It is amazing (to me) that I've probably written over 180,000 words here over the past 7 1/2 months. That's the equivalent of a book, I think. But this blog has none of the consistency of a book. It's been all over the map, guided by my emotional gyrations, not the intellectual discipline of telling just one story. Here, I'm trying to tell many people's stories, and I trust that is clear.
First, my former girlfriend. My love for her (I hope) has come through clearly through all of my expressions of pain, grief, confusion, and occasional flashes of anger. Her story, in my eyes, is a hero's story. She is a person who gave up everything familiar and safe in her world (including me, though that was no great loss) to help people in much more desperate condition than most of us, God-willing, will ever be.
She hasn't checked in with me in a while, and I'm a tad worried about her, but usually when she does she offers a way for me to help people down there long-distance. That has been one of my joys this past year -- being able to publicize the disaster that ruined the Gulf Coast, and shine some light on those helping to rebuild it.
Biloxi will be back, as will Waveland, Gulfport, Bay St. Louis, and the entire Mississippi coast. And although she would never, ever accept credit, my wonderful friend is one of the reasons the region will not only rebound, but will include the diversity of voices that men of power and influence would otherwise silence as they extract profit from the adversity of others...
Suffice it to say she has been this past year and will always be my hero. And I will always love her.
***
This space, with all of my wordiness, is also an attempt at honoring my family, in the complete sense. My parents, both now passed away; my two ex-wives, both of whom I respect and love a lot; and my six children, who are my treasures. I mention friends, but out of privacy concerns, I don't often mention how important they are to me, but they know, I trust.
Today, a little girl almost died before my eyes--at least it looked that way. Mark and I were having lunch in a Mexican restaurant near the office. It was crowded and loud with multiple conversations (in English, Spanish, Hindi, Mandarin, Hebrew, Urdu, French, Russian, Japanese, and baby talk -- i.e., it was a normal lunch hour in Silicon Valley) when suddenly there erupted a commotion nearby.
"Is there a doctor in the house?" somebody's panicked voice repeated several times. I looked over, two adults, a man and a woman, were swinging a two-year-old girl in the air like a rag doll. Her eyes were rolled back into their sockets. She was very pale. She appeared not to be breathing. But only a few people at nearby tables realized what was happening. The din in the place was too loud for others to even realize a crisis was at hand.
Time stopped for me. Adrenaline shot through my old, bent, overweight body. I summoned my loudest voice (which my fellow soccer parents will agree is, well, rather loud) and screamed: "D-o-e-s a-n-y-o-n-e i-n h-e-r-e k-n-o-w m-o-u-t-h t-o m-o-u-t-h? A b-a-b-y i-s c-h-o-a-k-i-n-g!!!
The room froze and for a moment all was silence, like in an old movie. The frightened parents were the only people in motion, albeit slow motion, trying to will their little girl back to consciousness.
Then, all hell broke loose. I saw a man dressed in black race through the restaurant like a halfback, pushing his way to their table. He grabbed the little girl, turned her over, and began to pound on her back.
Nothing came out of her mouth, but she seemed to start breathing again.
I was dialing 9-1-1. I got through.
Long story shortened. Mark, ever the reporter, informed me the fire truck arrived seven minutes later. One minute before that, a doctor from a nearby clinic ran up, summoned by other patrons.
The talk among those evaluating her was of a possible "seizure," of a high temperature, and other possible explanations.
I went over and looked at this little girl. She was very pale, laconic, yet scared.
I don't know how her story turned out. But I hope she is okay.
***
Three and a half hours later, I realized I was still shaking. I zipped up my computer and headed home a half hour early. I climbed into bed and slept, sort of. I awoke in a cold sweat. I drank some orange juice, heated up some spaghetti leftovers, and went to my night meeting.
-30-
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