Detox

When JC and I lived together in El Salvador, or when it was just the two of us, we had wonderful times. We were very young, immersed in art projects, reading, questioning, and curious about everything, with so many possibilities opening up before us. 

It felt good to be rebellious together, to make art, to read and philosophize. We could ignore our dysfunctional, controlling relatives without much trouble.

Coming here to live with his mother was the turning point.

She immediately began to treat me as if I were one of her maids. I was naïve and didn’t notice it at the time. 

I cared for her, for the house, and for JC, whose demands grew increasingly unreasonable. 

She, for her part, took every opportunity to insult me. She told me more than once that she hoped her son would find a blonde, blue-eyed girl instead. I overheard her on the phone with her wealthy “best friend,” speaking of me as someone beneath her standards, wondering aloud why her son found me attractive. She also complained to her friends on the phone as if I had been hired by her to do housekeeping.  

JC was oblivious to how his mother treated me and I never told him. In front of JC, she would praise, showered me with compliments and say that I was like the daughter she never had. 

Meanwhile, JC little by little started claiming the role of “The artist”, with me as his assistant. 

His music studio spread from one room to the living room, the garage, and eventually into our bedroom. His mother had her own studio and her own room. I had only the kitchen and dining room as my available space. It gradually became clear that they were the only “artists” in the house, and that I existed to serve them both.

When I finally left, JC was crushed and felt betrayed. For a long time, I carried that guilt. He tried to win me back for many years, even after he found the blonde, blue-eyed girlfriend his mother had always wanted for him.

I felt guilty because I had promised I would never leave him. In my heart, I didn’t want to but it became impossible to live with him and his mother. They had reduced my existence to that of a maid, and I had stepped into that role without realizing it, alone in a strange country and grateful for what felt like “family.”

For years, I was told how ungrateful I was for leaving. 

JC was crushed and wrote extensively about me and composed music expressing the heartache he felt over my departure. 

Now, somehow, I feel vindicated. A small re-creation of our life together has unfolded at the hospital.

From day one I have been caring for his mother driving her, buying her food, coffee, toiletries, and other necessities out of my own pocket to make her more comfortable during this difficult time. 

In return, she has used every opportunity to again insult me. In one occasion she repeatedly made a point of telling me that JC prefers Lydia at his side rather than me.  Then, in front of Lydia, she suddenly began asking me about who my father is and what he did. Something she already knows, but obviously wanted for Lydia to hear it. After I answered politely, to all of her questions, she pointed out how my dad never finished university and dismissed him as a “farandulero.” Then tried to fix it by saying it was other people who thought that, “classist elite people”- not her! (haha!) she said she was impressed by how well my dad had done despite not having a degree. 

Several times she made comments about “peasant people” being uneducated but “nice”, then referred to me as a “peasant” to Lydia. 

In between conversations, she has reminded us that she was not only an architect, but also an intellectual, an artist, a poet, the one and unique member of the wealthy elite who cared for the “oppressed peasants”. 

While I was driving her to where she is staying, she questioned me about my current financial situation. Later in that same ride, she suggested that I should help pay for a living nurse for her son.

Lydia thinks she has become a bit unhinged with age. The truth is, this all feels very familiar to me. This is exactly how she was before. Age has only intensified what was already there. 

I feel vindicated because this is a replica of what it was like to live with both of them. The difference is that she hasn’t changed but I have!. I was genuinely caring for her out of compassion and perhaps because this what the “uneducated peasants” do. 

I can forgive JC’s behavior yesterday. He is still under the effects of medication, and paranoia and irritability is to be expected. But his mother’s behavior is something old, something that has been there from the beginning.

I have, however, truly enjoyed the time I’ve spent with Lydia. We have grown closer through all of this. I stepped in to give her a break, because she needed it. Now, I am the one who needs a break. I have been spending a great deal of time and money, to help them all during this crisis. But now I need to slow down, reclaim my space and go back to painting. Time to detox!

In the bad books again...

I drove to Stanford around noon. I tried not to use the GPS, got lost, and ended up turning it on, so I arrived later than I’d said. When I got there, JC was sleeping. He opened his eyes, said hi, and went back to sleep. I sat down.

A few minutes later, his mother arrived. As soon as she came in, JC asked her if she had brought what he’d requested. She told me he had asked for a Coca-Cola. I laughed and told JC he should perform a mental funeral for Coke. He then explained that he didn’t plan to drink it—he just wanted to dip the ice chips in it. His mother and I both told him the doctors hadn’t authorized that yet, but he kept insisting.

I called Lydia to ask what she thought. She said it might not be too bad if he was only dipping the ice and suggested getting him a Snapple instead. JC smiled from across the room and said, “That’s my girl!” Then he asked me to go get one. I jumped in the car and drove around downtown San Mateo looking everywhere for a Snapple. I finally found one at a 7-Eleven. JC called to ask me to bring back a cup of ice as well.

When I returned, I gave him a couple of ice chips dipped in Snapple. He smiled with satisfaction, and we all laughed. The problem was that he kept asking for more and more. I told him that too many might be dangerous, but he insisted it wasn’t. I said I was going to check online. The first thing I read said that giving sugary liquids to someone with his throat condition after intubation can be very risky and could lead to pneumonia or even re-intubation. I panicked and became convinced I had compromised his health.

I called Lydia—no answer. I spoke to his mother, who also started to worry. I told her I was going to inform the nurse, because if anything happened, they needed to know. I told the nurse, who reassured me that a few ice chips would not be a problem, but thanked me for telling them so they could monitor him closely. I felt much more at ease and told his mother she could relax.

I went back to JC’s room and started telling him about my jury duty experience. We were talking normally when he asked for another ice chip. As I handed it to him, I mentioned that I had told the nurse about the Snapple. He became very upset, called me a piece of shit, said I had fallen “below the below,” and told his mother and me to leave.

So I left. I drove home. I don’t care how angry he is at me. I wasn’t going to play along with that. He can be so stubborn and arrogant. He thinks he knows better than doctors.  I’ve decided to take a break from visiting him for now.  

I need to go back to painting which I haven't done since this ordeal started. Ironically, I thought his mother was going to be difficult today, but it was him instead.

Sábado en Stanford

​Le prometí a Lydia ir al hospital hoy mientras ella va a su casa. Más que todo es para ayudar a la señora, que se niega a separarse de su hijo. Pensé que podría aprovechar la oportunidad para estudiar para el último examen y explorar un poco más los jardines y las zonas de arte.

Aunque no me gusta mucho estar sola con la señora, siempre me dice cada estupidez. Se siente en confianza conmigo porque puede hablar en español. Con Lydia se comunican mejor por texto, porque Lydia no le entiende bien el inglés cuando lo habla y no tiene la paciencia para escucharla.

Ayer quería que yo le comprara su carro viejo; luego insinuó que yo podría ayudar con los gastos para contratar a una enfermera que cuide a JC en casa (el atrevimiento!).

En otra conversación empezó a hacerme preguntas personales, como queriendo averiguar cuál es mi situación económica. aaaaah! 

Tendré que encontrar la forma de estar pendiente de ella, pero al mismo tiempo mantener cierta distancia. Si le digo que estoy estudiando, a lo mejor me deja en paz. Eso espero.

Los mensajes de texto entre ella y Lydia desde las 7 de la mañana no me han dejado dormir.

A pesar de que Lydia le ha asegurado que JC está bastante mejor y que todo está bajo control, ella siempre encuentra algo negativo por lo cual preocuparse o ponerse ansiosa.

¡Se necesita mucha paciencia!

Sueños

Lo único que recuerdo es que estoy en una conferencia o en una clase. Hay una pantalla proyectando la lección. De pronto, se interrumpe con un comercial. El profesor aprovecha para hacer una pausa. Yo pienso en lo normal que nos parece que haya anuncios en medio de una clase.

Veo a un baby que lo han puesto en una silla, el baby se mueve y está a punto de caer. Corro a sostenerlo pero se me desliza de las manos, y apenas evito que se caiga. La mamá una Indu me dice que está bien que es su baby. Me parece que es descuidada con su bebé. 

El Sol

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Rodin

Qué sorpresa descubrir que, a solo unas cuantas cuadras del hospital, está este jardín con esculturas de Rodin. 

No sabía de su existencia. 

The snake and my dream

Today I drove to Stanford to meet Lydia. JC was drowsy and wanted to rest, so she invited me for coffee at the Parisian café. She ordered a sandwich, and I got a latte and a petit choux. We wandered around with our food, looking for a calm, pleasant place to sit. As we passed beneath wooden beams draped with hanging plants, I suddenly remembered my dream and told her about it. 

As we kept walking under a bright blue sky, surrounded by white flowers (just like in my dream) I started to wonder when the snakes would appear.

We settled in front of the fountain, under the shade of an umbrella. I took a bite of my pastry while Lydia unwrapped her sandwich and lifted it to her mouth. She was about to take a bite when suddenly she shrieked, “AAAAAH!… There’s a hair in my sandwich!”

I leaned in and saw a long black hair trapped between the lettuce and the cheese, dangling like a snake trying to escape from the mouth of its predator. 

I believe this is the non-threatening (yet threatening) snake of my dream.