Mexico

Dr. Michelle sent me the following text message on 1/12/2021, and then the poem. May every soul lost to Covid-19 Rest In Peace!

"I wrote a poem for the first time in years. It is the story of a Covid patient. It was written because after he died, his nurse told me that he had not wanted to be intubated, had said that he wanted to go back to Mexico and die on the beach. Then he asked the nurse if she would still be there when he got extubated. And that hurt my soul because he died instead of ever getting extubated..."

Mexico

By Michelle P. Zhang, MD

 

I don’t want to die here.

Take me back to the beaches of Mexico,

where the warm sun rays hit the ocean

in just such a way

that I see the reflections of my father’s hands

working hard to build our futures.

Take me back to where the salty winds blow

through the wide leaves of tall palm trees,

echoing the songs that my mother sang,

lulling me into the dreams of my youth.

 

I don’t want to die here.

Here, there are strangers –

their hands are foreign and aseptic,

covered in latex, lacking the warmth of another human.

If they smile, I can’t see it – their faces distant

behind masks and faceshields.

I think that their eyes betray concern.

I understand their words through scattered consonants,

but they do not speak the language of my ancestors.

I understand only

fragments

of the position that I am in.

 

I don’t want to die here.

Take me back to the beaches of Mexico, where the

gentle water tickles my toes

like my little girl running in the backyard

tripping over me with her small –

oh so small –

little feet.

Take me back to where her footprints are.

 

I don’t want to die here.

The last meal I had was something

tasteless and unrecognizable.  

A concession, not a feast.

Oh, how I miss the flavors from back home.

Here, nobody knows who I am beyond age and disease.

Here, nobody holds my hand except to draw my blood, and

it hurts each time.

 

I don’t want to die here.

Take me back to the beaches of Mexico, where

my wife has held my hand

on countless sunset walks.

She and I etched a heart into the sand,

made our mark of love onto this world like

we all hope to do.

The memory of her face lights up this dark room like

a full moon.

 

I don’t want to die here.

Let me die on the beaches of Mexico,

with the things that I have come to know,

with the things that have made my heart tender. 

 

But my lungs – they are heavy,

have they turned to concrete?

The weight of them makes me think that

I may not see tomorrow

without being placed on the strangers’ machines.

They tell me I must fall into a deep sleep,

and the machines will breathe life into me. 

 

But please, can I ask you –

If I must go into the darkness now, tell me –

will you, stranger, still be here when I wake up?

 

Sunset Delight

This photo was taken 9 years ago today on 1-6-2012.  Wow, what a difference 9 years could make!! 

I still remember that calm day from 9 years ago when I just started my photography journey. The air was cold, but fresh; the pond was empty, but not lonely; the sun was setting, but brightly beautiful with endless hope...

Nine years later, today, I still see hope.

My Father

As I sat here composing this email, I wasn't sure how to title the message.  Should it be about "decluttering" or about "my father?"

My decluttering effort is relentless.  Today, I found a package of film negatives from 1991.9.17 to 1993.10.10, when Michelle stayed in China with my parents.  The package contained 35 envelops, each containing one roll of film negatives with dates clearly labeled on the envelop. Many envelops had dates with event names attached (see attached).  This was my father's efforts from almost 30 years ago, trying to help us organize memories of baby Michelle -- in such level of detail and specificity. 

As I went through each of the 35 envelops, three thoughts emerged:

1.  My father understood recycling in the most authentic way. He used envelops of my letters to organize the films.  I used to write a letter to them every week, it was our only way to communicate 30 years ago.  

2.  I have always considered myself to be extremely fortunate to have such loving parents.  However, sometimes, their deep love was hidden in the most trivial and seemingly unimportant aspects of our lives.  It wouldn't be discovered until maybe decades later, when we finally slow down AND allow ourselves to take the time to search.  To that end, I did go through each envelop today, read every note of each event on each day -- this was my way to let my father know how much I appreciate everything he had done for me.

3.  I couldn't help to wonder what went through my father's head when he decided to organize these picture films so carefully.  He might be thinking that some day I would need to find one particular picture's negative -- I might want to enlarge the picture or print more copies... How could he imagine today's digital world back in 1991?  How could any of us be able to imagine our way of life 30 years from now??