Michael Abateo - the end game

Michael Abateo had been mopping the floor when suddenly he felt the tightness in his chest. A shortness of breath startled him and it felt as if there was a huge creature sitting on his chest. Even his neck ached from its weight.

“Bastard!” He managed to complain. He collapsed onto his knees and then clumsily rolled over onto his back on the still-wet floor. He knew his clothes must be soaked but all he could register was this intense pressure. If only, he thought, he could catch a breath.

“Bastard”, he repeated.

“You’re a right bastard.” He was unconsciously rubbing his chest as if that would ease the huge weight felt there. Then, another wave of excruciating pain radiated as the elephant on his chest seem to shift slightly. Now there was also pain down his arm as well.

“Oh, you bastard!”

For some reason, along with the pain and growing fear, Michael felt such anger. He hated being on the floor held like a pinned animal unable to stand or even sit. He wriggled to release its grasp on him but his movements seem to merely lower him still further into a sandpit that felt warm and dark. The lights all went off.

A few hours later Michael began to come around and sighed in relief that the weight had been removed from his chest. He looked at his feet and saw the end of a hospital bed with a chart hanging on it. There was a confusing ringing going on and he could not determine whether it was external or internal. He was also attached to machines of some sort by lots of tubbing and his head only turned slightly with a mighty effort of will. A young nurse leant over him and said, “Hello Michael, how are you feeling?”

She was in her 20s and her tone was professional but not warm. Michael tried to respond but his mouth refused to obey him. His tongue felt like I didn’t belong to him at all. This was ridiculous. Michael moved his head from side to side in distress. The nurse put a hand on his shoulder and explained,

“You’ve had a heart attack you are now in hospital, Michael. Just you relax, the doctor will be around to talk to you soon.” She fiddled with some of the tubing and looked at the reading above him on the machine and then left. Michael turned his head and examined the room he found himself in. It was a cubicle in the accident emergency unit of the hospital. He recognised the colour scheme from when he had accompanied an elderly aunt of his who had been having an asthma attack. He never thought that he would find himself in the same cubicle having had a heart attack and struck dumb into the bargain! It was perverse really. He remembered his aunt Vicky had been suffering from dementia in the last years of her life and Michael had felt vaguely ashamed of her obvious confusion and distress at being in a strange place. Now, Michael felt he could empathise with his aunt at last. He only mourned that all those decades ago he had been so young, so full of self that he lacked the ability to put himself in her shoes. The moment he had this thought, Vicky flashed into his mind, smiling at him, wearing an apron and offering him a pastizzi from a blue plate in her kitchen. He must’ve been 12 and the smell of her kitchen in Valetta filled his senses. The picture suddenly became a video, as she absentmindedly tucked a curl behind her ear and lumbered back to her precious stove. He could even see the burn mark high on her elbow when she caught it on a hot baking shelf. Michael smiled in amazement at how much love he felt for this sweet aunt.  She turned to him and smiled again before rubbing her cheek absentmindedly. He remembered his father saying that his sister Vicki didn’t suck her thumb as a child but would often rub her cheek instead. Michael found himself amazed that all these vivid images were flooding his mind. Memories he felt sure he’d forgotten for decades. The door of the cubicle opened and the doctor entered. Michael was still entranced by his aunt Vicky who beamed at him from the other side of the room. The doctor repeated something and the second that Michael turned towards him, Vicky seemed to disappear. The doctor repeated loudly and insistently,

“Michael, can you hear me?  Michael, can you hear my voice?”

Such stupid questions! Michael answered with a nod but still, he turned his head, hunting for his aunt Vicky.  He felt very confused indeed. The doctor was talking in a ridiculously loud voice as if to an imbecile. Why, because he didn’t speak, did people think he couldn’t hear?

 “Michael, you’ve had a heart attack and we are giving you some medication. Do you feel any pain?” he asked.

Michael shook his head from side to side but the movement felt exhausting. The doctor put a cold stethoscope on Michael’s chest and wrote something down. At no point had the doctor or nurse introduced themselves. Michael thought it a bit strange. Perhaps, because he couldn’t talk, they didn’t feel the need? The doctor said something that Michael didn’t catch. There was a clip of the door shutting and then silence. Michael stared at the roof it was still pale green. He wondered how long he’d been in this bed. He’d lost track of both time and speech.  He slept.

The door opened and his local young priest was by his bed. The priest spoke,

“I know you can’t talk Michael but I’m here to give you the last rites “.

Michael felt this was very ominous indeed. Things were obviously not looking good for him. But he felt vaguely annoyed that this young priest had broken the news instead of a doctor. The priest began the ceremony and asked if Michael had anything to confess. Michael nodded out of sheer revenge. The priest looked perturbed,

“So, there is something do you want to confess!”

Michael nodded again. The young priest was thrown. Should he continue with the rites? Should he enquire as to the sin? His face showed his confusion. That nod meant he, as a priest, should try to proceed with the three sections of the confession. First the penitent should show contrition (sorrow for sins committed) then would follow disclosure of the sins (confession of sins) and finally, they would gain satisfaction (undergo penance to make amends).   The priest began cautiously to intone,

“May God who has enlightened every heart help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy. Michael, is your sin a mortal sin or a venial sin?”

Then, the door opened and a nurse stood at the entrance but seeing the priest paused at the door.  Obviously, suddenly embarrassed the priest decided to ignore his sin-filled but dumb patient and finished with a great rush of words and gestures then ran to the door.

Michael suddenly wanted to laugh for some reason. He was glad to see Vicky back at the end of his bed. She rolled her eyes at Michael,

“So many sins Michael and so little time!” But she laughed happily,

Michael looked ashamed, he shouldn’t have behaved as he had. Shouldn’t have teased the young priest. There was suddenly so much he regretted in his life.  Vicky seemed to read his mind for she smiled as she spoke,

“I read once that if priests hadn’t added vain imaginings to religion then the philosophers wouldn’t call religion vain imaginings.”

Michael found this incredibly deep and insightful. He couldn’t imagine his aunt having such thoughts. He looked at her amazed.  She continued to speak,

“The good news is that God knows all that we’ve done or left undone.  Our deeds are carved on tablets of chrysolite, it is said.  Anyway, I reckon bringing ourselves to account each day is an effective form of confession.”

Michael nodded and realised that for the first time in his life he was looking back on his life and gaining a perspective that had been missing.  In some ways he felt so sorry that it was only here, at the end of things, clarity of sorts was dawning. Aunt Vicky reassured him,

“Reflection can bring contrition, Michael. An action to make good what we have failed is making amends. It always amazes me how much people worry about bad things they’ve done but they forget to consider the good things they have done and those good deeds they left undone.”

Michael felt ashamed of how he had acted towards his aunt especially in her days of dementia.  They had both been so close when he was younger.

Aunt Vicky looked at him thoughtfully,

“I never had children.  No matter how much I longed for them it made no difference.  But you came along and changed my world.  You will never know how much your love meant to me.  It healed so much in my life.  We had so much laughter in our home because of you.  I don’t forget that. “

Michael smiled back at his aunt relieved she had only good memories of him.

Then she asked,

“Do you want to know how you should feel about death?”

Michael was startled at the question but captivated by her warmth and words. He nodded.

She said,

“We should think of death the way we think of the destination of a long journey. It’s something to look forward to, not dread.”

Michael suddenly thought of all those who he would miss, his children, his brother and sisters, his friends. She seemed to sense it and explained,

“Death doesn’t take anything away from us Michael. Those we love are ever with us.”

She beamed at him,

“Death is like breaking the cage. It frees the bird within.”

She leaned in so close Michael could smell fresh bread from her apron. There’s a lot of people who love you, waiting for you.  Your Maria is looking forward to seeing you soon. 

Michael sighed and his heart ached for all those who he had lost but especially his wife Maria.

His Aunt Vicky, walked away from the bed and suddenly there was light everywhere.  On the wall in front of him, he saw his life unfold kaleidoscope-like.  Then, the light grew so bright it made everything else disappear, even Michael.

 

 PS if you have missed the other previous instalments of Michael Abateo here are the links

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2012/09/maria-and-michael-abateo-forty-winks.html

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2018/06/michael-deals-with-dirt-and-life.html

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2018/10/michael-abateo-drugs-buses-and-buckets.html

https://colette-windflowers.blogspot.com/2018/12/an-unexpected-cure-for-all-ills.html

Time to Leave Facebook?

I got a lecture from my son today.  It is at times like this one realises that this younger generation are so much more experienced with online etiquette and practices.  It had arisen from me reading an exchange on the innocuous topic of protecting the environment from over construction - a constant threat in over crowded Malta.  Despite the abundance of old dilapidated buildings and flats developers are eager to use virgin, unspoiled ground.  Such property is much easier and less costly to construct than the costly redevelopment of old premises.  But at what cost to the environment and the precious remaining green areas available.  One comment on the original posting caught my eye.  The posting took a tangential approach to the problem.  He said that the issue was the number of refugees reaching the shores in boats from Africa and stated that in his opinion, "Their boats should be bombed before they reached Malta and that those left in the water shot."  Coming fast on the heels of the many drownings happening in the Mediterranean as refugees flee the north coast of Africa in makeshift boats exposed to the elements.  As photos of the bodies carefully wrapped in body bags filled newspaper pages, this posting really infuriated me and before I actually thought about it properly, I responded to his comment by addressing him personally with the ill advised posting,

"What kind of nut are you?"

Fresh in my mind were the findings of the UN report on the Rwanda massacre when one million people were slaughtered in a matter of months. In fact it is now reckoned that 70% of the Tutsi population was murdered by their Hutu neighbours.  In the report the responsibility of local radio/media was highlighted.  Not only did a local radio station call upon loyal Hutus to kill their neighbour Tutsis but indeed as well as calling on patriotic duty they proceeded to name local Tutsi to be killed and kept up a murderous avalanche spreading unchecked across the country.  It is a salutary lesson in how the media can be not just a contributor to violence but indeed an instigator.

The Golden Dawn Party in Greece has waged a vicious street war against immigrants/refugees with considerable support from many who should know better.  This neo-nazi, fascist party has demonstrated its xenophobic agenda and perhaps its true nature is ably demonstrated by the behaviour of its spokesman, Kasidiaris on live TV when he throws water on one woman and assaults another violently live on TV.  Kasidiaris bears a tattoo on his arm of a Nazi-style swastika.  Not that you would expect much more from a party whose leader Nikos Michaloliakos has publicly denied the holocaust, questioning the number of Jews murdered and claiming there were no gas chambers in concentration camps,

"There were no ovens, this is a lie ... there were no gas chambers either," he said during a TV interview.  I find it shocking that despite this public display of violence against women (2012) he was not arrested and a subsequent Facebook set up in support of his violence to the two women received 6000 likes in 24hrs!  He was later arrested for murder, extortion, and involvement in the disappearance of up to 100 migrants in September of last year (2013).  Depressingly, On 2 October 2013, Ilias Kasidiaris was released on a 50,000 euro bail.  Am I the only one holding my head in despair at all this?

Surely this rise in the language of hatred and violence against human beings of any nationality or religion has to be challenged on all fronts.  Whether on our newspapers, our radio, TV or even online media.  It cannot be accepted or ignored surely?

Europe has seen within its own borders how such language can lead to a killing frenzy. The perpetrator of violence must be prosecuted by the full force of the law.  Those that call for violence on others, whatever their ideology/reasons must not be given airtime to propagate their hatred in others.  I really loved how this Turkish interviewer put an instant end to the religious bigotry he encountered.  It is a positive experience to see someone in the media handle the situation with integrity and principles intact.

I wish I could say I handled my online situation as well as this.  It was the thought that someone could seriously advocate the bombing of people fleeing poverty/war that rankled but my response was to insult, hardly raising the tone of the communication.  The result was predicable.

Within minutes of my posting there was a vitriolic response from the nutter with more of his vile perspectives shared.    It was at this point my son wearily lectured me on the pitfalls of engaging with the despicable on the comments section of postings.  It just gives them the oxygen of publicity as more responses boost their profile and agenda.  Suitably chastised I have been reflecting on the lessons learned.  This week for the first time I have seriously contemplated closing down Facebook and withdrawing from this stealer of my time and creativity.  It has long struck me that valuable time with loved ones has begun to seriously suffer from my over engagement with this media.  It is so addictive to check up on friends and touch base with birthdays, triumphs, losses, births etc.  When I think of how much time it steals from me on a daily basis the answer is a simple one, it must go!  I'd appreciate input from those of you out there, your thoughts, coping strategies etc before a final decision is made.

Sexual Assault in France

I was always a nervous traveller.  I expected that on a given train there would be a few murderers and rapists, as well as at least a dozen thieves.  So travelling on a train with this mindset posed its own difficulties.  Each carriage was inspected with care.  Four guys in a carriage was just asking for trouble.  Two women of stocky build could overcome me, so their carriage was risky and  should be left as well.  I usually ended up in a compartment with a tiny elderly weak lady as I would tell myself even if she were a killer, given my size and their age, I could probably take her down.  Deciding on which carriage to travel in was a major part of the first half hour of travel and I did not rush into it. 

All of this is plain weird, I know, and will seem even stranger when I tell you that I studied martial arts for years and even attended self defence classes too.  For a whole year I attended a full contact dojo on the Isle of Wight and ended up each week covered in bruises and bumps from being kicked and punched.  I can tell you there was a world of difference between someone punching at you but stopping at the skin and another kicking you from the front as if he wanted to dislocate your spine.  I learned many things, that bigger people kick you harder, thin lean men can be incredibly strong, being kicked is much worse than being punched and why women are so often badly hurt in attacks.  Our trainer told us that women are usually in placating mode when they are attacked.  They hope that by doing so their attacker will stop hurting them.  This, they continue to do even when the attacker continues to hurt them badly.  He was full of instructions about poking out eyeballs and other   gruesome techniques. 

I didn’t like any of it and decided on my own approach – that was pre attack preparation.  My carriage checking was a way of avoiding any conflict, and I felt that it made sense to put the odds in your favour.  Another pre attack policy was never to look as if you don’t know where you are going.  Vulnerability is sensed by the predator.  For years I was amazed that the world changed when I went on walks with my sister in law.  She is terrified by dogs and on spotting one almost half a mile away would begin to dance nervously behind me arms shaking, crying her distress.  It was like an irresistible invitation for any dog in the vicinity and I was constantly amazed how dogs would come from everywhere zoning in on her distress signals.  So too, in strange cities wandering around with maps and looking lost brings upon you all sorts of weirdoes.  Instead, I developed the practice of walking purposefully, as if you know where you are going even when you are lost.  Indeed, there are several major cities where I have found myself wandering lost in areas that I can remember vaguely being lost before in! 

I remember years ago going across France and my cousin decided hitch hiking was the way to speed things up, against my heated arguments.  A tiny French car stopped with a huge fat French man squeezed in behind the front steering wheel and his seat.  His stomach made a huge indent to allow for the steering wheel to fit.  His hair was positioned carefully over a bald head and kept in place by a liberal supply of sweat glistening everywhere.  We had gone only a mile or so before he pulled into a lay-by and started kissing my cousin on the mouth despite her protests.  I thought about hitting him on the back of the head with a swift chop, from the back seat, and then worried that he might stop kissing her and pull a knife or a gun.  So I opened the back door and threw both our rucksacks out onto the road instead.  My cousin extracted herself out the front door and the French fat guy took off at full speed.  We stood there, on an empty dusty road, my cousin spitting furiously on the road to clear all taste of his assault, both of us traumatised by what had happened.  Mind you to put things in perspective, I might not have unleashed a well trained karate chop on his neck (despite years of training) but my pre attack preparation served me well.  Why do you think my cousin ended up in the front seat and not me?

 Having past the half century age I no longer worry so much about train carriages and weirdoes.  Now, I concentrate on not putting my clothes on inside out and find I have become the possibly weirdest person I am ever likely to meet.  I certainly would not choose to share a train carriage or car with someone like me and that is strangely comforting in a sad odd way.