Hello from the Other Side (of back surgery)

Been wanting to post an update ever since I survived back surgery 16 days ago (morning of Nov. 30th). I've started writing about it and had to stop a couple times in the past couple weeks, and today is the first bit of time that I am finally able to share the initial story.

I say initial because the day of my surgery was pretty much in the middle of the 6 month span that this process is likely to affect my life. On the front end, since mid-August, I've had >3 months of worsening symptoms from my sciatic nerve root compressed my herniated L4-L5 disk (plain English: burning, numbness, pain, and weakness in my right leg and foot, and up to 12 pain pills a day of 3-4 different types of pain medication to allow me to continue working). And now, ahead of me, 3 months of recovery (fine print: 3 weeks of temporary disability from work, 6-7 weeks of physical therapy to restrengthen my right leg and foot, back and abs, a month or two of no driving, two months of no strenuous exercise, an indefinite amount of time with no bending over, and 3 months for my sciatic nerve to gradually heal and the nerve pain to go away completely).

On one hand it's nice to know that there's a 3 month post-surgery recovery window in which I can relax and not feel like I have to be immediately better. On the other hand, since I am not particularly patient nor disciplined by nature, I have to work at controlling my mental reactions to the speed of my healing process.  But anything that doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right?

I had to breathe deep when I saw some initial reactions from friends to my posts about surviving surgery, to the effect of, 'of course you'd survive, but how's the pain now?' On one hand, very few people experience immediate and total relief of sciatica symptoms, and EVERYONE who undergoes surgery has a recovery period where the word pain-free is a joke. On the other hand, I really was terrified of surgery. I was partially afraid I'd end up worse, worried about general anesthesia, local anesthesia, you name it. And the truth is it's not always pleasant to be hospitalized in a foreign country, even a top-notch one, because when you're in your deepest throes of needing to feel safe and secure, a foreign language, even one that you're fluent in, can push you to the edge of anxiety when no matter how you express yourself, folks just aren't getting it, or in the least, they're just not able to communicate their reasoning to you.

On the day before and the day of my surgery, that was precisely what happened: language/culture blunder #1 began with an anti-anxiety and leg pain medication that was given to me the night before, but not the morning of. Every day for 3 months, I've been on pain medications for my sciatic nerve pain in my leg, but somehow it got left out on the morning of, and so during my wait to go into the OR I was suffering and this compounded my nervousness about surgery. So when he finally arrived in the OR, Language/Culture Blunder #2 ensued, and instead of giving me the two meds and putting me on local anesthesia like we'd agreed, in the end, the anesthesiologist ended up putting me on general anesthesia. And later told my surgeon that I'd asked for it, who of course believed him. At least that was the response when he boasted that the surgery had only taken 35 minutes, and I complained that how could that be when I'd been unconscious for 3 hours.

Putting those blunders aside, I set about firming up my mental state to go through the first few tough days of recovery. Truth be told, I was amazed that my back muscles did not hurt. The incision site stung a bit when I moved funny, and I had some serious weakness in my lumbar/sacral area for the first week, but beyond that, I was able to walk, sit, and stand completely unassisted within a couple hours of waking up. To me, that proved the claim of endoscopic surgery that's it's much less invasive and permits faster recovery and mobility than traditional open back surgery, where muscles are sliced by a scalpel rather than perforated by an endoscope. Sure, it was hard to walk the first two days, and I did not really want to, but with the urging of the nursing staff and my doctor, I hauled myself out with my IV stand and did my laps in the 1st floor lobby. Walking a few minutes every hour since the day of my surgery has contributed greatly to my recovery process.

Unfortunately, there were two more hiccups in my first few days. The first could also be considered a cultural blunder of sorts. I thought I'd prepared my small mountain of pre-surgery paperwork as thoroughly as possible. The insurance company had requested a quote in writing from the surgeon and his team (which was mostly adhered to, with the exception of a couple members whom insurance didn't end up covering) as part of the pre-surgery approval process, but hadn't requested a quote in writing from the hospital. I had a choice of two or three hospitals that the doctor operated at; I was told one wasn't covered by the insurance, and another didn't answer my calls. So I went with the third hospital that answered my phone call and gave me a quote— although it's known as one of the most high-end and pricey hospitals in the area, the amount quoted over the phone sounded totally reasonable. In retrospect, I really should have gone in person to get a written quote.

I started receiving phone calls from billing to my hospital room only a few hours after my surgery on Monday afternoon, telling me that Dr. so and so had left his invoice, and what would my form of payment be? I told them to call my insurance. They informed me insurance wouldn't be covering. I was annoyed but didn't think it was too big of a deal because I could probably take some more cash out. I told them we'd deal with it tomorrow. But on Tuesday, after my doctor had discharged me and Margo went to billing to cash out, came the biggest surprise. The total for the hospital's portion of services ended up being about 18 times (Yes, 1800%) more than I'd been quoted over the phone. This huge discrepancy was one that we weren't prepared to pay, even 14% of it, which was my copay. To our dismay, they were also unwilling to bill us, in other words, I had to pay in full immediately prior to leaving.

I didn't have enough cash to cover it, nor was my credit card limit high enough to charge it. So less than 30 hours after my surgery, I spent about 6 hours sweating profusely and making calls in an attempt to raise those funds. Those 6 hours were enough for another entire blog post. Then I pleaded with billing to accept the 70% we were finally able to raise by Tuesday evening and bill me the rest, but the heads of department refused. So my discharge was cancelled, and the hospital held me hostage for another night until we could deliver the rest the next day.

As a result of the stress, my temperature rose and I immediately came down with the cold that my daughter had had a few days earlier. Aside from stressing out me, my husband, our friend who was taking care of our daughter, our daughter, my family, Margo's family, and other friends, being kept prisoner by a hospital was incredibly embarrassing. Margo had to go home and collect our daughter and I spent that third night alone in the hospital. Before he did, he got me a coffee and a chocolate glazed donut, which helped me feel a tad more human for a moment. After he left, at nightfall, I worriedly tried to send away the nurses who came to my door offering to check my vitals, fearing I'd be charged more. Their eyes widened when I explained the reason why I was still there even after I'd been discharged. They, and the dietician in charge of my meals, assured me that it was "all included," and to not worry. I accepted. Then I remembered my surgery bandages hadn't been changed since Monday morning, and got freaked out that my fever was from a surgical infection. The nurse on call assured me my temperature was low enough to not cause concern. She mercifully helped me change the bandage free of charge. The meals kept coming. My fever got under control. In the midst of such a degrading experience, I felt fortunate that some hospital staff still had my best interests in mind, and I will always remember their kind faces and words.

I finally went home on Wednesday around 11 am. Whereas I had turned my nose up at the Krispy Kreme stand when I was admitted, I gobbled down another chocolate glazed and bought another couple boxes to give to the people who had helped with our daughter in our absence. It took a few days for my fever and cold to disappear, thankfully, because their symptoms was making recovery harder. I kept walking a little every hour, forcing myself out of bed even though all I wanted to do was stay there and watch Netflix.

The first week flew by. Aside from getting in and out of bed, sitting down for meals, walking, and showering, I was pretty much totally dependent on Margo for everything around the house and for assistance getting dressed and changing my bandage. My back didn't hurt but I kept getting shooting pains down my right leg every time I'd get up from sitting or laying down. They were so strong I'd have to grab something to hold on and use my deep breathing. But they'd subside in a few seconds and then I'd be fine. I was only on paracetamol that week, which is saying a lot when you compare it to how many meds I'd been on prior. After speaking with friends who'd had back surgery before or knew others who had, they were shocked that I was up and about so quickly and that my incision was so small. That made me feel a little better. But at first, I was still spending more time resting (laying down) than up and about (sitting or walking).

On Day 5 or 6, I was finally able to lay on my back without pain in my wound area.

On Day 7, one week after surgery, things started getting better fast. The weakness in my lower back was gone, and I was walking normal pace. I was upright for 5 hours without laying down.

On Day 8, Monday the 7th, I quit using a bandage—the gauze and tape were driving me nuts—and my wound seemed to be healing well. I went for a ride in the car for the first time since a physical therapy consult, and was told I was doing very well. I started Lyrica for the nerve pain, which I was told shouldn't last for more than a few weeks.

On Day 9, I was finally able to completely dress myself (including socks, which are still challenging). I was upright for the majority of the day, and only had to lay down a few times.

Day 10, I stopped taking paracetamol. So I was completely off the morning pain meds. It was a watershed day for me, and the first time in over 3 months that I hadn't taken pain medication upon waking. I had my first beer in 3 months too, man was it good! :-)

On Day 12, I went "out" for the first time (aside from physical therapy)—to our office holiday party—I was mostly fine but by the end I was feeling pretty tired, and achy in my lower back.

On Day 13, I went "out" again, this time to the mall, to get some lightweight walking shoes. I was out for a good chunk, and felt pretty darn tired afterwards. The morning after, I was achy in my hips.

Day 14 was my last day of antibiotics (Cipro), and a day of rest took the edge off my aching hips. I finally was able to lay on my stomach for a few moments, something I haven't done for a few months (it's almost always made my nerve/leg spasm bad). The lesson learned was to be active but to increase my activity gradually, not in large amounts.

Day 15, my physical therapist added a few new exercises, and my hip was sore the day after, and my nerve pain shifted from up high to down low in my calf. I have a hard time with backslides, but I tried to stay optimistic. I was given another week of disability, and am thinking I will probably be good enough to go back to work next week. I saw my neurosurgeon for my 2 week checkup, and whereas he is happy with the results, he prescribed me more exercises for my right foot and shin, which are still pretty weak (I have a hard time walking tiptoe and on my heels on the right side—am basically unable to do so).

Day 16 (today), I got up from bed without any shooting pain down my leg. To me that's huge progress. They say that if you are improving consistently during your first 3 months, that you will only continue to get better.

Now, as my neurosurgeon is trying to impress on me, it's more important to focus on my overall health rather than worrying about the consequences of my surgery (i.e. that a spacer was inserted, that I might have any mobility limitations). He's urged me to take steps to care for my other remaining, unherniated disks, by losing weight and, once I'm further along in my recovery, by exercising. He assures me that I won't have any limitations in my activities once I'm recovered, and I am trying hard to trust him. Based on my progress so far, I am inclined to keep the faith. Margo says I am walking much more upright and without a limp, and for my part, not having to take 10 or 12 pain pills a day is a big enough difference for me.

In retrospect, even though I would have preferred not to go through this, I am compelled to count my blessings in terms of having had access to insurance that covered the majority, a clearcut and supportive Mexican workers' comp system that allowed me sufficient time off work for recovery (and  free follow-up care parallel to my private doctors), family and friends who've lent big helping hands in these last two weeks, and most of all, my husband who has been taking care of every last detail and listening to my every last peep during my recovery process. My recovery has been a straightforward trajectory without any complications so far. I am truly grateful.

Any major surgery is an experience that brings your mortality and aging into clear focus, and of course for someone who loves life and being incredibly active, it's a hard thing to face and deal with. But considering that I am only one of billions who deal with this on a daily basis, I'm going to keep focusing on the positive, the small victories, and the sweet things in life that help us rise above the pain. Although I still have the road to recovery in front of me, it feels good to be emerging on the other side.

Where I've Been for the Last 5 Months

It's been a long time since I've posted here, but not without good reason. I finally had my first full-time job since living in Mexico. For those of you who don't know that was seven years ago.  I was lucky enough to make it on savings for the first couple years here. But since then, it's been a long string of short-term part-time jobs, mostly teaching English, writing and editing, and the occasional environmental workshops and consulting gigs.

But this most recent professional experience was something else. It was the kind of job I've been wanting to have for years, a unique position that combined my background as a non-formal environmental education expert with a solid, successful, long-term, U.S. government program to provide American volunteers for environmental projects across Mexico. I'm talking about the Peace Corps Mexico Environment Program.

I can't say enough good things about this program. I got to work with volunteers who dedicate 2 years of their lives to advancing positive social change, who contribute their backgrounds in the environmental sciences, their other related skills, cultural curiosity and general goodwill, in a foreign nation that embraces their arrival and seeks to learn and collaborate. As if that weren't enough, the program also boasts a talented staff of trainers and administrative support, many of whom are experts in their fields, who are dedicated to the program's growth and development over the years. This fall, I was able to call these fabulous folks my coworkers. 

I was lucky enough to become a part of this stellar team 5 years after I first learned of the program in 2008, through friends. I'll never forget that night—I was invited to the election night celebration when Obama gave his victory speech, which was at the home of a former volunteer. I met the director at the time, and then during the summer of 2009, I volunteered in their library. From there I made the acquaintance of the Environment program manager, who learned of my professional background as an environmental educator in the U.S. and Mexico. In the years that followed, in my daughter's infant years, I returned to give workshops during their pre-service and mid-service trainings. I made more contacts with volunteers and learned more about what their service entails. This past summer, right around the time we were delivering Amor and Exile to Congress, I learned of a one-of-a-kind opportunity to serve as the interim Environmental Education Training Specialist from July to December of this year. Unlike the permanent position, this position did not require travel, as it would essentially be limited to 2 trainings in Queretaro. It didn't take me long to make up my mind. I applied, and I got the job. Like any new job, it had its special learning curve—and in this particular one with the U.S. government, I had a new acronym-based language and the "Peace Corps Approach" to learn. But beyond that, I was in my element. 

I could go on and on about how great a fit this position was with my skills, passion, and background. I was able to draw on many elements of my experience with sustainable development and as a curriculum developer, and my time as a teacher. I was finally able to take everything that I'd learned during my whole Mexico culture-shock experience and apply it as something helpful toward new arrivals' adjustment to the Mexican culture process. I could draw on my experience as a non-formal educator in order to prepare a team of non-formal educators. And best of all, even though I am bilingual, I got to polish my Spanish thanks to my coworkers. 

Running an environmental education training was A LOT of work but also a lot of FUN. We took field trips to local natural areas, botanical gardens, and sustainable learning centers. We met with local teachers, schools, and students, and the trainees devised environmental education activities and an EcoFair in Mexico state. We reached over 200 schoolkids in our 3 visits to schools. We laughed, we danced, we built a wood-efficient stove, a garden, a compost, a solar dehydrator, a solar oven, and a greywater filter. The volunteers I worked with were experienced, positive, and motivated. Everyone shared, learned, and grew. I could go on and on.

With PCM volunteers and staff at the top of Parque Nacional el Cimatario

But sadly, this incredible experience had to come to an end, this past week. It was to be expected, in fact, it was planned—to coincide with the week after the last training of 2013. As I mentioned before, the reason I could pursue this position was that it was based almost entirely in Querétaro. Almost as soon as I entered, a hiring process was underway to select a permanent training specialist, which I was invited to apply for, but the downside is that it requires a significant amount of travel (estimated at nearly 40%)—in order to visit volunteers at sites and develop new sites.

At first glance, this seems ideal—see dozens of natural areas in Mexico as part of your job. And the truth is, if I didn't have a child, it would be. In fact, I did apply for the position once before, in the Fall of 2012. But when I found out about the travel requirement, and that policy does not allow minor family members to accompany staff during travel, I had to pull out of the running. I simply couldn't make the commitment to being away from home for that amount of time with such a small child. 

So while the interim, Querétaro-based position was near-perfect, the permanent, travel-required position was not a realistic possibility for me and my family. I chose not to apply this summer, since the policies had not changed, and made up my mind to give these 5 months my all while I had the chance. I am happy to say that it was worth it. I feel a strong pull to be as present as possible in my daughter's life, and we all feel happy to be together more. As for the job, beyond all the wonderful environmental education and resource conservation work that volunteers do, the best thing about Peace Corps Mexico (PCM) are the people themselves. The relationships I formed with both staff and volunteers, and the experiences we shared are irreplaceable. 

I feel very grateful to have had this professional opportunity where I both learned and contributed a great deal. I'm obviously looking forward to the possibility of going back someday. In the meantime, I will be rededicating myself to past projects, so hopefully you will be seeing more of me here, and hear about new developments as well. And if any volunteers or former coworkers happen to read this, good luck, and thanks for all you do. You're doing amazing things!

On our way to a local school with Environmental Education volunteers

Mamá de dos lugares

Ayer tuve dos momentos de confusión y no fue debido al vértigo que he tenido por las ultimas tres semanas.

El primer momento fue por la mañana cuando unas amigas me invitaron a reunir con ellas y los pequeños este domingo que viene. Dijeron algo como "porque el viernes es día de las madres." Pensé, queeeé? El domingo es día de las madres. Y así es, en los Estados Unidos, el segundo domingo de mayo. Pero yo vivo en México, y rápidamente recordé que el día de las madres es el 10 de mayo, lo cual es hoy este año.
Luego, estuve trabajando mucho mas tarde que debía, cuando dos compañeras mexicanas me mandaron un mensaje por Facebook diciendo "Felicidades en tu día mañana!" Y de nuevo me quedé así como, "mi día? de qué hablan? a poco creen que es mi cumpleaños?" Pero esta vez la sensación de confusión desvaneció mas rápido cuando me di cuenta que estaban hablando de día de las madres. 
Si preguntas porque me cuesta tanto recordar que 10 de mayo es día de las madres aquí, puedo decir que por un lado, aunque he estado en México por casi siete años, solo he pasado dos días de las madres como madre aquí, antes de ayer, porque mi hija aún es chiquita. Así que aún no es un día festivo a que me acostumbro ser celebrada personalmente. Y por el otro lado, mi esposo es una persona muy buena, pero por la manera que sus papás le criaron, no tiende a celebrar mucho los días festivos.
Pero les dije gracias a mis amigas de todas formas, y me quedé impactada que unas mujeres jóvenes, sin hijos propios, tomarían la iniciativa para felicitarme aunque no somos familiares. Incluso observé que las mujeres felicitaron las madres de cada una, en un intercambio mutuo de aprecio para las madres que dieron vida a sus amigas. 
Lo último fue algo que jamás he observado en mi país de nacimiento. En Estados Unidos, en mi experiencia, todos sabemos cuando es Día de las Madres, pero celebramos a nuestras propias madres, tal vez abuelas o una tía. Al recibir los afectuosos saludos de parte de mis amigas por ser madre, me quedé pensando en las diferencias de las dos culturas. Llegué a la conclusión que, como había pensado en tiempos anteriores cuando mi hija era recién nacida, que de ciertas formas, ser padres en un país como México tiene ciertas ventajas.
Claro que aún existe el machismo y la desigualdad. Sin embargo,las mujeres han luchado en todos ámbitos a través de las generaciones y yo he observado a más y más padres ayudando con la crianza de sus peques como nunca antes, y eso ha sido una experiencia satisfactoria. 
Incluso hay un fenómeno que nunca deja de impresionarme cuando lo veo: niños adolescentes caminando por las calles agarrando la mano de su madre, o con su brazo en el de ella, cercanamente a su lado. Yo recuerdo en Estados Unidos, siendo adolescente, lo mas lejos de tus padres que puedes estar, mejor. Al ver los niños teniendo tanto aprecio, tanta ternura para sus madres, me siento un alivio sin explicación, y creo que tiene que ver con la esperanza que, posiblemente, mi hija podría no rechazarme tanto como los adolescentes Estadounidenses tienden a rechazar sus padres cuando lleguen a ese edad. 
No tengo las respuestas para explicar las diferencias, y estoy segura que hay otros factores que afectan el balance entre ventajas y desventajas de ser madre en cada una de las culturas. Pero estoy agradecida que tengo la oportunidad de ver otro modelo que él que siempre viví al otro lado. Y aunque ahora estoy muy lejos de mi propia madre, tendré aún mas aprecio por el rol que tuvo en mi vida y mas aprecio por el ciclo qué decidí seguir al tener mi propia hija hace casi tres años.
Les doy las gracias a las dos, a toda la gente que me han apoyado en ese trayectoria. Siendo una madre no es algo fácil, pero es uno de las mejores decisiones que he tomado en mi vida. Ser madre coincidió con muchas cosas nuevas para mí: llegué a ser coautora de un libro de nuevo, conseguí ciudadanía mexicana, y empezé a trabajar mas, para sacar mi familia adelante. Siendo madre me ha impulsado hacer todo lo que hago con más pasión porque ahora no solo tengo una idea teórico de dejar una huella en este mundo, sé que cada cosa que hago será trasmitida a mi hija y quiero que ella tenga la oportunidad de vivir en un mundo lleno con más paz y belleza que violencia y destrucción. Y por eso agradezco cada día que he tenido la bendición de ser no solamente una hija, pero también una madre—independientemente de si el conjunto de felicitaciones sucede a través de dos dias o sólo uno. 

Wasp stings and Seguro Popular | Mexico vs. U.S. 1-0

Some family of mine visited for the first time this past week. As is apt to happen, when comparing the U.S. and Mexico, we got off on a spirited detour about the direction in which the U.S. government is headed.
I had remarked how ironic it was that the direction of the effect of current U.S. policies (slashing essential public programs, failing to support universal education, lining the pockets of the wealthy, etc.) are sending our country down a similar path as Mexico, where growth is occurring in some sectors, but because of the monopolies and corrupt bureacracies, a lot of the "progress" truly benefits only the rich, leaving the majority of the country stuck about 40 years in the past, maybe more.
My motivation in saying something like that was probably stemming from a sense of helplessness at only being able to watch what goes down in the U.S. from afar, also a fear that things I most cherished about my home country, like great free education, are at risk. 

But then something hit me—part of my imaginary equation was off, and not in the direction I'd anticipated. Just the day prior, I'd visited the Queretaro General Hospital ER for a large wasp sting that had gotten worse and infected. I was seen immediately, administered a shot to reduce the reaction, and sent home with medicine—all in under 1 hour's time, and all free, under the Seguro Popular federal medical care program.

I first enrolled in 2010, before my daughter was born. I'd been able to pay for private doctor's office visits out of pocket up until then, but was worried about potential accidents, my inability to afford private medical insurance, and wanted a sort of catastrophic family medical insurance. So far we've only used it for severe insect bites—Margo also got treated for one, last year, when he was stung by a scorpion. But it's a relief to think it's there when we need it.
Suddenly, on my imaginary scoreboard between the U.S. and Mexico federal benefits to my family, I was left staring at a big fat 1-0, with Mexico on the unexpected left hand side.
Inside, I felt outraged, shocked, even a little dismayed. How could it be that the glorious U.S. of A could be down on the count, and of all rivals, with Mexico? There had to be something I was missing.
I racked my brains for things the U.S. federal government had done for me (a direct benefit, not some sort of trickle-down benefit) and my inner conscience immediately felt lame doing so, especially after hearing the words of JFK, "ask not what your country can do for you," first inside my own head, and then from my uncle sitting next to me as he invoked the time of the Kennedys.
It was as if I had an inner anti-governmental critic meter and some alarm was getting sounded. Over the years my morality meter had driven me to do well in school, honor my family, work, pay taxes, volunteer, sit on boards of directors. It had allowed me to practice freedom of speech by being critical of government policies, an environmental activist, and even challenge the morality of current U.S. immigration policies. But somehow wondering what direct personal benefit I'd gotten with my U.S. membership card felt sacrilegious. What felt especially weird was having spent the last 7 years up in arms about not being able to go back home to the U.S. with my husband and daughter, as a complete family unit. It was a very weird feeling indeed.
But what was worse was not finding any answer to counter my suspicion, that the score was still 1-0. All I could think of was having to pay taxes since I started getting W-2s when I was 16 years old. The next thing I thought of was my $20,000 college scholarship through the National Science Scholars Program that had gotten revoked as a result of Newt Gingrich's contract with America the summer of 1995, leaving me with just under that amount of debt 3.5 years later after graduating.
The response to my question I posed to my family was disturbingly spare. After asking in earnest for the third time if I was being rash, if I was missing something, my uncle said, "Let it go already...you may just have to accept that things aren't really what you thought."
That seems to go without saying—this isn't the first time that the dual allegiance I've been obliged to forge in the throes of forced expatriation has caused me to question everything I've known to be true.
That part of me that still wants to see that scoreboard blowing up on the right hand side is not just juvenile fantasy, but self-preservation, in that restoring something from ruins is usually a lot harder than preventing something from falling apart in the first place. On the other hand, maybe a middle ground would be to allow something to grow and evolve. That's been my wish ever since it became clear to me at 12 years old that our country's oil-dependent economy would need to sprout new wings and let the dinosaurs go the way of oblivion. What saddens me as an adult is that the country I thought the most innovative and capable of progress—my own—still really has so far to go.

Patience, Public Health Care, and No More Mr. Nice People—VOTA MAÑANA PAISANOS

I'm not usually a proponent of time flying, but we are well ready for June to be OVER. Life ain't often a bowl of cherries here, but June seemed to be particularly rough for this family. Heck, it's been a rough spring. After the fire from the lightning strike, then it was Margo's finger. Then a round of Giardia for us all. Then I got food poisoning. Baby fell down and split her lip. I finally went to a naturopath and my tummy is feeling much better, but then Margo got stung by a scorpion. I'm looking forward to turning the page on the calendar.

As if all this wasn't enough, Thursday, Margo's 75-year old father got into a serious accident in his truck when he was headed out to his cornfields. I asked Margo, "what the hell, do we have a hex on us or something?" Margo, who doesn't have a superstitious bone in his body, replied deadpan "maybe it's time for you to get out your brujeria," referring to my incense. The idea of a shamanic limpia doesn't sound half bad right now. Too bad it's too late for the elections tomorrow.

Amidst all this chaos, I've been working busily on my last chapter in Amor and Exile, an emotional task in and of itself. Part of me is desperate to finish and get it over with, part of me is breathlessly excited to figure out how we're going to publish, and a little bit of me is sad that such an absorbing and satisfying project will soon come to an end.

In the book, one of the biggest changes I've noted in myself in the nearly six years since I had to relocate to Mexico is that I've (forcibly) become a more patient person. I say forcibly because I haven't always accepted that change in myself, especially when running up against bureacratic red tape that I've encountered in Mexican institutions. But since there's a different pace of life here than the one I was raised in in New York, I've had no choice but to be patient with my in-laws, with friends, coworkers, land titles, myself even. And I do think I'm a slightly better person as a result.

But I'd be lying if I said I've become uniformly patient with everything across the board. I might be more patient with individuals, for example tonight when we went to get a haircut with Margo's cousin. We called at 5:30 to see if she was free, and she replied come at 6:30. But when we got there at that time, she was coloring one woman's hair and cutting another's, while another was waiting in front of us. I did get a little huffy, but I also did calm down and wait—until a little after 7 pm. After all, you can't beat a haircut for $2 bucks. And it's not like we had anything better to do.

You see, I can be patient when I'm just killing time waiting for something else. I'm talking about waiting for news about Margo's father, mi suegro. And I'm finding that I'm not quite so patient when it comes to health matters. Ever since his accident Thursday morning, we've been waiting for something concrete to happen in his treatment, a sign that he'll definitely be OK. But now, almost 60 hours later, there's still no green light on his surgery to fix two crushed vertebrae in his neck (C4 & C5), no assurance he won't be coming home on a respirator.

Unfortunately, it's not a matter I have much power to affect—not from an logistical nor from an economic standpoint. Maybe that's what upsets me so much about it. The whole situation reminds me of what happened when Margo's mother had a stroke—the entire family just waited patiently while she was channeled back and forth between the clinic and home and to various practitioners who failed to consider her need for rehabilitation urgent. No one was happy that she was ill, but neither did anyone seem as upset as me that it was taking so long for her to get sent to physical therapy. Eventually, almost two months after her stroke, she did get sent to therapy, and recovered a good deal of the use of her left side, but she's still too weak to cook or clean for herself, and her quality of life has significantly diminished. Of course it's impossible to know if this is because of the delay in therapy.

In the case of my suegro, he was taken directly from the site of the accident to the state hospital. There, they decided they'd transfer him to the hospital where he's insured as a pensioner (IMSS, stands for Instituto Medico de Seguro Social). It took TWELVE hours and more than 6 visits back and forth between clinics and copy shops for Margo to get the necessary paperwork to get his father moved. By the time he was transferred, it was almost 11 pm. More than half a day had passed since his accident.

All the while, they had full knowledge that he had broken or dislocated vertebrae. It was the opinion of the treating ER doctor who received him that he'd need to be sent to Mexico City for treatment, they didn't have the right equipment in Queretaro. Even so, it took another EIGHTEEN HOURS, to Friday 6 pm, for the attending neurologist to evaluate his scans and confirm that he'd need to be sent to the specialist hospital 3 hours away in Mexico City. He wasn't sent until 11 pm that night, by ambulance.

Meanwhile, what's incredible is that my suegro was totally conscious, aside from catnaps, and could move all parts of his body. But just a tiny lesson in vertebral anatomy belies the heavy risk of his situation—whether spinal cord damage is sustained above or below the C6 vertebra (his fractures are at C4 & 5) determines whether you'll become a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Even so, despite now being at the trauma center in Mexico City since 2 am this morning, he STILL hasn't received a green light for the surgery. We were under the impression that with the determination sent from Queretaro, he'd be seen immediately upon arrival. Not so.

As of 8 pm this evening, now almost 60 hours since his accident, the word is that he is still in observation and they are evaluating his tomography to see if his vertebral fractures are due to an old injury or the car crash. WTF? Prior to the crash, he is one of the most physically fit members of this family who never complains of aches or pains, and after the crash he had bruises all over his body, a 3-inch laceration on the back of his head and bleeding on the brain (not to mention the previous hospital had already determined the necessity of surgical vertebral replacement). Does this require a rocket scientist?

Why they are taking their time on this is beyond my capability of understanding. When I say this to Margo, or his brother who accompanied him to the DF, they respond that there are a lot of other people with worse injuries in line in front of them. Now, I understand the need for triage, and I don't know exactly what their system is here at the IMSS trauma centers, but if you continually put someone in line behind every more traumatic patient that arrives, you'll be waiting all year because car accidents are one of the top causes of death here. And sadly, exceedingly long waits appear to be the norm, as I found on one forum with comments about IMSS service at that particular hospital.

As soon as I heard about the crash, I immediately recommended a private hospital. I raised the same issue with my suegra's stroke 2 years ago, and I received the same response this week: "where else would we take him?" And I say, to Hospital Angeles? Medica Tec 100? (The first rate hospitals in this city). I then get the same response: "but they're too expensive." And then I try to give up the suggestion, respect their decision (although I really can't get it out of my head). The reason I'm frustrated is because I see a family, a matrix of people, who could get access to the necessary resources but don't consider them an option for a case like this, where their health hangs in the balance. Margo's father has several landholdings, a herd of cows, and several vehicles and pieces of valuable heavy machinery that could easily be cashed in for better treatment. To Margo's credit, he's tried to recommend long-term planning for emergencies/retirement age before, but his ideas probably seem foreign to a family who's always lived from hand to mouth (or maybe they sound too much like his wife's). But the brothers who drive those vehicles and operate that heavy machinery that their father bought haven't volunteered to sell a single one—just a few hours ago I saw one getting drunk and the other has only called once in the last 48 hours.

I try to respect the family's acceptance of the need to just wait, emulate their patience, but it's so hard, especially when I suspect it's completely unnecessary, and just an artifact of a several-decades long habit of complacency. When I think about my father-in-law laying there in a hospital bed, a millimeter away from becoming quadriplegic, I just can't accept that patiently waiting is the only option. But why is it that I'm the only one who seems so intent that there's several ways that this situation could be made better? I try to breathe deeply, ask my husband how he feels. He replies simply, "frustrated." I empathize, deeply. Even though my father-in-law and I are not close, he does not deserve to suffer. I want to see him come home walking—still be able to eat my baked goods he can sniff from a football field away, play with his granddaughter. Or realize what he's been missing by spending so much time on the farm and not with his enormous family.

I'll take some lessons away from this experience, toward my own family's health. For the last couple years, we've been enrolled in the even more basic Seguro Popular universal health care system here in Mexico. I've considered it backup catastrophic insurance, and the truth is it's come in handy a couple times, like when Margo got stung by a scorpion—we didn't pay a dime. We usually pay out of pocket for private doctors' visits. When I had my appendix out last year, it caught me by surprise, and I had to borrow money from my parents to have the surgery in a private clinic. Afterwards, I started thinking, maybe I should have sucked it up and gone to the public hospital. But now, after seeing firsthand what happens in the case of a true emergency, how proper care is delayed again and again, I don't feel quite the same conviction. My only other option is private health insurance—the kind that Americans are now forced to carry, for their own benefit. I'm not obligated to have it, and I'm not even sure I could afford it, but it's something I want to look into.

When I told this to Margo, he cynically replied, "it'd be just the same service, you'll see." Somehow I doubt that. The difference between the service I've received at the IMSS clinics (I did enroll when Margo had a company job a few years ago, just to "check it out") and the private clinics is like night and day.

I've been told this it how it works in the public health system. That's it's good service but that it takes a long time. I'm afraid that in some cases, taking a long time is not good enough. Sometimes it's just not better late than never—it's got to be NOW.

p.s. I would have thought that on the eve of the 2012 Mexican presidential elections, I'd be blogging about that topic instead. But almost everyday of this month, with the exception of a few Facebook posts here and there, the personal has forced its way into precedence over the political in my life. I feel a bit badly about that. But it's also my first presidential election as a newly naturalized Mexican citizen and part of me thinks it's important to not just vote, but absorb the whole panorama before I start shooting my mouth off. On the other hand, I see a lot of parallels between this "exceedingly patient" syndrome I've encountered, and the citizenry's de facto acceptance of continual abuses of corruption and mismanagement of public funds at the hands of a government and media endowed with a significantly lopsided amount of power. Let's not be patient, paisanos—let's get change where it's needed, NOW.

The Power of the 'Net (vote for me if you haven't yet, please! :-)

Note: if you just clicked to vote, the link's at the bottom of the post! :-)

It never ceases to amaze me how the Internet allows me to maintain one foot in the U.S. and one foot in Mexico. I know, this is going to sound like an Internet commercial. Whether it's video chatting with the fam over Skype, or keeping tabs on friends via Facebook, or just imagine—how did we survive without EMAIL? Well, I did survive for four years without Internet, actually. It's just that in those 4 long, dry years of having to use only cybercafes down the street, I developed such a craving for connection with the culture I'd left in the U.S. that when I finally got it back, it probably looked like a long dried-up alcoholic going back to the bottle.

When I told a friend a couple years back how happy I was to be getting Internet the week before my daughter was to be born, she chastized me a little, saying the first  month was for bonding with my baby. Well, I did bond quite intensely with my daughter, but felt guilty enough about my time spent sending pics to my circle in the U.S. that I mentioned it to my mom. She responded simply that the person who'd poo-poo'd my Internet zeal probably had never lived far away from her family or in a foreign country for any significant amount of time. About her, who knows. Some people might be happy to be distanced from people, have an excuse to not be in touch. But for me, all I know is that I am truly grateful for a way to stay in touch with the community that I love so well that otherwise I'd have no means of staying connected with.

I was reminded of this when driving to work the other day, when I almost hit a huge cardboard box with styrofoam peanuts spilling out all over the highway. My immediate thought was, oops, there goes someone's Mother's Day present. Countless times before, Margo and I tried to send a box from the U.S. to Mexico, or someone tried to send us a package or a letter from the States to here, with no luck. The Mexican Postal Service, which must rely on burros to some extent (the four-legged animals, not people, lest anyone think I'm insulting postal workers), is notorious for mysteriously losing mail, or delivering mail many months later. Needless to say it's easy to quickly get fed up with this option and my penpals quit palling me. Fedex and UPS are out of the question, charging more than 30 dollars for a mere envelope.

Makes you wonder how NAFTA is such a moneymaker, with all that international transport that's cruising up and down the continent, huh? Share a little of the cheap freight fees with the little people, guys!

Anyways, to make a long story short, all these years of staying connected online have led to me sharing a good deal of my life online, both the personal and the political. I now blog regularly on two blogs while maintaining my projects website. The other day, my coauthor of Amor and Exile, Nate Hoffman, nominated me for a Netroots Nation Scholarship as an Immigration Scholar. It's an opportunity to attend a national progressive conference in Providence, RI in June, and meet other grassroots/online activists. I wasn't 100% it was something I could be competitive at, but, at least in these first 24 hours, I've been pleasantly surprised.

Not only was I surprised at the application/profile statement I was able to put together, and that among the many hats I wear I actually am a bonafide blogger, but I am totally touched by the outpouring of support from my community who's voting for me. In an exile situation that is often disorienting culturally and professionally, even if I don't win the scholarship, it'll be heartening to know that at least some of my efforts to clarify who I am and what I stand for are reaching their target—my extended community.

p.s. if it's May 2 or prior, you can still vote for me at http://democracyforamerica.com/netroots_nation_scholarships/1776-nicole-salgado

Resolution Anxiety

   My New Year's Resolution went like this: "find balance between it [my new part-time job as an english instructor] and the rest of my life: caring for my daughter, carving out couple time, and finishing Amor and Exile; plus some new goals—seriously reviving my garden, gettin' some wheels, and attending not one but two weddings up North." It's been four days, and I might be jumping the gun, but I am a little nervous about how this all is going to pan out. 
   I'm one of those kind of people who sets a really high bar for herself. It's a big reason why adapting to life in Mexico has been so hard at times. Sometimes I wish I was a little more like my husband, or another friend here who's also living in exile, who expect the worst and are pleasantly surprised when something good happens. But although those people might get less disappointed, a reservation I have to taking that approach is, one, it's not quite easy to change your outlook on things once you're mature, and two, if you set your bar too low, you might not shoot for enough achievement to make any progress at all. In any case, my way leads to me having done a lot of things that I'm proud of. But letdowns also abound.
   I might as well quit beating around the bush. My resolution may have been a little too ambitious. I accepted a part-time job to supplement the family coffers with some sorely needed income, and this is my last free Friday before my new full Monday to Friday work schedule starts next week. I'm spending (part of) it blogging because I'll be seriously surprised if I have time to again before April! The fact that I may not have time to do much writing at all (if any) in the near future bums me out for a number of reasons. 
   As I explained it to my therapist, I have time for a family and a part-time job, or a family and an aspiring part-time career as a writer, but I don't have time for all three. Since i can't afford to be an unpaid writer (we still have no contract for the book as of yet), the job is a must. But I  there simply aren't enough hours in the day for everything. I don't want to sacrifice my health (i.e. stay up all night writing  instead of sleeping), or my fairly balanced lifestyle (i.e. write on the weekend instead of hanging out with friends and family), because I've been there, done that, and the stress it creates is not something I want in my life. I have enough as it is not being able to live in my own country.
   I've considered the idea that I might just have yet to refine the art of juggling multiple things as a working mom. But in the first three days of training for my new job, which I don't dislike at all, but also is not my passion (it's teaching English, one of the rare professional opportunities that I'm uniquely qualified for that's ubiquitous here), I haven't found the spare time to do much more than catch my breath. And I'm still plotting when to make time to plan for it—my am hours at home caring for my 15 month old while my husband works are pretty packed. 
   I heard that the author of that teenage vampire series wrote while watching her kids at home, but I'm not sure how she managed to do that. She must have hired a nanny at some point. Even today, our last full day together for who knows how long, the writing for this piece exceeded her bedtime and is competing with help in the coloring book, punctuated by lapses of dancing to childrens' music, and requests for food. But we're not comfortable with the idea of daycare yet (if ever?) and aren't into the TV as nanny idea although it is helpful while I take care of the essentials like meals and housework. She might be able to entertain herself for short periods of time, and she's held up well while I leave her with a sitter to go to swim class for a couple hours twice a week, but I don't want to push it any further. It feels bad enough being away for five hours in the pm and coming home an hour before she goes to bed. I have a sister in-law here who works seven days a week full-time with four kids and another on the way, and it's not a parenting approach that I admire.
   I've had a good run of luck up until now money-wise, that's for sure. When I first got to Mexico and we built our house, I remember sweating it every day that I'd be bankrupt the next. Somehow, we've managed to eke out a modest lifestyle for this long, with my consulting and giving workshops and my husband's jobs in construction. After a while like this, the financial fear factor (the one that everyone in the U.S. who's struggling knows so well) receded and was replaced by a more relaxed, dare I say, Mexican perspective of "it will work out," no matter what happens. This was a welcome change of heart, for even when we had the baby, for the first year, we felt assured that we'd manage to keep our heads above water. But when I had to sell my car to pay the utility and food bills, and more recently, I had to borrow money for hospitalization to have my appendix removed, the safety net suddenly received a very large tear in the middle—a point that I've been anticipating for years—and now we've got to mend it.
   Now that the bottom line has finally been reached, I'm realizing that, until she's old enough to be in school full-time, my husband and I will continue to juggle our schedules between each of our paid jobs and our time with our daughter and chores at home. And when the dust has settled, there isn't any significant amount of time left for my vocation as a writer. If I get lucky, I might find something in my field (ecology)—by the looks of Occupy Wall Street, that's getting hard to do that in the U.S.—but it's even tougher here in Mexico. But even if I were to land a day job as an environmentalist, I'm still scared.
   I'm scared because, in this past year, I've come to love writing and I don't want to let it go as an artistic occupation. As emotionally difficult as it has been to gather up the courage to tell the world our story and actually do it with any style and coherence; as challenging of a process it has been to mature professionally in concert with my coauthor, as we ford the uncharted waters of collaborative journalist/subject writing; as hard as it's been to avoid worrying about my dwindling bank account while praying constantly to the Great Spirit to continue supporting my creative path; I have absolutely loved every second of it. Being inspired to write about something makes me positively bounce out of bed in the morning.
   What I most hoped would happen—that I could find a profession that I enjoy every aspect of—has happened, but at the same time I've discovered the one aspect of it that might be the dealbreaker—not because I want to let it go, but because I have a family to care for—the economic factor of being a writer. And it terrifies me to think that I might lose all the progress I've made in the last year of delivering myself heart and soul to the process, that it may issue forth unbridled and in abundance. It frustrates me to think that I can't conscionably make more time for something that's become so important to me; without sacrificing even more precious time with the loved ones I'm most doing this for in the first place—my husband and daughter.
   I want my daughter to see her mother follow her dreams, and being a creative person in addition to a scientifically trained person, I've realized, is one of those dreams. When I accepted my new job, and made my New Year's resolution, I had told myself that working for a few months to supplement my husband's part-time income and afford to attend two  weddings in the States wouldn't impact my creative goals, that in fact it would carry me closer to them. And in fact, in the long-term, it may still. But since I have a tendency to leap before I look, I am concerned I may have overstated my possibilities for 2012, raised the bar beyond what I can reach. Been practical about my income, but not so practical about all that I could accomplish at once. Yet I really had no choice in the matter. I had to make a change.
   We shall see—luck and timing could play a big role here. My coauthor says we're not taking a break (even though we both have to accept PT jobs), that we're just doing what's necessary for our families. That it's what all writers have to do in order to survive. Maybe, like my initiation into the working-outside of the home-mom club, I just need to accept my initiation into the long-term process of the aspiring writers' club, and this is what they mean when they say it takes years to write a book. If that's the case, I can breathe a little easier. But I just hope I don't have to make finishing our book a 2013 resolution. Because despite the odds, there's a lot of other things I also want to be doing by then, and my inspiration for Amor and Exile is overflowing. I'd like to be able to tell our story, and I'd like for it to not fall on deaf ears. 
   And hell, since the creative spirit has been fairly generous with me when I've asked it nicely,  I'll share one more hope: I'd like to keep doing things like this for the rest of my life.

Milestones Along the Road to Normal

Several milestones are happening at this time for my family. Almost a year has passed since our daughter was born. My Mexican naturalization is impending. It's been almost five years since we arrived in Mexico. We need to wait out a ten-year period before we're able to apply for any waivers or pardons on the way to applying for a visa for Margo to legally re-enter the U.S. So in other words, we're "halfway there."

To me, it feels both ironic and "just right" that a lot of these milestones run together. One of the things I used to say before we moved to Mexico, when people listened in horror that we had to wait at least 10 years before we could even apply for his visa, was "if I can last ten years in a foreign country, I may not even need or want to move back."

If you had asked me about that statement the first year, or even my third year here, I'd be hard pressed to imagine being able to stick out even the first half. Even though I was blessed with all sorts of opportunities like building my home, I couldn't see the forest for the trees because of the stress of adjusting culturally. Life was inevitably never going to be the same, and that took time to accept. Reinventing myself professionally was and is an ongoing process, something I'm still working toward feeling comfortable about (no pun intended). Even into my fourth year here, when I fantasized about having a child but couldn't visualize what it would be like, finding out I was pregnant was a crisis for me until I got a caregiver support network in place.

Motherhood brought on a second round of social opportunity, different than the first one I experienced in 2008 when I first started meeting expats here. Several new friends were made through mom's groups—it still amazes me that my daughter led me to be more social before she was even born, and that continues now that she's here. Befriending a couple in town who're here for the same voluntary deportation and "life on hold" problem as Margo and I, made me realize how much I have to offer in terms of just plain "been there" kind of advice.

Now, having made it to "halfway," not just us, but us with a baby in tow, feels like a major accomplishment. Even though we still have our ups and downs, with downs that can still often feel fairly low, the ups are getting more frequent and the spaces in between feel more "normal." My therapist and other friends have always wondered out loud to me: what is normal, anyways, Nicole? A book I read about the emotional adjustments that occur before, during and after pregnancy even has a chapter entitled "The New Normal." The word is often used to refer to an average state of being—an elusive social construct that is often mentioned but rarely achieved.

In my case, "normal" invokes a happier, calmer existence—a state that I've often experienced but couldn't always count on. You could say that distance from family, friends, and the comforts of my homeland, things I miss in NY & CA; contribute to a feeling of disorientation when faced with things that throw me for a loop here, such as a lack of law enforcement, cultural differences, or widespread appreciation for nature that I cherish so much.

And yet, as anyone who's had children or has lived a long-term traumatic situation knows (just for the record, although they're in the same sentence, I don't consider the former to equal the latter!), patience can go a long way in softening your response to life. Even though I hated to admit it before I finally decided to have kids, just the simple act of aging and maturing can increase your capacity to tolerate certain things. Or even to let things happen themselves, maybe with your assistance, but without your direct control. Sort of how the revered and controversial Sikh guru Yogi Bhajan says: "patience pays."

So I find myself incredibly grateful for all the things that have occurred in my life that have gotten me to this point: having the courage to move far from home despite how painful it can often be, having been able to see through the most frustrating moments of adjusting to a new country in order to stay with my husband, even opting to obtain naturalization in that country...having had our daughter, and the good fortune to have a wonderful partner who wants to raise our daughter with a much different relationship than he had with his own father.

I'm grateful for the transformation I was able to make as a very scared, tentative, worrisome expecting woman into a confident, loving mother who makes mistakes but knows that my love for my daughter is the most important thing. I am grateful for the little things. I am grateful that I know that I'll continue to be more and more so as the years go by.

It dawned on me that anyone who's been transplanted around the world or even from one side of town to the other could be grappling with these same feelings. I realized that I knew more than just a few folks with binational family living situations and similar interests, and started an online group with the hope it might connect some of us, or even grow. It might spark something, it might fizzle, but at least the seed was planted.

Which leads me to believe I could be experiencing the beginnings of yet another milestone that, since leaving the States, has felt difficult to regain—what my therapist refers to as "finding my tribe." It's rapidly moving target that's also constantly shapeshifting. But while simply throwing a frisbee around with friends at a beautiful state park this weekend, I declared that doing things like this made me feel "normal." They all laughed at me, but I have a feeling they know what I meant.

Summer Fruits

My first trip to the States with my daughter is coming to an end soon. Although there's lots I could tell about it, such as how it feels to see her respond to family, how it feels to travel without my husband, what it feels like to go through reverse culture shock every year when I come back in contact with the U.S., I was most compelled to write about an experience I had yesterday morning. I think it's because it embodies a lot of what has meaning for me, being from Upstate New York, and what I've taken away from it even when I'm far—

I went to visit my grandmother's house next door. There is a small forest between hers and my parents' houses, where songbirds call every morning. I pushed the umbrella stroller up the driveway, across the front yard, and into her backyard, under the huge maple tree and bumping over its roots, to the raspberry patch in the backyard. When I was a kid I used to help pick quarts which we'd either eat as a family or they'd sell in a roadside stand or trade with the uncle across the street for tomatoes. Now, as I approached with the baby cooing, they were overgrown with grass and sprawling every which way. My grandfather, who was probably responsible for pruning the canes, has long since passed, and my grandma is frail at 89. In any case, I was delighted to see a few red ones peeking out, so I picked several and then went into the house. My cousin, who lives with my grandma, came out to hold the baby while I filled a quart basket quickly, stepping through the thorny branches and lifting them up and to the side to expose ripe fruits without a scratch as only one who's done it for years can do.

Soon, my grandma was dressed and had come out with her cane and another quart basket. Although she wanted to pick some herself, I  worriedly observed her as she wobbled by the bushes. "Oh my God," she exclaimed when she saw how overgrown the patch had become. "There's still a lot of good ones in here," I said, and I worked quickly to fill another half quart after she passed me a few handfuls. But when I saw she'd crushed a red berry on her Keds and was having trouble backing up, I recommended we head back in for the heat and that my skin was getting itchy from the grass—I didn't want her to take a tumble in the brambles. So we headed back in, and I plotted my raspberry mousse pie while explaining to my grandma why I'd be holding off on letting the baby try berries until she was a year old. She couldn't quite understand the gist and I found myself wondering what the wisdom of following the recommendations to a T were anyways.

Before my grandmother had come out, I'd asked my cousin if he wasn't too agriculturally inclined. "Why do you ask," he said. "Oh, I don't know," I replied, "I guess it just strikes me as a little sad that his raspberry patch is going to pot." I was thinking of the days when the garden was well-tended, even to the times I've been told about when my grandmother's own mother had a flourshing production farm that brought the family close to self-sufficiency during Depression and war times. It seems as if with the passing of every generation, a little more of the old ways are lost. And so, in an effort to reverse this trend, like others who are interested in local agriculture and restoration, I'm trying to establish our own sustainable garden down in the semidesert where we live. It's a combination of organic gardening and native plant conservation. It means growing fruit and pine trees on recycled greywater lines alongside kale, carrots, and squash in raised beds, near the mesquites, nopales, and agaves that shore up the hillside and the chilitos and garambullos, cacti who give us our own wild southern summer fruits.

Even so, there's something unnerving about being the first in four or five generations of the maternal line to break ground in an unfamiliar land. I've been trying to put my finger on what's the essence of what I'll miss when I go, and the closest I can come to is the familiarity of the verdant tree cover around my parents' house, the black-capped chickadee and cardinal songs issuing from the leaves, the easy laughter of us hanging out on the family room floor watching the baby play with her new American toys. But I must "bloom where I'm planted," as my mom names the dictum that I'm trying to follow. As nurserymen know, it's not so easy for roots to overcome transplant shock, especially when the seedling is put in a climate entirely different than the one it's adapted to. But part of evolution is playing with the hand life deals you, leading to survival of the species over time.

And so I was comforted to hear my grandmother say something that surprised me when she observed the raspberry patch in 'ruins'. "Forever wild," she declared. My cousin said it was in reference to an Audubon campaign he'd told her about, one that promotes the reclaiming of native habitat in backyards. I had to admit, the thought of the raspberries going feral under the sumac and providing sustenance to the local wildlife, the whole of which would eventually give way to more maple forest—after all, the ferns and wild strawberries are already moving in—was just as sweet as the thought of human hands picking and enjoying the ruby red fruits. It helps me not think of the alternative, what's already happened in most of the neighborhood and what's happening again down where I live—the wholesale development of open space. It pains me that I don't have much control over the destiny of my old backyard haunts, that I care for so much, but must be so far from. But if my grandma, who's spent her entire life tending cultivated patches, could be OK with releasing the raspberry patch into the hands of nature and the unknown future, so can I.

Un hombre verdadero

A couple weeks ago I saw a post claiming that a study in Michoacan, Mexico revealed that 40% of the middle school girls in that state wished they had a narco for a boyfriend. Wow, I thought, how messed up is that? I can't comment much on this reference to the article, which criticizes education and media policy's role in this type of problem. First of all, I'm not yet a citizen, so it's not my moral or legal place to do so. I also don't feel like I've been here long enough to make in-depth analyses about what's uniquely dysfunctional about Mexico, especially considering how my own country is embarassingly involved with their illicit affairs. 

But that doesn't mean it doesn't get me thinking and talking it over with folks here. When I brought it up at the dinner table with my husband and another native of Queretaro, we agreed that while it's a difficult problem with complex causes; ignorance, misguided priorities, and lack of self-respect are to blame. I'm not here to question certain Mexican girls' aspirations—if what they want is money for fake nails and gold hoops at whatever cost, that's their prerogative. I certainly will be doing my best to inculcate values in my daughter to allow her to see broader horizons, and I feel for the families that are helpless to steer their kids in a different direction, that is if they aren't also caught up in the same game.


Articles like this get to me because they just add credence to the notion that Mexico is the pits, as if there's nothing else going on but narcos and tequila. Perhaps more importantly, it overlooks the fact that there are a lot of people here who have more important things to be worried about, such as working in legitimate professions, raising their children to be productive members of society. That's the Mexico I know and love, especially the one that's proud of itself and its roots.

No one inspires me more in that regard than my husband. Although he was subject to the same type of poverty (if not worse) as the young women so inclined to love narcos, he managed to escape that lifestyle. As the ninth son of fourteen in a farming family, he had to shove off from school to help his dad with his herd of cows. In the barrio where he grew up, there were plenty of opportunities to become an alcoholic or glue addict, but although he hung with many young men who got sucked in, he always refused to partake. While he wasn't an angel in his youth, one thing he did not do was fall victim to the illusion that intoxicants (or selling them) were the way to success in life. Ten years ago, when we first began dating, after hearing the stories he'd tell me about his youth, I was amazed he turned out as he did. To the present day, I am still impressed (sometimes exasperated) with how straight and narrow he is, simply concerned about making a clean living, caring for his family, and enjoying the best that life has to offer. I feel fortunate to have such a great partner.

When I ask myself (or him) what was that allowed him to resist the degrading forces that so many other youth succumb to, the only thing that really stands out is his fierce individualism, and level of self-respect. Having grown up on the land, working it with his bare hands, he is humble in an earthy sort of way, but he has this unashamed attitude about his roots—mestizo, campesino, moreno, whatever—he is proud of who he is, and doesn't want to be someone else.

These mamis don't need narcos for a good time

Last week we were at a festival of local indigenous dance troupes. It was the Celebration of the National Day of the Chichimec Dancers, and it was our daughter's first attendance at an event like this. It's rare to see fairly authentic events such as these (at least in Queretaro state), but they are glorious to behold when they happen. The incredible talent, gorgeous costumes, obvious adoration of ancient customs (Aztec, in the case of the local troupe we saw) left me feeling inspired for what is still held sacred here. It seems as if more "native pride" kind of events could go a long way toward rebuilding Mexico's reputation which has been taking a beating in the media lately.

But that might be a bold statement coming from a foreigner, since things aren't quite the same here as they are where I'm from. My husband and I first talked about this when we met in the U.S., and I asked him what tribe his ancestors were from—he was sporting long, black hair at the time, and with that and his dark cinnamon skin, it was obvious that he was of indigenous heritage. "I'm not really sure," he had responded. But he saw all the ethnic and cultural pride that many people have in the U.S.—be it Asian, gay, black, Native American, or Irish—the results of the Civil Rights movement are evident to a person from a country where that same movement hasn't yet occurred. I was shocked when I found out many Mexicans don't embrace their ancestry.  He explained that "many people in Mexico consider indio an insult, because they think it means ignorant. But I'm not ashamed to be indio, that's who I am," he said. Thank god, I thought, because I want to raise my daughter to be proud of her roots.

There are plenty of things that frustrate him about his home country. But that doesn't mean he will trade in his integrity for bling, or his morality for a shiny new truck. With one foot planted firmly in the past, the other in the future, and his head squarely on his shoulders in the present, he'll keep putting his nose to the grindstone to "sacarnos adelante" however modest this chapter of our life might be. I asked him "what's left of the Aztecs now?" on our way home from the dances. "The food, the plants...the land," he answered wistfully. I'd add, real men like you, baby—"hombres verdaderos." Happy Birthday mi amor.

Cycles

Precisely ten years ago yesterday was when I first fell for my husband, and yes, it was connected to a Cinco de Mayo party—which yours truly happened to throw.  At the time, we both lived in a small coastal town in Northern California, between San Francisco and Santa Cruz. It was a "friends of friends" kind of encounter, the way our lives overlapped. One of those friends had a portrait hanging on her kitchen wall with a quote: "wherever you go, there you are." Something a young woman far from home was well advised to contemplate: I was 23 years old—I never would have imagined where I'd be ten years later. 

Needless to say much has transpired since then—a very long engagement, a cross-country trip for both of us to meet the parents, a wedding, lots of jobs and bouncing around residences looking for cheap rent in a pricey zone, a Masters' degree, disillusionment with the prospects for adjusting Margo's immigration status in the U.S., a move down south, a period living with the in-laws, a home built, "starting over" lifestyle-wise and financially, pining for the U.S., several false starts at numerous odd jobs, plenty of dabbling in creative projects, perhaps most notably a lovely baby, and now, coauthoring a book about why and how I got here.

Writing the book is a monumental process for me that represents a lot of aspirations on many levels. One of the interesting things that comes out of it is for me to be able to stand back and reflect how many lives have touched mine and whose I have touched along the way in these last ten years. Numerous family members and friends have helped me keep me from drowning, limp along, and sometimes even soar above the challenges that I've faced with having to leave my native country and make it in another land. For them I am grateful. The one who's been there all along, is that same guy I fell for 10 years ago—the very reason I am here.  Sometimes I'm amazed we're still together considering what we've been through but when I think of what first captivated me, none of that has changed. I shouted it out on Facebook yesterday although I knew he wouldn't read it- he doesn't use a computer. I wanted to celebrate in some way, but he was exhausted and asleep before I could catch up with him last night.

Tonight, I want to keep that promise to celebrate, but a wave of inspiration at what feels like an auspicious time cannot be ignored. Earlier this afternoon. I wrote to a friend, "Love is a blessing no matter where it is found." It wasn't about me, though—it was in support of her own decision to follow her heart's desire to a southern land, a pull that took her all the way to Central America.  I just heard from her today.  She was a former student of mine back in the Bay Area. I logged on to her Facebook page and saw an array of photos portraying a beautiful couple, on wave-swept beaches, a smiling face in a wedding dress, just exuding with love. The pictures reminded me of our early days as a couple, then when I first went to Mexico, those who were optimistic told me it'd be amazing. And how those who were from there told me I'd probably have a hard time. How she probably has friends who think, ah, life in Costa Rica—what could be wrong with that? But she too had to deal with painful issues that come with such distance, both culturally and geographically.

I was just stunned, after hearing her story. The thought, "careful what you wish for, you just might get it" entered my mind. How just a few days ago, I had hoped for more individuals in my life who could demonstrate a true empathy, a real understanding of what I was going through in living in another land that I can't always voluntarily break away from. And here she was, certainly not the person I'd imagined, but a kindred spirit in all senses of the word. I happened to notice on her FB page that it was her birthday. I sent her a well wish asking how old she was. She replied, "23- crazy, huh?" Girl, you have no idea.

Visiting the Home of the Aztecs

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I am undertaking several major governmental paperwork items this spring, seriously, a large enough pile to constitute a part-time job for a few months.  This past week I finally came to grips with the fact that I'd have to go down to Mexico City (DF) to complete two of the requirements for two separate goals- a Constancia de No Antecedentes Penales Federales (Federal Criminal Record or lack thereof) at the Secretaria de Seguridad Publica Federal, and apply for the baby's U.S. Social Security number at the U.S. Embassy.  While I'm not going to repeat the entire, lengthy, process of finding the contact information, the requirements to fulfill my requirements, and the number of hours it took me to prepare a short folder of precious documents to ensure a successful outing, you'll have to trust me that there are many good reasons individuals hire lawyers to take care of these projects for them.

But of course since I am so D-I-Y, I've always done my Mexican visa applications myself every year and now I figured I was ready for the big leagues- naturalization and all of the baby & Margo's international papers as well.  And so although I knew this DF trip was coming up, I was putting it off since it's kind of a hassle, costly, and time-consuming.  I wasn't even sure I myself had to go, was hoping the SS# could be done in the mail and that Margo could stand in line for me for the record.  But on Monday came the moment when I found out none of this was possible and that it couldn't be put off any longer, or I'd have to wait until next year (why this one had to be done in person when her Consular Report of Birth Abroad and Passport were issued by mail, I'll never know).  So I was a little nervous about going- as much as I feel that I am safe where I live, the stories you hear & the prospect of having a young baby on her first big trip in tow probably added to my sleepless state the morning before we left.  However, after a philosophical epiphany at 5 am that let me snooze for another couple hours, and a successful bus boarding the bus and taxi ride later, we were snug in our posada at the Casa Gonzalez in Colonia Centro, only two blocks from the Embassy where we'd go and be herded like cattle the next morning @ 7:30 am.

But before then, we were received by the welcome wagon in the form of our friend & her dog, who took us for tacos and assured us that I was probably so overly nervous about how things would go the next day that everything would probably turn out fine.  I hate to jinx myself so I nodded but kept worrying that we'd be missing some document, but deep down hoped she was right.  Luckily, the cool thing that was immediately apparent was that our traveling baby was digging the new sights.  Although I was delighted at the Cupcakery in the Zona Rosa, I was surprised to shell out for the most expensive frozen treats ever (even more than Coldstone!) at some average fro yo spot & Baskin Robbins.  Alas, commercialism in its full glory.  A full night's of sleep for her was another great sign although two 4 am starts in a row left me a bit tired the next day.

Again, I won't tell the entire tale here, but suffice it to say after a long noisy night, 2 bus rides, 1 mellow and 1 harrowing taxi ride later,  and several kilometers of walking around, several deep breaths, sighs, and rolled eyes at the Embassy, a few streaks of good luck and brotherly kindness on behalf of our fellow line standers, and a couple of saintly Capitalinos named Damian and his mom Laura who fed us, watched the baby, and brought Margo food & a folding chair while in the 6-hr wait at the SSPF, the DF mission was accomplished.   Afterwards, we saw a few new neighborhoods & several new sights in the Roma and Condesa (particularly cute was the dog park & organic cafe near Parque Mexico). The nervousness wasn't for naught because there was a close call with the paperwork, but it all worked out.   In fact, things we going so well even with the baby that even Margo, a self-proclaimed DF hater, agreed to go see Chapultepec Park the next morning before we left.  At 36, he'd never seen it before.

And so the next morning after breakfast we shunned the radio taxis and boarded the Metrobus down Reforma to Chapultepec, where we leisurely walked up the hill to the castle after convincing them to let us go through the guards' station with the backpack, that it was an indispensable diaper bag (it was!), but dissed the Castle on principle because of $5 tickets in a public place. A quick loop around the lake and the baby began to signal that she was about ready for the trip to end.  Yet we were ambitious.  After checking out of the hotel and lunching, again in the dang overpriced Zona Rosa, we headed for the Insurgentes Metro Station.  Arriving and with 20 cent tickets in hand (rad!) Margo announced that the baby had pooped.  So we plopped ourselves in pleno estacion where I proceeded to change & nurse her for the long ride ahead.  We got psyched and dove in.  8 stops later, we were all sweaty and happy to board the Primera Plus to Queretaro.  Two crappy movies & lots of baby entertainment & a taxi later, we were back home sweet home.

That night, I confessed to Margo that even after our trip I wasn't sure I deserved Mexican citizenship since I didn't technically stand in that line- we'd hastily scratched out a carta de poder letter to let him do it so I could go back & watch the baby at our friends' house.  "I won't make a good citizen," I said.  "Who is?"  he replied,  I laughed.  Overall, the best things to come out of this trip were a greater willingness on Margo's part to explore the big city although he affirmed he'd never live there, and an amazing reaction from the baby- total adaptability and grace under pressure.  Many firsts for her- big trip, bus ride, shower, sleeping in a strange bed, metro ride, and she couldn't have been better- lots of smiles and only cried once!  I am once again in awe of the true mettle of the true natives. 

From a tizzy to tranquila in 30 minutes flat

This is going to be a tricky title to explain, but here goes:

When I first started writing this post, I was coming off a highly charged state, having, after several phone calls and 2 visits to the bank, unsuccessfully attempted to pre-pay for my husband's Mexican passport application for which we have our appointment tomorrow morning.  I was in a rage, but trying not to expose my husband or daughter to my anger, because they certainly were not responsible for the situation.  So I penned about 2 pages in my journal replete with expletives, came upstairs and tried to sort some things out, worked off my heated emotions to Rage Against the Machine, readied my Caroline Myss' Spiritual Power Spiritual Practice to help me bliss out afterwards, and then began this post:

Well, I should have expected I'd be writing about this by now.  Every year I have to renew my Mexican FM2 visa in September, the month we first arrived, and every time is always a new challenge, but 2011 is the YEAR that will top them ALL.  This year, I have decided I'll go straight for the citizenship papers- yep, skip the next 3 years of nearly $300 and 3 days of waiting in lines for each visa, and go for the nearly $200, one-time, federal citizenship application.  It requires some new hoops to jump through, like a trip down to Mexico City to get my proof of a crime-free life at the Procuraduria Federal.  An interview in Spanish, and a history exam.  But if THAT wasn't enough, I am attempting several other separate applications for me and my family, all in one year. Yes, I am a glutton for punishment:

1. Mexican birth certificate for the baby (Check, last October)
2. Consular Report of Birth Abroad for the baby (Check, last December)
3. U.S. Passport for the baby (Also check)
4. Social Security Number application for the baby (not sure how yet, but gotta happen before April 15, Tax Day!)
5. Mexican passport for the baby (comes up sometime in March)
6. Mexican passport for the husband (tomorrow)
7. Canadian visa for the husband (sometime end of March)

I have somehow blithely decided to do all this while undertaking a new writing project and mothering a 5 month old baby.  Luckily I only think things through partially before I decide to do them.  For the last several weeks I have been diligently gathering documents in triplicate in preparation for the applications.  Wow, everything seems to be going so smoothly, I am really am old hat at this.  I deserve a Masters in bureacratic application submission!  Until today.  It happens as it often does, what has been a mostly routine process collides with that inevitable.
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I was about to light into the frustrating events of the day.  But then I was interrupted by my husband coming in with the baby, who just couldn't wait any longer- she wanted food and NOW.  So I wrapped up, went in the bedroom, soothed her cries, and sat ourselves down in the rocker to nurse her to sleep.  First she worked off her hunger.  And I calmed down.  Then as she melted into a heap of sleep in my lap, I realized my tizzy was almost gone.  My mind was still on auto-pilot, trying to count up how many visits to the bank, notary, civil registry, phone calls, account queries, payments, and copies that'd have to be made, but they seemed more remote, vague, fuzzy.  If was grasping, it was quickly let go.  Then I realized she had fallen asleep at my breast.  Looking at her, I felt calm and satisfied. Like her.  So I slowly got up- but since I hadn't closed the curtains as I usually do when we go in to settle down, the light of the moon shined in on her face. Her eyes flashed open wide, but then fluttered back down. Laying her down in her crib, she started- her thumb went to her mouth, and I wrapped her to see if we could start practicing her self-soothing.

I came back to the computer.  What lines had formed in my head that just needed to get written down?  I don't recall, because the whimpers and wails were issuing from her room for more than 5 minutes.  We don't (and may never) practice cry-it-out, since there's never been a time when she hasn't needed one of us for a reason, and so I went in to pick up where I'd left off. This time, I did it right- closed the curtains, turned on the night-light, wrapped in warmly in her blankie, and sure enough, within 5 minutes she had drifted off again, this time grinning in her sleep.  I knew we were through this time.

This is how motherhood is softening me.   Not like a bonfire turns marshmallows to goo, but how repeated tumbling polishes a stone.  A once rough surface is still solid inside, but now smooth to the touch.  Kind of like how the topic of this post started as a self-indulgent venting session about how much foreign life can sometimes frustrate me, and ended up with me marveling at the feminine force to be reckoned with that is mothering.  Forget meditation, alcohol, drugs (I haven't tried tranquilizers), exercise, I have never found anything faster or more satisfying to take "the edge" off than quality time with my baby, especially nursing.  Oxytocin, that bonding hormone, is liquid love, connection, and security. 

I can't tell if it's just the nurturing chemicals coursing through my body that mellow me out and turn me down, or if it has something to do with the baby herself, from this land, already starting to act on me and bring my sometimes-American all-too-often impatient sensibilities a notch down, and with greater perspective.  But I can't say that I mind finding out.