ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2010
Shaken Haiti Syndrome
Our “dear Pilar.” Everybody says it. You can’t help it. Pilar Harrison, this little lady with the heart of a saint, left us on January 27, at age 81. But I dare anyone to call her “old.” She was always the youngest person in the room. If you were anywhere near Parkway Schools in the last decades, you remember her. I attended her last “lesson” last spring in St. Louis, when she came out of retirement, you might say, to teach her former colleagues how to make a “tortilla espanola.” Let’s face it, it was just an excuse to be with Pilar! Her death leaves me shaken, but her goodness restores me to believe in wholeness. And nothing was fuller than the love between Pilar and Dean, her husband who passed away on Thanksgiving Day,1999. God bless their re-union....
Sensible people scoff at the idea of a limited or “targeted” nuclear bomb, a weapon indiscriminate by nature. But who would ever have thought of a targeted earthquake that would devastate Haiti while leaving the Dominican Republic, which shares the same island, virtually untouched? As incomprehensible as the suffering and loss are, the prospect of a planned attack leaves one’s faith in ruins, too. Quoting Robert Frost, “What but Design of darkness to appall--if Design govern in a thing so small.” But they were singing!
Is Death’s dark aim targeting Elvis’ family? Don Vidal, Elvis’ father, 71, is the latest casualty. He died a couple weeks after a drunken binge on Christmas Eve. He’d come close before, but this time he not only poisoned himself with booze but fell and hit his head, never to recover, despite being rushed to the hospital in San Pedro Sula. He was improving a tiny bit, and they were bringing him home, dazed and confused, barely conscious, not recognizing his own children. He died in the car just as they passed through Victoria, almost home to Las Vegas. The last time I mentioned Don Vidal in these reports, we were rejoicing; he had joined AA as a faithful member, the most eloquent and seemingly self-aware of any of the little group. A teacher and a natural orator, his own reflections on his alcoholism could fill another Blue Book (the AA “Bible”). But he fell off the wagon many times since, and I was just too embarrassed or something to tell you. His wife Yuya, so happy for a while--AA even met in their house sometimes!--is back to square one, I guess, and may move in with family in San Pedro Sula..
Actually, I was not there for the end of Don Vidal, since Chemo and I were in Tegucigalpa with Chemo’s sister Rosa and her husband Tonio, for the heart brigada, which declared Rosa improving enough with medicines that she did not need an operation. Chemo and I got back to Las Vegas just in time for the last 4 days of Don Vidal’s novenario, the nine days of prayer for the dead. The family has its own litany, Don Faustino, the patriarch, the only “natural” death, you could say, at 96, a couple years ago, then, in quick succession, Marvin, Elvis’ brother, run over by a taxi in New York City, Don Tomas, Elvis uncle, run down by a motorcycle in San Pedro Sula, Wil, Elvis’s nephew, shot by a gang that took offense at the Mother’s Day gift he was carrying, and now Don Vidal, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us, pray for us.... Alcoholics Anonymous is so blessed a gift, like a child hidden in the hand of God, but even miracles don’t always “work.”
It only took five minutes for the doctors of the brigada doing Rosa’s echocardiogram to decide that Rosa did NOT need surgery, but those few minutes were embedded in a 12-day marathon with an “Avatar” budget. I had to smile, because in the States you’d get in your car, drive to the doctor, get your echo and the good news and head home, in time for lunch. Such is not Honduras. But I really had to smile, to think, our prayers had been answered, so the whole trip was well worth it. I had been tied in knots ever since the August brigada when Dr. Christian Gilbert first told us that he would be happy to see Rosa, 22, even though the brigada is for children. So we brought her in November, when we got to the very brink of surgery (Rosa was already in the hospital), and Dr. Gilbert reconsidered: “Let’s try some meds first.” Then January and another brigada: Rosa is improving, no surgery required! As Dr. Gilbert himself said, “Hallelujah!” Ron Roll and Alba, sponsors of Helping Hands for Honduras, had invited us, along with other families, to welcome the brigada at the airport. They were coming on American, Continental, and Delta flights, all arriving about the same time. Alba had lots of heart-shaped balloons and you should have seen Dr. Gilbert’s face light up when he saw Rosa.
I was not alone in my anxiety regarding Rosa, for which I must thank you for sharing the burden of prayer and lifting Rosa up. But the good news did not release us immediately--we had to do her teeth. Eleven cavities. She needed five appointments to get them all, and even with a 40% discount from the wonderful Dr. Juan Handal, I thought, Does anybody do teeth transplants? Rosa was very brave--I’m afraid I sat this one out. I stayed in the hall, while Tonio her husband and Chemo went into the chamber with her. Of course, even in the hall I could hear the buzz of the drill, but I didn’t have to worry about any blood spurting on me.
That is, till I got in the chair myself, to extract the tooth--finally!--that’s been bothering me since before I moved down here. It’s been capped and recapped and honed and cemented and “saved” till I finally cracked the root in half just before Christmas and it swung like a trap door. The dentist pulled it out in pieces. I’ve got a hole in my head now that makes me look even more like a Honduran, most of whom can’t afford “dental work,” so they just get them yanked--sometimes 2 or 3 at a time--at the local clinic for about a dollar apiece. I have not decided if I’ll get a replacement--depends on how bad I want to eat popcorn, I guess.
Birthday cake, of course, is no problem. So we celebrated little Jefferson’s 5th birthday, along with his little sister Helen, in the care of great-grandma Agnes. These kids are special for me since I pass their house daily on my way to Jacinto’s store. Dirt poor. I started the habit of getting them a little juice and snack at Jacinto’s and I thought, let’s do a birthday. In Tegucigalpa, I had picked up a couple “Avatar” toys at the airport McDonald’s--they’re blue and they light up, what more could you want? Just look at Jefferson’s smile--little does he realize he’s part of a billion-dollar promotion.
Speaking of visitors from beyond, Fermincito came home! He left to seek his fortune in the States just before the golpe de estado, and he returned just as Mel Zelaya rode off into the sunset. Coincidence? You be the judge! Ironically, Chemo and I were visiting Fermin and Maria and the family just when “Fer,” as he’s known, showed up. I was checking emails on my laptop, and Maria comes in. Making conversation, you know, I say, What do you hear from Fermincito? “He’s in the living room right now.” I think, I thought I knew Spanish, but that makes no sense at all! But there he was, now 20, a little worse for wear--he broke his left arm badly when a tractor turned over on him and he never really made it much past the Mexican border. When I asked him why he came back--besides the obvious hopelessness of the situation--he said to see his little daughter. But his father Fermin confided in me that Petronilla, Fer’s girlfriend, came to the house privately when there were rumors of Fer’s return, to say she would not see him and she would keep their little daughter away from him, too. So she’s in hiding. You see, Fer got in over his head with some gangs in Morazan, which is probably why he left town. Even Fermin wonders if he and Maria and the family are in danger, with Fer’s return. I mean, here gangs kill you if you’re in a gang, if you’re not in a gang, if you were in a gang, if want to get out of a gang--but this protocol is universal, yes?
Watching Chemo playing with Fermin and Maria’s youngest, Jose Miguel, I couldn’t believe it. Before his surgery, Chemo, now 15, was the same size as Jose Miguel, now 8. Chemo has sprung up like Alice in Wonderland (“Drink Me”) and good Lord! he’s a giant next to the kid.
Meanwhile, the new President of Honduras, Pepe Lobo, is also trying to measure up. His very first decision was the most controversial, but thank God! He actually interrupted his inaugural address to sign a pardon for ousted President Mel Zelaya. It was like Gerald Ford pardoning Nixon, an outrage to some, but we have to get the mess behind us. Then he personally escorted Mel from the Brazilian embassy, where he’s been since he sneaked back into Honduras in September, to the airport, where a plane arranged by the President of the Dominican Republic flew Mel off to that island paradise (?). Mel is living in a huge mansion for now, but I hope he knows he’s got a shovel-ready job at the other end of the island in Haiti. Hey, Mel! man of the people, right? Get busy! And the “interim” president, Roberto Micheletti, who was also covered by the amnesty, made no appearance at the inauguration, lest he be a “distraction.” He just quietly slipped away to his own hacienda outside El Progreso. So I’m done picking on them, I’m just so grateful there was no violence, no assassination attempts and so on.
We might get back on our feet--just in time for own earthquake....
Love, Miguel
