High-Rise Emergency

Today started off similar to any other day, then, it took a sharp left turn.  I work above the 20th floor of a high-rise building.  One of my coworkers went downstairs for her smokebreak and then called me to report that there was some type of building emergency.  During the state of emergency, elevators could be taken to go downstairs but not upstairs.  Tenants and guests were directed to go upstairs using the freight elevators.  Later, as details emerged, a suspicious package was received by one of the tenants.  Ultimately, the fire department, the police department, EMS and Homeland Security (the heavyweights) were here to assess the danger of said suspicious package.  Another coworker who was arriving when this was winding down said the EMS took someone away.

Just think, I had just complained to a friend that I had a boring life…

Biking 10K Per (Week)Day


My daily work commute involves riding 5K (3.1) in the morning and another 5K in the evening.  In the grand scheme of things, when I saw everyone riding bicycles in Amsterdam, I never thought I would become one of “them.”  However, five and a half years after seeing “them” do it in Amsterdam, I too am doing it. 

Commuting by bicycle on a daily basis definitely has its ups and downs.  Weather is sometimes my mortal enemy – rain especially.  Cold weather turns me into a snot-nosed kid all over again.  The days in which Mother Nature graces me with her presence find me slain before I even get on the bike; I’m out of energy before the wheels make one revolution.  Yet, for better or for worse, the 10K happens. 

Now that the weather is changing for the better, I find that the commute is a little more pleasant.  I hear birds chirping in the morning and evening.  I can see dramatic changes in the sky during the evening.  My pace is slower because I’m not trying to hurry up and get out of the cold weather nor am I trying to maintain a pace that will keep me warm.  My nose doesn’t run.  I see tadpoles again darting about in the canals/ditches along my route. Pretty soon, I hope to see those flowers blooming in the canals/ditches.  Best of all will be the increased exposure to Vitamin D(elight)!


Conversation: Motherless Daughters

A maxim with which I identify is that we are all going through (or have gone through) something.  Sometimes, ever so often, the wisdom of what you have already gone through can be a source of solace to someone in the midst of the same thing.  And so it was a few weeks ago.

This particular day started out somewhat off-kilter.  The department store unlocks the doors a few minutes before the 10am opening.  Usually that is not a problem, however, this particular morning the doors were opened around 9:55 am and there was a customer who immediately materialized at my register – before I had a chance to open any of the three registers.  Technically, we arrived at the register at the same time.  Not good.  I asked the customer if she would like to look around for a replacement while I opened at least one of the registers.  She agreed and I was able to open one register in order to process the return.  Before I had the opportunity to open the other two registers, yet another customer appeared with seemingly yet another return.  However, this was not a return but what I thought would be a simple even exchange.  This particular morning was not to be so simple.

The customer explained that she had purchased a comforter set with a coordinating pair of drapes months earlier.  She had already set up the bed with the items from the comforter set but had never taken the time to put up the drapes.  In the process of explaining why she was exchanging the drapes, she started crying.  When she was a little more composed, she apologized for the crying and stated that her mother had died five months earlier (around the time she made the purchase and was changing the bedroom’s décor).  My assumption is that her mother died before she was able to hang the drapes but after setting up the bed. 

This changed the dynamic of the exchange.  Instead of going through the motions of exchanging merchandise by rote, I stopped and took out the roll of brown bathroom paper towel that we kept under the register.  I offered a piece of paper towel with the caveat that the hard paper could possibly make her situation worse by rubbing the skin from her eyes.  I also explained that there was no need to apologize for crying as I had been there already and understood how seemingly mundane, unrelated moments could trigger tears of grief. 

The minutes were spent discussing the cascading set of events that led to her mother dying in a situation contrary to the advance medical directive, or living will, that she had set forth.  Because the living will was not followed, the customer had to make the hard decision to take her mother off life support when the doctor realized her condition was not going to improve.  I would imagine this lay at the heart of the reason for the living will in the first place – to remove the burden of responsibility from a loved one for making the active decision to end their life.  Yet, that is the situation in which the customer found herself.  With the doctor’s prognosis stating she would not recover, the doctor gave her mother roughly 24 hours to live without life support.  To add further despair to an already tragic situation, the decision day to end life support was the day before the customer’s own daughter’s birthday.  In effect, she had to make the decision that would mean her mother’s death would be on her own daughter’s birthday.  When she discussed the implication with her daughter, her daughter was okay with it.  But she was not.  For a moment, in theory I was okay too because I thought, “hey, it’s her birthday and she’s okay with it – not a problem.”  However, after her explanation, I could see the dilemma more fully.  Celebrating the birth of her daughter would always be marred by the death of her mother.  With that, she cried a little more.  And she again apologized for being so emotional after five months.

I then explained to her that my own mother had died years ago.  I understood, to a certain degree, how she felt.  I reassured her that five months was no time to be beyond the reaches of grief.  I told her of how after a certain point, I would wake up with the simple goal of not crying that day.  Countless days passed before I had that breakthrough day.  I spoke of an incident nine years later, triggered by an off-hand comment made by a coworker regarding her own mother that found me silently weeping at work at 2am in the morning.  At the front desk of a luxury hotel no less.  I spoke of how, even now, 26 years later, there are moments where I feel the loss.  Acutely. 

Yet, I also tempered the conversation centered on shared grief with the recognition that there WAS a breakthrough day where I did not cry.  Over time, the dynamic shifted from a daily life consumed by grief with moments of current events intervening to a daily life consumed by current events with moments of grief intervening.  And how, over time, the moments of grief that intervened were less frequent and did not last as long.  We both discussed the belief that the physical body is dead but the soul or spirit of the person lives on.  I even told her about feeling an overwhelming sense of love and connectedness to all there is when I was in Luxembourg (a place that my mother had never been) and sensing/feeling that my mother was there with me.  I compared the process to driving a manual transmission.  When you release the pressure from the clutch (grief) a little and apply pressure to the accelerator (presence in current day), you move forward as the ratios change.

Eventually, we got back to the matter at hand.  She found a replacement for the drapes.  I gave her the merchandise and receipt once I completed the exchange.  She thanked me for the help with the drapes and thanked me for the honest conversation.  The change in her disposition was thank you enough.

Later that day, I was fired.

Tranquil, Serene Day

This is the song I wish I were singing today:

Or this version:

Instead, this is the song I sang:

And this is what it actually looked like:

I love being near water because it is so tranquil and serene.  So with that in mind, I decided to venture far afield in order to be near/on the water.  The day was a little chilly and at certain points overcast.  However, there were moments when the sun came out and provided a nice warmth to the slight chill.  Needless to say, today was a beautiful day with part of the time spent sitting on the dock of the bay (actually harbor).

My next adventure/experience – going out on a sailboat.  That will take a little time and effort but that is the next progression from watching the boats from the shore or from the dock.  Years (and another lifetime) ago, I was on a motorboat in Miami Bay, then we left the bay for the ocean solely based on my curiosity.  If anything could ever be described as the exact opposite of the mood Christopher Cross or Avant evokes in “Sailing”, then being on a motorboat going full throttle in the ocean, cresting waves and bottoming out would be it.  I’ll take the sailing.  On a good day.

Seasons Change – Part I

Fall/autumn is here and I couldn’t help but take a musical moment to herald the arrival of my favorite season.  A written piece is forthcoming but in the meantime, a musical blast from the 80s – Exposés “Seasons Change”.  Because I love the awesomeness of the 80s, this is the extended version. Do extended versions even exist anymore?

Conversation: The (Merry) Widow

Last Thursday I had a medical appointment.  While I was sitting in the waiting room, another patient and I got into a conversation.  Within minutes, we were chatting about having grown up in Alabama; she in a part that I was familiar with because of visits to my grandmother.  In addition, I told her about having met a man Sunday who was also from the same town!

In the course of the conversation, she told me about having grown up poor in Alabama (something I could relate to).  She then told me about her marriage.  When she and her husband got married, they borrowed $50 from one relative and a car from another relative so that they could have a honeymoon in the nearest large town.  At that time, jobs were scarce in the area in which they lived.  A popular job was to haul gravel in the back of a truck for a man who paid the drivers a fee.  With no other options available, her husband bought a truck and hauled gravel, along with many others in the area.  When it came time to pay the haulers, the man only paid a tenth of what he had originally promised.  At this point, there were car notes, gas and (presumably) insurance to factor into the monthly expenses which were originally based on a much larger figure.  In addition, she was now pregnant.  A cousin who worked for the post office offered to put in a word to help her husband get a job as a mailman.  He got the job, they soon moved and her husband started delivering mail.  Over time, as a result of his work ethic, his managers promoted him.  His final promotion – postal inspector – allowed them to live an exceptionally comfortable life far removed from the days of $50 honeymoons and underpaid gravel hauling.  The job required that they move around quite a bit and the cities she named were all places in which I had either lived or were near where I had lived. 

The family of three eventually grew to four as she had two daughters.  She mentioned that, growing up, her family had never owned a house but over time she and her husband had owned houses and she herself had sold houses as a real estate agent.  Her husband died some years ago and she said she missed him and wished that he were still around (they would have been married around 60 years by now).  Her daughters moved to different parts of the country ages ago.  Yet, the 76-year old woman I met was a vivacious woman who was looking forward to going through her scheduled doctors’ visits that day, then joining one of her best friends for a girl’s night out dinner and movie.  Before we said goodbye, she wished me luck in what I’m trying to do.  I told her that, during our conversation, I picked up that she was in a place of contentment in her life that shone through in her personality while we spoke and that I enjoyed our conversation.

Soon thereafter, my name was called and I was no longer waiting.  Yet, I could have waited and chatted all day…

A Credible Threat

I ride my bike.  A lot.  I ride back and forth to work and everyone else I wish to go.  The library is especially key to several of my treks.  Although a large part of my route is usually along a rather busy street, I meander around side-streets as well.  Most drivers find a way to share the road with me, the lone bicyclist.  There are some who blow to show their annoyance that they had to move their wrist a fraction of a degree to the left in order to safely pass me.  Others blow because they know me from somewhere.  Others still, blow because they want me to be aware of them coming up from behind.  Sometimes, I provide a good laugh for those who like to do things to scare me – like screaming out the window just as they pass or blowing the deep, loud horn that sounds like the Love Boat setting sail for an exotic destination.   Why someone would want that for a car horn, I have no idea but it does exist much to my chagrin.

All in all, cars and I coexist on the streets and roads upon which I travel.  With one exception, that is.  Once, I was traveling on a side-street with no shoulder.  As a car passed, I could hear the passenger yell something out of the window as they passed.  Due to the Doppler Effect, I could not understand the exact words that were being yelled at me.  However, I did pick up from the tone that the comment was mean-spirited and hateful.  Because the street was clear, I gave an extended one-finger salute to Mr. Passenger.  Weeks later, as I was leaving work on a Sunday, I, again, was yelled at from the passenger window of a car.  This time I distinctly understood, “you must want someone to run your little ass over on that bike” being yelled out the passenger window as I safely rode on the shoulder, well to the right of the white line. 

The first incident felt slightly random.  This one, however, felt deeply personal.  It felt like a threat.  In hearing and understanding what was being said, I picked up on an almost predatory, menacing power behind the words.  Later as I thought about it, I realized it may have been the same Mr. Passenger in a different car who didn’t appreciate my extended one-finger salute to his first effort at communication.  I consider myself somewhat happy-go-lucky (only somewhat).  As I go about my life, I do not antagonize people and expect that they will not antagonize me.  Yet, from the first time Mr. Passenger yelled out the car window, something innate about me riding my bike antagonized him and he lashed out at me.  Not interested in cowering on the bike, being a pedaling victim, I saluted him.  From our second encounter, I take it he didn’t appreciate my response (or any response from a place of power).  I mentioned the two incidents to one of the police officers I know so that I could ascertain the best avenue of response in the event Mr. Passenger decided to harass from a car again.  After our conversation, I felt pretty good about being able to nip the problem in the bud if it reoccurred.

Then, one day while eating lunch outside with my bicycle parked nearby, I had a person that I knew of from a peripheral degree say hello.  I was immersed in a book that I was reading and looked up to see who was speaking, smiled and said “oh, hello” in somewhat of a distracted manner.  He then said something else at the same time an ambulance or fire truck was screaming up the nearby street and I didn’t hear what he said.  I probably had my face frowned in concentration because his lips were moving and all I could hear was the siren and other traffic noise.  I told him that I was sorry but I didn’t hear what he said.  When he repeated himself, I still didn’t understand because of the remaining traffic noise (or am I hard of hearing already?).  When I told him I still didn’t hear what he said, he then took a step closer and asked “what part didn’t I understand”.  I explained that I didn’t hear him because of the noise.  He then replied that one day someone was going to run me over while I’m riding my bike on the road that leads to and from work.  The same road on which the second encounter occurred.  The same statement without the cursing this time.  I now feel as if I know who Mr. Passenger is.  Because we work in the same place (different company) I now understand why the second encounter felt so personal.  It also makes sense, because the second encounter was on a day that we both got off work at the same time.  It could have been a coincidence but it just doesn’t feel that way.

I have now prepared myself somewhat for the possibility of a third encounter (other than being run off the road, there’s no real way to prepare for that) and will also have a conversation with the powers that be about my suspicions so that there is a record of these incidents – just in case.  In the meantime, happy-go-lucky-but-prepared me continues to ride…

Conversation: The Death-Defying Lady

Earlier this week, I had a conversation with a woman who felt compelled to share her story and that I would think she was crazy.  That exact day, a year earlier, she died. 

While sitting outside saying her morning prayers (a daily ritual), she said she heard a voice tell her that she needed to go to the hospital because she was having a heart attack.  She then asked her husband to take her to the hospital because of what the voice said.  Her husband didn’t quite believe her (or more obviously, the voice) and asked several questions.  He asked if she felt any heart attack symptoms.  At that moment, the only “off” thing she felt was numbness or tingling in her pinky finger.  Based on this one, minute point, he did not think it warranted a trip to the hospital for such a potentially silly reason.  She insisted.  He acquiesced.  While they were on their way, her heart stopped.  Technically, she was dead.   Her husband flew to the hospital as fast as he could.  She cycled through resuscitations and flat-lining multiple times.  Finally, the doctors were able to stabilize her condition and find the root cause of her heart attack – a completely clogged artery.  She underwent bypass surgery and remained in the hospital for quite a while. 

While recovering in the hospital, she saw a little boy in her room around 2am.  According to her description, he was looking around the room in complete wonder.  She was, of course, concerned that there was a young child in her room, away from his parents at such a late (or early) hour.  However, he would never speak.  At some point, she must have fallen asleep.  The next morning, she asked her husband, who slept in the room with her, if he had seen the little boy during the night and he said he had not.  The following night, the little boy reappeared.  Again, he said nothing.  This time, she decided to try to touch him to get his attention.  When she reached out to him, her hand went through him.  In the middle of the night, in her hospital room recovering from a heart attack a voice told her she was having, she met an angel.

Yet, her story doesn’t end there.  She returned home after being released from the hospital.  While sitting outside saying her prayers, a voice (or THE voice) spoke again and told her to go the hospital because she was having a heart attack.  Dutifully, she told her husband, who thought it was a not-so-funny matter.  However, he did take her back, only to find that, yes, she was having another heart attack due to the diminished capacity or output of her other arteries. 

The day I met her was a year to the day after the original voice and heart attack.  The person I spoke to was a vibrant and thriving woman.  She jokingly mentioned that she was now living on lagniappe.  We spoke for so long that the conversation veered off to other subjects as well; spiritual healing, giving service to others in lieu of birthday gifts, adoption, angels and spirits. Once again, she mentioned that I might think she was crazy and I told her that she had a most amazing story that I was happy that she felt free to share with me.  I now share it with you.

For me, almost everything relates to something else.  While she was telling me her story, it reminded me of the movie, City of Angels.  The song is especially appropriate…

Night Rider

Night time riding is not my absolute favorite thing to do.  My rods are not the best, which means making distinctions between varying shades of dark things in the dark doesn’t work out too well for me.  I am no owl for sure.  Although I have a light on the front of my bike, its purpose is more for allowing others to see that, yes, I’m here, as opposed to me being able to see what lies on the ground ahead of me.

Despite my almost night blindness, ever so often, I do have a desire to take a ride at night.  Last night was one of those nights.  Fall, my favorite season, seems to be approaching based on evening temperatures.  Last night felt exceptionally cool and crisp.  I was not wearing sleeves and could feel a slight chill against my arms as I slowly meandered around town.  Last night’s pace was just that – a slow meander.  There was no real destination involved so I just meandered my way along with the most minimal pedal input I could get away with.  I was out long enough to see the sky change to varying shades of color as the sun set.  At one point, purple was a beautiful swath decorating the evening sky.  At a certain point on my return while riding up a residential street, all was quiet along the route in a way that reminded me of the mornings I would ride in the snow.  Quiet and peaceful.  That was the feeling I brought with me when I returned home and before I fell asleep.