Finding Nilimo

November 23rd, 2023 Dear Nandini, I remember half days at school, movie afternoons spent when our collective attention spans had all but vanished.  More time for video games and sleeping in and later on, more time for homework assignments over the long weekend.  For some reason, Jurassic Park reruns occupied the primetime slot on NBC and I was too young to appreciate the holiday-themed Friends episodes at the time.  Don't worry, I do now.  They were times filled with cheer and festivity -- and life!  Constant chatter filled our home, laughter and amusement.  The excitement over Black Friday sales -- the draft of the Christmas wish-list.  I miss it all.  As I got older, I remember chipping in a bit more at the Thanksgiving table -- helping with the sides, mostly just bothering people in the kitchen.  Eventually, I was in charge of dessert -- though I've lost track of the amount of times Ma yelled at me for using granny smith apples in the pie....

September 13th, 2023 To live a life without regrets,      One on your own terms and in your own way,     Of your own rules, a mold of your own clay. As a guide, led by those before you,     An obligation to those who come after you,     To those who have lost their light,     To those in a new land, a new culture, a new life. As an exemplar, a role model, a bastion of support,     A father, grandfather,     Partner, brother, uncle, mother,     Sister, friend, chosen family     A source for those in need. As a constant presence,     To express love, affection, adoration,     Even with words or without. To be relied upon and be reliable,     Food on the table,     Clothes on their backs,     For those you cherish to never want for anything. To celebrate the wins, however simple,     But to never forget the losses -- however small. To fi...

January 27th, 2023 Like a shadow in the absence of sunlight.  Not only behind you, to follow But in front of you, a shroud. Above you, a weighted veil. Enveloping you, to smother. A companion you wish to rid, One you pretend is imaginary. One that hides in the presence of others,  But ever-present in solitude. Days filled with distractions -- Banter, meetings, the usual routine. But nights of quiet -- filled with pain -- An emptiness, an aching, dread. An uncertainty of who to call out to, The desire not to burden another. A difficult thing to articulate --  A question of what's truly at the source. A constant haze of tears, Triggered by many a thought. The feeling of lacking control -- agency. The persistent scramble to tread water. Like wading through thick mud, Made freshly arduous to pass from recent rain. Like running on sand just at the tide line, That extra pull just to move forward. 

January 11th, 2023 Dear Nandini,  I have never felt more alone than I do these days.  And I don't think I mean lonely.  I feel surrounded by people but I just don't seem to be connecting with them the way I usually do.  The hang-outs feel forced or I feel detached -- or I just feel like I'm pretending to be happy.  Everything feels like effort.  To get off the couch, out of bed, to the gym, into the shower -- it's all more effort than it's ever been.  Sleeping for at least 10 hours -- and I still wake up exhausted. Not always -- but often. The last time I felt this way, I was 17 or 18.  I remember that being a particularly difficult time as high school was ending and we were all going off to college and the uncertainty that brought was significant.  I remember having days where I would just burst into tears at the most innocuous statement.  It's one of those things where you're feeling so much but have no idea how to articulate any of it...

  October 2nd, 2022 Dear Nandini,      One Wednesday, a few Wednesdays ago, I met a teenager who was admitted to my team.  A college student majoring in chemistry and interested in bench research -- the first day she was unable to tell me any of this.  Found in her dorm room by her roommate, she was completely out of it.  Thrashing around, totally agitated, unable to say anything meaningful -- it took her a full two days to recover from what we found out was some combination of cocaine and an intentional overdose of her antidepressant.  Not able to get a story from her, I met her mom in the emergency room.  Tired, weary, terrified -- she seemed so familiar and at the time I somehow couldn't piece together why.  I explained what to expect medically and was met with the same questions we used to ask about you: "Is there something else we can do?", "She doesn't want the help -- how are we supposed to help her?", "How long can she go on like...

There's a certain Beauty in Loss. Lose a game, lose an object, lose a Loved One. Learn a lesson from things and people gone. But only gone from physical existence. Never gone from your heart -- never       gone from dreams. That's it then, isn't it? The secret to grief and mourning. The realization that perhaps Death isn't final. Death - what we feared, evaded,       spend our careers preventing. Death, the always unwelcome - often unexpected. Death - sometimes the usher of relief, an end to       suffering, the establisher of peace. Death & Life, two sides of the same coin. Both a transition in this visible world - both       transient in  the grand scheme. Death, always a reminder of Life. To force the question - was this Life fulfilled?       Complete? To make you wonder how you could live without -  To make you realize there is always a way. To send you down a road of me...

March 30th, 2022 Dear Nandini,  She doesn't know I hear her in the early morning hours, crying for you. They don't know I hear their hushed chatter, whispers surely after a poor night's sleep -- haunted by your dream-time visits. Everything these days reminds us of you. The songs on the radio, the heels in the store -- their height, their shape, their color. The gifts you gave me over the years -- the clock, the aquarium too. The clothes you left behind, your favorite foods -- all of it brings us back to you. When I'm home, I pass by your room a few times a day.  No replaced furniture or paint job could ever wipe the memory of the disheveled, smoke-scented, cigarette-stained carpet, the lavender walls, or the pile of empty bottles underneath your bed.  I'm still reminded of what I was wearing that night I stood between the door and you as you tried to leave -- the liquor store not too far by car.  I remember the night you came home at 2 -- I awoke to hear the clatte...