Wednesday, January 29, 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2014

PASHTUNWALI


The new partnership of “The Beacon” and “St. Louis Public Radio News” kindly published my January “letter from Honduras”: 

I thought I was a goner. NOT a “lone survivor.” Even Chemo was crying, sobbing at my bedside as I prayed for God’s mercy. But I wasn’t quite dead yet. I had had a dizzy spell, so light-headed, so disoriented I could only stand up by clinging to the wall, the office door, the table, another door, till I collapsed in my bed, guided there by Chemo. It was only 8:00 in the morning, and I thought I was having a stroke! 

We had returned the day before from a week in Tegucigalpa, and I had already eaten twice at Chemo’s grandma Natalia’s house, supper last night and breakfast this morning. After the dainties of the city, I thought I had gotten back to basics, yet the food maybe was a little...funny. Because when I struggled to sit up in my bed, with Chemo’s help, my head still spinning, thinking to take a couple aspirin (I heard that somewhere), I suddenly shuddered. Grabbing the wastebasket and dumping its contents on the floor, I threw up. Man, I threw up to beat the band, over and over, till I thought I was done, and then threw up some more. (Sorry to drag you through this!) I recognized the remnants of Natalia’s meals. I lay back down, scared to death; an hour later, I tried it again, sitting up, with the same result; and at least 2 or 3 more times, each time thinking I was “better,” but my body wasn’t letting me off the hook. Finally, my stomach registered “EMPTY” but shook me with a few more retches, just to be sure.

That’s when I asked Chemo to pray with me; that’s when he broke into those heart-rending sobs. Alerted by Chemo, Elvis and Dora were quickly on the case. Dora prepared me a potion, Elvis “massaged” me. I threw up the juice, and when Elvis, for his finishing move, reached under and around me and gave a sudden jerk! to get the “patibulum up front,” whatever the heck that move was, I thought he broke my back. I wiggled my toes and kept wiggling them, to be sure I wasn’t crippled. This was the first positive sign of the day: at least I would die a paraplegic!

Yet this was my “pashtunwali,” the native term for the care Marcus Lutrell received from his Afghan hosts after the Taliban had wiped out all his companions. Indeed, Dora later  prepared me a simple soup that did stay down and tasted so good. And Elvis kept everybody calm. Everyone was treating me with such lovingkindness. We all had theories on what was wrong with me, dizziness, vomiting.... Now don’t get ahead of me here, because maybe you have figured out something that I did not think of until Dr. Meme made a very welcome house call later in the afternoon and labeled it “vertigo.” I was...seasick. Jimmy Stewart flashed in my mind, climbing the bell tower in Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo,” probably because I had just heard that critics voted it best movie ever. I had to smile, it was so simple. As the Scarecrow told Dorothy, I should have thought of it myself! But when you’re up to your eyeballs in your own spew, you lose perspective. 

Still, I knew I had to get a more thorough diagnosis from my cardiologist in Tegucigalpa, Dr. Bayardo Pagoada, who has degrees from Tokyo and Rome. I had not seen him since 2007, when I brought Chemo to him. With only a stethoscope, he quickly diagnosed the precarious condition of Chemo’s heart, but referred us to his colleague Dr. Karla Andino, a PEDIATRIC cardiologist. She hooked us up with the Brigada, and the rest is history. 

Once I adopted Chemo, I didn’t go back to Dr. Bayardo because I couldn’t afford to. I figured, every time I go he checks me out and says I’m OK, and then charges an arm and a leg for the visit, so I’ll wait till I’m sick, then I’ll go. I spent all my time and money on Chemo (and our extended family!) for the past seven years. Well, my near-death experience convinced me, now was the time! Of course, I can afford it even less now, but I sharpened up my credit cards and prayed Bank of America wouldn’t notice. 

The good doctor--and he is very good, so kind and professional, and with a light dusting now of gray hair, a fatherly figure--welcomed me back, and was so pleased with Chemo, twice the size since he saw him last, including a stubbly mustache. 

After two days of tests--chest X-ray, electrocardiogram, echocardiogram, blood work, etc.--he pronounced my heart “stable,” no different, really, from 2007, just a little larger due, no doubt, to my heavier weight; and my cholesterol was up. So I didn’t have a stroke, I probably won’t have one, it WAS the food, I was “normal,” and it only cost about $500 to find that out! Now, he did give Chemo a check-up, too, at no additional cost, and suggested an adjustment in his meds. As they say, some things money can’t buy.

When I went to make a new appointment for July, the young secretary Susana was wiping away tears. She had just gotten the news that her grandmother had died. I sympathized all I could, and the next day I dropped off a little book of “Prayers for Young Women” for her that I found at a religious bookstore. She of course had already gone to be with her family. 

As I said above, we had just been in Tegucigalpa only a week before this emergency visit. That trip was full of “business”: renewing my residency visa for another year, renewing my driver’s license (now including a “psychological” test!), dental check-ups for me and Chemo (look, ma! no cavities!), Mema’s birthday (64), and, best of all, Mema and Elio’s daughter Felixsa pronouncing her final vows as a nun after 17 years of study and sacrifice, most of it in Spain. 

The vow ceremony would be in the Basilica of Suyapa, the biggest church in Honduras, one of the biggest in the world, in fact, at a regularly scheduled Sunday Mass, January 12. As Elio joked, “We invited 1500 of our closest friends!”) But the whole crowd got involved, so outgoing, well-spoken, and self-effacing is Felixsa, lit up, you might say, by the Holy Spirit. We sang, we applauded, we dropped to our knees to pray for Felixsa’s fidelity to her vocation. You know, the colonia of Suyapa is the most dangerous in the whole city, so I only carried a handful of Lempiras, certainly not my brand-new ID or license or any credit cards--but I was not going to leave my camera behind at the hotel. I knew that the pictures by Felixsa’s brother Elio Jr.--a professional photographer--would be infinitely better than my own, but I wanted to “see” for myself. And it paid off, since I could give Elio and Mema copies when Chemo and I suddenly found ourselves back in Tegus for the Bayardo visit. 

Felixsa’s “missionary” work will be right here in Honduras, teaching, preaching, giving retreats, training other young sisters, tending to the needs of the poor. I’m already pestering Elio and Mema to get me into some of the events, a schedule they are more than happy to explore. 

My recovery was promising enough that I turned to Chemo and asked if he was ready for yet another trip, this time to Morazan for our annual “vacation” with Fermin and his family. “Let’s go now!” he pleads, meaning directly from Tegucigalpa. Tempting as that was, I knew we needed at least a day in Las Vegas to “freshen up” and pay some bills at the various “pulperias” where I have running tabs. 

So we were a few days behind schedule, but still in time for the 87th birthday of Maria’s father Antonio and the 20th birthday of Maria and Fermin’s son Eduard, who has become Chemo’s best friend. Both celebrations were based on the principle: all you can eat!

In “Lone Survivor” and in religious life, you see the power of love to transform ordinary people into heroes who transcend their earthly roots. Of course, “Lone Survivor” makes my little episode look like a bubble-bath, and Felixsa’s enthusiasm had me in tears, but you do see how heroic, too, are the ones who wait hopefully to assist and support those who swear their lives to serving others.

That’s where you come in. I’m sure no hero, but you sure are my “pashtunwali”! I
apologize for not chronicling my health crisis on FACEBOOK and Yahoo!, but I simply did not have the strength, and then when I did, well, let’s just say that all your prayers, good wishes, and kind thoughts had already been answered, even though you didn’t even know I was counting on you. Anonymous healing. Thank you forever.

Love, Miguel



Friday, January 3, 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2014

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2014

X-MAS MARKS THE SPOT


“The Beacon” held its nose and published my disagreeable report on the elections in Honduras. I hope that’s the last time I have to waste a whole CASA on politics!
https://www.stlbeacon.org/content/33900/voices_dulick_election_120213

In fact, “The Beacon” has joined St. Louis Public Radio News:
http://www.news.stlpublicradio.org

Christmas had us coming and going. And not just here in Honduras.

A week before Christmas, my sister Barb arrived home about 5:00 p.m., threw a big bag of Christmas presents and her even bigger purse on the couch, coaxed Jah the dog, blind and frail, out the door, and went for a walk. She returned to find her house lit up like a torch, in flames and smoke. Too shaken even to dial 911, she screamed it aloud, but the neighbors assured her they had already called. By the time a swarm of fire trucks arrived, it was already too late, so fast and furious was the blaze. In fact, things like her TV, computers, furniture, clothes didn’t just burn, they MELTED. A space heater with a thermostat might have been the culprit, but the house is old and every improvement project Barb would start got stalled by decayed and dangerous wiring.

About midnight, she texted me with the horrifying news, then added: “Well, I’ve been praying recently to find some way to simplify my life. Do you think God maybe misunderstood?” Even in a tragedy, she’s still Barb!

I wanted to drop everything and go up to St. Louis, though my last bank balance was $2.01 and my credit cards are stuffed tighter than a turkey, but Barb, longing for the time to sort things out, urged me to stay put, and just pray. At least one prayer had already been answered. Can you imagine if the fire had struck at night while Barb was asleep upstairs, or if she might have tried to put it out herself? A couple pet guinea pigs did not make it. “I keep thinking about those poor little guys,” Barb says. Thank God we’re not thinking about Barb for the same fate!

Her best friend Linda welcomed her to her apartment till the insurance company arranged rooms at a suite hotel (one that allowed dogs!). Our sister Nancy quickly joined her from Columbia, MO, and George, her favorite handyman, helped her pick through the rubble. Priceless photo albums were among the finds. And when her melted purse seemed a total loss, Barb’s friend Maria said, “Let’s cut it open.” Inside, like pearls in an oyster, were her wallet, credit cards, ID, license, etc., all perfectly intact.

I call Barb almost every day, and finally worked up enough courage to ask her if she had had any hopeful “signs” from our family in heaven. “Well...” Turns out our brothers’ ashes--John and Bob, who died last year--still in the plastic boxes from Ambruster Mortuary, had fallen off a shelf and fused together in one lump. You have to be flexible  to see why that’s “positive”!

But the saddest picture from the fire was the front door, ruined and gaping, its antique leaded glass exploded, the door that welcomed everyone and anyone, the door we joked about forever because the key or keys almost never worked, if you could even find them hidden on the porch, now a door to nowhere. When I mentioned Christmas Midnight Mass at College Church, I could see Barb’s smile even through the phone. Silent night, holy night. But yoga sessions with Nancy are just as spiritual.

The next step is an apartment that insurance will pay for. Until the house can be redone. A daunting task. And get this, it’s a designated “historical district,” so everything has to be approved by “the committee.” The simplest thing might be if the ever-expanding Washington University would snatch up the property, as it has other real estate in the neighborhood.

There's bridal showers, baby showers, has anyone ever heard of a fire shower…?

Meanwhile, here in Las Vegas, little Mariana Teresa, named by mom and dad Maricela and Juan Blas for our sister Mary Anne, who died in 2009, celebrated her fourth birthday. Can we take that as a “sign”? More life! even if Carlota accidentally shortened her name to “Maria Teresa” on the cake.

Actually, her nickname is even shorter, Marite. Her big sister Milena had a celebration, too, graduating in Arts & Letters from a college in El Progreso. Maricela and Juan Blas invited us (Chemo and me) to the event, which I took as a “sign” to enhance the celebration, just as I had promised! I love to see education given such a priority against all odds. The church gave Milena, who wants to be a doctor, a scholarship. So, busfare and such, and a big lunch with her brother Manuel and family, who live in Progreso, at the “world famous” Las Tejas restaurant (“Your Place for Meat”) were the least I could do!

Graduations in Honduras are even more solemn than in the States, so I almost fell  off my chair when “El Progreso’s Own” Victoria took the stage with a mini-concert of about 4 or 5 songs before they handed out the diplomas. It was as if Tina Turner showed up! “I never graduated from anything, but you kids are GREAT!” Most of the faculty sort of fidgeted, but when she got the music teacher up there with her for some wild moves, they brought down the house. I made a point of seeking out the Master of Ceremonies afterward to thank him for inviting her. He blushed.

We took advantage of the trip to El Progreso to see Teatro La Fragua’s signature production “Navidad Nuestra,” the Christmas story with a Honduran twist. They’ve been doing it for 30 years, but it’s as fresh, revolutionary, really, as Pope Francis’ latest call for the “Christian” church (you notice he doesn’t just say “Catholic” church) to return to its roots in poverty and service. Jack Warner, a Jesuit priest who started the Teatro, watches every performance as if it were the first; he must feel amazed to have at last a Pope who “gets it.” Maybe, just maybe, they can perform it for Francis when he visits Central America.

We got another invitation, this one from Carlos Ordonez, a young poet whose work I discovered in 2004 when he was just 20. His email address was inside and so I contacted him to congratulate him and invite him to Las Vegas. I never imagined he would accept, bringing two other poets with him. We had a “Noche Cultural” that included local poets of our own, especially Erlinda, and a tribute from Beto, who memorized one of Carlos’ poems that I taught him, since Beto is blind. Carlos was moved to tears. In fact, the theme of Carlos’ poetry, like his mentor Roberto Sosa is, you might say, the tears of the poor, as the title of his first book “Llanto Alrededor” (‘Grief Abiding’) suggests.

The new book would be launched in another “noche cultural” at the Cultural “Annex” of the Spanish embassy, no less, in Tegucigalpa. Carlos now makes films with his wife Ursula in Brasil, so this would be our only chance to see him till who knows when. The new book has the challenging title, “Disturbio,” prose-poems of pure imagery, words in a million colors. I suppose he is on the verge of international fame, but he greeted me and Chemo like family, and warmly introduced us to his mother and father as well as Ursula’s parents: “These are the friends I keep telling you about.” Chemo has watched Carlos’ documentary film about Brasil’s oldest poet, hardly an “action movie!” over and over. And Carlos also inscribed a copy of “Disturbio” to Angelica, who met him when he would pick us up for lunch at the Nanking Hotel, where she has her little candy stand out front.

The “Disturbance” of the title is our struggle to be ourselves, a meaningless pursuit without solidarity with the dispossessed.

Carlos’ vision comes from his tiny village Orocuina, folks like our own Celestino, who died a week before Christmas at the age of 99 (some say 100, some even more) in Paraiso, the “town between two rivers” that he founded with his wife Liandra next to Las Vegas. When I heard the news, I knew I had a great picture of him, but when I went searching for it, I was pleased to find it was one of the first pictures I took when I moved down here in 2003.

Here, Christmas Eve IS Christmas. That’s the tamales, that’s the visits, that’s the only Mass. So when I asked Godo, “Are we doing anything tomorrow?” he drew a blank. Then we remembered it was the finale of Celestino’s novenario. Perfect! Our Christ child would be a centenarian! The celebracion, some singing, some preaching, everyone a coffee and rolls, it was Paraiso’s Secret Santa. Martin, one of the grandchildren, said at one point, “I’ve been doing some figuring.” In his lifetime, Celestino and Liandra had 8 children (3 boys, 5 girls), 71 grandchildren, 241 great-grandchildren, 109 great-great-grandchildren, the latest Luis Fernando, born November 9. Abraham and Sarah, call your office! But even with this cloud of witnesses, Liandra grasped my hand as I was leaving. “Don’t stay away, I’m all alone now.”

May I say the same, to you. Stay close, in the New Year. Keep my sister even closer. Fires certainly do “simplify” things. At midnight January 1, we burned up 2013 in the form of a old dummy “ (‘Pichingo’) stuffed with firecrackers, at the soccer field. Bless you for giving us hope that 2014 will stay fresh all year!

P.S.: Let me add one more note from the November elections. Mel Zelaya, who still thinks his wife Xiomara won the presidency, accused another candidate Andres Pavon of selling his votes to the National Party candidate and official winner Juan Orlando Hernandez. Pavon politely asked Mel for proof, adding, “Lacking any forthcoming evidence, we must consider Mr. Zelaya’s accusations as ‘speculative’ in nature.” Have you ever heard a gentler accusation of “Liar!”?

Love, Miguel