Estudié Historia del Arte en Barcelona. Solía vivir en el barrio de Sarrià, un lugar tranquilo, bello, en el que me sentía realmente cómoda. El apartamento era pequeñísimo pero no era desagradable pasar los días allí. (De hecho una de mis novelas está ambientada en ese piso, en esa Barcelona de los 90)
Mi salud fue yendo a peor con una lentitud veloz, dolorosa, extraña. Ni en la seguridad social, ni en consultas privadas logré que me dieran una solución, un diagnóstico.
Así siguieron las cosas durante más de 10 años.
Mi padre no hacía otra cosa que trabajar para poder pagar los viajes, gastos médicos, medicaciones, etc.
Mi madre tenía que estar conmigo constantemente, pero también debía ocuparse de mis hermanos, mi hermana tenía apenas 10 años y mi hermano 14.
A veces aparecía una medicación que podía ayudar.
Y así llego al punto de inicio de esta anéctota.
Me cuesta mucho escribir sobre mi, sobre la enfermedad. Todavía no puedo…Pero tal vez si lo hago poco a poco, siempre apoyándome en las cosas buenas de todo ese sufrimiento, lograré ir diciendo en voz alta muchas cosas que me callo.
Acabábamos de pagar la medicina, en una farmacia de Bonanova y regresamos a Sarrià, pasando por el supermercado para comprar pan y leche, creo, poca cosa porque no nos quedaba más después de pagar en Farmacia (creo que fueron unas 30.000 pesetas, no entraba en el seguro)
Ya en caja, un mendigo de color, un negrito con gorra de visera y cabellos canos, nos pidió limosna. Mi madre le dijo que no tenía nada. Él nos miró y no nos creyó.
«Es cierto mire usted lo que acabo de pagar» -le enseñó la caja de la medicación.
«¿Quién está enfermo?»
«Mi hija» -le dijo mi madre mirándome, apenada, con esos ojos suyos brillantes como el ámbar-
«Cómo es posible…»- dijo el señor, muy serio, muy contenido, pensando.
Pasaron apenas unos segundos, se quitó la gorra y me la puso en la cabeza mientras decía:
«No te preocupes que te vas a curar, te lo digo de verdad, porque yo te bendigo en nombre de San Martin de Porres, verás como te curará»
Nos quedamos todos, cajera inclusive, con la boca abierta, los ojos eclipsados la escena, sin palabras.
Mi madre le dio las gracias muchas veces, emocionada.
Yo no podía hablar.
«Yrene ¿te creerás, que por un momento, me ha parecido que estaba hablando con el mismo San Martin?…» – me dijo mientras regresábamos al piso.
Yo le miré, aún con asombro y con una esperanza infinita, una fuerza nueva.
«Yo también le he visto Mami…»
¿Dónde estarás querido San Martín del barrio de Sarrià? Te recordaremos siempre…Hay tantos y tantos ángeles en la Tierra…
Todos somos ángeles, sólo que no nos damos cuenta, de la fuerza que tenemos para curar, para ayudar, para amar.
Los encuentros, benditos los encuentros. Son realmente un tesoro inigualable.
Yrene Yuhmi
PS: Mi madre siempre ha sido devota de San Martín, incluso la llamaban las amigas Fray Escoba cuando era jovencita ^_^
私はバルセロナの大学で芸術の歴史を学びました。サリアー近所に住んでいました。
とても穏やかな所、 綺麗な場所です。アパートが小さかったけど、心地いいでした。
健康が段々悪くなった、崩しましたよ。
お母さんと一緒に色んなお医者さんと病院に行きましたけど、全然駄目でした、
診断すること出来ませんでした。
これは10以来の状態で、桔構辛かった。良い薬があるから試してみてくださいっ
てよくいわれましたから、 そうしました。
お父さんが仕事以上何もしなかった、休憩とるとかできなかった、医者が高いか
ら仕方が無い 。。。 お母さんが私と妹と弟の面倒を見ながら私の病気のこと心
配ですが、前向きで、凄い勇気があった、 今でもそうですよ。
そしてある日その薬を買った後、コンビニにいきました。 薬が高過ぎるパンとミ
ルクしか買うのができませんでした。
レジにいった時に貧乏な黒人がお金くださいって頼みました。
お母さんが「ごめんね、お金がない」 でもその人が信じるわけないですよね。
「本当ですよ、ほらみてください、薬がこんな値段。。。」お母さん見せてあげ
ました。
「誰ですか、病気って」 その乞食さん訊きました。
「彼女ですよ、 娘です」
その方が私を観て、驚いた。
「こんな子供が病気なんて。。。でも大丈夫です、この俺がサンマルティンデポーレ
スの名においてにあなたを祝福します、治ります、 信じてください」
あの方自分の帽子が私に被って、そんな言葉を言いました。
私とお母さんも、レジがかりもビックリしていて、言葉が出なかった。
サンマルテインデポーレスが黒人の神聖な人でした 。
お母さんが何度も何度も有難うございますって言いましたよ 。とても感動で、涙が出ましたよ。
あの時私もお母さんリアルなサンマルテインを見た気がしました。
ちょっと不思議で忘れない。。。
そして2002年私は不思議ですが、回復しました。医者さんが信じられないくらい
ビックリしました。私は2001年病院生活、29キロ、 死の入口で、希望が持つと家
族の愛しか何もなかった。
いえ、逆です。家族の愛と希望の力のお蔭で死ななかった。
これは言わなければならない言葉ですよ。
すっごく感謝です、 あの黒人の方何処にいますかな。。。よく考えているね。
よかった、出会いがやはり素敵なことです。
San Martín de Porres from-wwwdabbey-roadsdblogspotdcom
Hola amig@ ¿cómo estás?
He estado pensando mucho estos días, y no me atrevía a escribirte…todavía me vienen a la mente muy malos recuerdos de cuando no sabía lo que padecía, y la angustia es muy fuerte con esos recuerdos. Esto es en mi caso, que es distinto, aunque cada caso es único porque hay muchos tipos de mutaciones de la FQ, y eso hace que cada paciente sea distinto. A grandes rasgos, la FQ es genética, produce una degeneración del cuerpo entero, porque afecta a nivel celular. Puedes encontrar mucha información en intentes en la página de la federación española de la FQ o en la misma Wikipedia!
Pero para ir al grano, y a grandes rasgos, se diagnostica al nacer, y afecta a los pulmones en gran manera, y al aparato digestivo, páncreas, hígado, aparato genital, piel, musculatura, huesos…En la FQ, se hace mucho más moco o más excreción, en todos los órganos, por ejemplo, nuestro sudor es muy salado, por eso cuando se habla de la FQ escuchamos la expresión «besos salados» ^_^),, perdemos mucha sal, por lo que necesitamos una suplencia sobretodo en verano. El páncreas no produce enzimas, y a veces, por desgracia, tampoco insulina (ni función endocrina ni tampoco exocrina) por lo que se padece diabetes además. También se cansa el hígado y pueden alterarse las transaminasas, el flujo genital es constante, mucoso, en los hombres hay una gran probabilidad de ser estéril…la mala absorción hace que perdamos muchos quilos con gran facilidad, y esto es un problema sobretodo en época de crecimiento, por eso es importante que se diagnostique de inmediato. Hace unos años se añadió la prueba de la FQ en las demás que se hacen en la planta del pie del bebé. Pero yo nací en el 76! Y sea por lo que sea, no se me vio. Era un bebé sano, por lo que me cuenta mi madre tuve unos episodios de estar muy delgadita, a los cinco años, y después a los 13, empecé con unas diarreas constates. Dijeron que era intolerancia a la lactosa (en FQ se puede dar celiaquía e intolerancias por los problemas digestivos, son secundarios a la enfermedad)
Mi madre peleó mucho por saber por qué estaba siempre enferma, perdiendo peso, con diarreas, indigestiones siempre, náuseas pero sin vomitar nunca, un estado de empacho eterno…muchos años de lucha, yendo a distintos médicos, hospitales…Tarragona y Barcelona…hasta que un médico de alergias alimentarias pediatra, en Barcelona, el doctor Jaume Botey y Sala, muy mayor, sabio, de constitución grande y fuerte, y totalmente imparcial, me pidió la prueba del sudor, y dio positivo. Tenía FQ, y solo se saber qué padecía, a pesar de ser una enfermedad incurable y mortal, nos hizo a toda la familia respirar tranquila…
Lo malo fue la etapa de búsqueda, que muchos médicos creían que tenía anorexia (los 90 fueron los años de concienciación y extension de lo que parecía ser esta enfermedad) y a pesar de que todos los psiquiatras y profesionales descartaron por completo que la padeciera, un par de ellos no querían dar su brazo a torcer.
En el año 2001 tuve que ingresar por caquexia, pesaba solo 30 quilos para mí desesperación ( no me reconocía, me dolía mirarme al espejo, no salía apenas porque asustaba con mi aspecto, o la gente cuchicheaba sin disimulo, hasta el punto de hacer llorar a mi hermana pequeña, en un Stradivarius, lo recuerdo porque casi nunca podíamos salir, y ella tenía 13 o 14 años, la edad de ir con su hermana de compras y disfrutar de esos lazos y esa edad…)
Por mucho que intentara coger peso, iba en picado. Primero pensaron que era una enfermedad inmuno del hígado, pero no fue así. En Barcelona, la jefa de planta, peso gordo del hospital Vall d’Hebrón, era la digestóloga que me llevaba. No le gustó nada que el doctor Botey me diera la diagnosis, parecía siempre enfadada conmigo y con mi madre.
Un día, hastiada con mi caso, me dijo que si seguía así ella no podía hacer nada. «Yo tampoco quiero seguir así, por eso estoy aquí, tiene que ayudarme» ella dijo que había más médicos en España, y nos hecho de la consulta a las dos.
«Si usted no me salva ya me salvará Dios» le dije llorando.
Y ella gritó asqueada, «pues que te salve Dios!»
Yo salí llorando y corrí hacia no sé dónde en la planta de digestivo, y mi madre sin saber si seguirme a mí, o continuar intentando hablar con la doctora, al final fuera de la consulta, sin más esperanza, le vino la regla de golpe, era una considerable hemorragia.
Una vez en Tortosa, me ingresaron en una clínica, y allí me pusieron un «drum», no sé si se llama así, pero era un tubo que iba desde la máquina de alimentación intravenosa, hasta el corazón, desde el revés del codo.
En aquella clínica no podían tratar la FQ, así que me mandaron a Vall d,hebrón con la condición de no tener que ver a la doctora en cuestión. Se estableció el trato y nos llevaron en ambulancia.
Nada más llegar, una médico y unos diez Residentes entraron, examinaron todas mis pertenencias, me trataron como a alguien despreciable…y empezó mi pesadilla.
La jefa de planta sí apareció, rompieron el trato.
El verano de 2001 fue la estación más eterna y terrible de nuestras vidas.
Nos hicieron pruebas psicológicas a las dos, mi madre no tenía por qué pasar por eso pero, en fin, yo tampoco…en vez de tratarme para la FQ, buscaban con desesperación que tuviera un trastorno alimenticio. Los psiquiatras y psicólogos continuaban sosteniendo que no era así, que estaba deprimida por mi estado físico y por estar siempre enferma.
Me llevaron a la zona de Psiquiatría más dura, paidopsiquiatría, y nos interrogaron a las dos, en habitaciones separadas, durante unas buenas horas.
Ya había pasado por interrogaciones duras en Tortosa. Era como si yo tuviera la culpa de lo que me pasaba.
En «paidopsiquiatría», la doctora, una reconocida eminencia por lo visto, determinó que no tenía anorexia ni nada parecido.
De todas formas la doctora digestóloga no quería escucharlo.
Venía a la habitación a las once más o menos, con un manojo de residentes.
Un día recuerdo que me cogió el brazo y lo apretó fuerte:
«Veis esto? No tiene masa muscular, como no come, su cuerpo no tiene grasa alguna»
«Perdona, pero yo sí que como» le dije, y les miré, tratando de encontrar en alguien una ayuda, a alguien que me creyera.
«Dejadla, está loca»
Está loca…cosas como esas me hacían tragarme el llanto cada día, viendo que no mejoraba nada. Me pasaron a una habitación especial, en la que antes había estado un señor mayor que había perdido el juicio. Cuando me gané poco a poco la confianza de las enfermeras, una de ellas me dijo que había un micrófono allí y nos avisó a mi madre y a mí de aquello…entonces vimos que la cosa estaba muy fea, y yo comprendí que nunca me curaría, no en aquella habitación… Las enfermas que conocía en la planta apenas comían, y tenían el aparato de alimentación intravenosa a más nivel que yo, por lo que ganaban peso rápido y salieron del hospital en breve.
Recuerdo a una cría que ni tocaba las bandejas de comida. Se vaciaba un sobregiro de Nesquick en la mano, lo chupeteaba como un gatito, y los doctores y enfermeras no le tocaban las palmas de milagro. Yo dejaba las raspas del pescado y me fulminaban con la mirada «te lo has dejado todo» (hasta la madre de la paciente de al lado tuvo que refutarle tal mentira)
En fin, queda claro que «El trato» era muy distinto al de l@s demás. (Ahora sé que algo de xenofobia era…pero de eso hablaré más adelante, en otra ocasión)
Pedí el alta voluntaria a mediados de septiembre. Quería volver a casa, no quería morir allí, si eso iba a pasar, preferí estar en mi casa.
La lucha hasta principios de primavera del año siguiente fue extraña, porque me sentía llena de ganas de vivir y salir de aquello, y poco a poco fui cogiendo peso hacia marzo del 2002, estaba inflada, mi barriga era como un barril, me dolía la pie, como si me la estiraran desde todos los rincones del cuerpo…había mucho líquido en mi interior. No se sabe la razón, los médicos no me lo dijeron.
La cuestión (y para ir terminando) fue que hacia mayo/junio, estaba muy recuperada. Fue lo que se dice un milagro (aunque sé que no se cree en ellos normalmente, yo sentí que sí lo era y aún lo creo.)
¿Por qué pasó esto? No lo sabemos. Fue todo muy raro…mi madre movió muchos papeles para poder pedir justicia pero no fue escuchada. El doctor Botey avisó a mis padres, «No se les ocurra ir contra ellos sin un buen abogado, solos no lograrán nada»
La angustia y el miedo, la agorafobia, fobia social, miedo a la batas blancas y a los hospitales, pánico más bien…todo eso es lo que me queda de aquellos años.
Más osteopenia por falta de calcio durante los años de crecimiento, por falta de absorción y otros problemillas.
Mis pulmones están muy bien, a un 95 por cierto, como cualquier persona sana, pero mi páncreas no funciona nada, insuficiencia pancreática severa. Tomo enzimas en cada comida, por tonta que sea ^^,, un plátano o una manzana, o un yogur…
Siempre lo llevo encima.
Por lo demás tengo flema, dolor de anginas crónico, febrícula, agotamiento, dolor de huesos y músculos, náuseas y muy malas digestiones…^^,, ¡Diarreas! ejemm… ¡No es nada agradable! Pero estoy viva y he podido hacer tantas cosas desde el 2002…
Tengo que agradecer al doctor Botey, al doctor Molero y al Doctor Tormos, su profesionalidad y humanismo. Sin ellos no estaría aquí hoy. Y también a Pep, un gran gran psicólogo que me hizo ver luz de esperanza en un tiempo muy muy oscuro.
He podido seguir dibujando, he estudiado Japonés, que me encanta ^_^)v Mis hermanos me llevaron a Japón en el 2012, (¡perdí muchos quilos pero valió la pena!) y he aprendido sobre networking (no cogí un ordenador hasta el 2003) y así, he llegado a conocer a grandes amig@s y gente estupenda, como tú, que ahora me lees ^_-)
Estarás pensando: ¡madre mía que dramón ha escrito aquí! 0.0),,,, ¡perdona!No sabía por dónde empezar, ni si contártelo todo…¡pero ya está hecho!¡Jeje! Solo querría que se supiera más sobre la FQ y no sólo la de pulmón…Hice dos buenas amigas de USA, Sammy y Lezly: las dos tenían tan mal el pulmón como el páncreas. Sammy era como yo, pesaba 29-30 kg. Ella falleció hace unos años, dejando a un bebé en manos de su hermana Rossy. Con sólo 21 años dejó este mundo… Lezly en el 2012, también unos 21…¡ Nos habíamos prometido llegar a abuelas! Pero no pudo ser…lo malo de todo: que Lezly había comenzado su tratamiento con kalydeco, que era lo más nuevo entonces, y en una visita rutinaria al hospital cogió un virus intestinal y falleció…
La vida es así, bella cruel injusta..
Pero tengo muchas ganas de vivir y muchas ganas de disfrutarla hasta cuando toque! 😉
Y de devolverles a mis hermanos y padres mucha felicidad a cambio del dolor que les causé y sigo causando ^^,,
Te pasó un vídeo que explica con dibujos animados la FQ, es muy lindo! 🤓🖖
Oli y Nush explican que es la FQ ^_^
Te dejo ya, con todo este batiburrillo de recuerdos, luchas, sueños rotos…
Y para lo que necesites, ¡ya sabes estoy aquí! ¡No me enrollaré tanto la próxima vez! Lo difícil está más o menos escrito muy concisamente, en este email ^_^
Muchas gracias por «escucharme» ❣
Besos y abrazos!
Yyuhmi 🌸🌸🌸
Este escrito lo encontré ayer, 19 de Enero, entre mis muchos papeles olvidados en mil cajas. Es del año 2001, cuando mi madre y yo pasamos un verano de infierno y no de calor precisamente. Vall d’Hebrón se convirtió en una cárcel y mi planta, en un pasillo carcelario con una mujer hitleriana, sin sentimientos, arrogante, consciente de su autoridad, y de que nadie le pisaría jamás ni las manos, ni la cabeza.
Recuerdo que yo llegué desde una clínica más al sur, en ambulancia, me metieron en una habitación compartida, unos 12 personajes en bata médicos y residentes irrumpieron con cara de malas pulgas y registraron todas mis cosas.
La chica de al lado era una jovencita mimada por todos en la planta. Dos enfermas con un trato tan distinto que anonadaba ..Y dolía.
Las enfermeras y auxiliares nos trataban en ese principio, en esa llegada, con el mayor de los desprecios.
Mi madre no tenía sillón, dormía en una silla. La madre de la chica de al lado, tenía los dos, y ninguna intención de cedérselo.
La niña no podía dormir sin tener la televisión a tope hasta la mañana, 24 horas de tv.
Sin embargo, mi madre y yo, llevábamos sin descansar de tanto buscar la razón de mis dolores, de mis náuseas y sufrir, durante más de una década. Necesitábamos al menos unas horas de sueño sin ruidos…
_¿puede bajarle un poco el volumen? -le preguntó mi madre con tiento, a una enfermera de pelo corto y rasgos atractivos.
_No, porque la nena lo necesita para dormir.
Fue tajante, y su mirada muy fría, muy seca. De esas que cortan la respiración y hieren el alma.
Dormimos sin dormir, entre luces y berreos de la caja tonta,las mentes agotadas y tristes, sin aliados, sólo con la fe y la paciencia de la mano.
Poco a poco nos fueron conociendo, y su trato se fue suavizando. Fue un proceso lento, pero valió la pena. La hitleriana «doctora» les había dado «órdenes», «instrucciones» o vete tú a saber, para mí y para mi madre. ¡Malditos prejuicios!
…¿qué les diría? No lo sabemos. Quizás que éramos unas manipuladoras, un par de locas petulantes y malvadas…no importa…lo que de verdad importa fue el cambio, cómo acabaron conociéndonos y queriéndonos, hasta el punto en que un día se formó una pequeña revolución en los pasillos: enfermeras frente a la «doctora».
Fue un auténtico alzamiento contra la dictadura, doctores y residentes que soportaban y seguían todo cuánto la «doctora» hacía y decía, contra las enfermeras, que veían injusto todo el trato que se nos estaba dando.
La amistad y el cariño que enlazamos con cada una de las enfermeras y auxiliares, fueron un bálsamo para nuestro padecer. Un apoyo imprescindible sin el que habríamos muerto y no por enfermedad, si no por arrebatamiento de la dignidad, la peor de las muertes.
Mi forma de agradecer fue dibujando, a todas y cada una de ellas, dibujos tiernos, versiones de las ilustraciones de Beatrix Potter, que me acompañaba en aquella dura cama de hospital, en donde las horas pasan a un tiempo distinto al del exterior. No pasan, se sufren. Y lo peor es que NADIE lo sabe…como dos universos paralelos, jamás se cruzan.
Me cuesta mucho escribir sobre esta parte de mi vida…
hay muchas cosas por contar, muchas injusticias, dolores infringidos por gusto, ofensas, rechazo, abuso de autoridad, negación de la enfermedad que tenía, imposición de otra que no tenía, acusaciones, encierro, espiar todo cuando hacíamos y decíamos, tratamiento médico inadecuado…
Mas no puedo seguir escribiendo…aún me duele, y prefiero recordar los buenos momentos que pasamos con las auxiliares, con las enfermeras, los pacientes de la planta…
Aquí os dejo el escrito, el poema para aquellos que sin ser médicos, llevan nuestras enfermedades con gran dedicación y humanidad.
Dos nubes pesadas, cargadas, mórbidas
vagabundean cerca de donde mis sienes palpitan.
En el espejo una imagen me dice algo
nada importante, algo muy firme,
algo que se afila en los labios cereza,
y en los otoñales tiznes bajo los ojos orientales,
se duerme intraquilo.
La vida me chupa la sangre y el mundo se ríe.
La muerte me mira de cerca y, de vez en cuando,
hasta le sonrío.
¿Qué sonrisa es esa? me pregunta. ¿Ya te quieres
venir?
No…No me gustas nada. Pero sé que formas parte de
mi, no hay sombra sin luz, no hay vida sin ti.
Por el momento déjame en paz,
tengo que hacer cuatro cosas, o cuatro mil si me
llegan los días.
Quiero amar con la fuerza de los tifones en Japón y
ser amada como la literatura por los lectores.
Despacio, constante, eternamente.
Como la vida, como la muerte.
Yrene Yuhmi
8 de octubre del 2009
What a long, strange, WINDY!, difficult winter…I cannot complain but since my grandmother Irene passed away on January, things are getting odd and my Health is getting worse…
I also remember grandfather Fernando so much…And our black cat, our baby, Rona, passed away on last Summer…
People can think «it’s just a cat, come on!»
No…She wasn’t just a cat. She was a very important existence for us and us for her during 10 years…
I can’t take out of my mind my grandmother sitting with Rona at home, taking a cup of coffee and sweets together.
Rona loved my grandmother and my grandmother loved Rona. The two existences are not here anymore.
My Life and Mom’s Life, both are just like a book which has been teared apart, here and there, becoming a sad,
destroyed book non complete.
The memories are only in our minds, but the real ones aren’t here anymore.
So sadness comes easily to us and make things difficult! Specially with a rare disease. Cystic Fibrosis made my life change in a crazy way. Now I see how serious it is, but also I can see I am so fortunate I am still alive, at home, and with a family and friends.
And I can still keep drawing, even if my hand gives me trouble, I can still try it, keep it up and imagine my next chapters of «Armend y Liend» novels!
I will survive! as the song says!
Sorry for being so blue and for being late on the final volume of Armend y Liend series ^_^,,
As for the time being, I try to draw people I admire and/or love ^_-
Here is a little portrait with Japanese patterns, and feeling, to Mario Vaquerizo:
Mom does this big clean up since We were kids.We didn’t know in Japan there is a traditional habit (and a very good one as expected!) that is cleaning and tiding everything before the year ends.
I really am amazed Mom seems japanese…maybe someone of our ancesters were samurais who lived in a town near Sevilla, called Coria del Río. My grandfather’s mother came from a town very nearby.
And so maybe this could explain my physical features, very similar to japanese! ^_^
so so then! what can I find tiding up my things? Writings and drawings…️Lots…
REALLY.
It could gave you a harsh headache -.-
I up some of then handscripts to end maybe, this year on the blog…
I really want to finish my novels but I must get healthier ^^,,,
I love when I find quotes I like wrote there and here on this old old note books 🙂
Like this one by Antón Chejov, one of my favorite russian writers and poets.
Russian people Love their past, hate their present and fear their future.
they do not know that the Future which fear so much is going to be the
Present that hate and so this Present, will become the Past they Love so much.
I think it is not only the russian people but every one of us who feel this way…
we must try to live our present to our fullest, as my Mom says:
«Los momentos del presente serán los recuerdos del futuro»
Delores R.D
(the moments in our present will be our memories in the future)
Since that confinement, I haven’t written a single line. It was a week but it seemed an eternity to me. Just like if suddenly, that nightmare became real. Real and without time. Now that I’m home I almost can’t believe it. I will never see a hospital in the same way. Not even the Life seems to me the same. Four walls, a window showing a dark sky of February beginnings , and my drawing sketchbook. The food was terrible and so the nights. But surprisingly I don’t have a bad memory from those days. My Mother really supported me so much. I realized that how much need of caring and love has a sick person. Even now, being with my dears, I’m almost going to ask them for a hug, just like if a simple and warm hug could get to end with all the suffering. For any person, nowadays, it can sound like a sissy silly thing what I’m trying to explain. The old values don’t exist anymore, or they have metamorphosed into stupid masks of futility and superficiality.
Love that has a wide and incredible meanings, can not exists anymore. The matter is that is one of the endangered species or it’s confused with just sex. There is someone who feels touched and comforted giving Thanks during the christian liturgy? Maybe I must ask if there is someone between the catholic who goes to the Church for something more than false bless-faith (like some bigots) or simple rutine.
If there’s someone who loves and respect their parents. If there’s someone who doesn’t want to forget their roots. If there’s someone who trusts their brothers protects them. Someone who doesn’t feel the abhorrent need of broke a little orange tree planted in the street of our city. Someone who doesn’t break the skull of a poor kid because of being different in color, culture or language.
The ones who left, who are quite a lot, go out and proclaim that you understand the LOVE! Don’t feel ashamed of being different, because on this dunghill where filth abounds sure can arise a green full of life outbreak. And so who can compare that large filth with the little outbreak?
My mother went out from the hospital room with Rosa María, to take breakfast, and I was left alone with Rosa, my dear room mate, mother of Rosa María. Rosa was an adorable, young granny, with four daughters, every one of them were different but always getting along between them. They came from a place called Santa Coloma, on the north of Barcelona. My mother and I use to call them even now: «the roses of Santa Coloma». They were a family to remember, bright, smiling, loving: just like a bouquet of kind, healthy flowers.
When I saw my Mother coming in with a big bouquet of red roses, I felt not worthy of that caring and I noticed the difference between the flowers cut off for the sick person, and the ones that anyone can enjoy on the Nature, without touching them. Rosa María brought me a little dressed up basket of yellow daisies that I put on the windowsill. «Thank you, thank you»…But it doesn’t fill this emptiness… The first night I couldn’t sleep. I had to be face-up with the left arm as straight as possible, because the catheter annoyed me with any movement. All arm to the wrist hurt me, so because of the apprehension I left it still and rigid so it froze. I’m a disaster. When the nurse came at 12:00, I commented it, told me to move it it at least a bit, so it will not cool and hurt that much. My mother «slept» in a chair. The back of that chair reached only half her back. so because of it, to lean the head was impossible. That new situation, strange one, with that damn blood tests, nausea, my extreme thinness…All was transformed into a impossible to digest ball that filled me with sadness. I could stop my tears anymore. I felt sick, finished, both physically and morally. And every second I felt that the ball was becoming bigger and bigger.
It grew up more and more within my chest, and the spring of tears were crowding my eyes.
Finally arrived the time for the psychiatrist visit. He took everything out of myself, and of course he had to do a break to pass me some clínex – paper handkerchiefs-. I remember we began for the very beginning. _ I don’t know if they commented to you something…If you know about it… I was expecting something new, surprising, unexpected…I don’t know. _ …But, how was your pregnancy? I was stunned. _ What? I suppose my expression was saying everything. If I don’t have even menstruation, to begin with…Maybe he had the wrong patient?
The doctor did understand right away and made me do so too: he was talking about my mother being pregnant of myself. So embarrassing! But the truth is that after more than 2 years of docs and docs, the Mr or Mrs of the white coat and the Vademecum really scare me, and I expect anything from them. The last time I went to the hairdressing salon – I hate them – They brought me a little coat without sleeves to wash up my hair, and I was putting my arms all straight, as if I was going to take a radiography and the nurse was waiting for me with that ridiculous coat with the back all open.
The good man (the doctor) asked me the formal, typical questions about anorexia nervosa. It’s said that it’s the disease that’s fashionable now. Just as if it has to be something you want to get.* The persons who are affected with this disease are victims of a strategy of their own minds: they don’t need to be at fault, to be blamed. They need help. You see, nowadays, everybody wants to be thin at any cost. It’s obvious that every one of us must accept onself the way they are and try to be happy. But this is a too chewed topic here in my century. I imagine you don’t know it at all, Beatrix.
It became clear that, to resume everything, I needed an antidepressant. And plus, it has to be free of lactose. This part was the most complicated. Only a few tests were left. Once they were finished the doctors told that they will decide if I needed a biopsy or not. Because of their expressions and the way they were approaching the situation I saw that it wasn’t necessary.
That’s why I was so surprised when that day they told me that had decided to make the tests to discard a possible autoimmune hepatitis. The liver tests always had shown little alterations since two years ago. Right after they left, I apologized to Rosa and went to the toilet, and I cried again. At that moments, my mother was I and I was my mother. Well, sometimes I think it has been always like that. I’m so thankful I had her with me.
I must thank you «Mami«.
That night I accompanied her to the hallway, near the elevators, because she had to check in the cockpit in the lower floor if the card was working. Being there, I insisted so she took something sweet to eat and a milk coffee at the vending machine. I waited for her there. Beside the windows a middle age man with slippers and hospital coat, was waiting that hours pass and go, all alone. I saw him at mass of 18:00, touched by the words of comfort by reverend Fort. We smiled each other and so needed of company he was, that began to talk with me.
He explained to me all they have done with him (he had big black stitches on his head, his chest, his tummy…) It made my hair stand on end. He told me that a 20 years old young man had a biopsy of liver too, and being so very precise execution, they touch a vein and they had to made a liver surgery. He died. It’s true that I was afraid, but it’s also true that mentally I wasn’t ready for that damn test. Neither to take decisions. But, even though, grabbing strongly my mother’s arm, my bestfriend’s arm, on that naked corridor, I decided with effort, to not have that biopsy, leave the semester and take my time to rest and recover. If this wasn’t going to work I would have the biopsy. And so I told to the doctors.
They let me that night to think about I and I really had a hard time. I wasn’t sure about what was the right thing and I felt literally «left alone from God hands», but that never happened to me. The reverent Fort told me «I will pray for you». Only Five words were needed to let me feel OK. I could sleep and when I woke up my Mother took my hand and kissed me. _ What…- she asked to me. _ I won’t do it. I smiled because I felt with renewed strength that seemed to have been disappeared from my life.
When I stepped the streets again, and I felt the open space, the vestiges of sunshine sounded like a resurrection to me. Of course the way in front of me, was not going to be easy. But I had my family. And that was my everything.
I have regained HOPE.
(year 1998-99, Saint John hospital, Tarragona)
* we are talking about the 90′ here!back then was the beginning of this terrible disease here in Spain. But there was not awareness at all. Some of the (not psychiatrist) doctors that visited me mistook my Cystic Fibrosis with an anorexia nervosa. It was quite hard to deal, because I was treated like a disgusting convict.
After all, I had lots of medical proofs that tell I was not affected by anorexia nervosa, but it seems the bias remained quite a lot of time…
Originals in Spanish. Thanks for reading so much! Sorry for my bad English! (blush!!)
Dear Beatrix: I have an old photo of you, where you are posing in the door of your Home, on Hill Top. Maybe it’s the vision of your kind and healthy face, that let me use this adjective quite daring: «dear«. Maybe is because of the distance and the Time, and…Of course, you won’t reproach my lack of manners for writing to you in this way, being a total unknown from XXI century who tells you very odd things. When I told you about the Death, I was scared, yes. In a few days I’ll be hospitalized to make me a liver biopsy. I don’t know about Medicine history, so maybe you know or not about what’s a biopsy. I know it’s nothing. «It will not hurt» Doctors tell me. But I don’t trust them. «Don’t be afraid» Tells me my Mother. But She also is afraid, I can see it in her eyes. I can see it every time she looks at me trying to not show the aversion that causes to see my scrawny body. I cry every time I go to the bath, to take a shower. I don’t have chest. My arms and my back, my hips, my ribs, all are just that. Bones. I don’t have my face bright and flustered, neither the eyes shining. In my suitcase I prepared some books. I also put yours with all my caring.
To my little sister I always tell that treat the book with love, that is a jewel of collector. She thinks I exaggerate and the fact I doubt of her maturity hurts her. I know, I know, that she knows very well how to treat books. She is a very mature girl for her age. I’m really proud of her intelligence. With only 14 years old has really clear ideas and knows how to talk better than lots of adults and with career. The little one, of course, has only 4 years old, he is different, he takes everything but to draw on his scribbles. My auntie Ana says he is going to be an artist. I guess he’s getting familiar with the colors, the drawings and every thing he sees in my workshop. He sits near me, and imitate all my movements. As Aristotle said, the Humanity learns imitating.But arriving to certain point of the Life, every person must shape their personality from all that has been around, all the crying, all the imitations and the reflections. This part of so simple theory, doesn’t always come true. The fashion, the urban tribes, the evil envy, leads a imitation that transforms the society in one of a kind of cattle ranch. That’s how the proverb says: Monkey see, monkey do. «Where is going Vicente? Where people goes» (Spanish proverb)
Well so, my little brother, most than one time ended all dirt of oil paints, and what a disaster..! So I bought a crayon box and card-boards for him. His drawings of houses with chimney, cars and dogs, comforted me so much. It seems that kids see the world in colors. I think that the best thinkers of all Times, has not seen in the kids the perfect solution to problems and questions of Philosophy.Maybe all it’s lots more simple. We look for the Truth with all the possible biggest difficulties, while the TRUTH, that already has connotations of indecipherable and empty Myth, it’s instead in the simplicity.
The simplicity of whom begin to discover Life and the one who when sees a stone discovers a stone, and not a tangle of mysterious analytical schemes that converts it in a very long book that leaves us full of doubts.
And the Science, yes, it’s wonderful. The man, not, better the Humanity has learned to divide reality from fiction first, and after linked it again to do really unthinkable things. You can’t imagine what a limited and fragile that’s human being could achieve during this pick of the Earth Time. You lived that emboldened start of 1900. I live the unbridled excess of the near 2000. How far away we are, dear my friend!
I correct: How far away I am from any alive thing…I guess I’m closer to you, nether-less these 100 years, than to any person of my age or my Time. I can’t believe what’s happening to me. I can’t recognize myself. And neither can’t do so my dears.I almost can’t remember clearly and in a sequence way that big discussion with Manuela. Time betrayed me, my body betrayed me, I myself betrayed me. In fact, this whole city betrayed me. That night all we were celebrating Carnival. I cos-played like a pirate: white blouse with frills, tight trousers, high boots and spyglass. Manu disguised as a zombie and Pati as a magician. Helena and her coworkers surprised us with quite pathetic costume of witches. There was also a group who had the great idea of disguising as sisters with Ni*e sneakers, that’s a name of a brand that marks people like hot iron to cattle. Then you are the powerful of the riches tribe, pretty and famous. Well, there’s not only N*ke, there are thousands of stupid names, that are not worthy of being named. Maybe I say one of them without noticing. In this Times people are not fighting for knowing, but for appearing. At schools no one knows who is Cervantes, what’s Iberia Peninsula, or where the hell is that Odyssey. The knowledge does not take place (Spanish proverb, knowing more doesn’t hurt, doesn’t bother) but my skirt is cuter then yours and also more expensive. Furthermore why they want to know History – they ask themselves – if I master flirting and consumerism?
Everybody laughed when they saw that dozen of false sisters with expressionless masks, white as their sneakers. It wasn’t funny for me. It’s incoherent and stupid to do a joke about something we don’t know and so, about something we don’t have any right.
That’s also typical from these times. All is laughable. I can’t tell too much about what happened. Manuela grabbed the drinks bar and thanks to the heat of the wine began to chatter with euphoria, ridiculously, because of the boys who were coming closer to us. I felt so embarrassed so with a few but clear words I asked her to behave.
_ Shut up!! – yelled at me with all her rage and hatred that was hosting within her. That hurt me. She wasn’t Manuela, she couldn’t be.
_ Why I must shut up, I don’t have to. What you are doing is just immature and ridiculous. _ Ha! what happens is that you are a washy-washy girl who doesn’t know how to have fun! And so that really hurt me, because it wasn’t true. _ I don’t need fuel to get fun. I had Manuela fatty and ugly face engraved in my mind, looking at me with an indescribable grudge that always scared me. Even now I remember it and I feel very sad. It’s being hard to me writing about it. I would prefer to bury it in the Oblivion, but that’s not easy. At that moment I didn’t know if go home or stay or what… Even I was swallowing all time, I had a big knot in my throat and even though I wanted to look calm, my hands were trembling.
The party was in the Sports Pavilion. In the corner of the wardrobe I sat down to wait for the Calmness. I couldn’t stop my trembling. _ Have you lost your broadsword? I jumped surprised: by my side, leaned to make his voice be clear with all that loud music, was Adrian.
I lost some seconds to understand what was saying because I forgot totally about my dress up. I looked at me and felt so stupid. And even more when I saw that he wasn’t wearing any costume. I smiled and replied that I was disarmed in a death match. _They must have hurt you…- he said. I knew that he knew about what we were talking. _ Yes, in fact a lot.
We were silent in the middle of the festive sound, during a time that seemed to me an eternity. Finally I felt so uneasy that I turned around to him and invited him to drink something warm. My throat began to hurt. He accepted and after taking our jackets we went out. Even though it was the second week of February and the air was cold, I felt lots better out than in. That night we were just good friends. For the first time in my life I talked without fear with something who wasn’t Fidel or my mother. How it was possible so much confidence? We really got along. I began to be aware of his attractive points, that little details that seemed I only could see and that made him exceptional and different. Furthermore he always made me laugh. I was really prone to laugh back then. I was born happy. I felt the LIFE, I smelled it, I touched it and tasted it. I enjoyed… I was in that age where every one lives their own fairy tale. And the bad thing of something so good is that you believe that is ETERNAL.
Carpe Diem.
Spanish originals, 1998-2000. I must say I don’t feel the same that back then, it was a time to suffer and be abandoned by people I trusted.
If you were purebred and local or a today renegade mestizo you are approved. But if you are a simple son (proud) of Immigrants, black, chinese, japanese or «similar» you got it thought. And this is the pure reality.The theory, preached by all, is that all of
them are tolerant, anti racists and anti-xenophobic. You see, «angels». Juan Diez, was the first boy in the golden list of good matches. And Pati was crazy in love with him. He didn’t even look at her, everybody knew that he felt aversion about Patricia who wasn’t exactly a cover girl. Anyway, he wasn’t nothing special either. I always pitied Patricia, always daydreaming, smiling, laughing, loving… When I met her. But we all change. And in the scales of good and bad inside us, one of the plates outweights the other. _ The one who looks free is the new…
Helena hit the shot. Manu almost jumped from the chair to say that she finally get to know his name. _ Se llama Adrián.
As always she was fill of compliments, not very respectful. To the poor guy’s ears there has to be a good whistle, totally alien to that sickly interest that triggered an unknown girl.
_ Look, your parents.
Patricia was looking through the windows of the coffee shop. I left the money on the table, took my jacket and say good bye quickly, tired of that silly chatting. _ Are you going to check the lists on Monday? _ yes – I replied already in the door. _ Hey, today is Friday! – yelled Patricia – Are you going out or not? _ I’ll call you!
«Who knows?» I thought. I got in the car, happy, commenting the «match» with my parents, and excited with my own conversation I decided to go out that night.
I changed clothes 3 times. I went downstairs to the living room the 3 times and the 3 times I got approval. Why so much interest that night? I asked myself too: I had those black eyes pierced in my mind, without being able to explain myself what was feeling. I decided on the blue dress, that I loved, and it was enough for me to look me on the mirror, smile and go out. I had my face all red. When a person has the face flushed and the eyes brighting, it’s a sign of happiness, vitality and energy. The eyes talk about everything. It’s amazing.
Back then I had everything. I was going to the College, and new perspectives were opened for me. I felt shiny, I loved being loved and being happy. But, how many times we forget that happiness is not eternal and slides off our hands, slips from them…and You don’t feel it anymore.
That night the disco, was as always for me: smoke, french kisses in every corner and tall glasses from I got to listen the sound of the ice cubes hitting each other. It disappointed me more when the music began to be repetitive, feeling like a hammer inside my head until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t know, I don’t think you will like this music, Beatrix. Its name tells about it perfectly: it’s cold, impersonal, inhuman and with a lyrics who sounds like a babble without argument: machine music. You see, even here arrived the Industrial revolution. The firsts steps were meritorius and resounding, but now, you know that there is a talk of spaceflights? Of course, only for billionaires.
What good it all this progress if half of the World only has naked bodys, hunger, hopeless and soil under their feet? Beatrix, what I most regret is that every day lots of children die on The Earth. A lot, I don’t know how many, but even if it’s only one, they are innocent creatures who won’t be able to LIVE, in capital letter, with all its meaning. Not even reading your tales and imagine little rabbit Benjamin or the Lady kitty or the hen Sarah…
Pati and Manu, met with Helena and two of her coworkers, beginning to complain about the boys not being there that night. The smoke was suffocating me, I began to feel sick. It was really that what I wanted? A couple was eating their mouths in a corner. He was scrubbing all hands her butt. I found it so disgusting. The «chick», that’s a way to talk about someone nowadays even thought they are not the cute chickens from your tales…- made a break to have a drink. She had all the eye mask made a glob and a really impressive dark circles. She looked like the poor and distressed Munch. But there it was impossible to hear the scream, so perfectly audible at the picture. Her face reminded me my palette knife and the nice feeling of stopping the pigment with the linseed oil…This way my paintings had come to life: my doves, my horses, my portraits.
I got out of there and , between the wardrobe and the lockers I just breath out. Because you don’t know it but the last thing you can do in a disco or dance pub is breathing. I pulled the bangs out if my eyes and stepped back. I stumbled upon something. At first i thought it was the billiard but…that soft? I turned around and there he was, saying sorry. _ No, no, it was me, sorry I stepped on your foot. _ No way, it was me, I wasn’t looking where I was going… _ It uses to happen on these places… I said it dismissive. I didn’t do it on purpose, but it looks like he noticed. _ They are a pain right? _ I so agree. _ Then what are we doing here?
He said with such a witty way that made me laugh. _ Well, I’m not sure, but maybe only to have something to share. He looked at the door. It has a porthole window through we could see a piece of sky. _ what about we sharing a bit of fresh air? I must admit I had some misgivings. I don’t trust people easily. But I don’t know why I followed him. _ It won’t be long, I’m leaving in 10 minutes. _ Ah, curfew? _ No, no…Not at all. At home we all are adults and responsible. _ And what that means? _ We don’t lie, we don’t hide anything. We trust completely each others. _ Sounds very good. I don’t have curfew either. I live alone. I looked at him questioningly. _ I came from Ciudad Real* for work… _ Here? – I made it sound like it was a joke. _ You don’t like this place? _ There is only one thing I love here. I pointed out the mountains. They are incredible pretty , Beatrix, every second, in the passing of the seasons, at night or day time, they are different, but extremely beautiful. He nodded. _ And my family – I added in. _ Do you have siblings? _ Yes, three – I answered. _ Wow! I smiled satisfied. To me, talking about my brothers is like showing out a medal of honor. _ And you? Have you left someone there in La Mancha*? _ My Mother. _ And your father…? _ As if he were dead. He left us when I was a baby. I have a stepfather but…I prefer not to talk about him.
Because of the the tone of the voice and the afliction of his face I got that I had stepped on a very delicate subject and I flustered.Thanks God, because I have a natural tan, the blushings can’t be noticed easily. Instead my brother, just like my Mother, has very white skin and the flushing get all face and even ears. Without noticing we had walked to the parking. My car was there, shiny. I had washed it that evening. Suddenly I remembered I had forgot totally Manu and Patricia. Looks like I said it out loud, because Adrian, with disgust, said to me that I was doing ok forgetting them. _ I guess you have noticed I’ve been looking at you…I’m not good at hiding my moves. I just felt embarrassed and motionless. _ And I also have seen with whom are you going out. Those girls aren’t for you. _ You are being too hard with me, and it’s our first conversation. _ Same for you, who blamed me for opting for this city. I took out my keys and I was going to get in the car. _ Then we are in a draw. Once again those black eyes, that cheeky smile. Them fascinated me without being aware. I smiled to him. He smiled to me.
I guess in a place like that, you know my name – he said. _ Oh, don’t let it go to your head… I also know your name. _We are in a draw again.
I got in the car. There in the door of the disco, I thought I saw Manu, but I was to excited with that conversation. Adrian looked how I get out the car from the parking. Raised his hand as saying good bye, and I remember that, just when I passed in front of the disco, a fatty blond was looking at me. She reminded to me Sissy Spacek on «Carrie» but featuring Rosie O’Donell., that can be lots worse…Oh well, I’m talking to you about something you don’t know. Do you remember that extraordinary invention of two brothers, the Lumiére? Well, it has been more and more big and incredible, I will tell you about it.
It was long ago that the tender and sincere friendship between Manu and I, had begun to break out. But now, being with her , talking with her, scared me.
And I really knew that Fear is the worst enemy to have to be afraid. But what I didn’t know was about the situation I was going to be drown some time later. Now I’m not scared of anyone anymore. I know that Human Dignity makes possible to be the owner of oneself.
Now I’m scared about something that had not been afraid since I started praying to God, when I had 5, 6 years old. Now what scares me is the DEATH.
To Be continued…
* Ciudad Real, city from La Mancha, center of Spain, birthplace of El Quijoteand his creator Cervantes.
This food is my weakness, because I am so able to eat half of a kilo of bread per day – minimum – I love all with bread, bread with everything and bread alone. I inherited it from my Mother. I’m sure you would love to meet her, Beatrix. She is wonderful. For me, the word Mother doesn’t’ mean the same that for the rest of my generation…And maybe from the future generations. My mother isn’t my old hag. Not mine neither for anyone. She is not either that menopausal woman who I hate meeting when I’m with my friends. She doesn’t wear hair curlers all time and makes her dressing gown as her best ally all day long. I think she has not touched gossip magazines in her life. She’s extremely attractive. I get why my father lost his mind for her. And she has a bright intelligent, sharp and above all, young. She likes music, dancing, laughing, sweets and jeans. She gave born to her kids, having so many qualities for all kind of things… There is not even a small glimpse of selfishness within her. That’s really strange in a human. She is a mother-friend, a mother who knows to listen, a mother who knows to give advices. When she went in the bakery, in views that I wasn’t coming out, she found me suffocated and stunned. I had been arguing with the new clerk of the bakery. who, like an appearance, showed up behind the counter. He has put in front of my face, solicitous, a tray of choux a là crème. _ Look, take a taste, they are really yummy. _ I don’t doubt it – I said – But I can’t… _ But if they are really good, come one, take one! _ I, I can’t…I don’t tolerate dairies and.. _ But if they are filled with custard!! – the boy was looking at me in a aggressive way offended at my refusal. _ For this reason, custard cream is made with milk… I began to move back to the door, understanding that it was in vain even trying to convince the clerk. According to him, custard was «a really yummy thing with vanilla flavor». Boy, you’ve discovered America. When I saw my Mother going in, I felt safe. _ Let’s go Mami. I took her arm and dragged her outside without saying goodbye. _ We «fought» during some seconds for the wheel of the car and I won, faster, already inside. I was driving down San Roque street – my favorite – When I saw him. A black eyed boy was looking at me. That half-smile activated a mechanism in my mind. After some months I remembered him. _ Who is? My mother looked at me in a funny way, with a smirk. _ He looks at you like…You know him? _ Not yet. I followed him with my eyes until I saw him disappear behind a corner. _ The light is green. Of course, Mom was referring to the «traffic light». She kept smiling. But appreciating my complete confidence with her and testing her trust in me, she had not asked a thing. I put the first gear and feeling the nice texture of the wheel, I drove home safely.
Manu, Patricia and Helena decided to go take a tasty «mineral water» as a snack. I, almost one month without taking too much dairy, forgot totally the diarrhea and nausea crisis, the unpleasant itching, and I ordered a croissant. I know, I know. What a hobby with the french pastry!…But I really liked it so much…! _ Golly gee! you are so lucky, eating that much and always so skinny… -exclaimed Helena with a smirk. I just smiled, a but stunned by the absolute silence of the other two. _ How is the work? _ Oh, really good – replied Helena finishing her drink – I have a good salary, that’s all matters. This way I will get my driving license… _ You will be so excited with it! To be able to drive…I am very happy. I think it’s a really important thing nowadays, and more to us women. It helps to be independent. _ I don’t see it that necessary – Manu interrupted me scornfully. _ Then, you would not love to know how to drive? – I asked her surprised. _ I don’t need it at all. I’m not interested. _ «The knowledge does not take place» (Spanish proverb) She did not even look at me. She just did as always, with her little chubby fingers, to tear up the paper from the bottle of water. Helena, like everybody did, noticed the tension from Manu and changed subjects. She asked Pati about Juan Diez what made her put a face of a sad lamb. _ I haven’t seen him…Anyway, what matters if I saw him or not? _ He’s still going out with Desiree? The answer was «yes» and sounded worse than a vomit. _ Really? It’s taking longer than normal, almost 15 days. And that’s because Juan Diez* has gained his nickname for pure cache. Here in this city, the first thing that matters is the money, the second, and not less important, the family tree.
* Juan Diez means John Ten in spanish, a ten man or ten woman is a very popular one. Of course it’s a fictional name for a real person!
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