Queridos amigos paraguayos, primero que nada, quiero felicitarlos por avanzar a la final de la Copa América. Todo el que me conoce sabe que durante los últimos 10 años, a falta de un equipo nacional que representara mis sentimientos y valores en las canchas mundialistas, y a diferencia de muchos compatriotas que suelen dividir sus lealtades entre equipos de mayor renombre, siempre arrojé mi apoyo a la albirroja durante la Copa Mundial. Siempre admiré su humildad y ambición en la cancha.
Es por eso, entonces, que se me hace difícil leer de parte de los paraguayos, tantos comentarios negativos y soeces hacia nuestro equipo que, sólo aquellos ciegos por la soberbia son incapaces de aceptar, ha demostrado un crecimiento fenomenal y un desempeño admirable. Estos muchachos han dado una demostración de esfuerzo, dedicación, tenacidad y fe que es digna de admiración. Ellos le han dado motivos para sonreír a todo un país. Por unas cortas semanas, la Vinotinto le demostró a un país profundamente dividido por ideologías políticas, que no somos ni rojos rojitos, ni oligarcas azules, sino que somos 30 millones de ciudadanos color vinotinto. Este equipo que muchos - no venezolanos - quieren hacer sentir mediocres por celebrar la trayectoria hasta ahora recorrida en esta Copa América, permitió a los venezolanos que viven dentro de sus casi 1 millón de kilómetros cuadrados de glorioso territorio, y para los muchos otros que vivimos alejados de sus fronteras pero quienes llevamos el país en el corazón, vislumbrar brevemente lo que una vez fuimos y lo que tenemos el potencial de volver a ser. Ellos nos recordaron de qué material estamos hechos, y que lo que todos queremos está más cerca de lo que uno cree. Sólo basta tener fe y el coraje de trabajar duro, y allí está, al alcance de la mano.
Así pues, queridos hermanos paraguayos, de mí no oirán insultos ni mezquindades. A mi sólo me queda decirle lo siguiente: celebren su avance a la final, que aunque no merecido, es un triunfo y hay que celebrarlo. Y de verdad les deseo mucha suerte, porque la van a necesitar, que nosotros hoy, pase lo que pase, nos estaremos poniendo nuestras alpargatas para celebrar con cuatro, arpa y maracas, porque gústele a quien le guste, a Venezuela nadie le quita lo bailao.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Rebellion from an unlikely source?
These past few days I have been reading with both fascination and horror the events that have been taking place in the Rodeo I and II prisons in Venezuela. As a Venezuelan, the mixture of shame, sorrow and, dare I say, hope (?) has found resonance all throughout the Venezuelan diaspora. It is a new and conflicting feeling, difficult to define, for it involves so many conflicting moral compasses that, under any other civil society, would be unimaginable to think they would ever comingle with such ease.
Our beautiful country has been living a nightmare for the past 11 years, and although many times we have felt on the brink of taking our country back, we have been foiled over and over again, to the point that, as a people, we have become cynical and apathetic. Somehow, we have forgotten who we really are, and have left this madness become our perpetual reality. We have forgotten how to hope.
It is impossible not to feel profound shame at the dismal situation that these events have brought to light regarding our prison system. It makes one's stomach turn to see how we treat the prison population. What does it say about a country when we have 30 jails holding 49,000 prisoners (in average, that's a staggering 1633 per jail, when most of them were built to hold only one fourth of that number)? It is no surprise then, that with such overcrowding -and understaffing-, chaos reigns within Venezuelan jails. Rival gangs fighting over territorial control within the jails (however small it may be) means that prisoners live in a constant state of violence. Add to that the fact that corrupt guards smuggle drugs and weapons into the jail, and what we have is a ticking bomb that has finally gone KABOOM!!
In response to the violence that erupted in the El Rodeo I and II prisons, the National Guard has vowed to quench the uprising, whatever the cost. This means that, while the president recovers from surgery for an unknown ailment in Cuba (by the way, what does THAT say about his confidence on the doctors formed by his "revolution"?), the second in command has sent 5000 troops and multiple war tanks to bring the situation under control. Only thing is that there's anything but control. How is it possible that such a vast number of armed soldiers cannot bring the situation under control? Well, because we're dealing with a mini army of its own inside that prison, that's why. And while relatives of the prisoners inside the jail despair waiting to know what has happened to their loved ones, one cannot help but to root for these prisoners, a hodgepodge made up of both criminals and innocent men. One cannot help but to hope that these prisoners make the national guard come to their knees, however improbable that may be. If nothing else, one hopes that these prisoners, who are now being systematically burned and killed, like cattle in a slaughterhouse, make the rest of the country wake up to the ineptitude of this government, that they bring back the fire, the will to get each and every last one of these corrupt government officials running for the hills.
Don't get me wrong. Many of those people are prisoners for a reason. Many have committed unspeakable crimes and deserve their fate. But in a country where the judicial system is corrupt and, quite frankly, led by the nose by one man, there are also many, many, many people who are in jail who should not be there – Innocent people whose crime has been to speak against a tyrant government, or who are still awaiting trial and have been for years, without seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. They deserve better. They deserve to be treated with dignity, and not to be piled up inside four foul walls, waiting for their turn to become cannon fodder. For them, and for the rest of us, I pray. Que Dios nos agarre confesados.
Our beautiful country has been living a nightmare for the past 11 years, and although many times we have felt on the brink of taking our country back, we have been foiled over and over again, to the point that, as a people, we have become cynical and apathetic. Somehow, we have forgotten who we really are, and have left this madness become our perpetual reality. We have forgotten how to hope.
It is impossible not to feel profound shame at the dismal situation that these events have brought to light regarding our prison system. It makes one's stomach turn to see how we treat the prison population. What does it say about a country when we have 30 jails holding 49,000 prisoners (in average, that's a staggering 1633 per jail, when most of them were built to hold only one fourth of that number)? It is no surprise then, that with such overcrowding -and understaffing-, chaos reigns within Venezuelan jails. Rival gangs fighting over territorial control within the jails (however small it may be) means that prisoners live in a constant state of violence. Add to that the fact that corrupt guards smuggle drugs and weapons into the jail, and what we have is a ticking bomb that has finally gone KABOOM!!
In response to the violence that erupted in the El Rodeo I and II prisons, the National Guard has vowed to quench the uprising, whatever the cost. This means that, while the president recovers from surgery for an unknown ailment in Cuba (by the way, what does THAT say about his confidence on the doctors formed by his "revolution"?), the second in command has sent 5000 troops and multiple war tanks to bring the situation under control. Only thing is that there's anything but control. How is it possible that such a vast number of armed soldiers cannot bring the situation under control? Well, because we're dealing with a mini army of its own inside that prison, that's why. And while relatives of the prisoners inside the jail despair waiting to know what has happened to their loved ones, one cannot help but to root for these prisoners, a hodgepodge made up of both criminals and innocent men. One cannot help but to hope that these prisoners make the national guard come to their knees, however improbable that may be. If nothing else, one hopes that these prisoners, who are now being systematically burned and killed, like cattle in a slaughterhouse, make the rest of the country wake up to the ineptitude of this government, that they bring back the fire, the will to get each and every last one of these corrupt government officials running for the hills.
Don't get me wrong. Many of those people are prisoners for a reason. Many have committed unspeakable crimes and deserve their fate. But in a country where the judicial system is corrupt and, quite frankly, led by the nose by one man, there are also many, many, many people who are in jail who should not be there – Innocent people whose crime has been to speak against a tyrant government, or who are still awaiting trial and have been for years, without seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. They deserve better. They deserve to be treated with dignity, and not to be piled up inside four foul walls, waiting for their turn to become cannon fodder. For them, and for the rest of us, I pray. Que Dios nos agarre confesados.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
¡Zacataplún! y empieza el sabotaje...
No puede fallar. Tan pronto se aproxima la fecha en que uno tiene que ponerse serio para el entrenamiento, y ¡zacataplún!, va uno y se lesiona, pareciera como que si a propósito.
En diciembre fue que si la fractura del muslo, y después con que y que no podía correr sino hasta finales de abril. Bueno, no importa porque el maratón no es sino hasta octubre. Hay tiempo. ¿Y qué crees tú que pasa entonces? Llega mayo, uno mete dos o tres corriditas paupérrimas ahí, y cuando uno menos se lo espera, ¡zacataplún!, va uno y mete la proverbial pata, y ahora queda uno con un tobillo torcío, del tamaño de una toronja, que ni lo deja a uno ponerse el zapato de costumbre. Por ahí anda uno dando lástima caminando con muletas por todos lados, lamentándose del nuevo incidente que le impide a uno demostrar su verdadera naturaleza de atleta. Es que todos sabemos que en circunstancias normales no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. A correr se ha dicho, y por allí pasa uno, cual gacela veloz (o por lo menos así se imagina uno a uno mismo así) dejándole el pelero a todos. Pero ya saben cómo es la cosa, "el doctor dijo que descanso, hielito ¡y nada de ejercicio!"
Vamos a dejarnos de zoquetadas. Todos sabemos lo que está pasando en realidad: lo que pasa es que uno está más gordito de lo que debiera, que uno es 10 años más viejo que la última vez, que con dos muchachos encima, no queda ni tiempo ni mucho menos la energía, y que solamente de pensar en los próximos 5 meses de duro entrenamiento en medio del verano Marylandiano (¿o será Marylandés?), a uno lo que le da es gana de echarse al lado de la piscina con un buen libro en una mano y un piña colada en la otra. No es de extrañar que entonces el subconsciente haga las mil peripecias para que uno consiga las formas más gafas de lesionarse, cosa de tener una buena excusa.
Pero no hay marcha atrás. La cosa ya está pagada y en el calendario. Gústele a quién le guste no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. El próximo lunes comienzo el entrenamiento. Ahora sí, de verdad verdad... en serio.
En diciembre fue que si la fractura del muslo, y después con que y que no podía correr sino hasta finales de abril. Bueno, no importa porque el maratón no es sino hasta octubre. Hay tiempo. ¿Y qué crees tú que pasa entonces? Llega mayo, uno mete dos o tres corriditas paupérrimas ahí, y cuando uno menos se lo espera, ¡zacataplún!, va uno y mete la proverbial pata, y ahora queda uno con un tobillo torcío, del tamaño de una toronja, que ni lo deja a uno ponerse el zapato de costumbre. Por ahí anda uno dando lástima caminando con muletas por todos lados, lamentándose del nuevo incidente que le impide a uno demostrar su verdadera naturaleza de atleta. Es que todos sabemos que en circunstancias normales no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. A correr se ha dicho, y por allí pasa uno, cual gacela veloz (o por lo menos así se imagina uno a uno mismo así) dejándole el pelero a todos. Pero ya saben cómo es la cosa, "el doctor dijo que descanso, hielito ¡y nada de ejercicio!"
Vamos a dejarnos de zoquetadas. Todos sabemos lo que está pasando en realidad: lo que pasa es que uno está más gordito de lo que debiera, que uno es 10 años más viejo que la última vez, que con dos muchachos encima, no queda ni tiempo ni mucho menos la energía, y que solamente de pensar en los próximos 5 meses de duro entrenamiento en medio del verano Marylandiano (¿o será Marylandés?), a uno lo que le da es gana de echarse al lado de la piscina con un buen libro en una mano y un piña colada en la otra. No es de extrañar que entonces el subconsciente haga las mil peripecias para que uno consiga las formas más gafas de lesionarse, cosa de tener una buena excusa.
Pero no hay marcha atrás. La cosa ya está pagada y en el calendario. Gústele a quién le guste no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. El próximo lunes comienzo el entrenamiento. Ahora sí, de verdad verdad... en serio.
Another Walk Done
This past weekend started out beautifully. The weather could not have been any more perfect. A glorious Washington morning greeted us, inviting with its pure, crystalline blue sky, trees in full bloom, and the smell of flowers in the air.
I was both nervous and excited at the same time. Having done this walk once before, I was perfectly aware of the grueling task I was about to undertake. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins fueled by the prospect of facing such an enormous challenge was tempered by an uneasy hole in the pit of my stomach, and a nagging feeling that I was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I put on some makeup, knowing full well that it would be all smeared by noon. It doesn't matter. It was necessary to start the day with beauty and grace, even if by the end of the journey I'd be crawling to the finish line on all four.
My dear husband, being the selfless creature that he is, woke up at the break of dawn to drive me to the starting line. With a kiss and a hug, he left me there and went back home to capture a few more minutes of blessed sleep before the entire house went into a frenzy getting ready for the day. While he slept cozily with our sons in our king-sized bed, I waited for the start of the race in the company of nearly 2300 other souls who, like myself, were there for very personal reasons, each of them just one small fragment of the same sorrow, the same hope: that one day, we will not have to suffer the loss of another loved one, that one day what we do today will matter, that one day, we will kick breast cancer's butt.
I decided not to pair up with anyone, because it tends to slow me down. I had lofty goals. I had personal records to break. It was all very well thought out. But it was, I must confess, a lonely affair, made all the lonelier by the heavy presence of my recent loss. The first time around, I walked in her honor. This time, I was walking in her memory.
The journey began, and I found myself towards the back of a long, snake-like mass, slithering slowly but steadily forward. If I was to make the time I wanted, I had to be at the head - not the tail - of that snake. So I started to increase my pace, moving steadily forward, sneaking and swerving into the close spaces left between anonymous bodies that rubbed and bumped against each other for lack of room. Before I knew it, I made it to the head of the snake, and by the time I reached mile 5, I was officially number 11. Eleven!! I was beside myself. So I continued my frantic pace, moving forward, unstoppable, a force to reckon with. This pace continued until about mile 10, when I stopped for lunch... at 9:26 am.
Then it all started to go downhill. The brief 10 minutes I stopped to eat my turkey sandwich were enough for my beaten body to catch up with my mind. My limbs let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had overdone it. They screamed loudly at my stubborn self that I had to slow down, 'cause they were just plain tired of trying to keep up with me, and if I didn't like that, well that's too bad, 'cause they weren't coming and that was that. I slowed down my pace, confident that the great head start I had would be enough to keep me in a comfortable lead (as if this was a competition?!?). But by the half marathon point, there was no denying it. I had slowed down my pace considerably, and little by little I started to see people passing me by. I stubbornly tried to command my body to obey me, to keep the pace, to move on, but my body decided to overthrow me, and I was no longer in command. Instead, my feet began to dictate what the rest of me would do. Swollen to twice their usual size, my feet felt confined into too-tight running shoes (this is a walk, why on earth would anyone wear running shoes for?), so to avoid hurting that tiny, itty, bitty little toe any more, I was forced to walk shifting my weight towards the my outer foot, making it hard on the hips to keep moving with such unnatural alignment. So, now it was not only my feet that hurt, but now my hips were throbbing wildly, radiating pain towards my thighs. The fear of a recent stress fracture and the prospect of not being able to train for the marathon in October filled my mind with dread, and doubt took hold of my self-resolve.
By mile 15, my family finally came to meet me and cheer me on, but by then, I was beyond cheering. I just wanted other shoes to change into, and maybe someone to push me in a wheelbarrow the rest of the way... an there were still 11 more miles to go. But when things get tough, having your loved ones by your side really does make a difference between being able to plow through, and complete and utter failure. Bob and the boys had to leave early due to my son's baseball game, but my parents stayed with me, determined to see me through. From time to time, my mom would walk with me until I reached the next rest stop, while my dad followed us in the car, ready to give us a lift if needed. We continued like this for another 8 miles, and by the end of mile 23 I had slowed to a crawl, and I began getting the sympathy look from other walkers --oh, how do I loathe the sympathy look. More and more, I got the "are you OK?" question, and even the event volunteers kept asking me if I was all right. At that point, 2 miles short of the finish line, my legs finally gave in, and I had to admit defeat. I asked my dad to take me the last two miles to the village so I could at least walk through the finish line for that first day. By that time, I was beyond all sense of pride and dignity. All I wanted to do was to put my feet up and sleep, everything else be darned.
This year I decided not to sleep at the village, but rather come back home and return to the walk the next day. Well, after that first day, I had decided that I would not do the next day. Why should I? I did what I had set out to do, which was to raise money for research. I was hurting, hungry and tired, and there was no telling me that I would have to do another half marathon the next day. You'd have to be crazy to do that.
At home I took a nice long shower and went to bed early. I slept soundly, finally getting a much deserved rest, and woke up before the sun was all the way up. Slowly, a funny feeling crept into me, a kind of anxiety that I could not explain away. I tossed and turn in my bed, trying to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but when it was evident that sleep had gone for good, while everyone else slept peacefully, I began pacing and worrying that I would forever regret never finishing the whole walk. When my youngest son finally woke up, I decided to wake the entire house up, because by George, I had a walk to finish! And we were ALL going!! And who cares if it is raining? And what if it is already 8 o'clock? there's still time, and boy go and put your clothes on right now! where's my pink bandana?!? Go, go, go!! Take a shower already or we're leaving without you!! and is everyone in the car? Good. Let's go.
I was not deluded enough to think that I would walk the entire length of the half marathon. After all, the damage done to my feet and legs the day before was not a product of my imagination, it was quite real. But a good night's sleep helped mend some of the hurt, and in a pragmatic move, we decided to start walking from some point in the middle of the race course. This time my mom and dad followed us in the car, and Bob and the boys walked with me. After a little while, we sent our youngest son to follow us in the car with my parents, but my 7 year old son, Daniel, walked the entire last five miles with me, without complaining one single time. I was so proud of him. It was by far the best moment of the entire weekend, being able to cross the finish line with the greatest companion a woman can have. He made me forget how much my body hurt. Just seeing his determination was enough to make me want to do better, to finish strong. And so we did.
In the end, I will remember 2011 not as the year I failed to finish all 39 and a half miles, but rahter as the year I had the enormous privilege of crossing that finish line with my oldest son, who at age 7, was not embarrassed to wear a pink bandana on his head, because he knew why we were doing this. He knew that as I held one of his hands, his aunt Michelle held his other hand, all the way from heaven.
I was both nervous and excited at the same time. Having done this walk once before, I was perfectly aware of the grueling task I was about to undertake. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins fueled by the prospect of facing such an enormous challenge was tempered by an uneasy hole in the pit of my stomach, and a nagging feeling that I was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I put on some makeup, knowing full well that it would be all smeared by noon. It doesn't matter. It was necessary to start the day with beauty and grace, even if by the end of the journey I'd be crawling to the finish line on all four.
My dear husband, being the selfless creature that he is, woke up at the break of dawn to drive me to the starting line. With a kiss and a hug, he left me there and went back home to capture a few more minutes of blessed sleep before the entire house went into a frenzy getting ready for the day. While he slept cozily with our sons in our king-sized bed, I waited for the start of the race in the company of nearly 2300 other souls who, like myself, were there for very personal reasons, each of them just one small fragment of the same sorrow, the same hope: that one day, we will not have to suffer the loss of another loved one, that one day what we do today will matter, that one day, we will kick breast cancer's butt.
I decided not to pair up with anyone, because it tends to slow me down. I had lofty goals. I had personal records to break. It was all very well thought out. But it was, I must confess, a lonely affair, made all the lonelier by the heavy presence of my recent loss. The first time around, I walked in her honor. This time, I was walking in her memory.
The journey began, and I found myself towards the back of a long, snake-like mass, slithering slowly but steadily forward. If I was to make the time I wanted, I had to be at the head - not the tail - of that snake. So I started to increase my pace, moving steadily forward, sneaking and swerving into the close spaces left between anonymous bodies that rubbed and bumped against each other for lack of room. Before I knew it, I made it to the head of the snake, and by the time I reached mile 5, I was officially number 11. Eleven!! I was beside myself. So I continued my frantic pace, moving forward, unstoppable, a force to reckon with. This pace continued until about mile 10, when I stopped for lunch... at 9:26 am.
Then it all started to go downhill. The brief 10 minutes I stopped to eat my turkey sandwich were enough for my beaten body to catch up with my mind. My limbs let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had overdone it. They screamed loudly at my stubborn self that I had to slow down, 'cause they were just plain tired of trying to keep up with me, and if I didn't like that, well that's too bad, 'cause they weren't coming and that was that. I slowed down my pace, confident that the great head start I had would be enough to keep me in a comfortable lead (as if this was a competition?!?). But by the half marathon point, there was no denying it. I had slowed down my pace considerably, and little by little I started to see people passing me by. I stubbornly tried to command my body to obey me, to keep the pace, to move on, but my body decided to overthrow me, and I was no longer in command. Instead, my feet began to dictate what the rest of me would do. Swollen to twice their usual size, my feet felt confined into too-tight running shoes (this is a walk, why on earth would anyone wear running shoes for?), so to avoid hurting that tiny, itty, bitty little toe any more, I was forced to walk shifting my weight towards the my outer foot, making it hard on the hips to keep moving with such unnatural alignment. So, now it was not only my feet that hurt, but now my hips were throbbing wildly, radiating pain towards my thighs. The fear of a recent stress fracture and the prospect of not being able to train for the marathon in October filled my mind with dread, and doubt took hold of my self-resolve.
By mile 15, my family finally came to meet me and cheer me on, but by then, I was beyond cheering. I just wanted other shoes to change into, and maybe someone to push me in a wheelbarrow the rest of the way... an there were still 11 more miles to go. But when things get tough, having your loved ones by your side really does make a difference between being able to plow through, and complete and utter failure. Bob and the boys had to leave early due to my son's baseball game, but my parents stayed with me, determined to see me through. From time to time, my mom would walk with me until I reached the next rest stop, while my dad followed us in the car, ready to give us a lift if needed. We continued like this for another 8 miles, and by the end of mile 23 I had slowed to a crawl, and I began getting the sympathy look from other walkers --oh, how do I loathe the sympathy look. More and more, I got the "are you OK?" question, and even the event volunteers kept asking me if I was all right. At that point, 2 miles short of the finish line, my legs finally gave in, and I had to admit defeat. I asked my dad to take me the last two miles to the village so I could at least walk through the finish line for that first day. By that time, I was beyond all sense of pride and dignity. All I wanted to do was to put my feet up and sleep, everything else be darned.
This year I decided not to sleep at the village, but rather come back home and return to the walk the next day. Well, after that first day, I had decided that I would not do the next day. Why should I? I did what I had set out to do, which was to raise money for research. I was hurting, hungry and tired, and there was no telling me that I would have to do another half marathon the next day. You'd have to be crazy to do that.
At home I took a nice long shower and went to bed early. I slept soundly, finally getting a much deserved rest, and woke up before the sun was all the way up. Slowly, a funny feeling crept into me, a kind of anxiety that I could not explain away. I tossed and turn in my bed, trying to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but when it was evident that sleep had gone for good, while everyone else slept peacefully, I began pacing and worrying that I would forever regret never finishing the whole walk. When my youngest son finally woke up, I decided to wake the entire house up, because by George, I had a walk to finish! And we were ALL going!! And who cares if it is raining? And what if it is already 8 o'clock? there's still time, and boy go and put your clothes on right now! where's my pink bandana?!? Go, go, go!! Take a shower already or we're leaving without you!! and is everyone in the car? Good. Let's go.
I was not deluded enough to think that I would walk the entire length of the half marathon. After all, the damage done to my feet and legs the day before was not a product of my imagination, it was quite real. But a good night's sleep helped mend some of the hurt, and in a pragmatic move, we decided to start walking from some point in the middle of the race course. This time my mom and dad followed us in the car, and Bob and the boys walked with me. After a little while, we sent our youngest son to follow us in the car with my parents, but my 7 year old son, Daniel, walked the entire last five miles with me, without complaining one single time. I was so proud of him. It was by far the best moment of the entire weekend, being able to cross the finish line with the greatest companion a woman can have. He made me forget how much my body hurt. Just seeing his determination was enough to make me want to do better, to finish strong. And so we did.
In the end, I will remember 2011 not as the year I failed to finish all 39 and a half miles, but rahter as the year I had the enormous privilege of crossing that finish line with my oldest son, who at age 7, was not embarrassed to wear a pink bandana on his head, because he knew why we were doing this. He knew that as I held one of his hands, his aunt Michelle held his other hand, all the way from heaven.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Date Approaches
It is just little over two months from today. It is practically here. I'm talking about the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in which I will be participating this coming April 30. I anticipate this date with a mixture of excitement, dread, and sadness, as this year I only have her memory to walk for.
But most of all, I have an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. You see, even though I did reach the minimum fundraising goal to be able to participate that was, apparently, the end of it. Despite my efforts, there has been very little extra support, and I cannot help but to feel extremely let down. I had envisioned doubling that minimum amount, especially in light of our recent family loss. I figured our friends –her friends– would come through for one last show of support, and give to a worthy cause so that in a hopefully not so distant future, families won't have to suffer the loss of loved ones due to this disease anymore.
There are still two more months. Should I dare to hope?
http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
But most of all, I have an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. You see, even though I did reach the minimum fundraising goal to be able to participate that was, apparently, the end of it. Despite my efforts, there has been very little extra support, and I cannot help but to feel extremely let down. I had envisioned doubling that minimum amount, especially in light of our recent family loss. I figured our friends –her friends– would come through for one last show of support, and give to a worthy cause so that in a hopefully not so distant future, families won't have to suffer the loss of loved ones due to this disease anymore.
There are still two more months. Should I dare to hope?
http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
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