Last Night with My Brother

Last night, I had a dream where I was with my brother. He died 25 years ago today. I can't recall exactly what he was telling me, but he was giving me advice. He and I had a close and at times very difficult relationship. He was short with me. He didn't have time to finesse his words or actions. It's as if he was trying to get as much in as he could because he knew he didn't have much time. He was killed at 32.

Last night, unlike in real life, he asked me a question, I responded and the clearest picture I have of him was with him sitting across the table from me, speaking softly, his hands emphasizing his points, and unlike most of our time together, not once did he refer to me as "Fat Shit" or any other derogatory term. I can almost hear his voice and it was not the voice he usually used on me.

Don't get me wrong. He was cruel. He did put me down a lot. But he loved me. That I know. As a matter-of-fact, he may have loved me too much.

When we were toddlers, our parents left us in the Philippines with our unmarried aunt and our mother's stern parents. Not only were Ron and I "Irish twins," we were only 11 months apart, after being abandoned our relationship was cemented. As my older brother, he always had my back.

We would spend our lives trying to deal with our parents' choice to leave us behind. I went to therapy, but being male, he didn't explore his anger, his hurt, his pain. He lived it.

To Ron, life wasn't fair. Even though we had a much better life in the US because our father took the offer to finish his residency in America. But that year apart caused such heartbreak for our parents and us. I don't remember the weekend we spent in Niagera Falls as a newly reunited family but there are pictures where Ron and our dad were at odds, where he vies for our mother's affections and rejects our father's. Their relationship our entire lives were antagonistic. Ron always wanting paternal approval while constantly pushing our father away. Trust had been broken; at an early age, we learned that love was caustic.

Our dad, a pathologist, was reminded daily how fragile life truly was. Making good use of his time with us, he grilled us about our day during dinner. My sister and I happily played along, thrilled with the attention, and for the most part, approval. But our brother would have none of it. He wouldn't "perform" for the old man, he said to me. And he resented that I kissed up to him. In Ron's mind, it was me and him against the world. By placating our dad, I was betraying him.

Yup, Ron and I had a special bond. As we grew up, he taught me to drive, intervened with my boyfriends, and basically told me what to do. At times, I spoke up or according to him, talked back. A particular issue he had was my weight. He was right to be critical, I ate to please my parents. As the middle child and a girl fearful of being left behind again, I ended up eating my words, my feelings, keeping myself overweight, making food my crutch. He was mad at me for showing my weakness. An unspoken rule with abandoned children, never give "them" reason to not love you.

As we got older, after I married Peter, things changed. Maybe he didn't feel the need to be responsible for me any longer. Maybe he liked where my life was headed. Maybe he actually liked me, not just the obligatory, loved me. In any case, we vacationed together, hung out, and genuinely and openly loved each other.

Peter and he were good friends, and not just because they had to be. Peter, who does not tolerate most people, really liked Ron, and vice versa. They went skiing together and complimented each other's style. Peter got to hang out with Ron when none of us siblings were around and Peter claims to know a Ron we never did. With Peter, Ron was fun and funny, joking with waitresses, making clever jabs at his friends, and laughing readily. Nope. That's not the Ron I knew. I was glad to hear that guy existed.

Towards the end of his life, he worried a lot. He was very serious; that's the guy I knew. Married, with a toddler son, a new home, he had more and more responsibility and more to care about. He and our dad were still adversaries. They both just knew what buttons to press. Rightfully so, after all, they were the oldest sons of the oldest son, which made them "Gods" in the Philippines. They not only had their wives and children to take care of, but also their siblings and extended family.  As good sons, they took their responsibilities seriously.

That's why my father bought a 7-11 for his brother to run. But when our uncle decided to move to California, the burden of running the business fell on my brother. Our parents had put a lot of money in the franchise, my brother quit his job with an investment company where he had to commute to NYC to stay close to home and run the convenient store.

When I got a call from my aunt, who never calls me, I knew something terrible happened. "Is it dad?" I asked. He had high-blood pressure, did he have a stroke? "Just come home, Cecile," my aunt pleaded. "Your father said to come home. We will tell you when you get here." So, it wasn't dad."Is it Ron? Something happened to Ron?" silence.

And that's when I knew.

On Ron's last night, our parents got a call from the police that there was a fire at the 7-11.

It was a slow night. The roads were bad, so not many people were out. Ron had sent his employees home to be safe. He was alone for a short time.

There was a sign on the window. The police wanted to know if this was his handwriting. They asked if he was depressed. They questioned whether or not he may have taken his own life.

That last night, even though I was eight months pregnant, I was out late with Peter and his brother seeing someone we knew perform at LaMaMa. As my brother struggled, was shot, died, the vault burgled, and the storefront set on fire, I was out at a late night dinner with friends in the East Village. Only after our parents had been notified and the fire put out did anyone call me. They waited until the morning even though they all panicked and were frantically trying to tell the firemen to keep looking, Ron was in the building; he could be hurt; he may need help; but they said no. There was no one there. He was already dead. He was under debris. It would be hours after the fire was put out before they found his body. Hours, while my parents and his wife prayed for the best.

Ron and I have a special bond. Why didn't I know? How could I go about my life, chatting with people, clapping at performances, making dinner conversation, and then going home, falling peacefully asleep until the phone rang at six or seven am? How could I not know that this was my brother's last night?

My first reaction when someone mentioned suicide was, "No! No, Ron would never leave me!" And then because I was married and starting my own family, my mind questioned if he thought I didn't need him anymore, that I had abandoned him. But no, he had the love of his life, he had his young son to live for. No, he was murdered. Logically, I knew he hadn't abandoned me, the reality was, he was taken from us.

Logic has little to do with feelings, though, right? And once again, I had been abandoned. And this time, I was abandoned by the only person in my life that I ever truly trusted. I was all alone in the world. With him gone, how do I go on living?

Macallan came early. My body went into survival mode and was rejecting the pregnancy. My organs began failing. The baby had to come out.

As is Filipino tradition, you give the initials of someone you admire to your children to honor them. With our daughter, we gave her Ron's initials, Ria Macallan Durkin, RMD. Our son was named after him, Ronald Markham Durkin. And even though Ron died 25 years ago, they know him, they love him, they will never forget him.

There was a time after he died when his presence was felt by his wife, his son, our mother, aunt, and me. We all have unexplained instances where Ron came to us. A picture of him on his son's nightstand was filled with water. When the frame was picked up, the water poured out but left the picture unharmed. Our aunt had someone playfully tap her on the shoulder but no one was in the room...to mention a few.

For me, at a meditation group I attended, Ron appeared to everyone there. To this day, I believe the friend who brought me to this mediation was only my friend because her brother needed to show my brother how to cross over. After that day, I rarely felt his presence, but of course, I thought of him and missed him. Still do.

So, last night, when I was sitting at a table across from my brother, I could feel him with me once again. He was wearing a cotton striped shirt that I must have a picture of him wearing somewhere in a photo album. He was good humored and caring, I recall. We had a back and forth interchange, something that didn't happen often when he was still alive. I usually just nodded or said, "Yeah. OK."

Last night, I knew he was dead. As I spoke to him, I knew he had passed away a long time ago. I looked into his eyes. I watched his hands and made note of his hand gestures. I studied his expressions. I knew I'd awake and he wouldn't be with me any longer. I knew once I woke up, I'd again be alone.

I am remembering the "dream" and I am crying. I want to hug him. I want to tell him all of the things I was never able to tell him. How I felt safe knowing he was watching out for me. That I was sorry that he retained the hurt of being abandoned his entire life. If only he knew how proud our father really was of him and that he always loved him. He had always love him.

But as I recall last night, I think he knew that. I believe the calm, gentle, caring brother I saw last night knew these things I only started to put words to as I write this blog. Yes. I think that' s true. I think he now knows.

It has taken me until this year to realize that I wasn't really abandoned. That our parents never rejected us, that we were not unloved nor are we unloveable. After all, isn't my memoir about taking those feelings of abandonment and now living with abandon?

And that is what the guy sitting across from me at the table was saying to me last night. He is at peace. He understands his relationship with our father. He appreciates our time together. And he doesn't feel like a victim. And I think that's what he wanted me to know.

On his 25th death anniversary, now, I do too.

For Thanksgiving, the 10 Things I Learned From My Mom

Thanks to my mom, I learned these important lessons (in no particular order):

1.) On Cooking - When cooking, mom would make sure each and everything she chopped or cut was the same size and shape. She said it was important that it not only taste good but look good too. 

Even at 85, she painstakingly chops carrots into perfect slivers. She does. I don't. Who has time for that? 

2.) On Looks - When I was in Junior High School, I suffered from eczema. I was covered in welts that I would scratch that would leave scars all over my body. "Who will love you?"my mom asked me as she applied cortisone cream. The eczema wasn't the only reason she said this, I was never considered the "pretty one" so I resorted to being useful, agreeable and personable. It works, even today. 

3.) On Bad Behavior - Back in the '70's, not every car had air-conditioning so as we drove to Florida from New Jersey, we had all of the windows rolled down. Mom wore a handkerchief to keep her hair from blowing around too much. My brother made a comment about it and uncharacteristically playful, I grabbed it from her head and he and I proceeded to toss it back and forth. It was all great fun until the handkerchief blew out the window, never to be seen again. The entire car fell silent. Even our dad was dumbfounded. Mom never brought it up again, which made me that much sorrier. I never did that to her or anyone else again. I learned to keep my hands to myself. 

4.) On Shopping - With four kids, our mom would choose one of us at a time to go shopping with her. She didn't drive at the time so we would take the bus into Manhattan or "downtown" Perth Amboy. Whichever one of us she chose that day would feel so privileged, I guess, forgetting the tantrum and the tears from the last shopping excursion since the trips always resulted in one or both. 

     We kids often forgot that mom ruled during our shopping trips. She determined who would go, when we left, where we would shop, what we could buy, where, what and when we would eat and at the end of the day, what we would have to lug home. I remember getting in so much trouble for dragging a bag with a blanket on the ground behind me for blocks. I honestly couldn't lift it since I was so only 6, short and the package so big and bulky, but mom thought I was pouting because she didn't let me get the toy I wanted. Shopping has always been 2/3 excitement and 1/3 regret after each and every purchase. Gee, maybe I should see a therapist about that one!

5.) On Food - Growing up in the Philippines during WWII, she learned that food was scarce and to be thankful. She had to live with relatives in the countryside where they cherished finding an egg, lived through harrowing experiences like hiding from the Japanese, and miss their parents wondering when life would return to normalcy. Mom taught me to not only appreciate the life we had in the USA with a father who was a doctor and could afford us luxuries. Still, I knew her pain and I showed my appreciation by eating everything she gave me...to excess. I inherited her food insecurity and as a result, ate my way fear away. Ah, life of a fat girl burdened with my mom and my abandonment issues.

6.) On Birthdays - For our birthdays, my mom would start preparing and cooking weeks in advance. We had elaborate parties and invited close and distant relatives and friends. I did the same for my children, so much so that my daughter in junior high school finally asked that we not have a theme, "Can I just have a normal birthday party like every body else?"

7.) On Men - When my father was offered a residency in the USA, he took the opportunity, and my mother accompanied him. She left us in the Philippines with our grandparents and aunt. What was supposed to last a few weeks, turned into a year apart. That separation would result in abandonment issues for me and my siblings. I'm sure, it affected my mom as well. She would tell me that no matter where my husband wanted to move, I must go with him. As a result, we moved to Florida, to the suburbs of NYC, to Africa, and now to St. Croix. Men can't be trusted was the implication. The only move I didn't make with Peter was to Turkey and England, but then, I wasn't sure I wanted him. The implication being, if you want to stay with him, you'll follow him no matter where he goes. And so I live in St.Croix.

8.) On Housework - Even as young as seven, I was washing dishes, learning to clean, to cook. I made my bed, did the laundry, you name it, I did it. My mom was not so "lucky". When she got married, she had no idea how to do these basic tasks. She didn't know how to run a household. Because she had maids in the Philippines, she was lost when she got to the United States and had a house full of kids and a Filipino husband to take care of. She didn't want the same fate for me. So, she insisted I learn to be a housewife. My sister, a few years younger, was not so "lucky". Maybe my mom had had enough of the good life my father could now give us as a doctor in the USA and she didn't want to do it anymore. Maybe she thought since my sister was the pretty one, she didn't need skills to land her a man. Maybe she knew something I wouldn't admit to myself until later. I was good at it. I was good at cleaning, at cooking, at managing a house. I would take the lessons she gave me and make them my own. These tasks, attention to detail, care were what made a house a home. I learned that from her. Not at the time. I cursed her with my back talk, I slogged around and moped, but later, much later, I took her example to heart and I did the same for my family. Each carefully prepared meal, each welcomed stranger, every polished silver tray said, I care. I do this too, not to her extent, but I do it in my own way and I know my husband and kids are grateful.


9.) On Love - When my mom was growing up, her parents were not demonstrative. They were strict and cold. When I was growing up, my mom allowed us to kiss her hello, good night, thank you. She didn't really kiss us, though, but she showed she cared in other ways. She made us our favorite meals. She bought us matching dresses. I remember I was home from school because I was sick and she entertained me by encouraging me to write to my grandparents, even though I was too young to know how to write or to read. I would scroll on a piece of paper and show her what I'd "written". She'd read it outloud. Wow, I thought, I'm so good at this. I did it over and over until she shrieked at me to stop! She had so much to do and the letter writing wasn't occupying enough of my time to allow her to do what she needed to do. I slunk away and played on my own after that, but I did learn that moms could be fun until you pushed her too far.
My mom, my kids' Lola (or grandma) or as they call her, Mae, is not so demonstrative toward her grandkids either. But, she wants to show her love by bribing them to come see her, offering to make them their favorite foods. In Filipino culture, food is love. (Again, said the fat girl.)

It's Thanksgiving 2019 and my mom is 85 or is she 86? I am thankful she's still around to celebrate these holidays with us. She's not hosting them anymore. She isn't even cooking a dish to bring, although she does instruct us to buy poor fascimiles of her handmade dishes like puto, lumpia, empanadas or this year, sho pow (sp?).

At Anne's house, she sits quietly, for the most part. If you do talk to her, you will have to repeat yourself several times, not because she can't hear, but because she doesn't know you're talking to her. She may even fall asleep at some point and I watch her to make sure she doesn't fall out of her chair.

I think of my father and how he reaped the benefits of my mother's hostessing skills for the years they were married. How he loved to bring large groups together and took pride in her mastery of traditional Filipino dishes. She could not have known she'd one day build a custom home that spanned more than 5,000 square feet, when she hid under floorboards, silencing her baby sisters, while the Japanese soldiers ravished their uncle's farm. My father and mother could not have known that she'd have to live more than 20 years without him, nor would they have known they would outlive their eldest son.

Thanksgiving for us is always with my sister-in-law and nephew. It's something we make every effort to do well after my brother died nearly 25 years ago. His son established the tradition of hosting Thanksgiving, I'm not sure how many years ago, but it was this year that I realized something. After Calvin lost his father when he was only 3, he insists on celebrating Thanksgiving. He still wants to give thanks.

And that's something else my mom has taught me. After all of these years, all of the hardships, the loss, the pain, the sorrow, she is still here for us. After leaving her toddlers to be with her husband, she remains here with us. He had gone 20 years ago, but she is still here...She has not abandoned us. She never wanted to leave us. She had not abandoned us. I need to say that outloud to truly understand.

And here she is. She's still with us...And for that, I'm so very grateful.

What I Got From Fostering Puppies

Dorothy greeting the week-old puppies, fast asleep.

When we first got these roughly 7-day-old puppies, they were under 1-1/2 lbs., their eyes were just opening, and they could barely stand up on their pink padded paws.

Today, at 41 days old, they are being spayed and are ready for adoption.

I agreed to foster these puppies, who were found at a dumpsite with six other litter mates because we had the room, the time, and Dorothy.

I believe two of the puppies didn't make it. The mom was not with them at the time of rescue, but there was a shy female that the shelter was calling their aunt. "Auntie" provided a clue as to their genetic make-up; she was a small-to-medium-sized beagle mix.

Which of the six puppies we took home was totally random. The other foster families had shown up at the same time, so each was given two puppers. It was happenstance which ones we ended up with.

Marit, the Polar Bear

One looked just like a baby polar bear (scientific name, Ursus Maritimus) so we named her Marit. And what a long-legged, rambunctious, funny puppy she turned out to be. She's smart and fast and gets into all sorts of things but is also so loving and a snuggle bug. I believe she eats as much as a cub, screeching and jumping at me to hurry up and feed her!

Piglet.

The other one was named by another foster, pointing out the adorable spots
on the top of her nose, making her look like a little pig. The name suited her, so, Piglet she is and as it turns out, she is true to her namesake. Piglet, like Winnie the Pooh's pal, is timid, sweet, laid back and a wonderful companion, so easy to love.

Over the last few weeks, Marit has grown quickly, scampering about on her lanky legs. She never walks. She always runs and skids to a stop. In the beginning, I made the mistake of introducing her to the couch. Big mistake. She likes it so much, she tries to jump on it herself. She was a bit too small at first, but now that her front paws can reach the top of the cushions, she would have been jumping up on it every chance she got.

Now, jumping down, that's a little trickier.

Marit calculating her trajectory.

One afternoon, after one of her many siestas, Marit jumped before I could stop her. She landed wrong and welped. I scooped her up and held her tight. She wasn't injure but she learned her lesson. She hasn't jumped down again and I learned my lesson, too. I put down towels in front of the couch to soften the fall. We're good.

From the beginning the puppies slept through the night. They rarely stir before 6am, which is when Peter gets up to get ready for work, so it works out. At first, they cried to be fed. Marit's voice is ear piercing! But now, they yelp to get out of their crate, not for food, but to pee. Pretty much every morning, their crate is dry. Such an amazing discovery on my part that dogs understand not to defecate where they sleep.

Another thing I've discovered while caring for such small puppies, which is a first for Peter and me, they are expensive! The St. Croix Animal Welfare Shelter  gives you everything you need if you foster through them but we wanted to do what we could to alleviate some of the expense, so we bought some of the baby food ($1.89/jar they eat 2 jars a day), puppy formula ($5.50/2 oz can of which they drank 2 cans/day), wee wee pads ($3/3 large sheets they went through 6/day), baby bottles ($6/2 bottles), baby rice meal($8 which lasted about a week), canned dog food ($1.89/can/day), bag of puppy kibble ($9/3 weeks), Clorox Urine Remover spray ($9), and rolls and rolls of paper towels, just to give you an idea of what puppies cost to care for. This doesn't include vaccines, tests, and the amount of work it takes to feed them every 4 hours, clean up after them and clean up the stuff you used to feed and clean up after them.

Of course, for me, it's a small price to pay to love and care for helpless animals who may not have survived on their own. And that brings me to the point of this essay.

Hamilton, our first STX Rescue

In May of 2018, I hadn't moved to St. Croix yet. Peter had been living here for 5 months while I went back and forth. One trip down, we had adopted a 12-year-old dog who had heart worm. He was spunky and sweet and so very cute. Hamiliton had a rough start with our big dogs in NY, but they found their way.

In June of 2018, I had returned to visit Peter when the animal shelter asked for fosters. The dogs were leaving for the mainland, they just needed some people to foster them for a few days. So I volunteered.

Peter was renting a very nice house. They didn't allow dogs, but it was only going to be for a few days.

We walked into the shelter. We told them we'd like to foster. Peter started to describe a dog he'd like, "A small dog that you can scoop up with one hand. A mellow dog who doesn't bark..." I stood there while he went on with his preferences, and when he was done, I pointed to a quiet, beefy, pitmix, in a kennel with a relentlessly yapping Chihuahua and said, "We'll take her." Peter was confused. I hadn't even stopped to coo at this one when we first came in. I had walked all around the adoption center and looked at all of the dogs available and he didn't see me stop for her at all. "Why this dog?" He asked. "I thought she was cute. I like her short legs. She's quiet but she hasn't taken her eyes off me." I shrugged. "I just like her."

Dorothy, on guard at the beach. 

Turns out, she was found after the hurricanes. She was adopted by a family who kept her for only seven months or so and surrendered her when they moved off-island. As we led her from the adoption center to our truck, she walked on the leash and allowed Peter to scoop her up and place her on the back seat. Only when we tried to introduce her to other people would we find out she was wary of everyone, particularly men. We found out that she had strange eating habits, but no food aggression because we could mess with her food as she ate and she never growled. She was house broken, leash trained, and like our rescued elderly Basset Hound, Clark, she fixated on one person and was totally devoted. We ended up adopting her and because there was no place like home, we re-named her Dorothy.

Over a year later, she is still skittish, hates to be in public, is quite dominant with most other dogs, and still makes us nervous she may bite someone when cornered.

But for all of her unpredictable personality traits, to me, she is "The Best Dog Ever!" She is eager to please. With us, she is gentle, loving and amicable. Outside, she follows us around and doesn't run away even when off-leashed. She rarely barks. And the most charming part of her, to me is, she feels compelled to take care of me and Peter. When we go in the water to swim, she will follow us, sometimes getting in over her head (with those super short legs, it doesn't take much!) and needing to swim back to shore. She will sit on the sand and watch us in the water. When Peter goes snorkeling and I am stationed in a beach chair, she will choose, reluctantly choose, which one of us to care for. She will growl and bare her teeth if anyone she doesn't know comes too close to me. And when there are puppies, she has been known to climb a vertical cliff to get to them.

And so, I thought, these seven-day-old puppies would benefit from her as a surrogate mom. And I was right. From day one, she took it upon herself to watch over them. She would even give me dirty looks if one of them got hurt while exploring or nudge me to get out of bed to feed them when they howled. Several days after the sisters arrived, she laid down and offered her inactive nipples to the babies. She definitely has had puppies at least once and was determined to mother these two.

Marit's long legs.

As Marit exerted herself, body slamming her sister, the bigger dogs, and we humans, Piglet would sit quietly leaning up against my leg, laying her head on my little toe, looking up at the big dogs or Peter and me with quiet admiration.

As Marit's slim body and legs grew with her constant feedings, Piglet's belly that would expand to such proportions that many times, it dragged on the ground as she waddled away from the food dish or after being bottle-fed. One day, she got stuck and whimpered until I found her wedged between a chair and the wall. Her head and shoulders cleared the space, but try as she might, her belly just would not go through.

To look at Dorothy and Piglet, I started to see such similarities. Both dogs' heads showed signs of what must be their American Stafford Terrier genetics. One day, as Piglet mimicked

Piglet was most definitely, Dorothy's Mini-Me.

Dorothy's stance, I noticed both their furrowed brows. And as I compared them, it dawned on me just how alike they both were in physical attributes and personality. Their stocky bodies, their muscles, their short legs, blocky heads and even their ears were so similar. There is no way Dorothy was Piglet's mother, but damn, if Piglet wasn't her miniature.

Just like Dorothy, Piglet was calm and loved to be cuddled, but not solicitous about giving and getting affection. She often sat back and observed, waiting for just the right moment to pounce, to take the toy you're offering from your hand, to wait to see where you sat down and then sidle up to you to be picked up. She has so many qualities that I love about Dorothy. And that's when it dawned on me.

Of all of the dogs we could have fostered, this one was not only a wonderful adorable love bug, but Dorothy, undamaged. As someone who deals with being abandoned, raising Piglet and Dorothy is so cathartic for me. With the number of rescued dogs we've had over the years, it still boggles my mind how anyone could just turn their back on their pet.

Lewis and Clark, our first rescues,
abandoned dogs we adopted in NY.

For example, our basset hound brothers, adopted after they were dumped in the middle of the Catskill Mountains. Both dogs were at least 12 years old. Why would you raise them for that long and then leave them to die?

Tico waiting for us in the trap.

Tico, our latest rescue appeared one day in our neighborhood. He made eye contact as we drove by and on several occasions tried to get into our car, he just didn't want to live on his own. When he walked into the dog trap we had set and sat there patiently waiting for us to retrieve him, Peter and I looked at each other and said, "Yup, he chose us." Tico came to us house broken, easily walks on a leash, was taught to sleep under a bed after you turned out the lights and in the morning, once he's heard us talking, he jumped back up and greeted us 'Good Day'.

Rescues are a unique breed, each and every one of them an individual onto themselves. And so, I wonder, what happened? What did they do that was so bad that their families decided they didn't love them anymore? What would an animal have to do to make their loved ones leave them in the woods to die? What circumstances occurred that their family could no longer care for them? How can someone forget about their pet? Why would you take a pet at all if you couldn't love them for the rest of their lives?

The pups, the day we brought them home.

Here were these tiny blind, immobile, helpless creatures who needing shelter, food, and water. They had to be bottle-fed; sought comfort when they fell; strove to be accepted into the pack; they wanted love. I was glad to take these puppies and so proud of our abused and abandoned dog, Dorothy, for finding it in her heart to care for them as her own.

I see Piglet as the broken promise made to Dorothy. Someone brought these dogs into this world, but there was nothing to ensure their safety or survive. And even though Dorothy is now 3-5 years old, what happened during IrMaria, the two category Five Hurricanes that hit the island in 2017? Was she already a stray even before the storms? Was she swept away from her home? Or did her family leave the island and leave her behind; which has been the case for most of the strays here on St. Croix?

The pups on their way to being
spayed, on their way to
their forever homes. 

Piglet won't remember her mother. She won't remember being left at the dump. She won't remember Dorothy or me. In other words, unlike Dorothy and me, Piglet won't feel abandoned. And that's good, that's so good because what I hope she'll have are not memories that make her skittish and afraid, like Dorothy, what I hope for her is to remain sweet, trusting, gentle and calm. I hope she finds a forever home where she is played with, cared for, and loved her entire life. Piglet is what Dorothy should have been and I'm so honored to have played a small role in giving Marit and Piglet the beginning of the life they deserve.

Thanks to the St. Croix Animal Shelter for all that they do, for giving my family the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of these puppies and rescued dogs we've adopted before them, and for the countless acts of kindness they perpetuate with each animal and person they come in contact with. 

The Undeniable Dream and the Question of Destiny

Bucket from 1000BC found at Museum of Scotland

He said, "I deny my actions because if I take responsibility for the things I’ve done to you, then I have to take responsibility for things I’ve done before you." 

He said, "Remember, I was Metratron. I was the mouthpiece for God and he was a vengeful God. I did some horrible things. "

The soldier leads his horse through a clearing. Fires burn at a distance. He is weary, ready to collapse. His armor, which he has worn for many years, is now too heavy to bear. His helmet, his breastplate, his shield and his sword; he wants to shed them all. He gets to lighten his load now that the war is over. 

A housemaid approaches. She is carrying a bucket, water sloshing around as she climbs the wet grassy hill to him. She scoops the water out of the bucket and extends the ladle to him. He takes her hand as he takes a sip. That’s when she looks into his face. She has seen him before. It is his eyes that she recognizes. The look in his eyes. She may never have met this soldier before, but she has known him all of her life, all of the previous lives she’s led and every life yet to come. 

It is April 13, 2019. She and that hurt, weary, scared, angry, damaged, broken soldier are together once more. “Oh god,” she said out loud last night. “Please let this be the last time. I can’t do this anymore.” She sobbed uncontrollably. The wounds from the past lives were so fresh, so painfully present. She saw the centuries-old burden she had yet to fulfill upon her again. If only he’d learn the lesson that is his duty to bear, they could then move on. But as it stood, she is 56 and he is 58 and they’d shared 32 years of good, but mostly, bad times, and she wanted it to all end. 

St. Andrews

He was a Roman soldier who had done unspeakable things in the name of God. In battle, he didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask what. He fought for his life, ruthlessly, unrelentingly, unrepentantly. He fought with abandon. He had to, to survive. 

He survived. And because he was War, God gave him Peace. 

She came to him with water, let him lay down his sword, put away his shield. There was no more war, but what is a soldier without a battle? He did not know how to yield, how to be at peace, how to love. 

And so he fought her. He protected himself from caring, because if he started to let down his guard about his feelings, then he had to face the death and destruction he had inflicted throughout all of those wars, not just the one he waged on her. If he were to love her, he had to expose himself to all emotions and that scared him. 

  

That’s what this is all about. 

He took no responsibility for even the stupidest things. He took no responsibility for the greatest of wrongs and everything in between. 

She thought it had to do with him being a white American male - the entitlement, the privilege, but no. It was greater than that. It was rooted in his previous lives as a bushman, a Roman soldier, who knows what else, and now this. 

Landing in St. Croix, living in the Caribbean, having a job that gave him authority, dignity, this was a gift. This life as a white American male was the prize for the lives of hardship and a reward for a growing understanding of life's purpose. 

In a time of racial inequality, continued oppression of women, monetary instability; he had a leg-up on all of that. We had a life that we had earned over the lifetimes. We were so close to reaching our destiny, but still we weren’t quite there. 

Story of the Unicorn at Stirling Castle

 After I found out that I was his “Gift,” I got so mad. Why did I have to endure his abuse, his control, his cruelty? I couldn’t leave. We had to work something out together, or it would start all over again. We apparently had done something right in our recent past-lives in order to be here now. The problems we have are stupid; his flirting, his wandering eye, his insecurities exhibited in these actions and his controlling behavior. While I demanded his respect, in reality, he hadn’t done so much wrong. But I wanted a better life, a different one. I thought I had free will. But I was wrong. 

So this morning, after yet another fight where he wouldn’t admit he was wrong and would divert the attention to inconsequential things and lash out cruelly. This morning, instead of being angry at him, I felt sorry for myself. This life we were living was not acceptable and yet, there was nothing I could do. I was forever linked to him. 

And that’s when he reached what I think is the core of his being, the reason we exist, the answer to The Riddle; our Fate. 

One of our favorite pastimes, grabbing
a pint. This one is at Plockton, Scotland.

He dutifully did as God told him. And because he survived, God rewarded him with love. “Lay down your sword,” God said. “She will quench your thirst. She will nourish your body and your soul. With time, she will wash away your fear, your hurt, your burden. She will wash away your sins.” 

But he didn’t believe it. He went into battle and feared nothing. But this, this scared him. He was afraid to expose himself to anyone, much less to the one that mattered most, the one who was sent to love him. Because if she saw him, saw him without his armor, saw him for who he was, he believed, she couldn’t love him and then where would he be? 

What he didn’t acknowledge was that his actions made her feel exactly the way he avoided feeling. He inflicted on her exactly what he feared would be inflicted on him. He acted as his mother had acted, shielding himself from love because he was so afraid it would be taken away. 

He was a soldier who had seen it all. She was a housemaid who had not seen a thing. 

He had seen death and destruction. She had only known the mundane, the acts of every day life.

He would show her the world. She would give him a home. 

They were both dutiful, willing to fulfill their life’s mission. 

His mission was to do as God said. Her mission was to do as her master bid. 

They had the same master. 

They had the same fate. 

And after all of those years together, this life in St. Croix is the repayment. This is the reward.   

in St. Croix

It’s not too late. 

Don’t be afraid. Take it. 

Don’t be afraid. Have it. 

Don’t be afraid. Love it. Because that is your fate. 

To love each other. That’s the answer. 

*Neither Peter nor I practice a particular religion. "God" here refers to the Universal consciousness. 

Snakes on St. Croix and the Nightmare in Paradise

I had a nightmare last night.

The actual retaining wall, minus the snakes.

In my dream, I was peering into the darkness, trying to see what was there lying in wait for me on the retaining wall in our backyard. It is very much what I write about in my blog post, "The Monster in My Garden" and here it is confronting me. I lean closer to the rocky wall, and just as I had suspected, there is a snake looking back at me. It is a brown patterned snake with large unassuming eyes. It looks back at me, but is not afraid or menacing. I back out of it's space, not wanting to confront it or make it angry when I notice the taut torso of a large silver snake hanging over me. I brushed past it when I leaned closer to the brown snake. I thought it was a tree limb. Now, it hung before me, it's face eye-level, suspended, muscles rolling ready to...

But before it could do anything, I backed away. I literally pushed myself back in my bed, my body recoiled as far as I could go before banging into Peter who was sleeping beside me and Dorothy pinning the blankets down by my feet, I didn't get far, couldn't get away. 

I was hyperventilating, even as I lie awake. I could still see the two snakes looking at me. I was awake but the feeling of danger kept coming back to me, making me breath short shallow breaths. I had to fight to keep from screaming. 

Peter and I have a history with snakes.
He actually bought the kids a snake
for Christmas and I freaked out because
I couldn't believe he never knew I did
not like them?!? In all of the years we
were together, he never noticed that
I would bypass them at zoo exhibits?!?

During the course of the remaining hours before dawn, I saw the images of the two snakes again and again and each time, I hyperventilated. It wouldn't be until I had gotten dressed and taken Dorothy outside, as I sat in front of the very retaining wall, was I able to recall the image of the snakes and not panic with fear. 

Why? What was I afraid of? 

I think the one snake, the brown snake, is my fear of abandonment. It is there, I know it's there, I recognize it, I see it. 

The silver snake, though, is a mystery. The thing about that snake in my dream is that it startled me. I didn't know it was there. I ducked under it. I brushed up against it. I was so frightened by it, could it be because I didn't know that I was in eminent danger? I just didn't know. I didn't know how close danger was and that's what scared me. 

Also, I think I hyperventilated because I tried to get away, but Peter was holding me back. He was in my way. He kept me from fleeing. And Dorothy, she pinned me down, she was weighing heavily on me, keeping me from moving. 

Did they prevent me from getting away or were they there to tell me I don't need to flee. I don't need to want to run from my problems, they have my back?

This is the rescue we had gotten for Macallan. Macallan
called her Otse (Ooh-T-see) for a small town in Botswana.
She was covered in fleas and the BSPCA didn't know if she
would make it. Born a stray, she had no idea what love was, at
first, she wouldn't let us near her, but then when she realized
we were only trying to love her, she was the best dog ever!

Or was the dream my genuine fear of living in St. Croix? I have this normal fear and then I have this very large menacing fear that I have to duck and brush past if I want to remain here. It scares me but I can't get away, get out, get going, leave because of Peter and Dorothy. What if I am not facing my intuition to leave because that would mean I can't face leaving Peter and Dorothy behind? 

Now, the emotional fear, while it's pervasive and sometimes detrimental to my mental and emotional state, it is something I can deal with. What scares me is that there's a very real danger that I know about, like the feeling I got in Africa when we left for a fundraising event we were managing and we returned home to find our neighbor had shot our dogs. I knew we shouldn't have left them. I knew we were being instructed by the universe to leave Botswana, but I didn't listen, and our dogs died as a result. Is this another one of those times when I am not heeding the call of the "gods" and then something catastrophic will happen? Is it? Well? Is it? (I ask you - the reader, or my dad and brother who have passed on or the universe in general.) 

I just don't know. 

The Monster in my Garden

My actual garden at our home in St. Croix.

Do you believe in monsters? Because lately, I've had this nagging feeling that there's something bad out there. Just out of reach. Watching. Lurking. Ready to pounce. 

I don't think it's really there...But it could be. It's like the monsters you believe are under the bed, in your closet, or in my case, an evil being standing behind me that I get a glimpse of in the bathroom mirror just as I'm stooping over to wash my face.

I am quite intuitive. I'm an empath and believe me, I know your pain. I get sympathy cramps, headaches and nausea. I can't watch particularly violent movies because I can feel each blow from the hammer or the bullet tearing through flesh and bone. I also retain sadness or confusion and pain from people I know and love.

And with that said, you should also know that I have a record of  "feeling" when something is a good idea or bad. If I'm particularly hysterical, you better listen. My feelings are never wrong. I have insisted on cancelling plans or giving my wholehearted "OK!" to random invitations based on them. My kids (and husband) think I know the future, or can predict it, but that's not really how this works.

What I get are signs that I can read efficiently. Or sometimes I get a warm feeling of love or cold feeling of evil that I respond to appropriately and adamantly. On occasion, I've had words enter my mind that give me a complete thought, lets me KNOW something without me garnering any facts. I say that words come to me because the sentence is not vocalized. I don't hear a voice, I kind of "see" the sentence. Some call it intuition, but I think it's something more tenable. I think it's being in-tune with the universe.

While living in St. Croix, I've learned to identify when a hummingbird will come by our porch. I hear the whir of its wings at a distance and as it gets louder, the sound arriving before the actual bird appears, the buzz is the "tell," like in poker.

Well, I am getting that "tell" right now. For me, it is a darkness, a hollow inside me that says to me there is something to fear. It's particularly strong lately and so I look for it to manifest in physical things.

During the day, after my husband leaves for work, I have about seven hours to myself. I can do whatever I want. Sure, sometimes I want to change the sheets, do laundry, sweep, but most days, I am free to read, write, journal, post on FB, take pictures of our garden, walk, pet and feed our dog, Dorothy, whatever.

Dorothy is our Foster Fail. We were only going to care for her for a few days but when I identified so strongly with this shy, wary, scared dog who had been abandoned twice, I couldn't let her go.

Dorothy is skittish, afraid of most men, jumps at loud noises, is tentative and ever vigilant. We don't know what she had to endure during the hurricanes of 2017, but she retains her cautiousness, insecurity, fear.

In our garden, where Dorothy and I wander during the day, I notice that she also looks for "evil". The other day, she stuck her small short snout under some plants and quickly backed away snarling, frightened. I brace myself, expecting to find a snake, one of the few hundred pets illegally brought to the island and even worse, released into the wild. But no, it was just a hermit crab. Just a cute crustacean oblivious to either Dorothy or me.

Another day, she explored a portion of the garden I couldn't reach because of the overgrown brush. I started to walk over toward her to make sure she was OK, when she came tearing up the driveway with her tail between her legs. Turned out she had gotten stung by a wasp, there were so many, it's a wonder neither of us had been stung more often. She spent the afternoon licking the spot, I of course, sympathized and could almost feel her pain.

Like Dorothy, I confront these things that could cause me harm. I peer into the dark crevices and cracks of the retaining wall that surrounds our property. I search the branches of the mango, Ginger Thomas and date palm trees in our yard. I focus on the vines wrapping their way up and around hibiscus branches. What I'm looking for, I don't know. But I expect to find an iguana, the size of King Kong, just waiting to lunge at me; a python dangling from above, ready to drop on me; a monster, never before seen or named, ready to bite, claw, and eat me whole.

But instead, I witness rainbows arching overhead. I see flowers like little paper lanterns dangling flirtatiously. I find lizards so tiny they don't make a sound or bow the leaf they have just clambered over. And lately, there are the hummingbirds, spunky speed demons that hover inches from my face questioning my existence. Some buzz past me, so close my hair flies up from the wind their whirling wings have generated.

My conscious self knows my fear is not out there, but within. I think I'm afraid of committing to this life in St. Croix. I'm afraid that this new found belief that I'll have a forever home with Peter is scary because I'm afraid I'll do something to lose it. I'm afraid I will give myself over to my writing and be disappointed with what I find. That I'll think I'll get my book published. That I'll want that and it won't happen.

But why? Why be afraid of any or all of those things? I'm enjoying the life here, the life with Peter has never been better, the writing and the idea of being read is exciting. Maybe it's time to realize the "thing that is bad" isn't really there and put the fear where it belongs, categorized as mythical, illusionary, ephemeral, unlike these hummingbirds and rainbows that I keep finding.

But then, I've lived with this monster, this evil, this fear since I was little, since I was four. And while that abandoned girl has been brought out of the crevices. She's been identified and named. She has not been banished from our garden. She lies dormant, lurking, waiting to pounce. Like the whir of the hummingbirds' wings, I must learn to see her coming before she actually appears.

At The Croix Roads

If you've read my previous blogs, you know that last January, Peter left for a job in St. Croix. It paid him well, he got to use his expertise to help in a crisis situation, he would be in new territory, but also under new supervision. He was excited about that.
     He didn't know what the living conditions would be in St. Croix. After all, he was being brought there to help with hurricane recovery after two Category 5 hurricanes hit the island in a matter of weeks.
But as it turned out, he wound up living in vacation homes that were not destroyed or damaged and lived pretty well.
    Unfortunately, many of the recovery team left loved-ones behind. We all had to adjust to newly defined lives. For Peter and I, it was a trying first few months.
     I talked about divorce - AGAIN! I felt he was abandoning me, which he literally was. After all, he would be living 30 days on-island only to return "home" for a week or so. But, he would say, "If the living conditions are good enough, you could come down to visit." What kind of marriage is that? Not one I wanted, that's for sure.
     He was to leave in January, leaving me with the house, the animals (of which we had 2 dogs, a coatimundi, a Patagonian cavy, a turtle, a lizard, some cockroaches, fish and stick bugs!), our two kids, my mom and a seemingly infinite amount of stress and responsibilities that overwhelmed me just thinking about it.
     It was daunting. There would be eight snow storms. Of course the guy he hired to plow the driveway showed up only after being called multiple times and then did only a part of the driveway saying his truck broke—not my problem! And he wanted full payment regardless!
     I had a frozen shoulder that required physical therapy and chiropractic adjustments three times a week, acupuncture once a week and a massage every other week to try to relieve the pain and gain mobility. I could not shovel that driveway. I was flabbergasted!
     As always, there were issues in the house, but nothing would be as bad as dealing with our dogs. They wouldn't stop fighting or marking their territory. They wouldn't stop peeing and pooping in our house, not even stopping after I got them fixed! And none of that was as bad as trying to get them to stop barking! Why did no one tell me that the adorable coonhound would bay, bark and howl all day every day!?!
     I was unhappy. I was lonely. I was overwhelmed. While Peter's paycheck was a plus, I, of course, thought it was just an excuse to leave me. I was sure of it.

     At my lowest, I wanted to disappear. I didn't think I could face another day. That feeling of sorrow was all consuming. No thought of what would happen to the kids, the animals, the household. There were a few nights, I really lost my mind, my heart, myself.

     And then I went to visit. The blues of the sea, the tropical breezes, the sunshine, the warmth, the beauty of the beaches. But I wasn't there to be on vacation. I was there to reconnect with my husband.
     I'm too tired and still too vulnerable to go into detail. Suffice it to say, we had intense discussions.

     Month after month would go by where he came back to NY and I went to St. Croix. Each month building a foundation for a new life together. That first visit to St. Croix, he assured me he hadn't taken the job to get away from me. "It's for us. This sucks for me too. I don't want to be without you." But I didn't totally believe him.
     As time went by and he and his job became more stable, he brought up my staying in St. Croix. How would that work? At first, I thought I could sell our house in New York, maybe find a smaller place for our grown kids to live. But there was too much to be done. Our 32 years together was stored in that house.
     I wound up in St. Croix for two weeks at a time, and then he would come up North for a week, only leaving us apart for a week each month. Then, I came down for three weeks and we flew "home" together.
     By now, I understood that he hadn't abandoned me/us. I felt he was lonely too. I believed him, for once. In our over 30 years together, I finally believed he loved me and wanted to live the rest of his life with me.
     My therapist (whom I haven't seen for 10 or 15 years now) would ask me why I thought he stayed with me. If I was so convinced he would leave me, why are we still together? My answers ranged from 'Because it's the right thing to do.' 'He hasn't found anyone else...yet.' 'He doesn't know where to go.' and on occasion, 'I just don't know.' Her point was not to confirm my fears; her point was to show me that my fears were unwarranted.
     Well, Nancy. I finally see that. I finally believe that he loves me and wants to be with me.
Finally.

     So, this St Croix life that we are living now, this "Croix" Roads where we've found ourselves, took over 30 years! Now that I believe we're truly going to stay together, I look back at the 30+ years and can't believe all the hurt we put each other through. If only, all along, we took our I love you's and I do's and were totally committed to them. Think how much happier I could have been if I lived without the fear of abandonment and instead lived with abandon.

Abandoned: The Beginning

Chapter One

     When I was three-years-old, my parents left my older brother, my younger sister and me. I have spent the greater part of my life coming to terms with that abandonment. For a year, we lived in the Philippines while our parents made a life without us in the USA. 

     We were cared for by my mother’s parents; stern, cold, grandparents who rarely showed affection. They, along with our mother’s youngest sister cared for my brother (4-years-old), me, (3-years-old) and my sister (just 1-year-old). 

     During that time, my sister would say her first word, calling our aunt, “Momma”; take her first steps, and cry, cry, cry for our parents to return. 

     My brother, a precocious oldest grandchild, often did things like play on a chair near the edge of brick steps. He was standing on the chair when he tried to get a toy car that had fallen. He ended up tumbling from the chair and cutting his cheek open on the jagged brick steps. The bandage that covered the stitches took up half of his face. How did our mother feel when she saw pictures of her son with an injury and she was halfway across the globe? 

     Even after we were reunited, that year apart scarred not only my brother’s face, but our sense of security. Therapy never quite cured my sister or I of the sense of abandonment because, you see, no one ever explained the situation to us. Our parents never tried to explain their absence.

* * *

It wouldn’t be until I was in my 30’s that my siblings and I would find out the truth. Our parents wanted us with them during that first year in the States. The pictures of them holding other children, playing in the snow, at parties with their new friends were not joyful times as the photos portrayed, but frustrating, anxious and regrettable weeks that became months and then a year with our mom begging her father to bring us to America, as agreed upon.

     When we did finally board a plane for the two-day journey from the Philippines to Japan, Japan to the USA, our grandfather, Lolo in tagalog, and our mother's youngest sister, Tita Chet, accompanied us. It was 1968, our first time to travel on an airplane. Back then, airplane travel was a big deal for everyone, not just three young Filipino kids who were going to emigrate to the United States. People dressed up to fly in planes. Think Mad Men International, that's the timing for this leg of my journey.

     On the plane, the three of us, aged 5, 4, and 2 were fussy. The food was unfamiliar. There was a big slab of meat called a ‘steak’ on our tray, something we'd never seen before, and the milk in these containers tasted funny. We cried and were irritable on the long transatlantic flight. When we disembarked in Japan, I remember a finely dressed women with a handkerchief tied around her perfectly quaffed hair having to help me up when I fell down the aluminum stairs onto the tarmack. I was groggy when the plane landed in Japan and don't remember much more than this.

     I remember spending the night in a hotel. There was a time difference or we slept on the flight and weren't sleepy so we jumped on the beds and created a ruckus. Lolo was quite annoyed and kept telling us to go to sleep. We must have but I have no recollection.   

     As I said, it was a two-day flight and when we finally landed in the States, I'm sure my grandfather and parents were relieved. Was the flight supposed to take two days? Were we supposed to stay the night in Japan? If it was an unexpected layover, would our parents have known or were they waiting at the airport only to finally give up and go home alone? Back then, remember, flights were rare and communications entailed switchboards, expensive long distance rates, unreliable service and ungodly lag-times...thinking about the whole ordeal, it must have been a nightmare, really... 

     But we would eventually land. We were going through customs at JFK when our grandfather instructed us. "When I tell you, run to your parents,” he said. As we made our way, we wound up in a long corridor where way far away people stood looking for their overseas guests. We stopped to collect ourselves. Our Lolo peered down the hallway trying to find our parents' faces. When he spotted them, he told my brother and me to "Go. Go now," our grandfather nudged us and in typical Filipino fashion, pointed with his lips and nodded his head. "Run." So my brother and I looked at each other, shrugged and ran. But, I wanted to know, "Which of those people were our parents?" We had forgotten what they looked like. But we ran, I guess, hoping someone would step forward to claim us.

     At some point, my brother stopped running. He told me years later that he had to pull up the zipper on his pants. In any case, I got out ahead. Searching the faces of the people who were standing still as I whizzed by, I was caught by a man kneeling down with his arms outstretched. I could only hope it was the right guy, because to me, he was as much a stranger as the next one. 

     He hugged me and picked me up and kissed me on the cheek. My brother made it and he was embraced by our mom. And after a few seconds, they traded us off. 

    When our aunt arrived carrying our sister, Carolina wouldn't go to our mom. She clung to our aunt, refusing to let go. These people were strangers, after all. She had been away from them for as long as she had been with them. She began to cry. Our mother began to cry. At the time I didn’t know why.

* * *

In 2003, in Cold Spring, NY,my mom was helping me with the kids, with the packing, trying to spend as much time with us before we left. My father had died several years before. She was alone, but doing well on her own. I was very proud of her.

     I didn’t think for a moment, how our move would affect her. I didn’t see how.

     Teary-eyed, she helped me seal a box that would come with us on the plane. “Why would you move your kids to a third world country,” she began tentatively, “when your father and I sacrificed so much to get you out?” I honestly never thought of it that way. I wanted to say, ‘It’s because you gave us so much, that now we can afford to give back.’ But I didn’t say anything. I glanced at her and we moved on.