leave the wound open. A vacuum like machine was inserted in the wound to suck out any excess fluid that was leaking. She had to be plugged in 24 hours 7 days a week. It was like having a baby in the house. When she had use the restroom I had to get up and unplug her. She couldn’t do any lifting what so ever, so I carried the machine into which ever room she wanted to go. The wound needed to heal from the inside out and this took a month and a half. It was in March when we would encounter a new complication.
We all have ammonia in our bodies. As long as the levels stay normal, we won’t have any problems. When they rise, all hell breaks loose. My mom’s levels raised and she lost all motor skills. She couldn’t talk, eat by herself, dress herself, and you can imagine the rest. It was the worst thing that a daughter can witness. The worst, most heart wrenching part of it all was the way she would look at me. She was either trying to identify who I am, or trying not to forget me. I couldn’t stop crying. I would stay up all night for many nights. I would stretch my ear to try and hear if she had any movement. It usually meant that she needed to use the restroom. In the worse cases, she would sleep walk for about a week. She would get up and try and sleep on the coffee table, or go through kitchen knocking things over. I would try and talk to her. Sometimes I would get a response but most of the time she was empty. Luckily, this would only last for a week or two. And this has been going on at least once a month since January 2007.
This has tested me. I have learned so much about myself in the past couple of years. I am patient, and mature. I have to be. My mom is now permanently disabled. She can no longer drive, so I drive her everywhere. I schedule her doctor appointments. I do the grocery shopping. We joke that I am her financial advisor, but I am. I make sure the bills get paid and everything balances. I have had to set all emotions aside and be strong for her.
I can only be strong for so long. I know that as she approaches her final stages, which are becoming nearer; that I am going to become fragile. I am lucky though, I get to spend so much time with my mom. And I am thankful for every minute that she spends with me. My mom is strong. She has yet to break down in front of me, she doesn’t wear fear on her sleeve, and she is fighting to live for my brother and I. She found a liver specialist in Pasadena who is willing to fight with us. She is scheduled for a liver evaluation with UCLA Medical. They will more than likely place her on the transplant list due to her liver function level. If she doesn’t get matched with a donor in time, a family member or friend can donate half of their liver. Together they will grow the other half. She’ll need this to be done within the next year or two. I have to be realistic and acknowledge that there is a chance her body with reject the new liver.
That is where the invisible timer comes in. I can’t see it, or touch it, but it’s there. It’s ticking away at her precious life. My mom is dying, and at the same time I am dying to.
My Getty Experience
The Getty Museum is definitely a utopia for my mom and I. She was able to accompany me on the field trip today and I am so grateful that she could experience this day with me. The atmosphere opened a new door for us. This day is a day that I will remember and cherish for the rest of my life. My mom and I were on a personalized schedule that worked out the best for us. We got to experience different expressions and outlooks portrayed by the artists.
We noted trends in the type of drawings consistent with most exhibits. We joked that there may have only been one artist during that time. The lady lying on her side on the steps of the entry way caught our attention. My mom and I tried guessing where she was from. We examined all physical features on her person and noticed that you can place her in a Spanish origin. It was a game we played throughout each building. The tapestry room in the 2nd building was breathtaking. The giant red room consumed me with envy. To think that someone actually had/has a room like that was incredible. I would love to have a room like that. The giant mantel made me imagine that there was a notch to be touched and the inside would rotate leading to a secrete passage. That room has such a strong and bold yet, elegant and proper presence. Each room that followed was evenly breathtaking. The huge beds made us giggle. They looked like giant, over exaggerated dogs beds. All jokes aside, with the combination of lack of sleep and waking up early, we wanted to climb into them and sleep.
The outside offerings were just as appreciated as the inside of the Getty. The panoramic views were majestic. The gardens were exotic. It created incredible conversations between my mom and me. The scenery was heavenly, which in a positive way brought up my mom illness. There is a lot of information that I still don’t know about the disease. We cried together while gazing at each other with love and respect for one another. That was our moment, to be forever imprinted into our minds. We definitely are going to return someday soon.
I love the connection between art and English. Art is for the people who may not know how to interpret their message in words. I would love to take classes that teach how to interpret those messages. I learned that I take naturally beauty offered right in front of me for granted. I sometimes am stuck with the thought that you have to go somewhere far and foreign for the sights that I saw today. The Getty was an example on why I am wrong.
We noted trends in the type of drawings consistent with most exhibits. We joked that there may have only been one artist during that time. The lady lying on her side on the steps of the entry way caught our attention. My mom and I tried guessing where she was from. We examined all physical features on her person and noticed that you can place her in a Spanish origin. It was a game we played throughout each building. The tapestry room in the 2nd building was breathtaking. The giant red room consumed me with envy. To think that someone actually had/has a room like that was incredible. I would love to have a room like that. The giant mantel made me imagine that there was a notch to be touched and the inside would rotate leading to a secrete passage. That room has such a strong and bold yet, elegant and proper presence. Each room that followed was evenly breathtaking. The huge beds made us giggle. They looked like giant, over exaggerated dogs beds. All jokes aside, with the combination of lack of sleep and waking up early, we wanted to climb into them and sleep.
The outside offerings were just as appreciated as the inside of the Getty. The panoramic views were majestic. The gardens were exotic. It created incredible conversations between my mom and me. The scenery was heavenly, which in a positive way brought up my mom illness. There is a lot of information that I still don’t know about the disease. We cried together while gazing at each other with love and respect for one another. That was our moment, to be forever imprinted into our minds. We definitely are going to return someday soon.
I love the connection between art and English. Art is for the people who may not know how to interpret their message in words. I would love to take classes that teach how to interpret those messages. I learned that I take naturally beauty offered right in front of me for granted. I sometimes am stuck with the thought that you have to go somewhere far and foreign for the sights that I saw today. The Getty was an example on why I am wrong.
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