Yesterday morning, I fainted… again. This happens once every few years. The symptoms/causes are usually similar. Last time, I was waiting in line at the school pharmacy. When I came to, there were several nurses and doctors from the student health center hovering over me. I remember one complimenting my purple flats, but mainly I was just embarrassed and my butt hurt from the fall.

This time, I was sitting. Yeah, it’s possible to faint while sitting.

When I hit the floor of the bathroom (I was on the toilet), Sean heard the noise and came in to help me.

“Cindy!” It sounded like he was yelling, I’m sure he wasn’t. His eyes were big and worried. I knew I had fainted, but I was confused why he was there. I had broken in to a cold sweat and my shirt felt damp. My head and knee hurt a bit from the fall.

It was a lucky coincidence that Sean was home. He’d left five minutes earlier to go the gym. Halfway down the block, he realized he’d forgotten his phone and returned. He came in, grabbed his phone and was almost out the door when he heard a loud thud in the bathroom.

When I was ready to go out of the bathroom, Sean helped me get back in to bed. I was still sweaty and dizzy. I immediately fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later. My head hurt, but it wasn’t horrible. My neck felt worse. I couldn’t tilt it nor turn much to the right. The dizziness and other symptoms went away after my nap, but I still felt very tired. I rested throughout the day, drank a lot of water and Gatorade, and took a short walk to get some fresh air.

I didn’t go to the doctor until this morning. She checked me out for a concussion and gave me a muscle relaxer for my neck. I was cleared on the concussion. We talked about why I fainted (stress, dehydration, cramps, gastrointestinal issues). I mentioned running a half marathon on Sunday. She didn’t think it was a good idea, and I didn’t argue.

My neck feels better today than yesterday, but I still don’t have full range of motion. I’m a little bummed about backing out of my first race, but only because of the race fee. I knew I was far from doing my best on Sunday, but would’ve still ran the race out of stubbornness. Now, my body is saying it needs more rest. I’ll listen.

At our first date, a Bird and the Bee concert, I asked Sean to be my fucking boyfriend. I was quoting a song by the band, but I meant it. He said yes.

We were official. That was two years ago.

A few days later, he returned to New York and we began 9 months of a long distance relationship. Now, we’re in the same city and planning a wedding. I like the changes.

On milestone anniversaries it’s almost impossible for me not to think about what I was doing or where I was at that same point just X years earlier. I wrote the following on September 11, 2002. The GM I refer to was a good friend and leader of the Muslim Student Association at UCLA at the time.

***

I cried this morning as I drove to work just as I did one year ago as I drove home in the morning from campus after working on a paper all night long. Except this time, I think I finally let myself grieve. I did it as I passed the cemetery where Grandma and Grandpa are buried. I felt so much pain and anger. I didn’t grieve only for those who lost their lives on September 11.

I grieved like GM did when he wrote this article last year in response to another in the Daily Bruin (October 10, 2001):

I end this submission with a response to Jones’s statement that I should join Jones in “howling for blood” in order prove my “Americanness.”

I condemn these attacks on innocent lives as I condemn all innocent lives being taken. I grieve for the daughters whose father was working on the 101st floor of the fallen building; my heart aches when I think how those passengers aboard those ill-fated flights must have felt before the horrendous impact; and my eyes lower in grief whenever I see a view of the New York skyline.

Yet this pain is not new for me or for many others around the world who have seen the same horror of innocent life being stolen away countless times around the world, whether it be in Sudan, East Timor, Chiapas, Bosnia, Nicaragua, Chechnya, the Phillippines, or in my homeland Iraq.

Excuse me, Jones, if I don’t “howl for blood” along with you, for I have already seen more innocent bloodshed than my eyes can bear to stand.

Last year, I bought the September issue of Latina magazine. I think I was really feeling down that day and just picked it up at the drug store.

Months later as I flipped through it, I found the calendar it had for the month of September, 2001. In the box for Tuesday the 11th was the following: a dove with an olive branch, and the words “International Day of Peace: Make peace with your suegra (mother in law)” [or something like that].

Que ironía.

Peace to all those who lost loved ones, peace to those in war ravaged countries, and peace to those who continue to suffer the brute force of US military intervention.

Paz. I’m off to listen to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” because it’s as fitting now as it was 30 years ago.

***

I remember staying with my friend Jonathan late in to the night. I was writing the final paper for my summer school class, research methods in sociology. Jonathan was writing a funding proposal so he could have a job. He didn’t stay until about 7 am like I did. I left at that point because parking in the school lot was no longer free. When I left the underground parking structure I could hear the radio without static. I was waiting at Sunset Blvd to head out to the freeway while the news came in. I was very confused, but by the time I was on the 405 south, I knew something was wrong. The freeway was eerily empty and I momentarily freaked. What if New York wasn’t the only city to be attacked? What if something happened in LA or elsewhere? When I got home, I turned on the TV. My roommates were just waking up and I told them what happened. We watched in horror as the planes crashed in to the two towers of the World Trade Center and then they collapsed.

I returned to work and class later. The bus was empty, so was campus. I chatted with my friend, Chris, while at work and he thought it would be safer if I stayed home. I told him I didn’t have a choice. In the afternoon, I went to class. My professor didn’t mention the attacks, but he said it was okay if we just turned in our papers and left. I don’t remember what I did.

The summer I turned 16 I crushed hard on a skinny Spanish boy with messy light brown hair and hazel eyes. Sergio was one of several students in a 4-week English language program. He stayed with a family from church like the other students.

My family hosted Iván, a 6-foot tall 16-year-old from Asturias in the north. Through the month of July we tried to help him work on his English skills. Sometimes it didn’t work and we’d end up making fun of the way he commanded us to quit teasing. “Eh-stop!” That just made us laugh more. When Iván returned to Asturias, he told us “te voy a hechar de menos” (I’ll miss you). I didn’t know what the phrase meant at the time, but now like it more than the more simple verb extrañar.

In the mornings, Iván, Sergio and their peers took English classes. In the afternoon they were free to hang out with their host families, go on beach trips, go to the mall or simply hang out in someone’s pool.

One afternoon after summer school, Danny borrowed my mom’s Durango and we drove Sergio and Iván to the Guitar Center in West Covina. Sergio wanted to buy a guitar. I jumped at the chance to go as I’d already decided that I sorta liked Sergio.

Danny drove down the streets playing KROQ just loud enough for us to hear the music but now drown out the conversation. I sat in the back seat and stared out the window at car dealerships, banks and fast food restaurants. One song ended and the next began. Without thinking, I sang along to Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Soul to Squeeze”.

I noticed Sergio singing too.

Where I go I just don’t know
I might end up somewhere in Mexico
When I find my peace of mind
I’m gonna keep you ’til the end of time

He caught our simultaneous sing along and smiled at me. I blushed like the smitten almost-16 year old I was.

When I got home, I called my friend Janine (she was hosting a Spanish student too) and told her all about how I was sure Sergio smiled at me and our mutual like of a hit single by one of the most popular bands of the day meant something. My crush intensified.

I spent the next few weeks making up excuses to go to Janine’s house (she lived near Sergio’s host family) or Sergio’s host family. It soon became clear Sergio wasn’t interested in me. He just wanted to play his guitar. Plus, he smoked.

My crush was over faster than a monarch’s lifespan.

At the end of July, Sergio, Iván and the rest of the exchange students returned to Spain. I continued my ho-hum summer of band practice, summer school and babysitting.

Fifteen years after the moment with Sergio, “Soul to Squeeze” was the first song that came to mind when I thought of summer music memories.