Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Truth About Unemployment and the Grieving Process


I find that I’m a bit confused as to what to do with myself these days.  This unemployment has lasted way too long and while I’ve diligently at sending resumes out every single blessed day, the struggle has been a soul-destroying one.  You think I’m being dramatic?  Actually, and for a change, I am not. 

I do believe that being laid off is akin to any sort of major loss one goes through.  You also move through the 7 stages of grief that is akin to the death of someone close.  I know those words are ruffling a few feathers out there even as you read them.  Of course I understand that losing a loved one is so very final while unemployment does not need to be (often it isn’t unless you’re just straight up lazy or have the worst luck ever).  Naturally a life is far more precious than something as almost trivial as a job, I know this and I am not attempting to be a jerk by comparing the two in that sense but rather my aim is to establish a close parallel.  Stop calling me an insensitive jackass in your head.  Just indulge me and read on, okay?  I swear you’ll come out of this read not hating me.

For those who do not remember where this started, 2 years and some change months ago I was called into HR and basically given my walking papers with the label of “layoff” attached to it, including a small compensation package.  Sounds really so much nicer than being fired though – “layoff”, right?  Feels no different, rather almost a bit more insulting because in order to get fired you had to participate in the eventuality in some way but with a layoff you have zero responsibility and often zero clue. 

It was exactly at 3pm.  Why does everything funky have to happen around 3 pm (or am doesn’t seem to matter much)?  And that day this news hit me like a full on Mack truck totally out of control and coming at me 150 mph.  The appropriate description of what it left behind would be ‘flattened”.  I’ve written another blog about what precisely that day had been like for me so I’m not going to be redundant and rewrite the whole thing but if you require appropriate reference to the event then you can find the direct link -> here.

I thought the bounce back surely wouldn’t be so difficult.  I was wrong.  Oh, so wrong.  The fact that I was grieving wasn’t completely evident immediately.  People got fired/laid off all the time, big deal?  I was tough as nails and unemployment wouldn’t fell me.  Again, so wrong and so arrogant a mindset, almost as if I were better than others in dealing with something that was relatively common. 

In retrospect I can say that I turned out to be as delicate and as human as just about anyone else in the world.  Go figure.  And in the interim realized that those prior referenced 7 stages of grief aptly reflected the emotions I was suffering.  In researching the grief stages I found that, naturally, different organizations defined them also differently or had some of these categories mushed together and added a few new ones.  Generally speaking the one I’m referencing is simplistic and best describes my journey. 

Stage 1 – Shock

I never saw it coming.  I honestly didn’t.  One minute I was happily employed secure in the knowledge that I was doing a kickass job and the next second I sat in that HR office with my mouth dropped open just inviting flies to enter.  In fact, so great was my shock that the HR dudette gazed at me for a second and said in a slightly bemused voice, “you had no clue, did you?”

No lady, no I didn’t. 

That first second left me truly breathless.  And I remained thus for longer than I probably am willing to admit.

Stage 2 – Denial

During those first moments in the office as I was being axed with assurances of how quickly I would get right back into the saddle, my brain was screaming its disbelief and more importantly – denial.  My brain simply shut down as I went through the process of gathering together personal items and being ‘escorted’ out of the offices like a damn thief to jail clutching my purse, a vase and weirdly enough a collapsible mouse that I treasured.  Once home, I sat on the sofa and refusing to let my brain turn itself back on.  I didn’t want to think.  Thinking would be a bad, bad thing or so I told myself.  The following weeks I kept the news to myself for the most part.  Sure, closest family members had been told in shocked whispers (not by me, rather amongst themselves; I believe I sounded like a zombie when I finally told my mom) but the vast majority of friends/acquaintances had no clue.  As word got around, I started to receive sympathetic texts which were promptly ignored and if I did bother to answer them the response was, ‘no worries, I’m good’.  This became a standard response.  I wasn’t good at all. 

That very first Monday after the layoff I got up for ‘work’, accomplished the rituals of my morning, went down stairs to gather keys to head out and stopped dead.  I had nowhere to go.  The tears wanted to flow but I refused.  Surely I wasn’t without employment, not I.  And not from a place I had loved so much.  If I denied it, it didn’t happen, right? 

Stage 3 – Anger

My mother’s side of the family was/is famous for their quick tempers and flaring anger.  Having been witness to it far too many times, and not liking the fall-out one bit, from an early age I had trained myself to not give into any initial feelings of anger nor react in anger.  This conditioning had thus saved me many a horrid moment to live through and very few regrets.  I’m not saying I’ve mastered the art, not by a long shot.  I often give into annoyance, irritation, aggravation, fury…but they are few and far in-between events.   

And while this probably is a good skill to hone generally speaking, the downside was/is also that often you fail to identify the emotion totally.  For days/weeks/months after the total cut, there was a bizarre barely contained energy within me that went ignored but it was channeled and revealed in other ways such as aggressively chopping onions, snapping at folks over the smallest comments, positive or negative, and the ever present perm-scowl that seemed to have taken residence upon my lips.  Oh, then there was also a constant shimmer of tears - so lovely. 

When friends would dare to ask me directly whether I was angry or not, I would adamantly deny it, rather lauding the company that had so heartlessly let me go, all the while knowing that they had done dirty to me.  While everyone praised me for being so ‘mature’ I seethed inside.  I wanted to break something.  I wanted to scream out the venom like a howler monkey.  I didn’t.  Instead I chose to internalize all that rage while terrorizing those who were concerned for me.  I was also definitely not doing anything good for my mental health either.  Nonetheless the fear was that I would give into all the emotions boiling inside of me and I would just come apart at the seams, never being able to get it back together ever again.  I couldn’t afford to do that.

Eventually though, the dam broke in the worst way possible one fine day, the experience completely dramatic and movie-like, I admit.  I was taking one of the long drives that helped me clear my brain when some douchebag cut me off on the interstate.  I swerved sharply, almost going into a medium but luckily enough, and thanks to mad cat-like driving skills, I came back straight without any incident other than a rise in internal body temperature.  The asshole in the offending car drove off without a thought to the havoc his move had almost caused but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.  I took off after him, hitting ridiculously high speeds in an area that was sure to reward me with a fine or a court date for the effort, no matter how justified I thought I was.  Should I have slowed the hell down?  Of course.  No one has any business to drive like that anywhere other than a race track but the smoke that was coming out of both ears wouldn’t allow rational thought.  A red haze had dropped directly in front of my eyes, which were narrowed and glared solely at the Beamer (of course) as my car ate the distance between the two vehicles.  The speedometer was steadily climbing.  I weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac until I almost reached the offender and then without warning the car was gone, having taken the exit that I hadn’t noted in my fury.  And that was it.  The moment.

Anger, fury…all poured out of me.  I pulled over in a truck stop and screamed it all out, leaving my throat to ache and be hoarse for days.  What about that event had broken me so?  I guess it was that once again I had been subjected to a thoughtless action that (in this case) could have ruined my life.  The other person had walked away unscathed, uncaring of the fall-out.  It so mirrored, I suppose, what had happened with the job but thanks to my denial I hadn’t allowed myself to really be angry.  Yes, I embraced the betrayal at that moment and after that, since then, I’ve let this emotion color my words a bit more, just not viciously. 

Anger = check.

Step 4 – Bargaining

I don’t think I had much to bargain with because during life crisis situations of the past, when I promised this, that and the other in exchange for what my heart so desired, even if I got it I failed to see through my portion of the agreement.  I mean I knew I wasn’t going to give up some major essential thing in my life just so I could get accepted into a program that I really, really wanted to attend.  I failed all on my own plenty of times, I didn’t need to add to it by just purely setting myself up like that.  Still I did go through this to some degree during the last 2 years, however, I just made sure whatever I promised, it would be something I could do or a promise I could keep.  Thus far nothing has worked out which is fine because I really, really don’t want to cut back on coffee. 

Stage 5 – Depression

Probably the longest lasting stage, definitely the hardest to deal with by far as well.  One doesn’t always identify depression right away.  It can manifest in so many ways and for those like me who are stubborn to the core, even accepting that you could be suffering from it is a fairly tough thing to do.  Mine showed in various forms from becoming quiet and never speaking about what was happening inside my brain but needing to escape the house hence long, long drives in any direction for hours to clear my head.  It never worked, the head never cleared.  Rather it was all shut out (yet again) as the eyes took in everything, the brain functioned on autopilot but feelings were all ignored, reality was rejected. 

Depression was, and still is, inevitable.  I do not disregard it any longer though.  I figured it out, that it existed within while I tried terribly hard to fight it although I also succumb to it nevertheless.  The ugly truth is that It weighs you down, your limbs become heavy, your mind sluggish and everything, I mean absolutely everything, that you look at is blurred around the edges. Well-meaning words of encouragement and comfort mean less than zero, the fallout often a retreat even further into that dark box that somehow lends more comfort because you can control what is in that dark space.  Light reveals way too much of your failure and you become paralyzed to know how to move forward, how to actually succeed because all you know is your own perceived failures.

This is depression for me to this day while for others it is different.  In fact, there is no standard way of behaving, no pattern to follow which makes it so much harder to even deal with it.  It’s an intensely lonely place of your own making that you walk through and while some seek comfort in similarity with another human being who could be moving through the same head space, some have no wish to think, much less talk. 

Yes, depression still very much lingers with me to-date even as I go through all the other emotions as well.  I think this is the one that has impacted me the hardest and will be my companion for the foreseeable future until that day I walk into a new job that gives me back my identify and purpose of waking up.  Not a fun fact, but a fact nonetheless.

Stage 6 – Testing

This one confused my delicate little cranium when I first read it.  Testing what?  Life?  The waters?  A hot cup of soup?  Coffee temperature?  Well of course none of that made sense so I had to look at the definition associated with it carefully.  “Seeking realistic solutions”.  Hmmm…okay I get it.

I certainly did a lot of this.  I ran the gamut of possibilities which included *bleh* going back to what I was doing.  Now here’s a thing, I hated what I used to do, not for the job itself, rather because there was little to no appreciation for the profession nor the person who is often an integral part of a team that most likely couldn’t function without this particular skill set, well at least not with ease.   To go back to that would have ultimately meant taking a gigantic step back in time.  For one who doesn’t dwell in history other than learning from it, I had and have no wish to do such a thing.  I will however consider it when things are just that bad, I’m not totally stupid either.

For the record, I did eventually find a path that I’m currently on.  Hoping that it would lead me to quick employment, I’ve been yet again mistaken as well as a healthy dose of frustration that’s accompanied even this new adventure because I have not been able to snag anything.  *sigh* I’m grappling, not well, not always, but grappling.

Stage 7 – Finding a Way Forward

This is where I am currently, well this and depression.  I’ve found one but I have yet to get there totally.

Here are some final thoughts: You know, folks, I’m standing on a bizarre precipice which is a sort of in-between holding a breath and expelling said breath.  That may make little to no sense but for those who get it, will get it.  Inevitably I have withdrawn from a lot of the things I would have done, did do, yet some part of my brain tells me that I don’t have the right to indulge in the little happiness of life when I am not a contributing member of society. 

You know what it is?  A strong sense of guilt.  I shouldn’t be like this.  I have no right.  I had everything given to me, the tools, to be successful.  I have education.  I have experience.  I have connections and a rep, so…so why me?  Why did this happen to me when I did what I had to do and did it damn well to boot?  I know I’m not a bad person, nor did I deserve it nor that I was targeted for any specific reason (that I know).  I know this, even intellectualize it but convincing my heart is a totally different story.  Real talk is that this unemployment has defined me as the very person I am somehow in my head and it’s not a good person at all.  I have no anchor, no purpose, no reason for being.  I cannot make eye contact when talking about the state of things, I am ashamed, I feel worse than useless.  I can’t stop thinking this way even if you try to yell at me to stop it (incidentally, totally the wrong approach to be honest).  It’s not true, of course but I can’t stop the demons that whispers this to me at the oddest most unwelcome moments.  And no matter how much I try to muffle those voices, gag them and shove them into the darkest recesses of the minds closet, they are so wily, finding ways of escaping only to taunt me.  Now they too are a part of my every day, like sending out resumes and waking up with a stone upon my heart, trying to find reason to draw courage and just take a step, any sort of step ahead.

Well there you go, that’s my explanation that I had promised to give you as to losing someone close vs losing a job and the accompanying grief.  Again, I submit that they are not the same thing by virtue of nature that one involves another life and one a job, but yet in the world we live in today, isn’t our job our lives?  Sure it shouldn’t be but I do not live in Utopia.  The emotions can be comparable, I believe, maybe to a lesser extent on some level and greater in another.  I’ve suffered some deep losses in my life so I am no stranger to it at all but this is my personal struggle that I feel, every single blessed agony filled day. 

What I suggest though to you, my dearest reader, are a few ‘do’s and don’ts’ if you happen to know someone who is moving through extended unemployment like I am and wish to help.  Do be sensitive to their plight.  It is real.  Don’t treat it as if it is not a big deal and they’ll get something tomorrow, everyone does!  No, they don’t.  If they could, they would have.  Don’t spew facts at them, they know them.  Don’t also start to throw random ideas about what they could be doing instead.  That so doesn’t help at all because anything you could have thought about, they probably already considered.  If there is something unique that you would like to propose, then do see if they are open to hear it, don’t just go blabbering and do make sure it’s relevant to what they want to do and not to what you think they should be doing.  Do talk to them if they are open to it about how it’s okay to mourn the loss of their job/career.  Do let them know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and do try to draw them back into life if they should wish as well.  Don’t auto-assume that ignoring it is better, it’s not but don’t constantly linger on it because they will feel the pity.  Don’t go on and on about your own adventures into a 3-week or 3-month unemployment because that also doesn’t do anything other than them feeling even crappier about themselves.  Do give them space when required but more importantly do understand that they are worth something, whether they believe it or not. 

Friday, October 20, 2017

Lost Memory of the Best Chai Ever


You know what I realized?  Blogging has become difficult for me simply because I don’t know what to discuss.  I mean, I know what I can write about such topics as social injustices of the world or even politics (which lately has a close tie in with injustices) or even something that’s pissing me off (typically speaking that’s always connected to the Orange-Menace aka the US POTUS *barf*) but I start to type it all out and then somewhere along the way I think of the thousands of blogs being published that probably are the exact same and I quite abruptly lose my mojo.  What’s the point in saying the same thing nearly everyone else is and probably doing it better than myself?  Instead of that happening, I’ve just avoided the whole blog thing only logging back on occasion to gaze wistfully at it thinking, “but I have so much potential”.  Then I had a sort of breakthrough.  Let me explain how that happened. 
Three days ago dawned bright and cold.  On FB I spied a private message sent to me by my girl “A” bemoaning her foray into chai making and how precisely abysmal it was.  Asking her how something so simple could have gone that wrong, she listed the ingredients that had been used.  My innards cringed.  Even as she swore she wasn’t ‘basic’ and wailing out her everlasting love of chai, my head didn’t stop spinning as to how anyone (namely the chick who posted the recipe) could take something so damn easy and complicate the hell out of it.  Almost horrified, I tapped out a quick message saying I would definitely give her an easy recipe on how to accomplish said brew without a mess of additional ingredients and it would be authentic to boot.  Her enthusiasm was palpable as we jumped onto the phone and started to chat/catch-up. 
After the good deed for the day was done, I recalled a story connected with chai and repeated it to her.  Upon completion I heard no snores, which I took as a good thing and quickly realized that instead she had actually enjoyed this memory.  It was then when I thought, “I should really write this shiz down in my blog”.  In the past it had always been these random memories that I enjoyed the most in sharing.  Why not then this one? 
Chai (the literal meaning of the word is ‘tea’ so when you say Chai tea, your ass is just being redundant so stop it, right now.  What these marketing wizards should encourage you to say is ‘masala chai’ which is the mcnasty crap that Oprah has pimped out on you…FYI it’s not even slightly legit) is a way of life for a lot of South Asians.  We begin and end (including all minutes in-between) the day with the strong, milky, sweet brew.  It’s thick and when made right coats your tongue in a sublime manner that transports you to some Zen place and all you need is a small cup (and no therapy) to be totally satisfied although rarely is that enough because with chai we SA’s are insatiable.  I’ve had some great cups of chai in my life but none of it has ever compared to the brew I had in India that night so long ago.
At about the age of 17, I went to visit my dad’s eldest sister and her family in Berhampur, India with my mom.  We had to take a 7-hour break neck bus ride which we caught at the crack of dawn in Calcutta proper near the train station.  The bus didn’t have AC and it was about 1000 degrees outside. During this monumental drive it was brought home to me that Indians really did take their love for bovines quite seriously and the whole concept of ‘break for cows’ was no joke, not humans, just cows.  And the drivers were uber patient about it too, waiting without honking as the lowing creatures (often in gaggles, sometimes singular) would amble in front of traffic or take a seat on the hot asphalt as if that were their homes and we were indeed the ones trespassing.  There would be a little boy who would hop off the bus every now and then and shoo a particularly stubborn brown hulking mass off the street and off we would go until the next jarring breaks would be applied.  It was all quite eventful and I was fairly sure we would die in a twisted crash with the cow coming out untouched.  The ride was thus endless in my estimation.
Berhampur, with the Ganga (Ganges) running through it, hugs the coast of the Bay of Bengal.  It’s a surprisingly bustling little town, my aunt (along with her husband, 5 daughters and 2 sons) lived in a sprawling old flat that had belonged in my father’s family for as long as he could remember.  Their home had a bunch of rooms that created a big ‘U’ shape while in the middle was the open court yard.  There too was located the separate outdoor kitchen, the outhouse and the bathing house.  There was also a water pump that I used liberally but that’s another story for another time. 
My cousins and I would climb the steep stairs to my aunt’s tailor shop (located on the 2nd floor) to sit in the narrow balcony and talk about old folklore or to giggle and share insight into one another’s lives since we had never met before and had a lot of quality gossiping to do.  Sometimes, we would keep climbing and head to the roof to sprawl out on a large wicker mat in order to snatch only slightly cool breezes in the evenings, particularly when the load shedding would begin.    Usually these moments were with the female cousins but one night the two male cousins demanded that we forgo our trek up to the roof and instead accompany them.
It was close to 10 pm when we set off, the party also including Phoopi (dad’s sister) and Ammu (my mom).  Slowly we meandered the lit streets of the quiet town, weaving through narrow side alleys which seemed perfectly okay to do though I was somewhat aware that it had the potential of being a foolish move considering that muggings weren’t exactly unheard of even when involving such a large party.  I figured the muggers were tired and at home themselves.  But I was young and excited so of course invincible hence I threw caution to the wind and didn’t utter a word of warning.  My brothers (aka cousins) wouldn’t reveal where we were headed, not that I cared.  I was having far too much fun just taking it all in including the smells of the town.  The tantalizing aromas of a 1000 dinners gently chased after us as we played a game of “identify the food”.  The weak lights overhead guided our way.
Funny how so many memories of the past are blurry at best, dim shadows or hazy pictures.  The mind can create so many fillers to replace reality so that the picture is more fulsome.  But my mind works slightly different.  I take mental snapshots, not on purpose, and it most often accurate lasting a lifetime.  These were one of those snapshots that I recall with such clarity that I can almost feel the night heat on my skin. 
Not a picture I took
but you get the idea as to what the steps look like
It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination and I was brought up short.   There in front of us only about 100 feet away was the Ganga.  I had never seen it before so was completely unprepared as to how impactful it would be, a total ‘stop breathing’ sort of experience.  The water of the Ganga was a muted sound of rushing by and gentle lapping.  All around there were hawkers out selling delicious edibles from small carts that boasted kerosene lights or candles to illuminate the way.  I smelled roasted channa, samosa’s flakey and fried golden brown, phuchka waiting to be filled with the spicy contents and filled with tamarind sauce.  We moved forward as a group as I gawked, taking it all in.  Several steps led down to the bank but my cousins suggested we stay near the top.  I asked them why and one explained patiently it was because otherwise the alligators would come by and snatch us into the water.  At first I thought they were joking, trying to freak me out but there was no laughter.  Okay then.


There were others there besides us as well.  Big groups, smaller ones, couples making the most of the darkness to surreptitiously hold hands while mooning at each other.  Across the river, far away, I could see the telltale signs of life in the form of tiny spots of light.  Someone was playing music from a radio somewhere, a group further down kept bursting into song and laughter. 
Settling down my eyes were drawn to the water that snaked its way realizing that generations of Hindu’s came right here to worship, cleanse themselves, or spread the ashes of their loved ones.  Later I would learn that those who committed suicide or came to some unscrupulous end would be basically be dropped into the Ganga, so it wouldn’t be totally weird to have a dead body wash onto shore.  I can say I’m glad I didn’t know this at that moment although the alligators worried me enough.  My cousins, interesting enough since they are Muslim’s as my mother and I were, began sharing stories of the Mahabharata (an epic narrative of the Kurukṣetra War and the fates of the Kaurava and the Pāṇḍava princes). 
I was completely enthralled, barely noticing as one of the family members motioned to someone behind me.  Feeling a presence beside me, I looked up and there stood a boy, probably no more than 7-years-old.  Without any sort of exaggeration, I can say that I will never forget this kid although the finite details of his face escapes me so many decades later.  He was bare-chested sporting dirty orange colored shorts, or what I thought was orangish in hue, and thong leather sandals encompassing dirt covered feet.  A red, green and white linen towel was slung around his neck limply. 
The closest I could find to the cup that we had used.
In the crook of his arm hung a large beat up metal tea kettle half the size of his body causing me to wonder how he managed to stay upright without tipping over to the right.  The other hand was extended straight down his side holding easily a stack of possibly 25 small tea cups sans handles, sort of like the tea cups you probably ran into the Chinese restaurants here in the USA.  They were made of clay though, without any finish, fitting into the palm of one’s hand for ease of holding.  These cups were nestled under his chin so that they were perfectly balanced.  The young urchins smile was wide, gamine as he approached us.  He was instructed to sit with us to provide tea until the kettle ran dry and he agreed readily once he was assured that he would be paid handsomely for his attention.  Each cup cost a whopping 1 rupees.
The first sip of that brew was nothing I’d ever tasted before.  Again, coming from a family of tea drinkers and having indulged in many a pretty fantastic cups before, this was indeed special.  To this day I confess I have yet to taste the likes of it.  I knew it wasn’t masala chai since there was no taste of cardamom, clove or cinnamon, in fact nothing more than water, thickened milk, strong well steeped tea and sugar.  As simple as that.  After the first sip I was hooked and three sips later I was done staring down at the dregs of tiny granules of what I assumed was the clay which didn’t skeaze me out since I figured it just added to the overall taste.  Yes, dirt could be the missing ingredient.  Who knew!
Looking around I was about to put the cup down carefully when one of my other cousins simply tossed hers onto the stairs a short distance away.  With horror I watched it shatter into pieces.  Why would anyone do that?  Did these people have no sense of recycling at all, I had wondered in astonishment. 
My cousin accurately interpreted my outraged thoughts explaining that it was what everyone did indicating with a motion of her hand to the evidence all around us.  I hadn’t noticed.  She patiently went on to tell me that those cups cost the little boy barely anything and that the alternative option wasn’t actually hygienic since he probably didn’t have access to an abundance of clean water.  Plus, she went on, there were several people that benefited from this destruction such as the sweepers that were employed to come and clean up the mess and the cup maker who was incentivized to keep plying their trade.  In essence it was a win-win for everyone.
This made sense seeing as how the vast population of the people, at that time, was made up of citizens who were well below the poverty level.  In a country like India, every day folks didn’t give a rat’s ass about recycling as much as they cared about where their next meal would come from and how.  I couldn’t fault them any of this and was able to join in the flinging of the cups but maybe with not the total aplomb that the rest did.  Even my mother seemed hesitant.  At one point I asked the boy who brewed the tea.  His mother, he replied a bit proudly.
That little boy sat with us late into the night until I noted him dozing while still on his haunches.  How he managed to do this was impressive to say the least.  I elbowed my mother gently, tipping my head towards him and her eyes softened.  The tea had long since ran out, between all of us we had dispatched the cups along with the brew.  When we roused him, embarrassed he had stood up and insisted on getting us more but we refused and my mother handed him a generous amount of monetary compensation.  At first he said he would have to get change but when my mother indicated that it was all for him, he stood motionless staring wide-eyed down at his hand where the 100-rupee note was clasped.  Effusively he thanked us, picked up the empty kettle and raced off. 
When I asked Ammu later why he looked like he had been on the verge of tears at the amount she had handed him, after all he had sat with us for so long giving up finding other potential customers, she told me as she wrapped her arm around my shoulder and we headed home, “it would have taken him many more hours than the few he spent with us to earn the same amount of money and even though it was nothing for us, for him it was a lot.  It can mean that possibly he won’t have to be worried for the next few days as to where he’ll make money and probably do half as much work.”  My heart tightened and as we walked slowly back towards the awaiting beds, I thanked God for all the luxuries I took for granted, hoped that the kid would grow up and out of the present circumstances of his life (although I knew that would be difficult) and knew I would forever remember the taste of that tea. 
The only thing I regretted later would be that I never saved one of those little cups.