A to Z April Blogging Challenge

 





I have to admit it.  I am a big fan of Lee at Tossing It Out  I greatly enjoy his posts and admire his leadership as a blogger.  Lee and other wonderful blogging buddies have an interesting and fun project: the A to Z April Challenge , which I finally decided to join. 


How does the Challenge work?


The premise of the Blogging From A to Z April Challenge is to post something on your blog every day in April except for Sundays.  In doing this you will have 26 blog posts--one for each letter of the alphabet.   Each day you will theme your post according to a letter of the alphabet.


You will only be limited by your own imagination in this challenge.  There is an unlimited universe of possibilities.  You can post essays, short pieces of fiction, poetry, recipes, travel sketches, or anything else you would like to write about.  You don't have to be a writer to do this.  You can post photos, including samples of your own art or craftwork.    Everyone who blogs can post from A to Z.


My Challenge 


My challenge is to post a 50-word story every day.  For the most, they will be nursing-home inspired stories.   


I hope you enjoy them. 

Language of Compassion

“I am afraid we can’t meet his needs...”  I lamented.  I clutched the receiver to my ear, wishing that the hospital social worker on the other side of the line could sense my frustration, flowing through the telephone line like a river of regret.

“You can try an interpreter,”  the social worker insisted.

“He is too weak.  He won’t be able to communicate with an interpreter.”  I sighed as thoughts raced in my mind, struggling with the decision of whether to take Mr. Alexander under our care.  

Communication was the challenge, as Mr. Alexander was deaf and illiterate. 

Hospitalized for several weeks, Mr. Alexander had suffered a significant decline in his medical condition.  His prognosis was very poor.  In the hospital, he had made clear to the doctors and medical staff that he did not want aggressive treatment or intervention to prolong his life.  He had previously made his wishes known through an interpreter.

He had become very frail. The hospital couldn’t do much for him in his condition. He had no family or friends.  He needed the expertise of a long-term care facility.

After asking the social worker to give us some time to discuss the case, I sank into my chair, placed my elbows on my desk and rested my face in my hands.  My mind was in a whirl of thoughts about Mr. Alexander and his unfortunate situation. 

A strange feeling, an impromptu decision, rushed me out of my office. 

I need to go to the hospital!

I walked into the hospital.  Uncertainty flooded my mind, yet I knew I had to see Mr. Alexander.  I walked the long, polished floor of the hallway until I spotted his room.  I knocked at the door, as is customary. 

A slender man in his late seventies was laying in a bed.  He looked worn out, his gazed fixed on the ceiling—like if his mind was away, far away from that place.  I stood by his bed.  I tilted my head, to his eye level.  He looked up, staring at me.  Behind those round hazel eyes I perceived a mix of sad and endearing feelings. 

I smiled at him.  He smiled back, for one brief moment.

I touched his hand.  A feeling of compassion enveloped me.  I held his hand in both of mine.  His frail fingers attempted to grasp hands, but he was so debilitated that his hand dropped almost motionless on the bed.  He glanced at me again, then he shut his eyes, and went to sleep. 

Neither words nor an interpreter were needed to communicate between us.  I knew what he wanted—and needed.  He wanted caring hands to help him in his last journey—in this world. 

Now my decision to help him was resolute.

Mr. Alexander arrived to our facility that same day, late in the afternoon.  I went to his room before I left for the day.  I glanced at him.  He was sleeping.  I was relieved that he appeared peaceful. And I felt peaceful as well—or so I thought. 

That night, I woke a few times, thinking of Mr. Alexander.  I don’t normally experience work induced restless nights.  I try to disengage from work when I get home.  

But that night—that particular night—seemed out of the ordinary. 

I tried to relax with the thought that Mr. Alexander was being well-taken care of.  I finally went to sleep for a few hours.

The next morning I got up earlier than usual, and by seven o’clock I was already walking the halls in the nursing home.  I approached Mr. Alexander’s nurse and asked her about him.

“He’s still with us!”  She exclaimed.  “I just left his room.”

I headed to Mr. Alexander’s room.  His appearance startled me as he looked worse than he had the last time I saw him.  I held his hand.  It was warm.  I fixed my eyes on him.  After a few minutes, I saw no signs of breathing. I drew closer. He was still.  I called the nurses. Two nurses came in and examined him. 

He had just passed on.

“Strange...” his nurse said. “It’s almost like if he was waiting for you...”

“Yeah...” I spoke softly—struggling to find words as tears welled in my eyes. 

Mr. Alexander had died in his sleep.  In a peaceful dream, I hoped.  

The Rose Garden

A personal event inspired me to write "The Rose Garden" story.  

Short Story Book has published it online.   I'm being featured as a Guest Writer. 

                                                CLICK HERE

Biblioghetto Project

                                                         Photo: www.facebook.com/Biblioghetto

Nook, Nookcolor, Kindle, iPad, MP3, iPod, ...“I think I want to upgrade from my iPod,”  Claire expressed. “I want an iPod touch!”

It wasn’t an easy decision for Claire.  My teenage daughter debated which of the electronic upgrades would best suit her dream birthday gift. 

Claire and I spent a great deal of time looking, touching, and testing e-readers, tablets, and music players.  The gadgets were fascinating, I have to admit.  

That weekend, I had observed Claire intently playing with her iPod and Smart phone, as I surfed the internet, caught up reviewing blog posts, replied to emails, and read the news on my laptop.  I read the national and international news, including online news from my hometown—Cali, Colombia.

As I read El Pais, the most popular newspaper in Cali, one particular article caught my attention.  

Biblioghetto, Literature in the middle of poverty in barrio Petecuy. * 

It was the story of a young writer who decided to devote his time and heart to teach reading and writing  to children and youngsters in an impoverished neighborhood—or barrio—in Cali.  It was the brainchild of Gustavo Andrés Gutiérrez, a 25-year old native of the same neighborhood.  

Gustavo passionately read books since an early age.  He was so fascinated with reading, that he easily devoured four books a week.  Later, he ventured into writing himself and became a novelist. 

The article related how Gustavo, after a river flooded the neighborhood, asked himself:  “What’s my social responsibility as a writer? ‘To introduce children to literature,’ I answered to myself.  And that’s what I’ve done.” 

Petecuy, along with other neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city, have gained a reputation of barrios with high rates of illiteracy among children and youngsters, along with their more dark reputation of rampant crime, drug problems and gang-related violence. 

“The only way to keep away from violence in the neighborhood is to feel passion for something.  Books have been my passion, since I was a kid,”  Gustavo said.  And his dream of drawing children and books closer together was possible when his concept of Biblioguetto emerged. 

Biblioghetto is a mobile library project.  Every weekend, Gustavo and a group of friends dedicated to his vision, sit at the park, street corners and by the river dam, to delight children and teenagers with readings from books and drawing pictures. 

The project also includes workshops in reading and writing, story-telling, theater, drafting community newsletters, and organizing art festivals. 

Some of the young participants declared that Biblioghetto helped take them away from illegal drugs and gang activities.  And more amazingly, it has been reported that rival gangs have met at the barrio festivals without any confrontation or violence, and interacted in a friendly manner. 

As I finished reading the article, my heart pounded.  I fell into reflection.  I thought about the visit to the electronics store and the multiple choices Claire had before her.  Then my thoughts switched to the children and youngsters in Petecuy, and many other parts of the third world that don’t have access to the most basic form of mass communication: the written word. 

Anxious to express my admiration for his impressive project, I contacted Gustavo.  He kindly replied to me, giving me consent to post the story about Biblioghetto, and to make his information available to anyone who may want to contact him.  His campaign is for a donation of notepads, books, pens and pencils.

In an era where electronic communication is the norm, a voice asking for the basics of pen and paper to open the world for illiterate children and teenagers becomes a call awakening me. 

Gustavo concluded:  “We want to promote our project and find national and international support. Thanks for your encouragement.” 

Gustavo Gutiérrez

Biblioghetto Director

Email:   guanguto@hotmail.com

http://www.facebook.com/Biblioghetto
www.biblioghetto.blogspot.com

The reporter of the story ended the article with the most mesmerizing thought:

“Gustavo doesn’t know, but he has an unsuspected power.  He changes people’s looks in Petecuy.  He, the writer, who uses literature on the streets and parks, has de-activated people’s rage.” 

* http://www.elpais.com.co/elpais/cali/noticias/gustavo-cambia-miradas

Photo:José Luis Guzmán / El Pais

Happy Social Work Month- March 2011

March is Social Work Month. The National Association of Social Workers, Missouri chapter is posting a story daily. My 50-word story is being featured today.


                                    CLICK HERE

Red Lipstick

Have you ever tried using a more neutral color?” my friend, Diane, asked me, as she perused my burgundy lip gloss.  I sensed some intrinsic motivation on her question. The fashion gurus were forecasting nude lipstick colors—which promised a more natural look for the wearer.

I cared less about the year’s beauty trends. 

“Red is a classic color,” I replied, flashing a crooked smile. 

“That’s true. I guess it goes well with your skin tone.”

I shook my head, thinking that Diane had little business intermeddling in my lipstick preference, knew nothing of my makeup routine, for that matter. 

In the morning I’ll  typically pause a few seconds in front of a mirror to inspect the glossy red smile of the woman looking back at me.  And I think that this is the woman I want for others to see—pleasant and self-confident. 

“Have you seen Carla’s lips?” Diane asked me, motioning toward a lady sitting in a wheelchair.  The lady sat quietly, observing birds gracefully flying about, while others stood on limbs, happily chirping at one another in the bird aviary.  

Carla was a new resident in the nursing home. She had already caught the attention of the staff due to one particular fact—Carla wore red lipstick at all times, day and night. 

“I know she likes to wear lipstick,” I said as I glanced at Carla.

“No, not that!” Diane countered. “Go and take a closer look.”

I frowned, intrigued. I walked toward Carla. 

“Hi Carla!” I exclaimed, and smiled.

Carla turned her head and looked directly at me. She flashed a sparkly smile, outlined by her red, cosmetically coated lips.  I noticed the crooked trail of lipstick applied haphazardly on and about her thin and worn lips.  Red smears were displayed around the corners of Carla’s mouth. 

Notwithstanding, Carla exuded confidence.  She was evidently unaware of what others may have considered to be the imperfect application of her lip makeup.

Like me, I surmised that Carla found delight in the ritual of applying red lipstick daily. With one difference—Carla did not use a mirror. 

Carla’s arthritis had significantly afflicted her hands. Trying to hold the small lipstick tube with her damaged fingers was enough of a struggle that must have dispensed by necessity the use of a hand mirror.  Poor mobility must also have precluded her use of the vanity mirror and, even if she could reach it, her age had stolen her once keen eyesight. 

Nonetheless, I learned that Carla was quite pleased in her routine of applying her lipstick.

Perhaps as she did, evoking thoughts of her younger days, I mused.

“Carla, I like your lipstick,”  I said, sincerely.  I looked beyond the crookedly applied lipstick lines and saw the younger woman I hoped Carla envisioned as she ritually drew the lines across her tender lips. 

“Thank you!” Her face lit up.  The red hue on her lips seemed to brighten.

“Red lipstick is my favorite too.”  Had I not anticipated to find out so much in common with Carla. 

From that day forward, I visited Carla daily with a special mission—to help her put her lipstick on.  In exchange, she treated me with enjoyable recollections of events from her life.  Her reminiscing was so delightful and rich in details that my thought of Carla checking herself in the mirror as I do daily, came to my mind again with clarity. 

Fond memories of Carla flooded my mind recently as I was reading a fashion webpage:

“Classic Red Lips. Nothing screams feminine, or sexy like red lips. While there are a lot of new lipstick trends out turning heads right now, the classic red lipstick look has been around forever, but its timeless sophistication has proved itself as a fashion staple now, and probably forever.”*

*http://ezinearticles.com/?Lustrous-Lipstick-Trends-2010&id=5435696

Blind Spot

There was tension.  Uncertainty.  I was with family, and shocking news had just been delivered.  One of our loved ones was believed to have died.  An accident.  A fatal accident had occurred. 

I felt my heart ripping into pieces. Pressure clutched my chest.  I felt short of breath. Agonizing.  I uttered inarticulate words, making no sense to the few that may have heard my anguished voice.  Nothing made sense.  My pain was too great. I could not focus.  I gasped, struggling for air—and for life.  

A cry of my despair echoed throughout the room as I stared in disbelief at my loved one’s body lying inert on the hospital stretcher.  Feeling close to fainting, I gasped—until my terrified eyes were finally torn open, wide...  

I abruptly woke up. I realized I had been dreaming.  A bad dream that seemed to last for  hours. 

Now awake, I reflected on the dream.  Emotionally, my pain had not subsided with each lucid minute that passed.  My loved one had tragically died ten years ago, but the dream brought back the agony as if news of the death had just been delivered to me. 

The grief is not over and it never will be.  Losing a loved one will leave its scar for lifetime. 

Approaching grief management under the Kübler-Ross’ model of the Five Stages (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) can be helpful in the process of healing.

But there will always be a blind spot. An emotional blind spot.

Specific events or situations can trigger those painful feelings manifesting itself in a dream; a terrifying, vivid dream like mine. Thankfully, I can find solace in my   awareness that events of the past are tempered in my spiritual beliefs, and strength to withstand unexpected moments of sorrow.   

My life goes on, enlightened with the certainty that the memory of my lost loved ones will forever be carried in my beating heart.  And the hope that they will be waiting to meet me once my heart grows still. 

After analyzing my dreadful dream, I hopped out of bed, energized by thoughts of having another delightful day in Hot Springs, Arkansas, where my husband and I were spending the weekend. 

I walked toward the window, feeling the crisp mat of new carpet under my bare feet.  Our room—room 608— was very clean and stylish, a clear sign of a recent renovation. 

I gazed out the window, mesmerized with the stillness of the quiet morning and misty cool breeze that wafted down from mountainside across street, boasting stately fir trees still adorned with traces of snow.  

I directed my view down to the streets.  I loved the captivating architecture of the historic buildings.  I thought of the natural spring water—that gives the town its name—flowing out of the ground at a temperature of 147 °F.  I indulged myself in reading of the town’s intriguing history of gambling and gangsters.

“Are you ready for breakfast?” My husband voice displaced my thoughts of the town and replaced them with visions of a delectable meal.

“Sure!” My voice carried with it the relishing thought of breakfast at The Pancake Shop across the street.

As we waited for our breakfast, I reached for my cup of coffee. I loved watching the way the steam swirled around the brim of the cup.  Even more, I loved the rich and warm coffee aroma drifting from the cup. 

“I had a weird dream last night,” my husband mentioned to me.

I stared at him, unsure if I had understood him correctly.

“A weird dream?” I inquired, narrowing my eyes.

“I dreamed that my dad had died.”  He whispered, as he grabbed his coffee. “Just a bad dream, thankfully,” he said, taking a quick sip.

I blinked, speechless.  Scenes from my nightmare flickered in my mind. I took a deep breath.

“Yeah, good thing it was just a dream.”  I regained my composure.  I lifted the cup to my lips, taking a generous sip of my black coffee.  My mind flooded with intriguing thoughts as I envisioned my next Google search... 

Hot Springs Arkansas haunted hotels