Nostalgia Maria

If humans had taglines, what would yours be?

I was listening to AJR’ s The Good Part in full, for the first time. Of course I’ve heard it before on Insta, but only the chorus, attached to a cheesy, but sweet reel of finally happy people. Then I said to myself, maybe there’s a post coming. I opened the app to start a new post and this was the prompt question for today. Yes, a post was indeed coming.

For as long as I can remember, I was waiting for something better. For as long as I can remember my thoughts, I was unfulfilled and dissatisfied, always saying that the next step in my life would make me happy.

My tagline must have been So can we skip to the good part? When I was in middle school, I thought that high school would be better. When I was in high school, I thought that college would be better. When I got sick and tired of college, I thought that graduating would be better. When I graduated, I thought that having a job and adulting would be better. And I could go on.

Now, that I find myself missing all those times in my life, that I surprise myself remembering only the good parts and not ever counting the shit that made me want to skip to the next step, I am grateful and sad at the same time. Grateful for having so much good stuff to miss, sad that I wasn’t appreciative enough in the moment and that I cannot relive it once more. You can say that skipping to the good part, in this case, would mean to rewind the tape, not fast forward it.

As I get more introspective about the subject, I realize that maybe I would have wanted to skip every time to the next step, and the final good part would have been death. Thanks to this realization and to the fact that I’ve encountered some health hiccups, I tried to find a solution.

Most times, I fall back on the known track and start complaining and wishing that I could just sleep like Sleeping Beauty for a couple of months and wake up in the good part. But what if, when I wake up and am in the “good part” I imagined for myself a couple of months back, I’m not happy and I wanna go back to sleep again? That means that I would have to be asleep most of my life and, when I’m awake, I would just want to go back to sleep. Awesome lifestyle, right? Almost as good as a cat’s life, but they are happier.

As much as I hate the quotes about how life is a journey, not a destination, well, they are painfully fucking true. Because, as the endless series of movies has shown us, death is the final destination. Death or sleep, in the case of some fictional characters.

What should I do? Should I be pathologically happy all the time, as if lobotomized? This makes me think of Jack Nicholson’s heart breaking grin at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. So no, blissful happiness is not the solution, nor is sleeping my life away. I’m postponing writing down the solution because I’m so afraid of it.

But enough is enough. The solution, ladies and gentlemen, as far as I am concerned, is a loving acceptance, a whole heartedly embrace of the ups and downs. Is it easy? Fuck, no. Is it pleasurable? Hell, no. Is it worth it? By God, yes. Because, as another annoyingly true quote says, you cannot see the good without the bad. You cannot feel happy if you’ve never felt sad. You cannot have day without night. And, let’s face it, nighttime has it’s mysterious beauty. It’s scarier, lonelier and quieter, yes. But, viewed from a different angle, it’s also mystical, romantic and introspective.

So, maybe, the solution is even simpler than acceptance. Maybe the solution is changing the perspective. You don’t have to necessarily accept the situation, you just have to find the light in it.

What quality do you value most in a friend?

The idea of writing a post about all the meaningful people in my life started to grow on me as I was writing the posts about my parents. I was afraid that it was going to take ages for me to do so, but looks like the Universe is helping me, yet again.

I love my friends, no, I adore my friends. I’ve actually written a short post about the friendships in my life, but now I want to put the spotlight on them. Little by little, I am going to talk about each of them, but I just need the inspiration to do so, in order to create the perfect posts. Because they deserve the best.

When I saw this question, my mind immediately went to my two best friends. Yes, I’m a lucky bitch and I have not one, but two best friends.

Lavi, well, just saying her name makes my heart full. We met when we were eleven years old, starting middle school. After the first few weeks, we became desk mates and continued to be so for the next four years. When I say Lavi I say growing up together, teenage years, handmade jewelry, movies, punk music, talking on the landline for hours, her coming over and we just laughing our hearts out.

Even though during high school we weren’t colleagues anymore, our connection and our friendship didn’t suffer. On the contrary, it grew. So, when college began, we became roommates. Just imagine: four girls, a tiny room, no personal space and a lot of ego. We fought a lot, but we compensated it with laughters, we argued a lot, but we compensated it with support, talks and the general feeling that, whatever one of us does, the other will understand and, when necessary, forgive.

Lavi has been, for the past nineteen years, the person with whom I can speak about anything. There are no boundaries, there is no shame, there are no restraints. It’s a very freeing way to communicate and I am forever grateful that she is a part of my life. Lavi is courageously feminine, faithful, extremely funny, she gets my references and she doesn’t have a problem with telling me when I’m wrong. I’m sure there are loads more compliments I can give her, but why do that when I can simply say this: she’s home. She is my chosen sister and, with that, I think I’ve said it all.

My other best friend surprised me a lot. When we first met, I tought he was one of the most annoying people in my group. Starting college, I didn’t feel like I belonged and I said to myself that I’m just gonna stick with my high school friends, thank God I have them.

Then along came George, the, at first, annoying one. If you were to ask me in the first days after meeting him if we were to ever become friends, I would have said no way José. Then, a small gesture made simultaneously by both of us, as a sarcastic joke, during an anatomy lecture, was the signal that we have the same sense of humor and maybe, just maybe, we can start up a conversation.

I thank the Universe each day for that “fingers crossed” sign we both did. Because my, oh my, do we get along. I can’t count all the times we lost our breath from laugher or the times that, with just one look, we understood each other perfectly. George is a nurturer by definition. When I’m with him, I know that I will be taken care of. He is the most generous, caring and supportive person in my life. He makes me feel safe.

Opposite to his nurturing and comfy qualities, he is the most courageous and adventurous of all my friends. I have learned a lot from him: from saying yes more often to ditching that class just for the fun of it, from making it on your own to being so bravely yourself, George is an example. A fun and always surprising example. If I were to invent a motto, I guess it would be “What would George do?” or “Be like George!”.

He has taught me that it’s ok to not do everything by the book, that it’s fine to be different, that it’s absolutely safe to break the rules and that, by all means, there are no rules. He is home and adventure all wrapped up in a very, very, very funny guy.

They make me think that maybe I did something right in this life for deserving such amazing best friends. Of course both Lavi and George have flaws, but so do I. Of course they are, from time to time, annoying. But so am I. The beauty is that we have accepted each other’s flaws and decided that we can tolerate the not so fun part for the oh-so-amazing-to-have-you-as-my-best-friend part.

What is the legacy you want to leave behind?

If I were to answer this question ten years ago, I would have chosen, by all means, the legacy of being a well known doctor. Better said, the legacy of acknowledgment. Where did this come from? Well, from my egotistical need of being accepted and, even more, praised. Hip hip hooray and Magna cum laude and all that shit. I learned and I learned and I learned, thinking that being in the top of my class equals an excellent life.

Having chosen a medical area that doesn’t really save lives or treat the untreatable, my ego soon understood that legacy by profession was not an option. Regarding the relationship between good grades and a good life, even though I was always in the top ten of my year, depression, dissatisfaction and criticism never failed to creep up when I least expected them.

Time passed and, when my multiple sclerosis started acting up, my ego did too. I so desperately wanted to prove to the medical world and to my parents that I can cure this with alternative methods, that I almost ended up in a wheelchair. Maria 0, my ego 2. I was so mesmerized with the idea of becoming the first ever MS pacient to cure herself, I was so drunk on the idea of proving my mom wrong and forcing her to admit, for once, that I was right, that I lost sight of how my body was reacting. I was slowly, but surely sacrificing my well-being for the sake of my ego.

Hopefully, I feel that I am starting to learn my lessons. I am detaching myself from the illusions my ego painted for me. The idea of being a famous doctor is, thankfully, just a memory. I still struggle with forcing my mom to admit when I’m right, but what would life be without some challenges along the way, right?

Now that life has so brutally shown me what I didn’t want to learn the easy way, my answer is oh, so very, very different. Being inspired by the band fun. and their lyrics “If you’re lost and alone, or you’re sinkin’ like a stone/
Carry on” I realized that the things I would like to leave behind are perseverance, will and strength. I would like to be remembered as someone who faced difficulties with a bit of dignity, a bit of power and a lot of faith. Because, at the end of the day, this life is all we have. And we should fight for it as long as we can breathe.

That was the masculine, pragmatic part of me speaking. As for the feminine one, my answer has to be joy, awe and love. I find that happiness is sometimes so unattainable and fleeting, that you realize you were happy only after it has passed. Happiness has a dose of nostalgia to it, if you were to ask me. Joy, on the other hand, is more of a sensation than a feeling. Joy is a state of being, maybe more palpable than happiness. I would like to be remembered as a joyous woman, able to love life and live it very present, as to be able to be in awe of its magic.

But, most of all, I think I would like to leave behind the idea of kindness. Kindness towards others, but, most of all, kindness towards oneself. I have been my harshest critic, my own worst enemy and every day I learn what and how to forgive myself for my mistakes and how to be kinder, gentler and more loving.

As I previewed the post I realized that the beauty of all I want to leave as a legacy would be if I could manage to find the balance, the ideal dosage of feminine and masculine, of yin and yang, of dark and light. To be the silent warrior, to be the joyous soldier, to be the gentle general. Oh, I thinks that’s the key to a well lived life: the ups and downs, the joys and the sorrows, the laughs and the cries, all faced with love and acceptance.

As soon as I finished the post about my mother, I felt the guilt for not having one about my father. I asked the Universe for inspiration. As always, the Universe did not disappoint.

As we were all in the car, listening to music from a playlist I made for last year’s holiday, inspiration hit me. In the form of Adriano Celentano and his unmistakable voice. Whenever I listen to his songs I think of my dad. Only today did I realize that I associate him with music, amongst other artsy stuff. Let’s be clear. My father is an engineer, no artist whatsoever. But he is the most knowledgeable person I know.

As a kid, he used to put on a vinyl with classical music and we used to dance. I remember to this day how we danced on Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights and how he explained the visuals Vivaldi was trying to describe with tunes in The Four Seasons. During the summer holidays, we used to play with my dolls, he made figurines out of play dough, we made up a living room football competition and when he took me to his workplace I used to feel like a star.

Another fond memory of mine is when he picked me up from piano lessons. We strolled through the city center, he would buy me a donut or a pretzel and then we would go to the antique bookstore and get some books. Ah, books. My father’s greatest love story is with them. He taught me how to appreciate them, how to choose them, how to take care of them and how to love them. For many years, he used to read me bedtime stories or poems. It was our routine during primary school and I loved it.

As I got older, my artistic education continued. With every holiday and every roadtrip, I discovered a new musician. From Tom Jones to The Beatles, from Eric Clapton to Adriano Celentano, from Salvatore Adamo to Jacques Brel, from Edith Piaf to Dalida, I could recognize them all and sing along, even if I didn’t speak the language they were singing in. So, classical music, check, books, check, foreign musicians, check. What’s next?

Well, movies, my greatest love story. Each high school summer holiday evening was filled with movies suggested and downloaded by my dad. From Natural Born Killers to Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, from Star Wars to The Godfather, from Bonnie and Clyde to The Usual Suspects, I’ve seen them all thanks to him. To this day, he downloads and sorts movies and TV series, he has external hard disks full of them, sorted alphabetically and according to the year they were launched in.

To this day I love the smell of cigarettes because of my dad. It gives me a sense of comfort, of security, that I associate with him. He used to help me with my maths homework and whenever he would take a break to smoke, his hands would smell of cigarettes. I loved that, still do.

As I grew up, I started to notice his flaws. My knight in shining armor was knight no more. He was just a man. A nervous man, an immature man, an unpractical man, a scared man, an introverted man. Nonetheless, there has never been anything I wanted or I asked him to do that he didn’t do. Even if that ment facing his fears or being annoyed or doing something unusual, he did it. Every time, no exception.

He is my greatest supporter, my biggest fan and one of the people in my life who understands me the best. Joking with him, discussing movies and listening to him talk about history and literature are one of the greatest joys of my life. He taught me that someone who’s not perfect can be loved to bits. Because I do love him to bits. Even when he drives me crazy.

Share a story about someone who had a positive impact on your life.

Fortunately, I am surrounded by people who have had a positive impact on my life. I only wish that, as my blog grows, I will be able to dedicate at least one post to each one of them. But, as cliché at it may seem, the first person I taught of when seeing this prompt was my mother.

There is no person in my life I have fought with more, I have yelled at more or I have blamed more than my mother. She has been the recipient of my worst words, the witness of my worst decisions and the endurer of my worst moods. I have selfishly used her as a garbage can for all the filth in my life. For that I am sorry and I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself.

On the other hand, there is no person in my life who has done more for me than my mother. She made me dresses and cakes for my birthdays, she took me to Disneyland when I was eight years old, she bought me everything I ever wanted and she showed me how to find a solution to every situation.

As a kid, I remember being sort of afraid of her. Being herself raised by a very strict father, she was quite strict with me too. Having the opposite example of my father and maternal grandmother, who spoiled me and who fulfilled all my wishes, my mother’s more severe tone was like a cold shower. We have different love languages. As she wasn’t used to being praised or excessively complimented, she didn’t know how to do that.

As a teenager, I did what every teenager does. I rebelled, I yelled and I fought with her. Nothing too dramatic like running away from home or being found in a ditch unconscious, just your usual, run-of-the-mill teenage behavior. It seemed cool not to get along with your mother, it seemed fun to gossip with my friends about how absurd and annoying our parents were. So we did.

As a college student, I forbade my mother to ever call me, unless it was an emergency. That’s because in the first months of uni she called me once when I didn’t have my phone with me and she got very agitated when I didn’t answer, so she started calling my roommates. Maybe because I was ashamed, maybe because I didn’t want to scare her, maybe just to mark my independence, I came up with this interdiction. So, for nine years, as long as we weren’t in the same city, I was the only one who called.

Sometimes once a week, other times more often and during the exam sessions, daily. But she always answered. And she always listened. During my first ever exam session, I called her in the middle of the night just to cry and tell her that I couldn’t sleep from the stress. I called or sent a message after each exam. So, you can say, I kinda selfishly used her.

After I moved back home, it got intense. As my physical condition got worse and worse, she checked in more often. As I wasn’t used to this closeness, I felt entrapped, rather than feeling taken care of. I felt controlled, rather than understanding that this was her way of showing her love. Even though I told her that I hated her, that I wanted to be anywhere but there with her, that I don’t want to see her and almost kicked her out of the house, she stayed. She never cried in front of me, even when she had to bring a wheelchair so she can take me to the doctor’s office.

I am alive today because of her. She never gave up on me, even when I gave up on myself. She never stopped loving me, even when I did. She is the bravest and strongest woman I know. The fact that today I am able to walk is because of her. The fact that today I am here, alive and writing these words is because of her. She picked me up from the hell I put myself in, she dusted me off and she gave me wings. If that isn’t a testament of mother’s love, I don’t know what is…

What does freedom mean to you?

When I opened the app to check how the blog is doing, my eyes were immediately drawn to this question. Although the option was there from the start of my blogging adventure, the option to answer a random given question I mean, it never caught my eye. But when I saw this, my heart started aching. Why? Because I haven’t felt free in quite a while. 2020, as unusual as this may be, was the last time I felt like I am the master of my own destiny.

During lockdown I used to go for long walks in the park, listening to music or podcasts, I cleaned the house when I felt like it, I ate when I was hungry, I watched a lot of TV series and I danced alone in my apartment. I was alone, as alone as I ever had been, but it was truly wonderful. Of course, if you had asked me during that period if I feel free, I would have probably said no. Influenced by mass media and by the fear surrounding all the events, I felt captive and restricted. Little did I now…

Trying now to answer the question at hand, maybe this is a starting point. I feel free when I am alone. No schedule to stick to, no other preferences to satisfy, no expectations to fulfill, no needs to cater. Being by myself and doing stuff alone is a great manifestation of freedom. Maybe this idea is now more activated in my mind because it has been a while since I’ve done something outside the house all by myself. It’s been a while since I’ve visited a city all by myself. It’s been a while since I’ve went on an adventure.

Related to traveling, another manifestation of freedom has to be driving. Nothing really beats the feeling of changing the gear, the rush I get when I feel the power of my car, the sense of endless possibilities that driving a car gives me. I love my red car and I adore driving it. It makes me feel mature, safe, brave and free.

Since some of these activities have been harder to do, I was forced to find freedom in other ones. I still remember the taste of a chocolate pretzel I ate last year, the first time I had the courage to take the bus by myself and go in the city center for a stroll. I stil remember how I cried with joy the first time I took out the trash by myself. I still remember how it felt to go to the supermarket by myself after months of my mother being my personal delivery service.

So, yes, now freedom is in the small stuff, the small victories, the buying cat food by myself, the going to the park for a stroll, the managing to pick something up or do a squat without being afraid I’ll fall. But, most of all, freedom is in this blog. My life and the shit that happened forced me to start doing something that I should have been doing long time ago. Talk and write and express myself and compose and create and feel.

When I first heard that Jules Verne never left his home town, but managed to write some of the most amazing adventure books for children, I thought that he was a loser. Now, I start to understand that freedom is a feeling, not necessarily an ability to do stuff. Some people are captive in the wilderness and others are free in a cage. It’s a matter of perspective.

What does freedom mean to me? Well, some days it’s getting out of bed, other days it’s eating a pretzel. Some days it’s going for a walk around my block, other days it’s driving to the supermarket. Some days it’s binging on a TV show, other days it’s seeing my friends. What do these activities have in common? That I’m alive and able to do them. So, freedom is life and health. Freedom is love and possibility. Freedom is alone or together. Freedom is the chance to choose and the courage to act on that choice.

Even though it may not seem so, the fact that I haven’t posted something in a while is very therapeutic and healing for me. Why? Because it teaches me how to say no. To myself, to my ego, to my pride, to my stubbornness, to my perfectionism, to my schedule loving self and to my mind.

I started this blog because I love writing and because it helps me. As soon as my friends had send some kind, appreciative words after reading my posts, my ego activated itself. What if I become famous? What if I can make a living out of this? What if this is my true meaning? What if I get noticed? What if they love me?

So, even though I made a promise that I wasn’t going to force myself to write when I don’t feel like it, the ego part of me kept saying that “consistency is key” and blamed me for not being consistently inspired. It was and still to this day is the story of my life: not being able to say no.

What triggered this realization, you might ask? I saw a snippet of an interview with Gabor Maté where he said that people with autoimmune diseases and malignities have in common the fact that they cannot say no, so their bodies say it for them. Even though I had read his book When the body says no and I had related to many of his stories, something about hearing him say that phrase out loud triggered me. I started crying because it was true.

Do you like that? Yes. Do you want to do that? Yes. Can you help me? Yes. Can you de that sooner? Yes. Do you like me? Yes. Do you want to become a doctor? Yes. Can you do one more? Yes. Can you push yourself just a bit more? Yes. Do you wanna go with me? Yes. Do you want to stay with me? Yes. Did you do your homework? Yes. Are you happy? Yes. Are you consistent? Yes.

Never saying no, never pausing, never implementing boundaries, never being myself, never stating my ground, never being late, never not learning or being at the top of my class, never not showing up and never saying fuck it. That’s until my body started saying it for me.

Thank you, body, for the rough way of showing me what needs to change. Thank you for teaching me that saying no doesn’t make me unlovable, it just makes me human. Thank you for forcing me to say no just so I can see that what happens after is that life just goes on. We are too small of a grain of sand in the beach so that one no could change it indefinitely or destroy it.

So that’s why sometimes it takes me longer to post. The in between is the therapy. The post is just the realization. The in between is the battle. The post is the victory. The in between is the work. The post is the inspiration. The in between is life. The post is the celebration.

For the past eight years I’ve been trying to figure out and understand why I am sick.

My initial feelings were pretty much absent to the naked eye. I am not one to show my emotions off to the world, I’m quite the introvert and the masks that I used to wear in front of everybody could easily be summarized under the title “I’m fine” (insert the Ross squeaky voice if you want to amuse yourself). I never ever said no, I never ever truly complained, I never ran away from home, I never told the boy who broke my heart to fuck off, I never told one of my teenage closest friends that she’s a cunt, I never rebelled. I was the quiet kid, the smart girl, the obedient adolescent, the almost Magna cum Laude student and the introvert woman.

So, as you can imagine, at twenty one, when I heard of my illness, I cried for about a day and then I moved on. Everything was fine… but as Gabor Maté and basically all therapists would tell you, when your body says no, you should investigate. For the first few months after the diagnosis, nothing really triggered me to change or to examine the depths of the situation. I had heard of therapy and of how useful it was, but it didn’t really make sense to me. I had a perfect childhood, an ideal upbringing, all the gifts in the world, no physical aggression, no traumatic events. So, why do it?

Then, I got triggered. One of the nurses responsible with my treatment said some harmless words about my medication that made me have a small panic attack. So I started going to therapy and, for the first couple of sessions nothing really enticed me. I had no bad stories to tell, so why did I get sick? After eight years, I’m starting to figure it out.

Years ago I started talking to my illness. I called her Roza and I asked her to be friends and make peace. Because of obvious reasons, right? A friend would never harm you, while an enemy could easily do that. She was nice and calm and she left me alone for seven years. Last year, when things got a little bit rough, I started hating her and blaming her for every wrong decision and every awful thing that had ever happened to me. That’s not a friendly thing to do, right? I broke my promise and I betrayed our friendship.

Here comes the reason behind this post: it’s an apology towards Roza mixed with a love letter. So, my dear Roza, I’m sorry for hiding you from the world, I’m sorry for never talking about you and please forgive me for betraying you.

They say one can heal only when he stops benefiting from his illness. At first, I didn’t understand that and I felt it cannot apply to me. What benefits could I ever get from a debilitating disease? Well, Roza, you taught me how strong, brave and resilient I am. You made me feel vulnerable and show that off to the world. You made me learn to ask for help and accept it. You helped me get out of things I didn’t want to do when I didn’t have the courage to just say NO. You gave me a reason for being moody, depressed, angry or a bitch. You gave me permission to be a priority for others. You gave me a story to tell. You gave me a good enough motive to cancel plans. You showed me how much my family and friends love me. You showed me how much I hated myself. You showed me my shadows and my dark side, only to push me to see my gifts and my bright side. But, most of all, you made me feel special.

And, by God, that felt nice. I was and maybe still am intoxicated with that feeling. The special, brave girl that lives her life as normal. The one who overcame it all. The sick one who smiles. The debilitated one who doesn’t want special treatment. Like Harry Potter, I felt like the chosen one.

Well, my dear Roza, I say this with all my heart: let’s be friends again and please, if you have more lessons to teach me, do it gentler. I don’t need an illness to feel special, because I am. We all are. And why do we need to feel special? To be more worthy of love. Why do we need outside love? Because we suck at loving ourselves. We are so busy trying every method possible to be viewed as special, that we forget to consider ourselves special. I resorted to an illness. That’s my rose and the thorn stung me hard. That’s my addiction, my drug. What’s yours?

So the blues hit me again. Can you tell I’m a melancholic one? ‘Cause I sure can tell. My main thought for the past couple of weeks has been death. Not in the “I want to die” kind of department, but it seemed that everything I read or saw or heard of reminded me of the fragility of life.

In the music department, I’ve been obsessed with the lyrics of a couple of songs reminiscing of death. The Smiths have There Is a Light That Never Goes Out that so beautifully says:

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

And then there’s Death Cab for Cutie’s superbe lyrics that go:

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs
If there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I’ll follow you into the dark.

What a miracle music is, right? It can make even death sound good. These songs, I must admit, have a Romeo and Juliet vibe to it because of the idea of couples dying together. But that’s not quite doable, only if you live in The Notebook or in Amour. Even though I’m approaching my thirtieth birthday, something about meeting a person you’d die with still fascinates me. To love someone so much, that life without them is just pointless.

In the movie department, we need to talk about 1883. A prequel to the captivating Yellowstone series, this one season show depicts the journey of a family from Tennessee to Montana, in the 1880’s. It made me finally understand why the Wild West was called so. I always believed it was because of the flora and fauna, because of the deserts and mountains and rivers and snakes and coyotes and everything in between. But no, it was because of the people. Damn, they were wild and free. No guarantees of food or shelter or even the next day. Exhilarating and free this Wild Wild West! The main character, Elsa, had a life I kinda of envy. She lived a short one, but she managed to fill it with love, passion, freedom and courage. She faced death as we all should, smiling and at peace. We all strive for freedom but if we were to get it, many of us wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do with it. Elsa Dutton knew.

Yesterday I watched A Man Called Otto, a movie with Tom Hanks that is the American remake of the Swedish A Man Called Ove, adapted after the book with the same title by Fredrik Backman. Otto or Ove is a furious man, grieving the loss of his wife by bickering, yelling and insulting his neighbors. As his attempts to kill himself fail one after another, his protective walls fall as he lets his neighbors in and becomes friendlier and more vulnerable. A heart warming story about love, mourning, life and death.

In the book department, I just finished Genki Kawamura’s If Cats Disappeared From The World, the story of a young man facing death and the devil himself. For every thing he is willing to make disappear from the world, the devil grants him another day. A modern day Faust, you might say or a gentler and kinder The Devil’s Advocate. Nonetheless, a great read. As I felt reading Faust or The Master and Margarita, meeting the devil, even if it’s just in the pages of some books, is not an easy business. This character always has something sly and mysterious about him, even if he’s dressed in a suit or in a Hawaiian shirt.

An honorable mention has to be Meet Joe Black. Even though I haven’t seen it in a while, Brad Pitt as death itself is a match made in Heaven (pun intended). His charm, his looks, his mimic, his gestures, everything about Brad Pitt in this movie makes him the perfect death. He is so attractive and so intriguing, it is hard to say no. And Anthony Hopkins’ character has the perfect approach to dying as one might wish. Furious at first, nostalgic in the middle and at peace in the end.

After all these encounters with death, I realized that we are more afraid of pain and illness than of death itself. The death of our close ones will surely hurt us more than our own and, lastly, people are not afraid of dying, they are just afraid of not living.