One has heard of phantom pains in people who lose limbs in accidents or amputations. They are seen reaching out, seeking the non-existent source of their ghostly agony, the pain real and tangible.
I hadn’t just lost an arm or a leg, my loss was complete. My physical form lay scattered in ashes across the Pacific Ocean. But the pain remained, an excruciating reminder of the labor pains that had started shortly after Matt suggested the Christmas Eve boat ride in Half Moon Bay.
The baby was due any day and our excitement and anxiety had peaked. The nursery was ready. Friends and family had organized a surprise baby shower the week before and her room was full of more gifts than I had seen in my entire lifetime. Matt had been extremely solicitous, he had comforted me, pampered me, kept me off my feet and had accompanied me to every check-up and ultrasound session. He had carried around the ultrasound pictures in his wallet, proudly displaying the grainy imprints to everyone he met. It was a wonderful time, our first child, the daughter we had always wanted, we had come up with the name together, she was going to be our little angel.
Matt was my high school sweetheart. We had been inseparable since the first time I saw him in the football field, the star quarterback of Fairmont High. The entire cheerleading team idolized him but his eyes always sought me. We even attended the same college, took the same classes and I didn’t have to think twice before accepting his proposal. The last ten years had been idyllic, blissful but parenthood had somehow eluded us. Until it all worked out and the testing kit finally registered a positive, eight months ago.
Christmas Eve! We were awfully close now, Angelica could come anytime. The dinner was at our place. The house was full of people, Christmas music playing, kids scurrying around opening up presents and comparing bounties. This was shaping up to be quite a memorable Christmas. The care and concern shown to me was overwhelming.
Then Matt suggested the midnight boat ride. It was a balmy night, the idea was tempting. We told our guests we wanted to spend some time alone and left. Matt helped me up the boat and revved up the engines. The night air was exhilarating. We talked, we laughed and then I leaned against the railing watching the twinkling city lights drift away. I felt a slight twinge in my belly but put it down to the baby kicking and didn’t think twice about it. I was lost in the beauty of the moonlit night, the lapping waves, the silent hum of the engine. Matt came and stood with me for sometime before retreating to the cabin. I thought I saw a humpback whale and started yelling out to Matt, “Matt come, see! Am I really seeing what I think I am?”
Then I felt another twinge, followed by yet another. They were coming faster now and with greater intensity. I kept screaming for him, “Matt, I think my water broke, please hurry! We have to go back”. I was holding my belly, buckled under in pain. These were labor pains. I heard footsteps behind me. Then suddenly the site of the pain changed. I was being garroted, I clawed at the rope around my neck, trying to speak, then my world went black. I had been pushed overboard.
I watched them dredge my body out of the bay, Angelica’s shortly thereafter, a short distance away from mine, the umbilical cord still attached. I saw my parents crying, shaking their heads, holding Angelica’s limp body in their arms and smoothing hair away from my face.
I watched the courtroom proceedings, seeking clues. I needed to know. They found the rope he had used to kill me. They talked to his mistress who told of their five year long affair and his plans to kill me, the meticulous premeditation disclosed to her in passionate moments of invincibility. The perfect murder. Through it all, the unperturbed expression on Matt’s face, still confident, still feeling invincible even as the jury announced the guilty verdict and sentenced him to death by lethal injection.
I lost my physical form that Christmas. Now I move around, cradling Angelica in my arms, in screaming agony, confused, still trying to understand, my life, my love, my final moments. The phantom pains continue, no end in sight, haunting me even now.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
Palimpsest
It’s time to leave the screaming sirens,
the grime and the stench behind.
Her important papers, other bits of junk,
last few boxes, secure in the trunk,
no doubts, no regrets, her mind
made up; she bids adieu to jaded environs.
Country roads, creeks and meadows,
with lakes and streams at every mile
of the lazy turns in the Appalachian Trail,
showing tackle, bait and antiques on sale.
Shining eyes, bright smile,
full of hope, her pleasure grows.
She’s moving to a house built
in 1883, that’s nestled in a valley,
and a copse of old oak trees. Walls
of ivy beckon, the chimney smoke calls,
“Come inside dear, fall in love madly,
with the halls, the walls, and the sonorous lilt,
of the whispering shadows”. They’re lying
in eternal wait for just such
an unsuspecting visitor who would glean
their anguish, hear their tortured screams;
for this house of 1883 has seen much
grief , loss, death and incessant crying.
The house is elegant, the settings ideal,
a “fixer-upper” they’d said, at the price
of a steal. She is eager to fix and renovate,
all the breaks she’s spotted in her life of late.
So she signs the deal, against all advice,
trades her old life for a place to heal.
She clears the cobwebs, gets a fire roaring
at the hearth, wraps herself in a blanket,
slipping into a languid trance. Dreams
of dances and lavish soirees, suddenly screams
rent the air – a death at the banquet -
utter confusion, commotion, guests fleeing!
Startled awake, wondering what she witnessed
– a waking nightmare, an optical illusion?
It looked so real, unfolding before her!
Days turn to months, she sees them gather,
each time death, illness, tragic hallucinations,
bring her to her knees and leave her distressed.
This house has a history, several layers deep,
generations of tragic souls that can’t find rest,
and crowd her space , just as she feels
she inhabits theirs. Their past reveals,
her unfolding future, just like a palimpsest,
reveals each concealed layer underneath.
the grime and the stench behind.
Her important papers, other bits of junk,
last few boxes, secure in the trunk,
no doubts, no regrets, her mind
made up; she bids adieu to jaded environs.
Country roads, creeks and meadows,
with lakes and streams at every mile
of the lazy turns in the Appalachian Trail,
showing tackle, bait and antiques on sale.
Shining eyes, bright smile,
full of hope, her pleasure grows.
She’s moving to a house built
in 1883, that’s nestled in a valley,
and a copse of old oak trees. Walls
of ivy beckon, the chimney smoke calls,
“Come inside dear, fall in love madly,
with the halls, the walls, and the sonorous lilt,
of the whispering shadows”. They’re lying
in eternal wait for just such
an unsuspecting visitor who would glean
their anguish, hear their tortured screams;
for this house of 1883 has seen much
grief , loss, death and incessant crying.
The house is elegant, the settings ideal,
a “fixer-upper” they’d said, at the price
of a steal. She is eager to fix and renovate,
all the breaks she’s spotted in her life of late.
So she signs the deal, against all advice,
trades her old life for a place to heal.
She clears the cobwebs, gets a fire roaring
at the hearth, wraps herself in a blanket,
slipping into a languid trance. Dreams
of dances and lavish soirees, suddenly screams
rent the air – a death at the banquet -
utter confusion, commotion, guests fleeing!
Startled awake, wondering what she witnessed
– a waking nightmare, an optical illusion?
It looked so real, unfolding before her!
Days turn to months, she sees them gather,
each time death, illness, tragic hallucinations,
bring her to her knees and leave her distressed.
This house has a history, several layers deep,
generations of tragic souls that can’t find rest,
and crowd her space , just as she feels
she inhabits theirs. Their past reveals,
her unfolding future, just like a palimpsest,
reveals each concealed layer underneath.
Wednesday, June 1, 2005
Manhattanite's Nightmare
There is a group of people, ominously attired in black, that occupies a certain corner of midtown Manhattan. Like all others, in this magnificent city, I usually walk by with a cursory glance at them. I mentally remark at their anachronistic clothes, the loudspeakers that project their voices, raised in anger across several city blocks, the dire threats and apocalyptic warnings they seem to be issuing and I always ask myself what it is that’s bothering them so much. What do they want to convey? Why do they want us to believe that the world is about to come to an end? This mental process of unvoiced inquiry into their motives and a general sense of wonderment at their passion, their need to communicate a message that is just not getting across, lasts no more than a fraction of a second. Before I know it, I have moved right past them and my mind shifts gears to thinking about other matters that are more pressing, that deserve more than a fraction of a second’s share of my mind.
I am glad I live in a country where a group such as theirs can occupy a busy portion of the street, hook up loudspeakers and speak whatever is on their mind. I am also glad that I am under no obligation to listen. I have the freedom to choose. I can either stop what I am doing and spend several seconds trying to understand why they are issuing dire threats, why they feel the world is going to end tomorrow, why they wake up every morning and set out to spend their time doing this, or I can just walk on by, not miss my bus, get home - to my family - in time or think about how to solve a pressing problem at work that could earn me some kudos, move me up another step on the ladder of success so that the benefits of my success can then trickle down to my family. It is always clear to me what my choices need to be.
But mundane events such as this, to which one is normally desensitized, often have an uncanny way of making appearances in ones worst nightmares. In just such a nightmarish situation I find myself unable to maintain the same equanimity of emotions when, on a particular day, as I am walking by them again, I hear the repeated mention of my name, when the voices raised in anger, echoing across several city blocks, are wrapping all their anger and resentment around my name. My rushing steps slow down. The other passers-by continue to walk on, unmoved, unconcerned with anything that is being said. To them it seems to be a part of the daily spiel that emanates from this motley crew. They do not recognize my name, or the context or any of the reasons for any vague references to me. But I am certainly alarmed. I am even tempted to stop, to respond, to make myself a part of the pathetic spectacle that millions choose to ignore each day.
However, rational, wakeful thoughts dictate that even if this nightmare was to become reality it would still serve me well to keep moving on, unruffled. I would have to force myself, in this horrific scenario, to think along the same lines of logic that keep me sane in this insane world, never losing sight of what is really important. I would have to remind myself that if my behavior has been following the same consistent patterns, if I have not done anything differently from one day to the next then this scenario is just an ordinary and correctable aberration in the normal warp and woof of the fabric of my life. I really would have no reason to stop and examine why my name has suddenly been invoked, my existence, in the grand scheme of things, being as meaningless to the ones invoking my name as their angst-filled, desultory philippic is to me. So even in such a nightmarish scenario, rationality demands that my behavior remain the same, consistent with my principles.
And so this immunity, this desensitization - an inevitable reality of our complicated lives - the brain’s coping mechanism, I believe would emerge, unbidden, whenever one faces disagreeable absurdities. It may leave behind an unsightly manifestation, such as callused fingers from gripping the steering wheel too hard, or bunions and corns that make an appearance as a defense mechanism to ill-fitting shoes, but in the final analysis, this is a small price to pay, nothing a good manicure or a visit to the podiatrist won’t cure.
Whether or not rationality would prevail, in the event such a nightmare became reality, is yet to be determined but if it doesn’t it won’t be for want of trying.
And what of the point that this black-clad, ominous looking, loudspeaker wielding group is making, you ask. Well, if they keep at it perhaps they will find an audience some day or perhaps they will realize that their present audience is immune to their message, in its present form. Perhaps they’ll realize that Manhattanites really see them as just another type of cacophony with which they are forced to contend in the course of their existence here, like the loud jackhammers, the wailing police sirens, the honking taxicabs and so on and so forth. Or perhaps they’ll take the show to an audience outside Manhattan where such desensitization is yet to occur. It’s a big world, there must be an aurally tuned audience somewhere.
I am glad I live in a country where a group such as theirs can occupy a busy portion of the street, hook up loudspeakers and speak whatever is on their mind. I am also glad that I am under no obligation to listen. I have the freedom to choose. I can either stop what I am doing and spend several seconds trying to understand why they are issuing dire threats, why they feel the world is going to end tomorrow, why they wake up every morning and set out to spend their time doing this, or I can just walk on by, not miss my bus, get home - to my family - in time or think about how to solve a pressing problem at work that could earn me some kudos, move me up another step on the ladder of success so that the benefits of my success can then trickle down to my family. It is always clear to me what my choices need to be.
But mundane events such as this, to which one is normally desensitized, often have an uncanny way of making appearances in ones worst nightmares. In just such a nightmarish situation I find myself unable to maintain the same equanimity of emotions when, on a particular day, as I am walking by them again, I hear the repeated mention of my name, when the voices raised in anger, echoing across several city blocks, are wrapping all their anger and resentment around my name. My rushing steps slow down. The other passers-by continue to walk on, unmoved, unconcerned with anything that is being said. To them it seems to be a part of the daily spiel that emanates from this motley crew. They do not recognize my name, or the context or any of the reasons for any vague references to me. But I am certainly alarmed. I am even tempted to stop, to respond, to make myself a part of the pathetic spectacle that millions choose to ignore each day.
However, rational, wakeful thoughts dictate that even if this nightmare was to become reality it would still serve me well to keep moving on, unruffled. I would have to force myself, in this horrific scenario, to think along the same lines of logic that keep me sane in this insane world, never losing sight of what is really important. I would have to remind myself that if my behavior has been following the same consistent patterns, if I have not done anything differently from one day to the next then this scenario is just an ordinary and correctable aberration in the normal warp and woof of the fabric of my life. I really would have no reason to stop and examine why my name has suddenly been invoked, my existence, in the grand scheme of things, being as meaningless to the ones invoking my name as their angst-filled, desultory philippic is to me. So even in such a nightmarish scenario, rationality demands that my behavior remain the same, consistent with my principles.
And so this immunity, this desensitization - an inevitable reality of our complicated lives - the brain’s coping mechanism, I believe would emerge, unbidden, whenever one faces disagreeable absurdities. It may leave behind an unsightly manifestation, such as callused fingers from gripping the steering wheel too hard, or bunions and corns that make an appearance as a defense mechanism to ill-fitting shoes, but in the final analysis, this is a small price to pay, nothing a good manicure or a visit to the podiatrist won’t cure.
Whether or not rationality would prevail, in the event such a nightmare became reality, is yet to be determined but if it doesn’t it won’t be for want of trying.
And what of the point that this black-clad, ominous looking, loudspeaker wielding group is making, you ask. Well, if they keep at it perhaps they will find an audience some day or perhaps they will realize that their present audience is immune to their message, in its present form. Perhaps they’ll realize that Manhattanites really see them as just another type of cacophony with which they are forced to contend in the course of their existence here, like the loud jackhammers, the wailing police sirens, the honking taxicabs and so on and so forth. Or perhaps they’ll take the show to an audience outside Manhattan where such desensitization is yet to occur. It’s a big world, there must be an aurally tuned audience somewhere.
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