Gratitude Journal/What have you done today...#3

-I am thankful Jim is back.
-I am thankful I can still pay my mortgage today.
-I made some progress with the Thai government.
-I am thankful that puppy was on this morning, another bzzt moment, but he doesn't agree.
-I am thankful we have been having human communication. It's nice. Comforting that he listens and tries to keep things simple.
-I am thankful for the opportunity to fly to Thailand although I am not sure it's the best timing.

Today started great although the night wasn't too hot. I have this strange headache, my back has sharp pains. I feel like I am in a daze. But at least I am still coherent.

I don't know if I should fly.

Gratitude Journal/What have you done today...#2

-I didn't let the sudden numbness on my entire left arm stop me from fixing the fountain. I probably should not have carried that pail of water but now we have the sounds of gurgling water in the home again
-I learned the definition of forgiveness, "forgiveness is letting go of the hope that the past can be changed". I see the truth in that. I am not sure I am there yet.
-I am thankful that I reconnected with Boyd today. He has not changed much, still has that child like laugh, but his American accent seems to have been replaced by something quasi Asian. It's funny how people come into your life and they may disappear for a while and how time somehow always evolves the relationship to the best that it can be, and the most fulfilling. I recently found our picture together in Hong Kong, thought it was lost years ago. I remember that night like it was yesterday. Is there a connection here somewhere? Seems like my future is always tied to the people I have been with, and theirs with mine.
-I learned from Meryl Streep this: that life is about what feels right for you, not what your mother tells you, or your work. It's hard, but I realize it is about understanding your own voice. You cannot make your life extraordinary muting your voice so that you can be part of society. Society is made up of individual voices and it's ok to have yours different from others. And it's ok to disregard other input that does not feel right for you.
-I fixed my power cording so that my laptop can still sit on the dining table and not be in the way of dining.

Gratitude Journal/What have you done today...#1

-I learned how wonderful WD40 is to clean rust. I am so thankful I managed to save my shower caddy that I lugged from NY and some other bathroom fixtures.
-I learned that while I am not rich, I am not stupid about money
-It's a slow ride but I am reaffirming that even if another doesn't see it, I am worth more than 8K.
-I reconnected with a friend from junior college, gee almost 20 years
-I lost weight, although I think that is bc of my back haha
-I conditioned my hair so now it's extra soft
-I found a great cheap Star Alliance fare to BKK
-It's good to have a puppy around sometimes

S

Karma 40's Style

Is there something about me? I wonder sometimes.

A 47 year old guy just asked me for a date. Considering everyone wants one thing from me a date seems almost novel.

But what is it with me that 47 seems to be a magic number? I just found out my first ex is 47 but when we met 12 years ago I could have sworn he said he was just 5 years older than me.

Of course, other supposed 30somethings turned 40somethings came along after him. With the cap being the 50something in LA.

But age is just a number. All of these guys look 30something, are muscular or fit, and have very young minds. Still that itself could be a problem. You would think that by their 40s people in general would have a better grasp of who they were. Oprah says its your 50s that you become the person you are meant to be. But how about the 40s? Shouldn't there be some kind of stability, at least a sense of who you are?

It scares me that I could be like that in my 40s. I have always expected myself to be fully self aware by then.

Then again, maybe not. Whoever knows? Like who knows I could be paying a karmic cycle by not having people around my own age chasing me like there is no tomorrow. Well, of course there is Mr Houston....but that's another story! Ha ha....

O Boy!

I admit it. I am coming to confession to talk about a deep dark truth.

Something that I am sure will raise cheers and jeers.

Something that will continue to change my life and of those around me.

I am an Oprah addict.

Sigh.

With the network showing her at 9.30 am and 6pm on weekdays, and the cable channel showing her at 9 am and 1 pm on weekdays and 8pm on Sunday nights, Oprah is practically in every Asian home more times than in the US.

And in fact, we have seen shows that are just about to come out on US tv.

I hate it when calls come in during the show, or when I am called to lunch. The only thing that is missing now, is After the Show. Oh and O magazine which costs a fortune here.

Still, can't complain. If it was not for her shows, I'd still be searching for answers to some of life's hardest questions. And thanks to her I started reading. And I still think A Million Little Pieces was a great read.

What a great letter...O. Just as good as S.

:-)

How I am

I've decided to write down details of what's happening. Perhaps one day they will all go into a biography. Perhaps it will either show strength of character or the weakness of cowardice. Time will tell.

It's hard to turn my neck. It seems to get harder to look left or right now. I read that I am supposed to be expecting this. And some exercises would help.

I can't sit or stand for too long. Sitting in one position or lying down cannot be for more than a few minutes. The word for it is uncomfortable. It isn't like having sharp pains in my back. In fact it's like I have insects running around in one spot and no scratching can relieve the itch.

My left shoulder sometimes twitch, like it's creating a hole. And my fingers in my left hand seem to lock up and the tips are numb.

I don't know what's ahead for me. Can I reverse this? How can I travel...can I travel? Do I have enough saved for what could be costly to rehabilitate?

I don't know. I do know it is important to maintain my dignity, and not seek pity. It is important to keep spreading the message that life is short. Too short for pain, fear, hate.

One life to live. Just one. I hope I will live it well.

Mixed HiStory

Many people have come forward and asked me to write a book, or an article, or produce a documentary, or a film. I've thought long and hard about it, and unfortunately it is not the sort of long and hard that I like.

Truth is when I look at my history, I realize I am like a magnet for men who are either trying to find themselves, or think they have found themselves, or want to experiment, or who just never thought they would but wanted to say they tried it at least once. It flattering I guess in one way, tragic for me in another. I really don't know what they see in me. Do I feel like their female partners, except that I have the right organ that they are truly attracted to? I don't know. But certainly it has opened my eyes to different lives and lifestyles.

Nothing happens without a reason. And everything leads you to the next level. And if I am to be honest with myself, I feel like I need to exorcise myself of a world I never thought or wanted to be a part of. But the more I investigate, the more it stabs into the core of my soul. The human stories reveal webs of deception and pain, exhiliration and sorrow. Everyone has a point of view, everyone believes they are right.

I have asked a friend in NY, a writer who has worked on network projects whether he would collaborate with me. I don't suspect he would go into it seeing that he worked with Fran Drescher's husband, who was apparently gay when he married her. They stayed married until recently. I doubt he would work on this as it would appear too much like taking the mickey out of one of your ex-co workers. Not a good career move. We shall see.

Still, I wanted to understand the man's point of view first. And what his real options were. There was a lot of information. Then I came across this article which gave me an AHA moment. This is my starting point.

I am putting it in my blog so that I won't lose it if I need a reference, and someone to interview. I know if this story gets revealed in whichever medium in Asia, there won't be too many happy people because this is an invisible phenomenon. Then again, as my research as revealed, even Oprah has been accused of getting the facts surrounding this issue wrong. Maybe she just needs the right producer to do the story. :-).

Anyway, here goes.

(oh PS, I love the picture, don't you? The man and woman are tied together, but his dick is limp! Says it all!)

________________________________________________________________________

Sex with Dr Thomas Stuttaford and Suzi Godson

Just how gay am I?

I’m 49 and I’ve been married for 23 years but I’ve recently begun having liaisons with other men. I had some homosexual feelings before I got married but they have increased recently as my desire for my wife has decreased. However, I’m still unsure about the extent of my “gayness”. What should I do?

Dr Thomas Stuttaford is The Times doctor. He says:

Dr Eric Dunlop, my former boss and mentor, was a senior consultant at the Royal London Hospital. He also advised the Government on sex.

Dr Dunlop had the outward appearance of an obsessional, old-school Harley Street doctor, or even of a scientist; in fact, he was the first doctor to realise the full significance of chlamydia.

Despite his rigid appearance he was fascinated by human sexual behaviour and very understanding when dealing with the emotional and domestic problems it could generate. One topic he frequently discussed was the very problem you have written about. Although peoples’ sexual interests and enthusiasms may appear to change as they get older, what is really changing is their ability to give physical expression to their sexual fantasies and desires, once their potency begins to wane.

It is a mistake to suppose that all homosexuals have the same pattern of sexual behaviour, or an identical psychological make-up. There are, for example, a few homosexual men who fear and even dislike all women and they are especially repulsed by the thought, or sight, of female genitalia. This may lead them to become misogynists. The great majority of men with predominantly homosexual interests also have some heterosexual urges. When they are young, testosterone-rich and physiologically at their peak, there is no need for them to be with a man in order to have an erection and an orgasm. A woman would be pleasing, if not equally pleasing, especially if they were aesthetically beautiful and there was good psychological rapport. One of the ways in which homosexuals were formerly categorised was by the extent to which they were “obligatory ” or “facultative”.

Obligatory homosexuals had sex only with men, even if their lives were filled with seductive, alluring women. Facultative homosexual men were those who would prefer, but perhaps only just, sex with a woman but, if none was available, would make do with a man. As Dr Dunlop used to say: “Given the circumstances, they would accept any port in a storm.”

Dr Dunlop’s analysis fits your own situation. When you were 26 you were probably not quite as testosterone-rich as you had been ten years earlier but you were still virile and libidinous. You apparently had homosexual feelings before you married. It may be that your family, colleagues and friends expected you to be heterosexual and you acquiesced. Even so, you wanted to marry and presumably enjoyed a fulfilling sex life. You are probably one of the bisexuals who is in the centre of the sexual spectrum, predominantly homosexual, but only just.

Your youthful sexual vigour allows Dr Dunlop’s “any port in the storm” theory to operate. His premise also supposes that once a man’s potency begins to fail his orientation tends to revert to whatever was his principle sexual interest when young. He suggested that many older bisexual men would increasingly often find it difficult to achieve an erection with a woman. As their sexual desires dwindled so often did other rewarding aspects of a heterosexual relationship that once had a strong sexual component.

What is the extent of your gayness? It’s impossible to say without knowing you. I’d hazard a guess that you are bisexual but predominantly homosexual. Now that you are older, and your sexual drive is ebbing, the physiological reflexes that control your sexual response need more stimulation to achieve an erection.

Your principle objectives, if you have children, should be discretion and consideration for what is best for your wife and children.Think hard before taking drastic action. Before talking to your wife, sound out her opinions on similar mythical cases. Some women are tolerant of homosexual unfaithfulness. Others are repelled.

Suzi Godson is a sex writer and columnist. She says:

Use a condom and tell your wife. The Thatcher Government’s iceberg advertisement campaign in 1987, to highlight the growing problem of HIV/Aids, may be a dim and distant memory, but HIV is still a chilling reality for the gay community — so be smart and play safe.

Mind you, navigating your way through sexual health is likely to be a walk in the park compared with the titanic drama you face when breaking the news to your wife.

And break the news you must. Though the prospect of “coming out” to her must be as appealing as slicing off your own testicles, without doubt she will have interpreted your decreasing desire for her as some form of personal rejection already.

If you don’t tell her what is really going on, you continue to support the fiction that she is responsible for the decline in your sex life and this does her a double disservice because the truth is a whole lot more complicated than that.

You say that you are unsure about the extent of your “gayness”, but you’ve already had sex with other men. That makes you gay enough, I assure you. When a married man has a heterosexual affair he chooses to have sex with another woman despite that fact that his wife could, theoretically, be enough for him.

His decision to cheat is a behavioural choice. When a married man has a homosexual affair he does so because his wife can never be enough for him. His decision to cheat is driven by orientation, not behaviour, and there is little that his wife can do about it. Like many others, you have tried to suppress this aspect of yourself, but you can not change who and what you are.

You can, however, change your behaviour so that you minimise the deceit and the hurt that you inflict on your wife. Choose to be honest, and once you have told her the truth try not to take advantage of her understanding by flaunting your liaisons. Respect her feelings and try to behave in a civilised way while you both work out what to do.

Eight years ago, a friend of mine, aged 57, found out that her husband of 24 years was gay. He didn’t want a divorce and they continued living together, albeit in an open marriage, until their children were at university. But as she says, “once the genie was out of the bottle” things were never the same and her husband eventually fell in love with another man and finally moved out. Like this woman and her husband, a small percentage of couples in your situation will opt to portray a unified façade to the world while privately tolerating their altered circumstances.

But most couples eventually split because once a man decides that he is gay it becomes increasingly difficult for him to compromise the chemistry and exhilaration he gets from his homosexual relationships for an essentially celibate existence with a partner he loves but cannot have sex with.

No matter how well you handle this situation you can expect it to be messy and painful, but there are several support groups that you can contact. Gay Married Men runs a helpline and website (07961 249389; www.gaymarriedmen.co.uk), as does the London Lesbian and Gay Switchboard (0207-837 7324; www.queery.org.uk).

There is less support for women, but the Straight Spouse Network UK runs a help line (number available on www.ssnetwk.org, or e-mail ssnetwork@softhome.net) and Yahoo! has a members-only chatroom at(www.groups.yahoo.com/group/Wives ofBiGayHusbands) where women who have been through the same predicament offer each other support.

Walking Tall

We never grew up with a lot, we never knew what a lot was.

As children, you really have little comprehension of the monetary value on things.  You just get a sense of what the innate value of those things are to you.  And everything is subjective.

So a pair of branded sneakers may mean something to someone because of the brand, while a non branded pair could mean a great deal to another person just because they are a new pair of shoes.

When I was growing up, shoes were not luxury items.  They were necessities that were bought once a year.  And they had to play specific functions.

White canvas shoes were for school, and one other pair (usually a pair of sneakers) were for any other time you go out.  and that was that for the year.  Considering going out was at best, once a week on a Saturday for about 4 hours, the sneakers tended to have lots of mileage.

School shoes were another matter.  They were everyday use: 5 days a week, for more than 6 hours at a time.  These were also shoes you would wear to your physical education, or gym class.  Wear and tear was the expected consequence.  That together with the fact that our feet would grow pretty fast made it challenging to stick to the same pair all the time.

But we made do.

Creativity is born out of necessity.  And a little pride in our appearance made finding solutions even more imperative.

So we had liquid chalk, kiwi white we called it, that we would use to literally white wash the shoes back to almost as good as new condition.  Sometimes this was done without washing the shoes because water would just cause the shoes to wear out faster.  The kiwi white was sticky and sometimes if used enough could even cover minor holes in the canvas.  It was like having your own liquid paper to wash away any mistakes. Of course, a rainy day literally would wash away your cover ups. See, even at a young age, I learned the value of a good concealer. Prescriptives had Kiwi White to thank for my loyalty to them.

I never really saw that I was not 'fortunate' like the other kids.  Looking back, I was in school with kids whose parents lived in big houses and could not possibly understand the concept of having just two pairs of shoes for the year.  Still, I guess that may be one of the good things of having to wear a uniform to school.  All you see are the school colors on your body, you don't see variations in style, or manifestations of wealth. There was no real competition when it came to how you looked.

I guess we really were in the 'have nots' group of people.  Sure our situation was not as bad as being homeless, or orphaned etc.  But since everything is relative, you can only look at your environment and assess things that way.  

I have to say though that I am not sure if the other kids felt the same joy I did whenever it came around to shopping for shoes.

Once a year, just before Hari Raya, the celebration at the end of Ramadhan, my mother would bring us out to get our new shoes.  Seeing that she was making barely $400 in those days, shoes for three kids must have been a big investment.

Oh but the exhilaration!  To be able to pick your own shoes, subject to a budget of course which was probably mostly under $20, was nothing short of feeling like you are worth something as a human being.  The ability to put something new on your feet was like giving a kid wings to fly. It was the validation of your existence.

I remember we looked forward to shopping for shoes once a year.  It offered a sense of renewal, like whatever happened in the past year has been wiped clean.  The slate can be rewritten with a new script.

My self worth was never really about how much I had and the dollar value attached to them.  Back then I was just happy to have those shoes, that one set of  'going out' clothes and whatever hand me downs we could get.  Of course by the time I got to junior college and teen parties meant dressing up, I learned fast that I did not have the tools to be 'in'.  Borrowing from older cousins became something that had to be done. Not shoes per se, but clothes. Imagine wearing a blazer with the same pair of sneakers the other kids have seen you wearing to school...to a party. Luckily, it is an Asian custom to take your shoes off before entering someone's home, and luckily, almost every teen party was at someone's home. Oddly though, not having much did not affect my popularity in school and I was always invited for the 'in' parties. Somehow, not having too much, didn't mean not having a lot.

In a way, I miss those days. Relishing the little you have makes everything mean something. These days, in the age of consumerism, and in an age when almost every other Singaporean has a Louis Vuitton, somehow, the value of things have become, well...devalued. Misplacing or damaging things does not create the sense of loss you would have if that was the only thing you had for a long time.

I guess this is partly why I felt so much for that boy, Mir in the documentary about Muslims in Afghanistan (something I wrote about a few days ago). He had one pair of shoes. His father whacked him for playing football in the dirt in them. What would have happened if he had dirtied or damaged them? What then? Still, Mir is lucky in his own way. For everything he had was something to cherish.

It was like when I was growing up. Getting that pair, or that new unbranded watch was a big deal. I remember accidently losing that watch; I felt like the world was over because I loved that watch. I had felt it, scrutinized the beauty in its design, seen all the pluses to how it had been created, loved the smooth touch of the crystal. I cherished it so much I felt so bad when I lost it. So the good of having little is you cherish what you have, the bad is that you just cannot go out and get something new when something happened to your possessions.

Still, I was happy with my yearly contract with myself.  One that told me that I would be ok.  That I would be fine, that I would be happy regardless. My contract to get those shoes, that once a year event that told me I had everything to look forward to in the coming year. I walked tall in my shoes. I walked tall.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

NB:  these days I have what I call my bi-annual multiple orgasm contract between myself and DSW (Discount Shoe Warehouse) in NYC.  And boy that really makes me happy!

Him.

I tend to write what I see, feel, hear, sense.

And in the last few months, one person dominated my world so much that even fortune tellers were saying I was changing because of him. And regardless of what I was going through, he was always in my thoughts.

There is much to say because he has impacted me in no small way. And while no one may be reading this, my blog serves me best as a outlet for my feelings, an outlet without judgment. So I am glad I can and do and will write about him.

And this is even though I can be judged for my relationship with him. I can also be loved, hated, sympathized, pitied and ridiculed because of it.

Expression is important. To make sense of things, gain a grasp. For even now, even as I go through this little medical situation, even as he has clearly abandoned me, I can't force myself to hate him. Some say I am a sucker for pain, others say I am a classic abused wife. Which is such a joke considering the circumstances. Still, admittedly, I love him. Still.

Enough to find these juicy morsels of art. I don't even know if he is aware of these posters, but for someone who hates his pictures taken, someone else has gone through a lot of trouble to put him in mass media.

Personally, I think it's very creative. I like the communist general one best. Seeing his face in the posters makes me miss him more. You know, I always have a catchphrase for the people I saw on a romantic basis. He asked me what my nickname for him was. And as hard as I try, I can't find some funny yet meaningful glib term for him because the overall feeling is still one of love. Regardless of how badly I may behave about the whole thing. Maybe these posters can give me a clue: maybe he is Mr Would Be Celebrity...or something like that. Or The Reluctant Personality.

Ah well. Wonder where the artist got his pictures though. Hmm. Some ex trick? Naa. The face in the posters look like its been embalmed. An ex trick would have been able to take a hot pic. :-)

Realities of a Boy in Bamiyan

So now I know.

Something is wrong with my spine. It is not going to get better and the only thing I can do is to manage the situation, not cure it.

When you are younger, you never think of how your body can fail you. Maybe that is why kids think they are invincible and dare to take risks.

These days, I am mindful of my actions. And my actions remind me of what I have. So if I sit too long, my body tells me so. If I stand too long, my body tells me so. It is easy to feel pity for yourself because you can tell yourself you are not whole, or that the one thing you know for certain is that pain is inevitable. When the very foundation of your anatomy gives way slowly, you wonder when the time will come before you really end up being confined to the bed.

Having recently been confined, I only had the television for company. And I slowly became a fan of the National Geographic channel.

They had a spectacular documentary on the Gospel of Judas. And just days after, they had a whole expose on the life of the Prophet Muhammad. I loved they way both programs questioned the status quo.

Tonight, I stumbled upon a documentary about the lives of people in Afghanistan.

To call it a documentary is a little strange though. There was no voice over. No immediate sense of what the picture narrative was leading the viewer towards. It was like reality tv, voyeuristic in appeal.

Eye opening nonetheless.

In the eyes of the media, Afghanistan is just a festering hole of terrorists. Certainly the occasional international news reports peppered throughout the show reinforced this impression.

The people, many of whom were displaced over years of fighting, would tell a different story.

How once they were rich. How the Russians came in with planes and bombs. How the people rushed to take cover, to survive. How the Mujahideen fought back and won. How four different foreign powers tried to gain political control over the people for their own purposes. Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, The US, and Russia. How each power offered 'assistance', not in terms of aid, but weapons. Until what finally was born out of the struggle was the Taliban.

Interspersed with this commentary was life seen through the family of one boy named Mir. How in the midst of this political turmoil, there was everyday life. The boy looked like a cross between a Russian, a Chinese and a Middle Eastern. Attractive, cute but truly weathered. For an eight year old boy. Weathered.

Still he seemed happy, unaware of the world outside his environment. In fact, the only thing they heard of 9/11 was how the Taliban had an American ally called Osama Bin Laden who flew a plane into a 5 storey building and caused a lot of destruction. To this the family condemned. Especially since the Taliban was seen as oppressors.

Mir's family seemed like any others. They shared happy moments, they shared bad ones too. But everything is relative isn't it? Their issues surrounded things like getting firewood and water. Boiling water and finding food. Being able to afford money for bread to fill the stomach. Fighting to get the international aid away from gypsies.

These people were not political. They had no agendas. They were not Taliban.

They witnessed the Taliban destroy the wheat fields, the pharmacies, their lives. They saw the Taliban destroy the Buddhistic monuments that once stood around the caves they lived in. Worse, they saw the Talibans kill women and children. The same Talibs that the Afghans supported because they were Muslims too and shared the same interests. But this was not so. The Talibs' justification for cutting ears off, blinding people, bayoneting kids was: "You are not Sunnis, you deserve to die."

I tried to imagine being in their shoes. I know from the pain of my degenerating back that the future is uncertain. The question of whether I can maintain my health and my lifestyle. The costs involved.

But then they showed Mir's father, whose spine was broken by a fallen tree. He lifted his shirt up and showed how his back was disfigured, and talked about how he could not work. He could not support the family, and was labeled useless. There are worse fates. Especially if the fates lie in a hostile desert environment.

I have always been thankful for everything I have been allowed to have. I use the word 'allowed' carefully as I believe nothing is a right in this life. Yet as I tried to imagine what it was like to live in caves where dust floated in the air as if time had stopped, where the main concern really is whether you have enough to eat, I couldn't. But just the effort made me feel trapped. If I had to live under those circumstances, knowing what I know now of the world around us, I would feel cheated of a life bigger than the immediate environment would allow. I could not imagine living thinking that 5 storey buildings were truly tall. But that is just it, these people knew little of what is really happening around the world.

I realized how little it really takes to live. Do we need our designer lamps or dresses? Some of us we cannot live without our morning coffee. I am all too aware that everything is relative and we all aspire within our circle to be better, get more, to live the best life possible. But what is the best life? A year ago, I would have never imagined that one could live in a penthouse in a big city or even have yet another home in the country. It was a luxury I could not fathom. But I met someone who had that. I knew for myself that having Hansgrohe bathroom fittings and WMF cutlery was an achievement, of being able to get something that could be the best in their class. But to have two homes, to have two cars etc was beyond my dreams. I started to question if I could really live out my plan to move to New York. If that was the standard I should live by, how could I possibly get that?

But then I discovered that the person with the two homes was in the danger of losing his country home because of some potential financial difficulty. This made me quizzical. Because it seemed to him like a disaster if the country home had to go. So I asked him, do you have money to eat? Yes. Do you have a roof over your head? Yes. But I don't want to lose my country home.

I suppose he worked for that home, and for that he deserved it. But when I thought about that family in Afghanistan, it truly does not take a lot to live. That family was concerned with basics. Mir's parents kept reiterating how they wanted him to have an education, so that he can support them and help the family. But like any parents, they had dreams for him, bigger than those they had for themselves. That he would be a teacher, who would be able to eat good food (better than the cow stomach the father begged the butcher to give to him for free), and good clothes (better than the single pair of shoes they could afford to give their son). And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to give them the same privilege of good food and good clothes.

Just good food and clothes. That's all they dreamed of. That and a home. But in spite of the fact they have gone for days without food, they were denied a home by UNESCO because they were deemed not needy enough.

I looked around my home, with my Yothaka sofa, and my trinkets from around the world. And realized how lucky I was. And how I really did not need yet another designer lamp to make my home complete.

And for the self pity I could have felt about my back, I can tell myself that unlike Mir's father, I am still able to work. Like him, I just have to adjust my realities.

We all live in our own realities. But the basic concepts of pain, happiness, dreams, etc hold the same for everyone. Looking at Mir's family, we all want the same thing. Comfort, security and a full stomach. Maybe knowing this would hush any complaints one may have about how their lives could and should be better. Because at least its not worse.

From My Deathbed...

...well not really.

Still, you learn a lot when you are incapacitated. And I've learned to appreciate how paraplegics use technology to communicate their thoughts. The body may fail you, but if your mind is alive, you can still let people know what you think.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

There are some truths in life one should try to adhere to.

Never miss a wedding, because people remember those who miss their new chapters in life.

Never miss a funeral, because people remember those who miss the closing of a chapter in life.

Birthdays and anniversaries, truly depends on the people who celebrate them. Some regard these events highly, others don't.

But while these can be debated, there is one more truth I would add to the lot.

Never miss helping someone sick. Because? Well, read on.

For the past week, I have been exiled to staying at home, mostly on the bed, because I threw my lower back out at the gym. The pain was so excruciating I could feel myself age as I lost the fight time and time again to rise above it. The pain was like a cocktail of sharp injections up my spine and pulsating thumps that radiated from the lower back down to my legs.

Each time I stood to walk to the bathroom, gravity seemed to grow hands and they would pull my waist down to the floor. I felt with each step I was losing power in my legs. With each attempt, another battle was lost.

I was immobilized in bed for three days without food. In fact the thought of food made me feel like throwing up. It was pretty much a daze. I could hear the telephone and my cell phone ring, but I had no energy to pick it up. So pretty much no one knew I was in that state.

I remembered thinking, "So this is how old people who live on their own can die without anyone knowing. This is what happens when they become invisible".

Of course I was not exactly invisible. Push comes to shove I had relatives and friends I could call, had I forced the energy to get to the phones and dial. I knew however that I had my mother in me. No matter how bad a situation is, she would try to pull yourself out of it without resorting to charity or sympathy. Call it foolish, but my mother's pride has made her survive some bad medical and personal challenges. And I believed I could be the same.

By the fourth day, I ingested enough painkillers on an empty stomach to force myself to get medical attention. The doctor told me I had a slipped disc and swelling around the spine and that it would take a while to heal. This being a traditional clinic, was concluded without the benefit of x-rays. She put me through acupuncture and heat lamps. And for two hours after that, the pain did seem to lessen. But just for two hours after.

By the time I got home, it was back to walking in baby steps or like an eighty year old, and feeling like your stomach was dragging along the floor. Every movement had to be in slow motion, any sudden ones would be punished with a belting of pain.

I decided it was time to ask for help. Still wanting to keep my pride, I called an uncle who had the number to a traditional Chinese chiropractor who did amazing work on me before. My uncle said he did not have the number on him and that he would send it across in a text message. That message never came.

I called a few friends, and initially I got answering machines. Eventually they called back and they wanted to help. My cousin also offered to drive me to a Western doctor, but I declined, not wanting to be that much of a bother.

But knowing that I could depend on these individuals offered me a sense of safety and comfort; an assurance that I am not invisible.

I came to realize that invisibility is not a state of being. It is a projection placed upon you by the action of others. It is a true manifestation of the actual attitudes a person holds for another, it is the action that divides the room up into what matters and what does not.

My uncle called me again the next day, and asked me what really happened. I never got a sense that he was truly interested in knowing. He offered to come over and I said almost heroically, "I'll be ok". He was very quick to accept that. A little too quick. Sometimes, people in need will try to maintain a strong front to retain some sense of dignity in dire circumstances. But it is not hard to see the cracks in that. My uncle was not interested in the cracks.

So he offered to call the doctor for me the next day. Again, I never heard from him.

I got similar treatments from someone I thought I was close to in New York. Sure, the Big Apple is so far away and whatever can someone there do for someone in the Far East?

A sense of safety and comfort; an assurance that I am not invisible.

My friend in New York did not offer these to me. In fact, out of almost sixteen waking hours each day, the time needed to say 'hello, let me know how you are' was something that was hard to negotiate. All of the communication tools modern technology has created was not good enough to make that connection. They were not good enough because they were not used.

To be fair, he did call once in the early stages. I don't think he could tell how much pain I was in. What transpired after was like white noise that matched the white pain. And all I remember was this voice in my head screaming like there was no tomorrow. Begging for him to stop fighting me. Anyone who knows me would know the concept of begging and who I am does not tally. But I was begging. It felt like how I felt, how much physical pain there was did not matter. The emotional pain began to measure up. Any offers to make contact with me came with conditions. I was reminded by something I learned from a leadership speaker: if you can't prop someone up, don't bring them down.

I was desperate for compassion. Just being there, letting me understand that my health was paramount over petty squabbles would have been the deposit into an emotional bank he could draw on when he needed compassion and understand. I could not understand. How can anyone kick a sick person when he is down? Is there ever any justification for that? People may be upset or angry with another, and the reasons may be fair and clear. But I kept thinking between the internal screaming, that sometimes one needs to put somethings off to another day, in order to support another, in order to help him recover, for him to truly understand the meaning of love. This was not happening in this case.I could not understand why.

Thanks to this truly painful experience, I learned the attitudes my uncle and my friend in New York held for me, and saw quickly that in that I was in the box of what does not matter. I know both would say that is not true. But it takes real action to prove that statement.

No excuses, no judgement. You cannot matter to everyone. You can only hope those that matter to you will accept you in a similar vein.

Everybody leads busy lives, but if we don't put that on hold to be there for someone in need, then what is our place in the chain of humanity. What defines us as human beings if we can look the other way? When is it ok or not ok to look the other way?

Thankfully, there are many in the world who do not look the other way. In New York, volunteers offer shopping, food delivery and cleaning services to people with full blown AIDS who really have lost their independence.

A friend of mine, despite my protests and his busy schedule, came by last night at 11 p.m. to offer me groceries and a late supper. He also took out the trash. I was not the best company because half the time my body was having a war within itself. But the connection between me and the people living with full blown AIDS was not missed. I had to admit that I lost my independence. I needed help. And mother's pride had to take a back seat. And that was ok. It was ok because at least I had someone who would step out of his world to help me in mine.

I have always known that it's important to have good friends and family. But it is crucial to know who you can rely and depend on. Some people say dependability is a dirty word. I say it serves as a rock in your life, the foundation that allows you to move forward. Since no one does it or goes it alone, you need to know whom you can depend on.

So here is the truth I added to the lot, and the 'because':

Never miss helping someone sick because in the dark chapters of their lives, people remember those who offer a sense of safety and comfort; and the assurance that they are not invisible in spite of their lack of independence.

Thanks for reading.