La vida: un regalo que no sabemos manejar. Really…I mean, most of the time we have no clue what’s going to happen during the day, much less what is going to happen during our lifetime. Life is complicated – yes, at times it is beautiful…some people’s lives, more than others – yet, at times…life is walking through a labyrinth, blindfolded, hoping – praying a loving hand will reach you and guide you out…or at least help take off the blindfold.

So going back to my story, we left off with the surgeon finally coming in to cut my hair — and then. Adiós cabello largo y ondulado. Adiós trenzas, adiós colas de caballo, adiós… That was the last – in twenty-six years – that I saw of hair that fully covered my head. My hair now still seems to hint at strangers…don’t stare – she may be sick…going through chemo…we should pray for her…

La mañana de la cirugía, yo estaba más despierta que el sol -pendiente de todas las conversaciones alrededor de mí.

Okay, so maybe I was a little drowsy, but I could still hear and understand what was going on around me.  The head surgeon told my parents. “I’d just like to let you know that this is a very complicated operation.  It will last approximately eight hours.  Alexandra could come out of this surgery blind, retarded, paralyzed, or not even survive the surgery.  I don’t want to sound negative, but for your own sanity, expect the worst.” 

My team captain wasn’t having it. My Mom looked the doctor in the eyes and affirmed, “I believe my God will return Alejandra to me just as healthy as He gave her to me – if not better.” She then asked the head-surgeon if she could pray for his hands and informed him that she was headed to the chapel.

No me puedo imaginar el dolor y el miedo que mi mamá sentía en es momento. I can only imagine that it was at a greater level of the pain and the fear I felt while I was watching her.

Now…this next part I am going to share with you may be a bit of an enigma. Allow me to paint the picture.

Once inside the operation room, I was under full anesthesia.  I slept through the surgery; my physical body felt no pain.  While I was being operated on, the Lord permitted me to see what many only dream of.

During the surgery, I had an out of body experience.  My spirit floated out of my body, I glanced at myself on the operation table, and then everything went black.  I found myself walking through a long, dark tunnel with a small glimmering light at the end.  The farther I walked, the farther the light seemed, until I finally reached the end, where four giant Angels waited for me.  I was in a long, white satin, long-sleeve dress, and my wavy brown hair hung loose past my shoulders.  I stood in joyous awe, with two great Angels to my left and another two to my right.  The Angels were taller than anyone I had ever seen on earth.  Their wings spanned at least six feet across, and their eyes conveyed a sense of love and peace to my entire being.  I stood in wonder and bliss at the thought of where I was.

As the Angels and I walked past the trees, we reached a beautiful crystal lake; pure majesty, I couldn’t believe my eyes.  The Angels walked me into the clear water, always keeping me in the middle: two Angels at my left and two at my right.

Not once did they verbally speak to me.  The messages they communicated came by way of their eyes.  They splashed me with water, and as I looked from one Angel to another, I was told that this was only a glimpse of God’s splendor…  I was told that I had no idea of how many people around the world were praying for me and that prayer moved our Master’s heart. I was also told, I had to go back.

The angels then told me I was to share this experience with whoever was willing to listen.  I was to return to my body, and that was the final word; that was the Master’s plan for my life.

“But I want to stay here,” I argued.

“You must go,” they told me.

So in the middle of my arguing, “I want to stay!” and the Angels serenely telling me, “You have to go,” I fell back into my body.

I go into much more detail in my book – which I pray one day will get published. I hope to continue sharing with you and thank-you so much for blessing me with reading my stories. God bless. :)  

Parece que siempre estoy pidiendo perdón…so sorry guys – At the moment of my last post, my muse – my best-friend-the love of my life and the captain of my team: my mother -really needed me. Por meses, no me pude enfocar en nada más que en ella. The pattern was: work & then home to Má and later on:  work and the hospital to see Má.

As I was saying before: cuando somos niños no nos damos cuenta lo bello que es tener una madre a nuestro lado. As a child, there was no way I could grasp the blessing it was to have a mother that showed us (Oscar, Carmen & me) discipline and unconditional love; and then as an adult: a mother that became my best girl-friend, my guide & my confidant. I simply didn’t realize how genuinely precious that time was.  Hoy, no voy a darles la historia completa…pero vamos a tomar un caminito lejos de mi historia para hablar un poco de la última noche que pasé con Ella.

We were at the Intensive-Care unit of the new BAMC – where for three weeks, the doctors & nurses had done everything in their power to help my mother  feel better. Esa mañana, el sábado 10 de diciembre, uno de los doctores la había dicho a mi hermana que ya no tenían a mi mamá en ningún tratamiento – si alguien la quería venir a ver, tenía que ser ahora. That day, visitors were flooding in to my mom’s room – spiritual children she had adopted into her heart & prayed for, childhood friends we had grown-up with, and loved ones that we’d met throughout the years.

Later that evening, my sister Carmen brought her two boys – my mom hadn’t seen them in 3 weeks & in turn, they had been asking about her. ¿Cómo está Mimí? ¿Adónde está Mimí?  Why haven’t we seen her? Why hasn’t Mimi been at her house?

The boys ran around the room, my mom smiled; they shared my mom’s dinner. At around 6, Carmen had the boys kiss my mom good-bye - and they headed home. Así como una vez, ella estuvo sentada al lado de mi cama en el hospital – yo me senté al lado de la suya.

Later on that night, Carmen had come back to the hospital by herself, we steered the conversation into a positive light. Hablamos del arbolito de Navidad, del Nacimiento y de qué íbamos a preparar para las cenas de la temporada. We spent the whole night “planning” what we would do that Christmas season. I fell asleep on my mother’s right side – watching her sleep – Carmen fell asleep on Mimi’s left side, holding her hand.

Mi mamá pasó a los brazos de Cristo a las siete y media de la mañana el domingo 11 de diciembre. Siempre será la Capitana de mi equipo – without a doubt, I can now say: my mom was always on my team.  [One of her favorite colors was green]

So we left off with the surgeon finally coming in to cut my hair — Oh, but that sentence does that specific moment in my life no justice. Ese fue un momento que – ahora sé que ella sufrió conmigo, pero entonces – pensé…sentí…como si en ese instante de mi vida – durante esos minutos cruciales para mí, mi madre no era parte de mi equipo. I felt as if for the longest time, Mom and I had been on the same team: madre e hija – uña y mugre.  But at that moment, my mom took her jersey off, threw it on the floor and coldly whispered , “I am not on your team anymore.”

About half an hour after I had so fervently kicked him in the crotch, the surgeon walked in again – with reinforcements. I couldn’t move,  my arms were tied to the sides of the bed and my legs were held down. My mother came over to me, held my hand, and just watched as the doctor got closer – scissors approaching. Volteé la cabeza para verle la cara bien – mis ojos le gritaron, «¿Vas a permitir esto?»

“Mom!” my eyes drowning in tears of confusion, frustration and pain yelled out, “are you really going to let him do this to me?!?”

She was silent. I heard a buzzing sound; the doctor proceeded to shave my head. As the brownish locks fell and the military crew cut appeared, my eyes shut to rest on my damp cheeks.  I shook my head in rage; a nurse held the sides of my face and kept my head in place. I screamed as loud as I could. I was being tortured and my own mother had betrayed me. The buzzing sound of the electric razor finally stopped. 

I looked over at my former teammate, her eyes were damp too.

Twenty-five years later, my hair has not grown back past my shoulders and is not nearly as thick as it was before; but I have learned to accept it. I have my sight, I can move all my limbs, I can breathe…there are so many things that I do have – that now I know, my hair does not define my person –does not define me. As for my mother, pues siempre ha sido parte de mi equipo – aunque a veces no lleva puesto el mismo jersey.

]]> https://alejlu.com/on-the-same-team/feed/ 0 https://alejlu.com/al-ataque/ https://alejlu.com/al-ataque/#comments Mon, 11 Jan 2016 03:59:03 +0000 http://alejlu.com/?p=71 Whoever said being a teacher was easy-peasy, had no clue what they were talking about! Cuando llega el momento de los exámenes semestrales…todos les damos la gloria a Dios por tecnología y scantrons – aunque sea para solo un examen.

Let’s continue with the story…and today, I am going to ask you to think about something you probably don’t ever give much thought to: ¿Cómo crees que te verías sin un pelo en esa cabecita bella tuya? Give yourself some time to picture it – really, what would you look like without one hair on your head?

I don’t know how guys would feel about this, pero si eres mujer -solo pensarlo te da escalofrío.  As a women, and as a girl, you don’t even want to think about waking up and having no hair to comb, style, or simply look at.

Before the surgery, the head-surgeon came in and told me he would have to cut my hair. ¿QUÉ? Chico, ¡pero tú estás loco!

As a little girl, my wavy brown hair, with its natural golden highlights, was sacred to me. I would comb my hair in the morning before school, every time I went to the bathroom during the school-day, and at night before I went to bed. My hair was more than a part of my body. My hair was a part of my being. My hair shaped my face. It gave me character and pride. My hair did more than adorn my head… ¡Mi cabello castaño era todo para mí! Y como si no me hubiera costado nada tenerlo así largo y bonito, este hombre me dice esto.

I mean, did he think my hair had grown this long overnight?  This man -who by the way had beautiful blond hair - had no idea how long it had taken me to grow my hair past my shoulders, and now, just like that - “let’s cut it.” ¡No creo yo! I don’t think so! ¿Qué te pasa a ti? What’s wrong with you!  ¡Ni loco te me acerques con esas tijeras!       

No! I couldn’t let him amputate what was a part of my personality, my character, my life…but this was a battle, I simply could not win…Although I did give a good fight.

Con todas las fuerzas que mi orgullo de mujercita me proveyó,lancé mi plan - ¡AL ATAQUE!  I gathered up all the force in my body, my heart, and my mind, and channeled it to my legs. In a matter of seconds I brought my legs in towards my body, and then, like a horse, I kicked them out into the surgeon’s  crotch. The man made a hurling noise and hunched over. No one was going to take my hair! I really hurt him. I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel sorry. He had no right. He simply had no right!  

But my victory was short lived. About half an hour later, the head-surgeon walked in again, this time with  two nurses who strapped my arms down to the sides of the bed.  My mother came over and held my hand, as the surgeon cut off strand after strand. 

 Adiós cabello largo…adiós. 

¿Qué pasó después de que me dieron las 72 horas? Bueno…una decisión enorme se tenía que hacer. The decision that had to be made was: if I was going to need surgery, would it be done 1) there at the military hospital in Panamá City or 2) would it be better to fly me out MEDIVAC to the States.  Para todos los que estaban siguiendo con sus vidas fuera del Hospital Gorgas – los que iban en camino al trabajo, al colegio, al desayuno – la vida seguía sin pausa…pero para todos mis parientes en la sala de espera, la vida aguantaba su respiración. 

In my mind, to the general population en la Ciudad de Panamá, el martes era como cualquier otro martes… Tuesday was simply Tuesday. Yet to my  aunts, uncles, great aunts and uncles, grandparents, close friends of the family, my pastor and his wife, family in the faith, and all my older cousins that Tuesday might have been – in there minds – the last Tuesday they would see my warm, round face.  My younger cousins were not told that they had found a tumor…much less, that I could die. Some things are better left unsaid.

The doctors had me in a small waiting room of my own. One by one, my family members came in to say good-bye. I couldn’t talk, partly because I was too weak and partly because of the medical cup around my mouth; I responded to words of encouragement by blinking or squeezing their hands.  This whole while, family member after family member, the four nurses had stood strong: holding in their emotions.The last person I remember coming in to talk to me was my little brother Oscar. My three year old sister, Carmen, was too young to understand what was happening.

Until now, all the nurses had remained silent. Oscar walked in slowly; he wasn’t tall enough to see my face. A nurse picked up a stool from behind her, picked Oscar up, and placed the stool under his feet. Oscar still did not quite reach and my father came in and held Oscar near my body. His small, Kindergarten hand reached for mine; Oscar held my hand tightly in his.

“No te vayas, Alejandra. Te quiero. I’m sorry for fighting over the remote control and which cartoon to watch on TV,” he paused. “I’ll let you see whatever you want. I love you Alex. Eres mi hermana…mi hermana grande…no me dejes…”

My eyes were puddles…the nurses had to turn their heads and step out…ese martes dejó su marca en nuestras vidas.

“¡Chacha!” My grandma cried in horror. “ ¡Chacha, Berta, Lina! ¡Chacha tu hija, tu hija Chacha! Hurry up Chacha, your daughter needs you!” Chacha – was my mom’s nickname.

All four women ran to the bathroom, where I was uncontrollably quivering towards my aunt Berta’s bedroom. My arms pulled in towards my body, my fingers curled in towards the palms of my hands, my head dropped to my chest, my eyes turned up towards the ceiling, my mouth moved to the left side of my face, my legs crossed, and as I spun, the cries of  hopelessness grew louder as my family made sure that I fell on the bed.

After the convulsing, I was rushed to the military hospital in Panamá City.  When we reached the Gorgas Hospital, I was taken to a small room, my clothes were loosened, and a couple of male nurses laid me on a bed. A doctor came by and randomly poked at my stomach, another doctor shined a flashlight in my eyes, while a nurse took my temperature and later my vital signs. I was dozing off from some pills another nurse had given me when I heard someone say, “Perdónenos Señora Ugarte, pero vamos a tener que internar a Alejandrita. For her health and safety, it’s better that she be here. We have to run some other tests, so we can be sure to give the proper diagnosis.

And then…a loving and devoted parent’s worse nightmare…

By Sunday evening my right arm was thoroughly punctured and completely swollen, and the last test had finally been run. Early Monday morning, a tall, thin Panamanian nurse walked out of the CAT Scan room with tears in her eyes. An American oncologist walked out from behind the nurse.

“I am sorry Mrs. Ugarte, I believe that your daughter has a malignant tumor in the posterior part of her brain, and we can only give her seventy-two hours to live. 

God keeps us hanging on the edge of pages, and we have no idea in heaven…what He has written next.

Hola a todos…se puede decir que soy un animal nocturno. I am definitely not a morning person – some may think that this is a strange confession coming from a teacher; but believe it or not – many of us are NOT early-birds.  Estaba viendo/escuchando un mensaje del Pastor Andy Stanley y me inspiro a escribir. Así que, aquí les va. Before I start, I have to say – I love Pastor Andy Stanley because I feel God uses Andy to speak to me, when I think no one else can.

It was early June 1991 and we lived an hour away from Panamá City.   “Mamita,” my mother whispered to me that sunny Saturday morning, “I am going to a wedding in Panamá tonight. Your father is taking me to the bus station at 11:00 a.m. ¿Quieres ir conmigo, o te quedas aquí?“

I was tired of lying in bed, fed-up with staring out the window and looking at the four walls that testified to the pain I repressed at night while my family slept…”Sí Má, voy contigo.”

I got dressed and  rode with my mom from Colón to Panamá City – for nearly forty-five minutes I felt fine. Pero después de casi una hora – los puños en contra de mi cuello y mi cabeza comenzaron de nuevo.  After almost an hour of peace, I felt the jolts stabbing the back of my brain. Tears raced down my nose and onto my mother’s lap. I tried not to scream, so as to not draw attention to myself and frighten the rest of the passengers on the bus.

Once we got to my grandma’s house in the city –which was actually my aunt Berta’s house –I sat at the table and tried to digest some fish soup…I say “digest” because the opposite is  what actually happened. I was left at the table by myself; my mother had already stepped into my aunt Leti’s bedroom to get ready for the wedding.

“Má, can you come help me with this button,” my mom hollered. “Allí voy,” my grandma hollered back.

Right when my grandma stepped into the bedroom, I felt a gushing feeling within my stomach. I was nauseated and suddenly too dizzy to walk straight. As I made it into the bathroom, the front gate slammed and my tías, Berta and Lina, walked into the house. I could hear their voices, yet I couldn’t gather enough strength to even whisper, “Hola.”

I swayed back and forth and in my vain attempt to vomit into the toilet, my soup poured itself up my esophagus, out of my mouth, and into the white ceramic sink. The potato was as whole as the moment I first put it into my mouth.  Just then, my body began convulsing…

Let’s continue… So by May of 1991, the huge metal hand that liked to clap itself against my brain was doing it more often. I didn’t want to go to school – controlling the urge to scream out, «¡CARAJO! ¿Por qué esto me está pasando a mí?» was almost impossible. While in class, I was constantly biting my lower lip, shutting my eyes and laying my head on the desk or asking to go to the restroom so I could sit in the stall by myself and cry.  No quería que nadie me tuviera lastima. No quería que nadie estuviera pendiente de mí, ni que me estuvieran hablando en palabras diminutivas.  I didn’t want to be anyone’s charity case…I helped others – I didn’t need anyone to help me!

May 28th was my grandparents’ birthday – and the party was held on a Saturday at my aunt Berta’s house in Panama City. As always, my mom brought the potato chips, dip, Oscar Mayer hotdogs and chocolate chip cookies for the celebration. My grandparents were so happy, surrounded by their kids, grandkids and friends – who were like extended family. Oscar, Carmen and my cousins were cramming Lays and cookies into their mouths and my uncles were enjoying their Cervezas Panama out on the porch.  Me? I was sitting in the living room, overhearing my aunts gossip about the neighbors, watching my grandma pace in and out of the kitchen, and noticing how my mom tried to join in while keeping her eyes on me.

Did I mention I was chubby? Well, yeah…I was. I loved eating! I liked potato-chips, and cookies and ice-cream and cake. ¡Me encantaban las carimañolas frescas que hacía mi abuela! ¡La ensalada de aguacates y los cubitos de queso chedder con pedacitos de jalea de guayaba! But I couldn’t eat anything! Because the stupid doctor -who had no clue what was actually causing my headaches- forbade me from doing so. Besides the stupid doctor and his speculations…I had no clue what was coming up in a couple of weeks.  

Perdonen que me he demorado tanto… después de la Navidad el año escolar se mueve más rápido.

To continue…after that Christmas party, my headaches seemed to go away. I returned to my usual schedule: class, karate, track, reading… My mom figured that maybe that first semester of 4th grade was too heavy…pero todo estaba bien ahora. Not really, the headaches went away for a while – but the problem was still there.

You know, after the Christmas break, the school year seems to fly by. I know that even more now that I am a teacher, then I did back when I was in fourth grade. To anyone who is dying to become an adult – POR FAVOR créeme, todo pasa más rápido que lo que crees. Really, everything does go by so fast! When you look back you wish you were still  insert age years old.

Did I ever tell you how curious I was? I wanted to know everything about everything that was going on around me. Did I mention that I was quite talkative…at times, a bit too talkative. The phrase, “NO FILTER” comes to mind. Don’t get the wrong picture…I was a very sweet, mostly obedient child – I just couldn’t see something wrong going on in front of me and stay quiet. And if I was asked a question, I would usually reply honestly and then think, “Oh, maybe I should have said that differently/not said that at all.” So, with that in mind…here is the story:

Yo no conocí a mi padre biológico hasta que tenía ocho años. La noche que lo conocí, conocí a mi abuela Mafi también.

I really don’t know what I was expecting that evening, when I met my biological father for the first time. I mean, I knew him when I was a toddler, but it’s not like I could remember anything then. I thought I’d be angry or maybe a bit dismal – but it was just like, “Hey, nice to know who you are.” His mother, Mafi, seemed like a very elegant lady. That was it – I really didn’t have anything to say to him or my grandmother ; I was more interested in going back to my tía’s bedroom and watching the novela. I did notice my grandmother was wearing a scarf. Panama is hot; and I really saw no need for a scarf. I think I was staring, because my abuela (my mom’s mom) came and stood behind me & gave me a look.  I then left with the box of chocolates they had brought me and continued to watch the novela.

Months went by, and towards the end of April 1991, my grandmother Mafi passed away. The scarf she wore was to cover up a scar…grandmother Mafi had died very painfully, but was finally resting in the Lord’s arms. My biological father, Tony, asked my mom if we could attend the wake. That night, when we arrived at the funeral home, my abuela hugged me. “No hables mucho, y si te preguntan si quieres ver a tu abuela – mejor mantén la imagen que tienes de ella del día que la conociste.” What did my abuela mean by, “keep the image you have of your grandmother”? Was I going to see grandmother Mafi? I had never been to a wake…what was going on?

As we walked in, my mother was saying hello to everyone. On a side-note: Tony’s wife was sitting in a corner all by herself, she didn’t seem to know anyone and looked pretty uncomfortable. She was very young and pretty – but before I could notice anything else, my Grandpa Tony walked right up to us.

“Chacha, perdimos a Mafi. Se nos fue. Hay Mafi…”

He seemed very sad, and then Grandpa Tony asked me if I wanted to see my grandmother. I looked back at my abuela, who shook her head in a “no” motion. I looked at my mom, who looked back at me wide–eyed but said nothing. I then looked at Grandpa Tony and said, yes.

The casket was up much higher than what I stood tall, so Grandpa Tony carried me. As I looked into the coffin, still in my Grandpa Tony’s arms, I saw my grandmother. She was a woman of a very fair skin, and at that moment, even more so. Grandmother Mafi had chocked on her own blood; and even though the person who’d done her make-up tried to hide it, the purple blood stained the lower portion of her face and depicted a small trail of the physical pain she had struggled with those final seconds of life. I was in such shock that my body leapt back, into my Grandpa Tony’s chest. I remember shaking my head, as if an eraser could delete the agonizing image I had witnessed.

The weeks after the wake were followed by excruciating headaches and moments I will never forget.

So you know there was a time when my dad thought I was going crazy. It was fall semester 1990…

Fort Gulick was so small. I remember being able to walk with my brother Oscar and my sister Carmen from our house to the library, the youth center and to Shotokan class – without my parents. Thinking back – I miss those years of my life when my biggest worries were my grades, running fast enough in track, or learning the next move in karate.

Bueno, llegó un momento del otoño cuando me entraban unos dolores de cabeza tan fuerte que comenzaba a gritar de la nada. En cuando digo «gritar», no ‘hombre… ¡ni se imaginan los gritos!

After that one special journal entry about visiting heaven – I began to feel the jolting consequences of my request. The headaches – and “headache” is a euphemism for the thrusts I felt in the back of my head – would attack at any random moment of the day or night.

Once we were driving from Fort Gulick to Fort Davis – Oscar and Carmen were laughing, my mom was talking to my dad, I was looking out the window and then…AHHHHHHHH! My dad hit the brakes!

«¿Qué carajo fue eso?» he yelled. “Noemi, what’s wrong with your daughter?…Alex – what the hell is wrong with you! You’re gonna make us have an accident!” My mom tried to calm my dad down and explain – and even though he whispered, I heard him saying he thought I was going nuts.

I had no idea what was happening to me. My mom would take my to the pediatrician and all he would say was that I was under too much stress. The pediatrician said school, karate and track were too much for me. ¿Qué? Too much…the man seriously didn’t know what he was talking about.

It was right before the Christmas season. I had already established myself as one of the teacher’s assistants: helping other students with their work, helping plan little class projects, and visiting my brother in kindergarten as “the big sister.” I was excited about the class Christmas party – it was going to be awesome! We were going to exchange gifts, eat cake, lots of cookies and even empanadas! I was a huge fan of everything Barbie – and being the creative little person I was [and still am] I was hoping for a “Panamanian prima” for my Gringa barbies.

So I ate lots of chips, two hotdogs, and cake. I sang Christmas carols, but not too loud because when it came to singing in front of others, I was shy. And after Christmas bingo, I was ready to exchange gifts… Pero justo cuando íbamos a intercambiar los regalos… la espada fría del dolor atacó mi cuello y la parte de atrás de mi cabeza.

“Don’t do this to me now,” I thought – tears beginning to stream down my round cheeks. “How embarrassing – why did this have to happen right now?”

I tried to swallow my pain and dry my tears, but the throbbing would not stop. I lay my head on the desk and tried to do some deep breathing. Mrs. Chisolm picked out my gift and placed it on my desk. I remember that day, I got off the bus with my leather backpack draped around my left shoulder and the tan astronaut barbie with purple hair clenched in my right hand. Después de esa navidad, mi niñez nunca sería igual.