January 18, 2010

  • I realized today that no matter how horrible of a mood I am in, focusing on my Lola brings me back to equilibrium, where I am most stable—emotionally, physically, and mentally. She reminds me how to be human, and not the physical embodiment of potent rage that wants to lash out at all the evil in the world, at all the misfortune, and the legions that do things every day to perpetuate it.

    I take it personal—I cannot stand injustice. It makes me sick—to the core of my being. Then I take a moment to focus on Lola, and nothing else matters. She is my escape from the cruel world. My Lola is my own Mohandas Gandhi, my own Martin Luther King, Jr., my own Philp Vera Cruz, my own Cesar Chavez.

    Every day since June 18, 2009, the cycle of my days have been very consistent. Every morning, I wake up and go to check on my Lola, unsure if she took her last breath during the night prior. I replace her empty bottle of Ensure and remove an empty saucer of snacks. My uncle and I change her diaper and clothes and brush her hair and teeth. We then eat breakfast together and watch some morning news.

    On weekdays, I leave for work and leave my uncle and Lola to supervise one another. At work, I take on a few issues that face education, while trying to comply with federal and state statutes, regulations, and non-regulatory guidance. Defending education is an obligation. Bettering education is a passion. Education can be the great equalizer. Unfortunately, we cannot all agree on what equality looks or feels like.

    When my day at work is done, I go home. Before I open up my front door, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the reality that my Lola may have taken her last breath while I was gone. My ritual is more for me than anything. I go inside, check on her and prepare a snack for her, usually in the form of reheating some leftovers that my uncle has made that day.

    After I have settled in and changed into my house clothes, my uncle prepares the bath. I lift Lola out of her bed, place her on the transfer bench, and—with my uncle’s help—bathe her. We then seat her on the toilet so that I can dry her off. I blow dry her thin hair and rub her back, harms, and legs with lotion. I brush her teeth. All of this calms me and brings out the compassion that is my equilibrium—my state of rest. One diaper and a few articles of clothing later, I am ready to bring her to the table for a meal. We eat together and when we are done, we sit and watch some prime-time television.

    When she is tired, I lay her back down with a bottle of water and a bottle of Ensure at her bedside. I place a plate of cookies , biscuits, chips, or popcorn next to the bottles. Then I wait until she falls asleep before I go to sleep.

    The next morning, the cycle repeats itself again.