Friend Waldir I Still See That Having The Opportunity To Serve You Is A Privilege
I have, inside yahoo's servers, a sort of First Chest where things are stored that I sometimes think of deleting. But cowardice, and blessed cowardice, make me not confirm the "deletion."
I delete it.
You would delete!
It's amazing, Microsoft's Word has recognized these two tenses of the "verb"!
This gives Margin to "N" Ilations and I leave them for some other idle writing, not me.
Serve is a privilege
I insist: Serving Waldir was a privilege!
Somehow, this Blog is the Result of that Experience!
Anyway, I never confirm it, and it should, because there are demons that if they could get wings and get out of there, they would have the power to make my private hell a Public Hell and no "Antony" will get it.
Well, I found this text and am pasting it in this wrod document with the original name, Waldir, who was the guy who taught me, without a word, the humility needed to understand that serving is a privilege!
And that the word Samurai is something that makes a lot of sense when translated and I dare say that, yes, maybe the sepukko was valid in the times when I wanted to practice sepukko.
Today…. Today I love and I am loved! AND Mara, and their existence suppress any despair or outcast. To love is to show living, yes, teacher, you were right and, I know, I won't be unfair, I saw…
Well, I'm going to paste the text as it was originally written, as it is, but I'm going to mend the typos, because I had, in that hurry to post, because posting was living and I had, at that time, a devastating hunger for lifeI had, at that time, a devastating hunger for life and for living!
And On account Of This Hunger For Serving I've Just Discovered That, Yes: Serving Is A Privilege!
And, it is true, now I see, she had no interest in proceeding, and everything was clearly established! Yes, in the “verbal contract” we choose as the basis of our “relationship”!
It is… I remember that a person who, in a moment of delusion deluded me and a moment of benevolent cruelty (if it had not been done as it was done, I would have killed myself shortly and would not have found happiness where it had been I would find her) but you, teacher, hurt me, made me cry and killed many things in me!
But I said before, in another time and in another circumstance, that seeing my struggle for life made it impossible for people not to fall in love with me.
Yeah, this person was right. But among so many people in love with me there was my madness, it was so much the will to live that I went crazy and I lost, again, in the pile of physical pleasure to which I almost gave myself completely!
And if He trusts you, your obligation, to Him, if you trust in Him, it is to trust yourself, too, in His day!
But let's go to Waldir's story
When the first blizzard passed, and the point of that on the timeline is the date I decided to look for my old manager, Elisabete Castro, who almost made me pay her birthday party at SKY / Perepepes, because I announced the birthday. and said that, for fun, there would be a performance of “Francisco Petrônio and the Great Orchestra”, which made her pretty pissed off with me.
Francisco Petronio, thank God, was not found and I escaped from this.
I had skyrocketed out of SKY, was in love with a girl named Marina, and one Saturday I forgot to start prom and was doing “background music” for myself and Marina. And, of course, they came to the sound booth to remove it, and I, impetuous as it was, left the house in the middle of the Sabbath, which is capital letter to aggravate the “crime”…
Damn Be That Time When I Bring Friends By Human Garbage Damn Blind
Well, I assure you there were other storms, and I have a myriad of them to tell you!
Well, the union with Marina lasted for three years and it was not, in my opinion, worth the abandonment of the position in a place where I was loved and respected and, frankly speaking, I think I was an idiot!
I thought so already in the year 2000 and today, in possession of all the informative material that I have, maybe I ate a feijoada for six people just to go to her and vomit all over her, that did not deserve the gesture.
It made me doubt whether to look for it or not…. But I had no choice.
The choice was to stay on the street… unacceptable, I would die…
I, who knew I could enter the house, despite everything, asked to be knocked on the door.
She came and led me inside. She looked at me and it was evident, after a time in a coma and having lost 40 Kg it is notorious that something had happened and that I was not well, and she offered me a snack and while the snack was prepared I tried to tell her the that had happened to me.
And even knowing that she had always been more than a manager and a true friend, I felt ashamed of my HIV status and the sad condition I was in.
The DJ! What made hundreds, or even more than two thousand thousands of people, had fallen, defeated, in the nets of their own mistakes, and I knew lucidly, clearly and painfully of this, that the cause was my ineptitude.
It was a good time for questions:
Where are best of sampa?
Where the DJ of the Wagon Plaza? Maybe I would ask that ballerina….
Where the one who abandoned Kanecão, from Mogi das Cruzes, in the middle of the dance because he was the one?
Other questions would fit, many of them…
Where are the lovers?
Where the lovers?
Where? Where? Where?…
And in me, I feared that it would be always like this as described in the coding, the dark moment of another underprivileged who once also fell…
It gave me such paranoia that I believed that anyone looking at me on the street could realize that I "had AIDS" and that at any moment someone would shout, pointing at me:
HE HAS AIDS! GET AWAY FROM HIM, GOD'S WRATH FELL ON HIM! ... THE AIDTICAL DAMN
Anyway, after crying a little I opened up to her, told her what had happened… and that, as with everyone, I was gone, not only abandoned by “all my friends” but I had nowhere to go and that I did not know what to do and that, again, as in so many other times in my life, the moral forces were beginning to fail me (for all to know, I was once again gradually, inexorably approaching the sting of madness and suicide…).
She asked me out and made a phone call.
Five, maybe ten minutes later, I want to point out that after the diagnosis, time is understood by me in a different way and what to you looks like eleven hours presents itself to me as a dragged, sticky, swollen thing. maybe decades….
But, coming back, after the phone call she came over to me and asked if I could make it until 5 minutes to Major Diogo Street. It was almost a mile and I said I could try!
She told me she'd gotten a place to live, this place is Brenda Lee's Support House, which I was told was closed, I think, a little over a year ago.
It was a place where "compassion" prevailed, because of the management of the house that had, among all, a deeper look at things, which made it very special and sensitive and it was she who, using her intellectual resources and her ginga as a social worker who got the optician to wear a pair of glasses, because my vision had deteriorated.
The support house offered six meals a day, fresh linen, cable TV!
It was a great place for anyone who was determined to stay, as Raul Seixas rightly set there, with his mouth open, wide open, full of teeth, waiting for death to arrive!
But not for me, although there was no treatment and no hope, I didn't want to be among insane people, having to sleep like a dog, with an ever-listening ear, because there was always a risk of "something happening."
And I learned that the second or third day I was there and they forgot to take lunch from someone who could no longer walk. And I went, I don't even know why I went, because, until the diagnosis, I was not capable of any kindness except when it came to "conquering a girl", to forget her the day after "My Victory!" "
This was already an effect of HIV, which showed me and everyone about the “Orloff Effect”:
"I am you tomorrow"
On this day I saw something. When the transvestite who was the cook of the house, a black transsexual, with the marks of time and AIDS handed me the dish and another transvestite asked me who the dish would be.
I should have said it was for me, but damn I said the name of the person who was going to ingest that food and I saw the transvestite, active tuberculosis carrier spit phlegm on the person's food, and said,
If you fuck me I'll kill you sleeping! I took the plate and served it… (God forgive me).
She was a classic example of what happened in that Support House, and I don't know if she lives, and if she doesn't, I really want to be in Hell. According to the first infectologist who attended me, Brenda Lee Support House was a “focus” for TB, and so he came in with TB treatment and that distressed me even more. And it was for this very reason that I was prescribed, by way of chemoprophylaxis, for which he prescribed the treatment of TB and also, as it was, I no longer know, that he prescribed me an antibiotic, in my time it was Bactrim 500mg per day, in a drug routine called chemoprophylaxis, which consists in taking, to say, in the body, a “chemically hostile” environment and preventing certain infections or disorders (a disturbance of the functions of an organ, psyche or organism such as whole that is associated with specific signs and symptoms).
AZT I refused to take because, in theory, it would give two more years of survival, a desperate dose of six pills every four hours, which meant two sleep interruptions every night and six daily vomiting sessions…
Then came the golden opportunity (rereading it out, in 2018 I get scared by this expression! I was still insane when I wrote this and didn't even realize it. And so much, now I see, gave in what gave…).
A new patient had arrived at the support house, extremely debilitated, he needed to be taken to the hospital every day, and he needed to be accompanied. They came to me and said (it was the social worker, Rosa Maria):
You that I see clearly not being happy here can take this opportunity… and explained to me what had to be done.
And I said yes.
After all, it was an opportunity to be useful and one more possibility to leave, to see the world, people, clear my thoughts.
It was a relatively simple routine: in the morning I would give him a bath, clean his bedsores (I had to learn a lot about human frailty and recognize that it could be me in his place someday…), do the bandages as the nurse had taught me and forwarding him, step by step, to the ambulance, known as "pope all", an irony without limits ...
Arriving at the hospital, put him in a wheelchair and took him to the third floor, where it was placed on a bed and received intravenous medication. It was there, so all day.
I did not know what he had, but it was terrible because he barely held on to his legs.
Need support to go to the bathroom, to eat, to everything .... Even a glass of water he could not handle. Even so, I found time to get to know the other patients on that floor and went as far as possible, making friends, getting to know those people, their stories, making them my family.
I even gained the trust of the doctors and nurses who came to see me as a helper, someone else to collaborate with. I don't know, here on 2018, how they could take so much risk with a layman, so crazy…
He sought a wheelchair, pushing stretchers, did everything he could to help.
Brought water to a patient, nurses warned about the serum that was over, the vein that had been lost, learned a lot about the routine of a hospital and I owe it to each person who had the privilege of serving.
Meanwhile, the Waldir was getting worse every day. But I do not recall having seen or heard a single complaint, one tear of pain, nothing. A nameless dignity, courage, to me, completely unknown.
After so much work with Waldir, I got a weekend as a gift.
I was able to review some people whom I still love (today, at 2081, I do not know), making a commitment to come back on Monday.
I confess it was a relief.
I was tired of seeing pain, suffering, anguish, and feeling helpless. It was a weekend where I should have relaxed.
But I could not. I was thinking about Waldir all the time.
Are they feeding him?
Did they bathe him?
Is he well taken care of?
Does he think I've abandoned him?
It will be?…
It was a sea of questions and, on Monday, collapsed at the home support, looking for him.
A cynical smile from another patient and notification:
“Waldir is in the last. We've even shared their stuff. Here is like that…".
I fired into the hospital, fourth floor, I practically came in by force. I wanted to see him, to say a few words, to hug him, to apologize for some mistake he had made ... a handshake, anything that could seal our friendship at the time of his departure
The picture I saw was terrifying and I immediately understood why try to stop me from seeing him.
Waldir no longer recognized anything, could not see me.
I looked around at other people, other things ...
Within the new context that approached him, I meant nothing… I had stood behind, I felt and condemned myself in supreme rite for abandonment:
I left the room in silence, eyes wet, heart hardened, hurt myself and life.
I wanted to raise it to a better level where I could enjoy the gift of life more and better. I thought my "slack" had killed him. He was sure of it here, in that dreary moment…
I sat in the waiting room and waited for the notification. It took more than 19 hours before it was over and he could finally rest.
I called for the administration of the home support who asked me to take care of (sic) of the funeral.
I had never dealt with death so closely. Papers, documents, certificates, and autopsy.
Miliary tuberculosis (disseminated throughout the body), as explained to me. That killed Waldir.
After three days, his body was released, in a cardboard casket, painted black, as fragile as his own life, from those cheap ones, and we, the driver, Waldir and myself, went to Vila Formosa, where he would be left.
I remember that the expression on his face was serene, for I saw him well, before closing the coffin ...
There was no one to help me carry the coffin to the grave.
The driver refused. Idem, idem the gravediggers…
After much begging, I got three people attending another funeral to assist me in this, which was my last service to Waldir.
I couldn't, because I didn't have a penny, to plant a flower in that grave, which I don't even know where it is… The Vila Formosa Cemetery is the largest of the I didn't know how to write down, how to register, like nothing. Until then I was a virgin to death…
I remember still having stayed at the support house for a few days.
I went to a hospital in Glicério, and the social worker there told me that I could not afford a place to stay because I already had somewhere to stay.
I thanked. And it was a Friday. He was determined and knew what he was going to do. That Friday I left the support house.
I even tried one thing, a tacit motion of distress, asking loved ones to keep my things with them.
Ipo Fact, they kept them…
On Monday she, the social worker at the hospital in Glicério found me sleeping on paper and asked me what had happened.
I said, “What does it matter? Now I have nowhere to stay and not only can you, but you have a duty to get me a place in another support home. ”
In the other support house, which is subject to another chapter, I remember having dreamed of something.
I, I believe, was in a field, a wretched forest to lose sight of and a Great Silence.
In the dream I was not afraid, I was pacified, so inexplicably inexplicable to my temperament of those days….
It was clear day, the sun warmed me and I saw a black man (Waldir was black), and I looked at him, I knew that feature was known to me and I spent a lot of time looking at him without recognizing him, wondering who it would be that person so strange and so familiar (I reread this before republishing it, here, in the former Chácara do Encosto, on a February day, at the end of the 20 decade of the XXI century I still can, I do not know if on the screen of the memory or if on the retina screen, see it !!!!
Until he smiled and said,
-Claudio, it's me, Waldir! We brought you here so you know it was not your fault my ticket. I'm fine ========= (ocolto por mim) a white, completely unknown (I do not know if I'm white) that helped me in the most difficult hours and days.
Know that I am well and, believe me, you will never again be in helplessness, because there will always be one of us near you. That said, he smiled, made a sign of even more, turned around and left, running, at an immense speed and I felt what I think a lot of people felt at least once in their life:
“Being brought back at even scary speed and I woke up, crying… as I cry now as I write this… AND CRYING HERE AGAIN in the 21st Century…
Whenever I get sick, I think of him and wonder if it was my turn, and though for a long time I had always concluded that yes, God came ... and said no.
Until when?… I asked.
I stopped thinking about this for a long time