PICC Line

Clean the table with Clorox wipes

I don’t know if I believe in God. But I think I believe in Jesus. I like to make the joke that I am an inverted Jew (because Jewish people believe in God and not Jesus). No one laughs at that joke when I say it. I probably should keep it to myself. My grandfather (my mother’s father), Abuelo, had a figure of Jesus on the cross on his hallway wall. I remember staring at it one day. I must have been around 5 years old. “¿Pero por qué está sangrando, Abuelo?” I asked, concerned. I was so troubled that he was hanging by the nails in his hands and was bleeding. I fixated on the blood dripping down his defenseless body. Why don’t they take him down? Why didn’t anyone help him? I felt his anguish. He had a desperate look of surrender, peaceful almost. I couldn’t look away, confused at the meaning of it all. 

Wash hands for 20 seconds

Abuelo explained the story of Jesus to me. He shared how Jesus saw God in the needy, in the homeless, in the poor, in the vulnerable, and in the marginalized. I witnessed Abuelo following this teaching of Jesus in his everyday interactions. Every time I would go to El Viejo San Juan with him, we would stop and talk with the homeless people on the street. In the 80s and 90s in Puerto Rico, there were a lot of homeless people on the street. He would strike up conversations with them as if they were old friends he hadn’t seen in a while. He always asked them if they were hungry. He never gave them money, though. He told me they would buy things that do not nourish their body with the money, so it’s better to buy them food. He was concerned that they were not taking care of their primal needs, like eating. These trips to El Viejo San Juan always took a little longer with Abuelo. Often, returning to La Bonbonera just after we had eaten there, to buy a cup of coffee and a mallorca for a homeless person.

Put on hand sanitizer

My brother, M, and I never got baptized. I always found this odd since Puerto Rico is so Catholic. I don’t know if I would have wanted to be baptized or if I even knew what it meant. But already, as a young Puerto Rican girl, not being baptized made me different. I wasn’t part of the Catholic club like my friends and family, like my fellow Puerto Ricans. I didn’t like this difference so early on; yet again, another thing that othered me because of my dad’s antics. 

Get 4 alcohol wipes

My dad often tells the story that he got kicked out of the Catholic church when he was a little kid because he asked too many questions about God. The priest, or the nun - I don’t remember who - made him leave, stating he was too defiant. My dad asserts he was just inquisitive and refused to be brainwashed by the Church. He believed in science and facts, not blind obedience. He chose to raise us against organized religion, believing religion is a form of manipulation of the masses. I realized my father was fascinated by the concepts of mind control and indoctrination since he was a child.

Get two saline solutions, the antibiotic, and the heparin 

My dad does believe in reincarnation, though. When my dad dies, he wants his ashes spread between a mango tree and an avocado tree. He fantasizes about becoming a mango in his next life, so people can eat him, enjoy him. I always thought that was curious. He doesn’t just want to be a beautiful mango; he wants to be bitten, sucked, and swallowed by someone. I realized my dad was mesmerized by thoughts of bodily pleasure and arousal. 

Organize the medication and get the air out of the saline solution and heparin

I don’t know if I believe in reincarnation or not. But I might believe in past lives. I am not sure, though. My brother, G, once told me that he saw me in my past life. He saw me as a warrior, fighting, but I was murdered during combat. It was a bloody death. I once saw a spiritual healer from Mexico City, and she told me a similar story. Again, fighting for justice, but was sentenced to death. I am not sure if I believe in this past life they both described, but I do believe I have an abnormal amount of drive for justice in this world. And a lot of courage, not afraid of dying for a cause I believe in. Maybe they can perceive that perseverance in me. Maybe they can sense the war I have been fighting all along. It feels validating to be seen by them. 

Use the alcohol wipe to clean the entry point of my PICC line for 15 seconds

My mother didn’t push Catholicism on us either. She didn’t like that we weren’t baptized, but she also never put up a strong fight. She says she found a priest in Puerto Rico who would have baptized us later in life, but I don’t know why she didn’t follow through. I think she has always been scared of my father, scared to face the facts. But I also don’t know if she really wanted us raised under the reign of the Catholic church. My mother went to Catholic school her whole life, and it wasn’t the best experience for her. She graduated high school a year early just to get away from the nuns. I think she has always been running away in fear from herself. Never running towards anything; never finding peace or a place to settle. 

Unlock my PICC line

I’m not sure what my brother, G, believes. He is twelve years older than me and has a different mother. But somehow, spiritually, we are uniquely connected. I don’t know if he believes in God or in Jesus, but I know he can connect with those who have passed. He's always had this gift, even if he tries to run from it. I feel like I have it as well, but slightly different from his. I know these gifts were passed down to us from our grandmother, our father’s mother, and her mother. I feel them all the time, especially my great-grandmother. I don’t even know her name, and I have never even met her in person, but she has always accompanied me. I lovingly refer to her as mi Bisabuela. I am not sure when she showed up in my life, but I like to assume that she has always been there. 

Put in the saline solution 

My dad would always tell me that I remind him of his grandmother, mi Bisabuela. That I would pinch his arm tenderly as she would. My father was always sharing stories about how he was the black sheep of the family, el blanquito. The one who was always forgotten as the middle child. He would complain that my uncle, B, was his father’s favorite as the eldest son, and my uncle, J, was his mother’s favorite as the baby of the family. My father, G, was then no one’s favorite, wandering around the family aimlessly. He did find love from his grandmother, though. At one point, he shared a bedroom with her. She would let him sneak out of the window at night to go out with his friends while his parents were sleeping. It was their little secret. 

Use the alcohol wipe to clean the entry point of my PICC line for 15 seconds

Knowing that mi Bisabuela was so close to my father growing up gave me a lot of comfort. It made me feel better knowing that the person guiding me was someone who knew my father intimately. Who knew more about him than I did. Who had seen him develop into the adult man that I experienced. Who knew his secrets and who potentially had all the answers that I have been trying so desperately to seek. Mi Bisabuela was a determined woman. I felt like she had a mission, and she chose me for it. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what the mission was or why I was chosen, but it felt important, and I knew enough to listen to her. I never had any doubt that she was to be trusted. Quite frankly, she was the only one I trusted. 

Connect the antibiotic and unlock the antibiotic

I learned a lot about prayer and reflection from the Jesuits. I attended Boston College for my bachelor’s degree and PhD, and I worked there for nine years. When I worked at BC, I participated in all the events and courses for the faculty and staff about St. Ignatius. Once, I took a course about Ignatian prayer. A Jesuit taught us that Ignatian prayer is a very intimate, casual conversation with Jesus. A conversation where one can make jokes and talk about the petty. A participant asked, “How do we know if we are talking with God and not just ourselves?” The Jesuit answered calmly, “Does it even matter?” This answer gave me the reassurance I needed to know I wasn’t crazy. That I wasn’t alone in my head, in my soul. 

Set a timer for 30 minutes (I can do whatever I want while the medicine is dripping)

I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. Heaven feels too permanent a reward just for this short blip of an experience on Earth. I don’t believe in Hell because I’m currently living it. I have walked, engaged, and played with the worst of humanity. Pain, suffering, and silence are my intimate partners, familial bonds. There is a profound untetheredness that comes with not developing a sense of self. Before I could speak or form ideas of my own, I was used and abused. Not a baby to coddle, but a thing to possess and obsess about. Deeply knowing that I was on my own for survival; custodianless in this labyrinth called life. My mind and body’s purpose was to serve. A responsibility to others while denying my own personhood. This grave solitude is a slow and painful life sentence. An impenetrable darkness that forever lingers in one’s mind.

Wash my hands for 20 seconds

I always had an affinity for the homeless. Abuelo taught me to see their humanity. I hated how people discarded them as if they were just another piece of trash on the street. A nuisance on their way to work or school. Getting in the way of their lives, not as a person pleading for help. In my junior year of college, I lived in an apartment on Beacon Street in Cleveland Circle. My apartment was between Pesto Pizza and Supercuts. There were always homeless people sitting on our stoop and around the block. I always talked with them, never scared like my roommates were. Sometimes, I would leave a house party drunk by myself and hang out with them. They always had the best stories to share. 

Use hand sanitizer

Somehow, I always felt like I had more in common with these men on the streets than with my own friends and family. I always knew these men had lives before this. Many of them were professionals, but their mental health took a turn, or their addiction took over. Pain ran through their veins. I think this is why I have never dared to try a drug harder than marijuana. I know I would become an addict like them. I already had trouble with alcohol, never capable of stopping. If I took one sip, I would need to get blackout drunk. The illusion of freedom was just too dominant to control. Chasing oblivion in all the wrong places. One misstep, and I would lose myself in the abyss of despair. I liked to believe that Jesus was similar. That he also saw himself in the homeless. I hoped that if I recognized their humanity, then maybe I could recognize my own. That maybe I could become someone worthy of salvation one day. 

Remove the antibiotic

I am not scared of dying. I feel very fortunate and grateful for the life I have lived, for the world I have seen, and for the people I have broken bread with. But I am scared of what happens after I die. My biggest fear is that my soul will die with my body and mind. That as soon as I die, I go blank, as if someone abruptly pulls the plug from the television. That’s when I panic. The sense of darkness with no end in sight; forever lost in nothingness. The complete and final annihilation of my soul.

Use the alcohol wipe to clean the entry point of my PICC line for 15 seconds

I have so many holes in my memory. Moments when I think I see something, grasp on a detail that could help me figure it all out; then, suddenly, it goes black, like a power outage in Puerto Rico. An electrical grid neglected by a corrupt government that abuses public funds for its own pockets. My therapist tells me it’s my mind protecting me from the horrors I have experienced. That they were too awful and overwhelming to process as a child, so my mind stored them in my subconscious, preventing them from awareness. Inhibiting me from my own feelings; living in an altered reality that my mind has intentionally reconstructed for me.

Put in the saline solution 

I feel like a savage raccoon scavenging through the trash of the polished neighborhood at night while cosplaying as a child during the day. Scrummaging for artifacts I can uncover to learn about how humans behave. In the shadows, questioning why I wasn’t like everyone else. Consumed by reflections of Jesus, deliberating my mortality, while my friends debate if *NSYNC or Backstreet Boys are better. What does it mean to be a girl? Foraging through scraps of paper, products, and waste to get hints of what I should talk about and what I should be thinking about. Taking notes, so I can perform, pretend as if I know. Act as if I am one of them, masking this lonely existence. 

Use the alcohol wipe to clean the entry point of my PICC line for 15 seconds

I am tired of wandering disconnected from this world. My mind endlessly mulls over the meaning of life, contemplating the purpose of all this agony. There has to be a point to all the suffering I have endured. There must be. I just want to live in the moment, not merely survive to see the next light of day.

Put in the heparin

I just want to be, whatever being actually means. 

Lock my PICC line