2014: Year in Review

December 30, 2014
Day 244

In 2014, I made this public resolution on January 1st: "I will believe in myself more.  I will trust in the God-given spirit within me, and I will overcome fears and challenges, obstacles and roadblocks.  I will take leaps of faith into the unknown, and find myself growing more than I ever have before.  In 2014, I will transcend, I will dream, I will be.  And I hope you'll be there with me, to journey into the realm of possibility and imagination, where the highest mountains we've ever climbed will be conquered together!"

On January 9th, in the wee hours of the morning, I asked Andy to bring me to the hospital.  There was no evidence it was anything other than bad heartburn, but it scared me nonetheless, and made for a sour start to the new year.

On March 11th, I published my second book, The Papal Visitor, sequel to Book 1: The Uniter.

On April 23rd, I began writing my third book, the last book of the Heaven, Hell, and the Planet In Between series.

On May 1st, I turned 39 and began writing this daily blog.  Today is the 244th consecutive day I've published an entry here.  To date, my blog entries have gotten over 7,000 views.  My most popular blog entry was on November 23rd, called My Buddhist Calling, which has received 131 page views.  My least popular entry was on June 1st, called June's Many Meanings, which got only 2.  (My views aren't counted.)

On June 14th, Andy and I attended the Long Island Pride Parade, and when a small band of sick men with signs walked past, I shouted, "God loves everyone!"  The confrontation that followed was tense and scary, but I was happy to have said my peace in response to their hate, and encouraged them to just get lost and leave everyone alone before I called the police (who were already around the area to protect us).

On June 29th, Andy and I marched in the New York City Pride Parade.  It was Andy's first time marching and my second, and we both had a wonderful time!

From July 18th to July 23rd, Andy and I vacationed in beautiful Colorado.  We stayed with our great friends Isobel and Sam for half the time, and at a hotel in the Rockies the other half.

On July 20th, we made a special trip up to Laramie, Wyoming.  Why such a long drive out of the way for a little town in Wyoming?  Because Laramie is the place a 21-year-old gay man was attacked and left for dead when I was 22 and still coming out of the closet.  Matthew Shepard's story shook me then and always has, and he's become an important character in my book series about heaven.  You can read about our trip to Laramie on my blog entry here.

On August 11th, I learned Robin Williams had committed suicide.  Celebrities we've never met die all the time, and we feel the sadness of it for moments or maybe even hours.  His death shook so many of us for weeks.  I wrote this about Robin: "The smoke of a burned-out candle is not the candle. Tonight, I'm so sad to hear Robin Williams has left us. None of us can understand why people get to the point of taking their own lives, but for those of us who have been directly impacted by suicide, we are all too aware of the unending impact it makes on us. That said, again, the smoke of a burned-out candle is NOT the candle. The entirety of light that still is Robin will shine on forever. We cry for the smoke of this moment, but we know his light shines on."

On August 13th, we found out Andy's Uncle Fai had been rushed to the hospital with a serious and possibly fatal stomach condition. 

From August 23rd to September 1st, I enjoyed a 10-day trip to Ludlow, Vermont, my home away from home.

On October 1st, I was a guest speaker at two classes at Nassau Community College, thanks to the generous invitation from my friend Bill, who teaches there.

On October 10th, my Aunt Nancy died.

On October 12th, Andy's Uncle Fai died.

From October 20th through October 28th, I served on a federal jury in Brooklyn.  Talk about a life experience!  Wow!  Check out my blog during those days to read some of my reflections.

From November 1st to November 30th, I participated in NaNoWriMo, which stands for National Novel Writing Month.  In the month of November, each participant is asked to write 50,000 words of a new novel.  I didn't think it was possible at first, but by month's end, I'd written 60,112 words.

From November 15th to November 17th, Andy and I visited our friends Cherri, Maria, Mark, and Robert in Columbia, Maryland, and made a special visit to Andy's Great Uncle Nilo as well.  Nilo is a celebrated artist whose work still graces the halls of the Pentagon, as well as air force bases worldwide.  We purchased some of his paintings, and if you're at all interested in doing so too, I encourage you to check out his work available for sale on his website.

On December 3rd, I received a new computer via FedEx, my first new computer since 2005.

These are not my only major moments of 2014, but they are the lion's share of them.  Writing these out has been a wonderful exercise for me, and very helpful as I look ahead to resolutions for 2015.

Three grave sites and a burial

October 25, 2014
Day 178

This morning, Andy and I accompanied his Aunt Lydia, cousins Ferdi and Joe, as well as some other close family members, to Pinelawn Cemetery on Long Island.  Uncle Fai's ashes were ready today for burial, just over a week after his funeral.

As we walked over to the grave site, where a small tent was erected and some chairs put out for us, I watched as another burial took place nearby.  There, just down a small path from us, a large group of approximately 100 mourners had gathered to pay their final respects to their own loved one.  I wondered who the person might be, and thought about the people who'd died in the ICU before Fai did.  Could this be one of those?  Someone we knew from the ICU?  Chances are, they weren't related at all, and the mourners were all complete strangers.  Still, they didn't feel like strangers to me.  I felt a spiritual kinship with them, even from across the graves.

After we laid Fai to rest, as the saying goes, we traveled to another part of the cemetery to pay our respects to the grave of Andy's maternal grandmother, Eileen Chong.  Though she died 11 years ago this past February, I felt a beautiful connection today.  Eileen's son Fai was dead in this life now too, and his body buried not so far away from hers.

And then, after saying goodbye to Andy's family members, Andy and I drove over to St. Charles Cemetery, to visit briefly with my mom and dad at their grave site.  I don't go to graves every year on special anniversaries usually, with some exceptions at times, but try to go now and then when I can, to set aside some special time to talk with my loved ones in Heaven.

All of these graves and all of these people mean something unique to both Andy and me.  Even though I never met Andy's grandmother, and he never met my father, we honor the special part each one played in the life of the other.  We also honor, I believe, the mystery of death itself.  We talk to our loved ones with the hope, if not faith that they can still hear us and sympathize with the struggles we face.  We honor the mystery by honoring their place of burial, by speaking some words of honor and respect at their grave, and allowing the mystery of what happens when we die to blow past us as the wind blows.

Across the way from where Fai was buried this morning, another burial was taking place.  And all across the cemeteries we visited, other bodies or ashes were being brought there to be lowered into the ground.  We didn't know all the people coming in and out of the cemetery at the same time as us, and they don't know us either, but I take comfort in knowing that somehow, we are all connected.  We may feel we're connected because of death, but really, it's because we're still living, and not just living, but living with the mystery, too.  As we cry for our loved ones who have died, we also feel a spiritual kinship with them, even from across the grave.

Funeral Funnies

October 18, 2014
Day 171

At one point during the first wake for Andy's Uncle Fai, Andy's dad told me a joke, and then apologized right afterward.  "I can't believe I'm joking around today," he said with dismay.  Then he told me another.  I assured him it was not just natural to do so, but healthy too, and as it turned out, the many laughs these past few days really did help us a lot.

Andy's Uncle Buck spoke about his recent trip to Rome.  He said when he visited the Forum, and the tour guide showed them where Caesar was killed, Buck asked why there was no chalk line.  And when they took a tour of The Vatican, the tour guide asked if people knew who the pope's army was (The Swiss Guard), but Buck just suggested, "The Salvation Army?"

When Andy and I saw his cousin's son knocking things down off a table back at his aunt's house, someone jokingly referred to the toddler as Godzilla.  When Andy's great uncle Nilo spoke to us about our upcoming visit to D.C. to purchase some of his paintings, we told him we didn't want to spend too much money, so he calmly suggested we just take a loan out, before laughing once he saw our faces.  And even the names of some people in Andy's family make me laugh.  One woman is known as Fatty Mama, because she used to be very heavy, and another man is known only as Goggi, because he drinks so much. 

There were more funny moments too.  Andy's niece Lorelei told us she didn't like ceremonies, which is what she was told the wake and funeral were.  "People are sad at ceremonies," she said.  "But weddings are ceremonies too," Andy's dad assured her.  She smiled.  "I like weddings, because they have cake."  Another little girl, the granddaughter of Fai's next-door neighbor, was standing at the coffin with her grandparents.  The grandfather pointed to Fai and said, "Grandpa is sleeping."  The little girl frowned and said right back, "No he's not.  He's dead!"  From the mouths of babes!

Buck had some other great lines too.  At the funeral mass itself, he saw the incense smoke rising from the coffin and whispered, "They're not starting to cremate him right here, are they?"  And before that, when it was time for Communion, he said, "I don't want that.  There's no dip."

Laughter really is the best medicine, and it's very good for the soul.  You should joke around when you can, when appropriate, and enjoy life's happy moments, because this journey we're on here really is quite short.

There may not always be dip, but when there's cake, make sure you have some.

The new beginning

October 17, 2014
Day 170

My Aunt Nancy and Andy's Uncle Fai have now left this life here behind, but their journeys are only just beginning. 

This week is over, but new beginnings wait just around the corner.  All deaths, all separations, all endings are really just beginnings, new starts to new realities.  We can mourn for the ending, but we may as well mourn for the end of each minute, or each second.  Endings keep happening all the time, and new beginnings always follow.

In this week of death I've just gone through, one truth has appeared time and time again: life goes on.  When one of us dies, our loved ones will hopefully mourn our passing, but soon enough, life will continue.  New plans will be made, new adventures will be found, and new tomorrows will unfold ...without us.

The time we're given here on Earth is brief, and it's all ours to do with as we wish.  We can choose to be grumpy and mean, rude and judgmental, or we can be kind to every person we meet, embracing strangers like they are our neighbors, and maybe even our family.

When you cross a long beach and finally reach the sea, you haven't reached the end of everything.  All you've found is a new reality.  Your legs cannot take you across the ocean the same way they brought you across the sand.  New methods of traveling will be needed, and a new vessel.  The journey doesn't end, only the way we journey forward.

So today, as my week of death ends, I see new beginnings.  I see families who will heal and recover, who will live on and see new adventures, even though their loved one is no longer there on the sand with them.  They stare out at the ocean before them, the mysteries of life blowing through the air, and they know new vessels took their loved one forward.  And for now, all they can do is wave goodbye, and maybe take some time to appreciate this place at their feet right now, where the ocean meets the sand.

Thank you, Fai

Stolen Borrowed from Jeanette Stevens. June, 2014.

October 16, 2014
Day 169

My partner Andy's family is much smaller than mine, so his aunts and uncles and their children are all part of what I'd call the immediate family in his life.  Events of any size, or gatherings here in New York or North Carolina, include different people, but the core group is always the same.

Uncle Fai was one of the chieftains of this inner circle, if not the head.  He wasn't the eldest, but his home became the focal point of many parties over the years, and he and his wife Lydia always welcomed many people for every event.  Family, extended family, neighbors who were always treated like family: all were welcome, and all were his family!  So losing Fai now is a heavy blow for many, many people.  Things will certainly never be the same again.

Fai in Tranquility Intermediate School in Trinidad, front row, fifth from right. 1950s.

People will still gather to celebrate special occasions, and no doubt his wife Lydia will still joyfully welcome people into her beautiful home, but without Fai, we are forever incomplete.  A piece of us is lost, gone to a better land that feels so very far away.

Today, we will have wakes for Fai, periods in the afternoon and evening for Fai's friends and family, and loved ones of his friends and family to come and mourn together. 

Our faith tells us his suffering is over, and his pain is no more, but our hearts ache with our own suffering now.  Our brother has left us, and won't be there at the next family gathering.  Thanksgiving and Christmas will feel that much emptier without him, and his sisters Lynette and Molly, his wife Lydia, sons Ferdi and Joe, and grandson Channing will all have to slowly adjust to a new world without him.

Today at the wakes, and tomorrow at the funeral, our tears will fall quickly and often.  We'll be mourning the man who welcomed us all as his own, a man we will forever call our friend, but more than just that, he was also our father and our brother...our family.

This Week

October 14, 2014
Day 167

This is a sad week for Andy and me, so I'm going to try my best not to overwhelm you with depressing thoughts.  I do want to say though, when I'm asked if I'm doing okay, I answer, "Yes, because my faith is strong."  And I'll follow that up with, "Others aren't doing so well."  I don't always use those words, because for some people, it can come across the wrong way, and it's neither my purpose nor intent to upset people. 

Sunday night was the first wake for my Aunt Nancy, and Monday evening I went back again too.  Both were held in her beautiful home not far from me, and it was so nice being able to kneel before her casket and whisper to her, but then minutes later have a cup of tea and a slice of homemade Irish soda bread in my hands just 40 feet away.  This morning, Tuesday, was her funeral, and it brought with it several beautiful moments I'm sure I'll be writing about some other day.

Tomorrow, there are no wakes and funerals to go to, just a full workday for me, followed by time with Andy's family in the evening.  Tomorrow will also be the 10th anniversary of my mother's death day, which was my saddest day ever.  Even with great faith comes great sorrow.  It's not the sorrow of a permanent loss, but is the particular sorrow felt when you know the source of so much unconditional love in your life will not be there to hug and kiss you, and tell you things will be okay.  This is the feeling Nancy and Fai's children and grandchildren, as well as Fai's wife, are feeling right now.

On Thursday, we will have the wake periods for Andy's Uncle Fai.  After suffering for the past two months in the ICU, his release must have felt great to him, but was a profound loss for his wife and sons.  Fai was just 67 years old, far too young to leave his beautiful life and family behind. 

Friday will be Fai's funeral mass, and I imagine we'll spend a lot of time with Andy's family this whole week and the upcoming weekend.

It's a sad week for all of us, strong faith or not, as two of our loved ones have now left us to the mysterious great beyond.  We cry for them, but we really cry to honor them with our grief.  Our tears and our sadness are a testament to how much they meant to us, and how much we will miss them. 

"In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing." -Robert Green Ingersoll

These past eight weeks

October 6, 2014
Day 159

It's now been eight weeks since Andy's Uncle Fai has been in the hospital.  I haven't talked about it a whole lot here, but we still go every day to visit him, usually in the evening after work for about 45 minutes to an hour, sometimes more.  It doesn't feel like much considering the seriousness of his situation, but when you add in driving time, it's a big chunk out of our weekday evenings.

He still can't talk, as he's all tubed up all over and has a tracheotomy in to help his breathing, so even when he is awake and alert enough to see we're there, he can't talk to us, and often doesn't even look us in the eye.  I imagine he's depressed to some degree, or in pain, or just very tired, and it's probably all of that and more.

We walk into the ICU each evening and wave hello if he's awake, then wash our hands before approaching the bed.  And then it's always the same routine from there.  I look at his heart rate and his blood pressure, I check his blood output, urine output and yes, even the other-stuff output, all to see what color everything is.  I'd never have guessed I'd be so interested back when this all started, but I've learned to be happy when the colors are all exactly as they ought to be.

After washing our hands, saying hello, and looking at all his fluid output, we glance over at his IV tower to see what medicines he's on, and how much of each one he's currently getting.  Fentanyl and pantoprazole are the only ones I know offhand, the latter easy to remember because I pronounce it as if it's a dish I'd order at my favorite Italian restaurant.  "Yes Mario, I'll take the pantoprazole with bolognese sauce, please.  Thank you, my friend."

Can I just say again though: eight weeks!  For 56 days now, Fai has been laying in that bed, in the ICU at Nassau University Medical Center, with nothing but a nurse's station and some curtains to look at.  He's got no TV or even a radio there, and he's asleep or drugged up enough to be very sleepy most of the time anyway, but this has been going on for close to two full months!

I can't help but think to myself, what have I done with the last 56 days I haven't been laying in the ICU?  What have any of us done with our lives these past two months?  While Fai is laying there in bed, his stomach still distended, still not sealed from the original operations, medicines going into him all the time, and other tubes taking fluid out of him constantly, the rest of us have been going on with our lives.  And what have we done?  What have any of us done with our freedom from hospitalization and illness?

These past eight weeks, Uncle Fai has been bedridden in a serious, sometimes critical medical situation he has no control over.  He's at the mercy of his doctors and nurses, and can only nod his head or occasionally squeeze our hands in response to the random blather and conversation we offer when we visit.  And then, each evening, we leave him there, and we return to our lives back home.  We turn on the TV, or go back to our computers, and we forget again.  We forget he's in there sometimes, and we forget how good our lives back home really are.

So take a moment, wherever you are, to be grateful.  Be grateful for your health right now, and your life right now.  And if you can, say a prayer for Fai, or send him your positive energy and well wishes through the air.  You don't even need to wash your hands first. 

Thank you!

"I" VENT!

September 4, 2014 
Day 127

There's a funny thing that happens soon after you come back from a nice, relaxing vacation in the mountains. 

You've got a big, goofy grin on your face, you're looking around and appreciating the great life you're blessed to be living, and then you feel a tap on your shoulder.  You turn around with a big smile, only to be faced with a towering figure wearing a neon-green t-shirt that says: REALITY.

"Oh...you," you say.  "I wasn't expecting you so soon.  I mean, I guess I knew you'd be back sooner or later, but I honestly thought I'd have more time."

Reality smiles a big, goofy grin of his own, and then takes your arm to lead you away from your temporary bliss of forgetfulness.  He brings you back over to your aching knees, the work waiting on your desk, your bills, your dramas, your struggles, and your stresses of every shape and size.

Now for me, my stresses are many, but none of them are really that big.  I do handle things well for the most part, but certain people and events do of course make my blood pressure spike quickly.  And these past few weeks, if there's one stress in particular, it's that surrounding Andy's Uncle Fai.

Fai's been in horrible shape in the ICU for over three weeks now.  Patients have come and gone from various bed locations in this time, and besides the nursing staff we've gotten to know, only Fai in Bed letter "I" has been in the same place there each evening when we visit.  The elevator dings as we reach the second floor, we enter the quieter ICU area, we walk past the first hallway for beds A-E, and we find Fai, unconscious, waiting for us in Bed "I".

It's always the same, as are all the uncomfortable noises (and smells) in the area.  Someone's blood pressure starts rising rapidly, and an alarm goes off...an alarm with two apparent purposes: 1) To alert the nurses to make sure a given patient is okay, and 2) To successfully raise the blood pressure of everyone else nearby.  And all of this, once again, forces me to put things in perspective.

I gripe, moan, and even bitch my way through moments of annoyance all the time, and then I come back to see Fai, and I remember.  I remember to just shut up.

Venting is good.  It's healthy.  But when you see someone going through something horrible like this, tubes going in and out all over his body, machines and bags of medication hooked up all around him, beeps and blips and a bevvy of boisterous bells and whistles sounding all the time?  It really puts things in perspective!  Life's too short for us to be bitching and moaning about the most insane little trifles all the time, and life's too sweet to be chewing on so much of the sour.

There but for the grace of God go "I".  And "I" needs all our prayers right now.  I on the other hand?  I'm doing just fine.  Venting is healthy, but perspective is vital.  And my perspective tells me clearly in times like this to just shut the hell up, and appreciate all the good days, while I have them.

Stay if you can, go if you must

September 1, 2014
Day 124

At the end of each shamanic drum circle I attend, after we've communicated with the spirit world and networked with our spirit animals, we wrap our arms around each other in a circle at the center of the room.  We "close the circle" by thanking the spirits for helping us to journey and learn.  And the phrase we always use is, "Stay if you can, go if you must," referring to the spirits who have helped guide us over the past two hours.

For the past three weeks, my partner Andy's Uncle Fai has been in the ICU at his local hospital on Long Island.  What started as possible food poisoning on top of an already sick body quickly grew more and more serious.  He was in critical condition, then stable, then critical, back and forth in a very 2-steps-forward, 1-step-back fashion.  Unfortunately, yesterday he was teetering on the edge of death after an operation to give him a tracheotomy and redress his wounds.  His blood pressure was very low, and he was losing a lot of blood.  The doctor told Andy's family that Fai may not survive another day.

And so I prayed for him, and for the medical professionals trying to help him.  I prayed for many things, among which were strength, peace, clarity, and desire...desire to live.  I also told Fai in my prayers to "stay if you can, but go if you must".  I told him he had a family here who wanted him to stay with them for another 20 years or more if possible (he's only 67).  I reminded him spiritually of his sons and 1-year-old grandson, Channing.  And then, reluctantly, I also told him they'd all understand if he had to let go.  He's been fighting hard these past three weeks, and it's been clear his body has just not been doing well.  So I prayed this over and over: "Stay if you can, go if you must".  His uncle is still with us as of this morning, and I do hope he'll continue to stay.

Go if you must, Fai, but please stay if you can.

I know it's time for me to go, though, but just back home to Malverne.  It's 9:30 AM now on Labor Day Monday morning, and I've been in Vermont since Saturday, August 23rd.  I'd stay here if I could, but I must go back now.  Andy and his parents await me at my house back on Long Island, and the life and career I have back there await me too.  My vacation is over, and I need to pack the car and head back home.

It's been a wonderful trip that lasted about 10 days, but felt more like a month.  I take many treasured memories and experiences with me back to Long Island, as well as a collection of photographs and videos from my time here.  I also take back about six bags filled with presents and collectibles!  I think I must have spent more than I'd expected, but many items are future Christmas gifts to others at least.  That gives me some solace!

Stay if you can, go if you must.

Life's travels take us this way and that all the time.  Thoughts and beliefs come and go too.  Judgments about others.  Judgments about ourselves.  We move all over the place constantly: on vacations, from job to job, relationships and friendships shifting this way and that, and yes, even our life itself.  We move and move until we cannot move this body any further.

Stay if you can, go if you must.