Tributes
Kona among the front yard rocks
July 3
These past two days have been very busy with schoolwork. The textbook company (McGraw-Hill) sent me the wrong CD for my new textbook, which really complicated making the exam. Today's topic is unplanned but it involves something that happened at school on Monday.
Desi
After class Monday evening, one of my students, Jaime, asked me about what topics I was going to cover. Then came the astonishing part. The student Jaime asked me, seemingly out of nowhere, if I knew Desi Urias. Desi had been my one good friend at school. In fact, Desi and I went way back. This well-motivated student went on to say that Desi was his favorite teacher and that he had taken Psychology 1 (Introductory Psychology) from Desi. It was my sad chore to tell my student that Desi had passed away more than a year earlier.
Desi and I first met at a Western Psychological Conference. I believe the year was 1989. He was presenting a paper at a poster session (posters with descriptions of research projects) along with a student of mine named Carlos Bolanos. An older hispanic with a native american appearance, Desi was a student at Cal State San Bernardino (where I was teaching a class here and there) and good friends with Carlos. Desi and I "hit it off" right away. Somehow, I knew we would be good friends. Sure enough, in the coming years, Desi went to graduate school at Cal State San Bernardino, but spent much of his time at U. C. Riverside in the lab of my advisor Carolyn Murray, working on research and his Master's Thesis. Desi asked Carolyn if she would pay me from her research grant to help him with his Master's Thesis, especially the statistical analyses since I was a statistician on the project. Carolyn agreed, and we spent much of our time together for over a year, working on Desi's thesis, trading computer skills and technology, going to lunch, telling jokes and discussing politics, and generally being research buddies. After Desi finished his Masters in Psychology, he began working at a homeless person's shelter in Hemet, nearby where he lived, but once again, he was doing some research, and asked me to be his consultant. The next thing I knew -- at least it seems that way in retrospect -- Desi was working as a part-time counselor and Psychology instructor at the school where I teach. Once again, it was frequent conversations and lunch excursions and trips to my house with Desi. Eventually, Desi was hired to be a fulltime counselor at our school. It was his dream job, the one he had always wanted -- and with a huge salary increase. (He showed me his paycheck one time.) However, things did not go so well for Desi at his new job. There were several administrators and so forth who were also hired along with Desi, but two of them soon quit. According to Desi, since the school was short a couple of full-time employees, his higher-ups put tremendous pressure on him to do the administrative work which the missing employees would have done. Desi did not know much nor care much for administrative work; he loved Psychology, research and counseling, and that was what he was trained to do. He tried to let the remaining school administrators know this, and that he thought their demands were unfair, but in return, Desi himself was let go at the end of his first year as a full-time employee. Naturally, Desi was depressed at the situation, but he told me he could go to another area community college where he had done some work before. Thus, Desi left and we fell out ot touch. It was a little over a year later, that a mutual friend of ours, Larry Pena, came to my class after class one day, and informed me that Desi had died of liver cancer, at the age of 57.
Eunice and I went to his funeral. There was Desi's urn with his ashes being buried next to his parents' graves. There was a catholic priest there, even though I know that Desi was not a follower or believer in any religion. There was Larry and his family, and Desi's large, extended family with whom he lived. Eunice and I left a bouquet of flowers from our yard on his grave. Desi had always liked my yard and its flowers. He would walk around my yard, looking at the flowers, and petting the cats.
Desi's story was a compelling but sad one. He was the one member of his family with a higher education. He was also the only or one of the few members of his family who had never married nor had any children. Desi had gone to U.C. Berkeley during the "hippie days" following his graduation from high school. He had become a major drug dealer, and I assume, a drug taker, while at Berkeley. Once, he had almost married, but his fiance's family disapproved of him. Even his own family disowned him and refused his money. Eventually, he spent time in jail. He also was in two major auto accidents. After the second one, Desi spent something like two years in the hospital recuperating. Apparently, he had been traumatized by the accident, and no longer cared to drive. Thus, I always drove whenever we went somewhere together, but it was worth it for the conversation. Desi eventually stopped dealing and taking drugs, and went back to school at Cal State San Bernardino, where I met him. And perhaps more importantly, his family finally accepted him again. I could tell that Desi was belatedly finding a purpose in life, a way of redeeming himself in light of his past failures. In the end, despite Desi's penchant for taking vitamins and drinking Noni juice, it was probably his "dream job" along with his earlier drug use and auto accidents, that ultimately killed him.
When it came to politics, Desi and I always seemed to agree. Desi had been a member of the Green Party, then switched his affiliation to the Democratic Party. We both had foreseen what would happen to Governor Davis in California prior to it happening. We both had an intuitive grasp of what would happen in Iraq before it happened. Like most Psychologists, Desi was a firm believer that the public good comes first. I think he would have agreed with my perspective on this website, as well. In fact, I had told him about the websites I was planning. I wish he were around to see them. Perhaps there is a little of Desi Urias watching over and guiding my blog. As I told my student, I have to carry on for Desi's sake. And by the way, I heard through Desi that Carlos Bolanos is now a successful Physiological Psychology researcher. I would like to think that there is a little of Desi in Carlos and in Jaime, too.
June 25
Everybody Loves Kona
I don't love Lucy. I don't love Raymond. But I do love Kona. In fact, everybody seems to love Kona. I mean Kona the male Siamese Cat, not Kona coffee. As mentioned in the previous post, our cat Kona, who had been lethargic but not deteriorating as far as we could tell, died while we were on vacation. Kona had been spending the great majority of his time in our neighbors' yard, and it was our neighbor Ben who also loves Kona, who took him to the animal emergency room, clearly to no avail. Perhaps the fact that Kona was spending so much time in Ben's yard made it more difficult for me to assess Kona's condition. I do know that he had shown signs of peeing too often or having trouble peeing, but that stopped. Another time, he hissed at me when I petted him, so it must have hurt. That was the only time he ever did that, but that stopped and he was enjoying being petted again before Eunice and I went on our trip. Kona seemed comfortable, though lacking normal energy, when we went on our trip. I knew something was wrong with him, but I thought he would probably recover on his own, and if not, either Ben or I would take him to a veteranarian who would sucessfully treat him. As it turns out, about 1/3 of cats with his condition, Feline Infectious Anemia, die from it if not treated. Unfortunately, he was among the third that dies from it. When it happened, I think Ben and his family were just as distressed as I was. In fact I had written a few weeks ago about my concerns about Kona's health, and how my neighbor Ben had told me he would take Kona to a veteranarian. Instead, both Ben and I were very busy, and neither of us actually did take Kona to the veteranarian until it was too late, adding to our collective sense of guilt. Of course, Kona himself must have been in much distress, but he did not show it. Cats tend to be stoic, and Kona was one of the most stoic that I have seen.
Kona was a very special cat. First of all, he was a Siamese cat, a large, strong, handsome, and previously healthy specimen. But his breed and physical characteristics were not the reason he was so special. His personality was. Everytime someone came to visit our house. Kona would come to the person, especially if we were talking to the person, and while purring, invite the person to pet him. Kona loved everybody. Kona even loved other cats, much unlike the jealousy which so often prevails among cats. He would frequently "kiss" Gorjilina, our homebody beauty queen cat, and play with her, as well as with Smurfull, our younger male cat, as if Smurfull were his own son. Even the fearful and elusive Beautricia, our other female cat, did not mind being around Kona. Kona was even protective of other cats, especially Gorjilina. That is why I called him Kona Pridekeeper. He was the big daddy kitty of the family. One time, a neighbor's large dog, a Great Dane type dog (like Scooby Doo but much more vile) that had already killed a kitten we had named Maxwell ran into our back yard. I saw Gorjilina on the roof, wanting to jump down onto the brick wall and greet me. However, Kona stood on the end of the wall where Gorjilina wanted to jump, preventing her from jumping down. I believe he was protecting her from the dog. If the dog had come his way, I believe he would have jumped on the roof, as well. It was also an example of his unusual intelligence for a cat and cognizance of what was going on. Despite all of this, Kona was a very quiet cat who never announced his presence, and rarely vocalized.
Kona wandered over the yards around our street, and made friends with various neighbors. In the past couple years, Kona had settled more into a pattern of dividing his time between our yard and Ben's yard, however, since we were the people who took care of him and loved him the most. Sometimes, Kona got into places he wasn't supposed to. Once, after coming home from fishing, I was not paying attention as I put away the equipment in our garage. The next morning, I could find neither Kona nor Gorjilina. Eventually, I found both of them lying on the bed in our guest room, which is beside the garage. More recently, I was not able to find Kona for an entire day. On a hunch, I asked Ben's wife, Doreen, to open their garage. As soon as the door started going up, out ran Kona as if he were shot from a cannon. A few weeks after that, I could not find Kona again. This time, opening the neighbors' garage did not do the trick. Eventually, Doreen's mother, Mabel, informed me that she found Kona in Ben's car. We had to rouse Ben from his slumber in order to unlock his car door and let Kona out. Ben had no idea how Kona got into his car. Apparently, he had jumped in unnoticed when Ben came home from work and opened his car door.
Kona also used his intelligence to be a successful hunter. I had never seen a cat who was so proficient in hunting as Kona. A few years ago, after a very rainy winter, there was a profusion of rodents in our area. It seemed that everyday that spring, we would have a couple of gopher heads, or mouse or rat heads, deposited on our front doorstep, mostly courtesy of Kona. Since those animals are pests which eat plants, and possibly carry disease, we were glad to have Kona engage in this form of population control. He seemed to prefer eating natural food to that provided by humans. But what really astounded me, was the several times that I saw Kona leave the front yard for only a few minutes, only to return with a full-grown rabbit in his mouth, which he proceeded to eat in entirety. Apparently, cats find rabbits to be exceptionally tasty. Thus, Kona loved rodents too, at least for eating.
However, what I remember the most about Kona was the way he loved being around people and other cats -- his gregariousness, the way he would stand up and put his paws on a person's legs, something I have never seen any other cat do, the way he would happily walk around, purring and rubbing against people's legs, or playing with other cats when there was a gathering of cats. Kona loved everybody in his 7 or 8 years on this planet, and everybody still loves Kona. May he be happy and with loved ones, both human and feline, wherever his cat soul may go.
May 12
Today is time for another new type of post, for reasons which will become apparent below.
When the Snow Melts
This is the name of a poem I wrote in 2002. Yes, I have written many poems, and a few of them are on my other website, Dolly-Verse. If and when I do put it on the internet, it would also be on Dolly-Verse. However, I promised my wife that I would ask my brother before showing the poem to others, so today's post is as far as I will go on this subject for now. The subtext for this topic might be "some wounds never completely heal, but they do stop hurting."
This winter, I became very ill when I became physically tired and stressed at a time when I as already sick, but mistakenly thought I was only suffering an allergy. My illness was unoffically diagnosed at pneumonia by both my father (an M.D.) and my wife (trained as a nurse). As it turned out, I was sick for about 2 months. At least it took me that long to recover. Meanwhile, I was teaching during winter session, and probably making several of my students sick, but we all recovered. While I was sick, I coughed so hard, I sustained an injury to my right ribcage. I am not sure what happened, but I may have separated my ribs and pulled a ligament. It started healing, but another time when I couged heavily about a month later, I reinjured it. Now, it no longer hurts, although I can still feel a soreness there sometimes. The reallly strange thing is that I have something in that area, I would say about a square inch in size, which is now movable. It was not movable before, and I am sure it is not supposed to be movable, but it definitely is. I do not know whether it is a piece of rib bone, a ligament, or what, but the point is that even though the injury no longer hurts, I have not healed in such a way as to be once again in my previous condition.
Today is the anniversary of a tragedy which deeply scarred my family. Basically, on this date in 1987 my 6 1/2 year old niece, Rachelle (Shelly) drowned in a public pool when she was at her friend's birthday party, at which neither my brother nor sister-in-law were attending. Prior to this birthday party, one or the other of them always was with Rachelle, except when she was at school. My brother and his wife eventually got divorced, although they had several children. I do not know if they broke up directly as a result of their daughter's drowning, but I am sure it played a role. Meanwhile, my mother began to have rashes after my niece drowned, probably a psychosomatic symptom, and I felt very badly especially because my niece and I were close, and she had sent me an Easter card not long before she died, which said, as I recall, "Happy Easter! I love you, Uncle Robert." I wanted to reply to her, but I very busy during this period, as I was in graduate school, and furthermore, I was a Teacher's Assistant for two different courses. Even going to her funeral would have meant shirking my graduate school responsibilities for several days, duties which I took very seriously, so I did not attend her funeral, which was about 500 miles away from my home. All of these circumstances made me feel all the more guilty of, to be precise, not taking the opportunity to say "I love you" or say my good-byes while I had the chance.
My niece was a beautiful girl. My sister in law was a Filipina woman, but Rachelle had beautiful, hazel-colored eyes, and relatively fair skin tone. She always liked to wear yellow dresses which complemented her appearance. There was something strange about her, I felt, which was one reason why I put more effort into playing with her than her siblings (older brother, younger sister). She was not autistic, but she was very shy, and, at times, uncommunicative. Even as a psychologist, I am not sure how to characterize her, except as an "inhibited child," who was nonetheless at times, very sociable. I developed a game with her called "buzzy bee" in which we pretended our index fingers were bees. We would make buzzing sounds as the finger approached the other person, then, instead of stinging, one of our hands would turn into a bird and "eat" the bee on the other person's hand, or we would tickle each other on our underarms, which would always make her laugh. We would buzz back and forth for awhile before she would go on to do something else. Another unusual characteristic of Rachelle, I thought, were her powers of concentration. Usually, young children have very limited attention spans, and poor concentration, but she could play a game, or draw a picture, for instance, very intently for 1/2 hour to an hour without breaking her concentration. In that way, she was much like Uncle Robert, except I can concentrate intently for 3 or 4 hours now, as an adult.
After Rachelle drowned, strange things began to happen. You may or may not be skeptical of these kinds of experiences, but these are honest and accurate accounts of what happened. I had a vivid experience while sleeping, about a month after Rachelle drowned. She took me flying through the air in her hometown, Davis, California, and showed me the place where her family's new home would be. As it turned out, my brother and his wife won a lawsuit against the city, and used the money to buy a house a year or two later, in the neighborhood that Rachelle showed me, Northwest of UC Davis, where my brother was a graduate student. After that, I had dreams in which I literally felt like I was flying, at least twice per week, I would say, for about a year. I remember, I kept wondering why people were not noticing me. Eventually these dreams stopped, although I did have one about a year ago. The other experience which seemed really connected to Rachelle happened as I was finishing the poem "When the Snow Melts" in 2002. I thought I could feel her presence and approval, as well as that of other unidentified Angel-people. I was writing the poem as a way of overcoming the hurt and effects of that tragedy. However, the topic of the poem remains so senstiive, I have been reluctant to show it to others, most crucially, my brother, Rachelle's father. It was around my birthday, June 23, in 2002 when the day came that I had put the finishing touches on the poem. As a complete surprise to me, my wife Eunice made a special birthday dinner for me. We ate in the patio, where we had never eaten before, at our fancy Chinese round table. There was a radio in the room which my wife sometimes used, but I never had before. Since I had been a lifelong fan of the Angels baseball team (the California/Anaheim Angels, not so much the newer version, the so-called Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim), and since they were about to play, I turned on the radio for the start of the game. The Angels came out with a bang, scoring three runs in the first couple of innings and still batting in the second inning. Somehow, it seemed like a matter of Karma, in a greater mosaic of events in which my poem played a part. Eventually, I asked God or whatever powers that be, to give me a sign if this was the case, something I had never done before or since. On the very next pitch, an infielder named Benji Gil hit a home run to make the score Angels 5, Dodgers 0. From that moment onward, I was filled with a certainty, like a recognition of the undeniable Karma I was sensing, that the Angels would win their first World Series that season. As it turned out, the Angels did not have another basehit the entire game, but they won, 5 to 1. And as it turned out, that home run was the only one Benji Gil had all season, as I recall, at least during the regular season.
As a person who is normally a skeptic and a believer primarily in rationality, evidence, and experience, my open-minded acceptance of these experiences as genuine may seem to be a contradiction, but they are really not. These are the type of experiences which speak to me of a deeper reality, which seems to me must exist in order for this wonderful reality which is readily evident to us, to exist as well. These experiences are gifts from another side of reality which tell me that the spirit of the Warden family's little Angel, my niece Rachelle, is still with us and still loves us, her family. Knowing that, my family and I can go on with our lives, with the knowledge that even though the wounds which Rachelle's death opened up will never heal completely, they no longer need to hurt.