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Dear Community,
I sat in front of a blank screen for the longest time this morning. I never imagined I'd be fundraising for my own life. I thought some day I'd raise money for a civic cause, or for some worthy candidate. But my friends tell me that I should accept help, that I do have a community that loves and values me. And, that now I indeed need help.
I had three epic operations in the last couple of years, surgeries that saved my life. (At Bellevue Hospital and NYU-Langone.) I had months of intensive care, weeks when my numbers were not good, when I was just not recovering. Feeding tubes, nights of morphine and very worried doctors. In that dark place my life changed.
I was diagnosed with colitis in graduate school, and for several years I lived on steroids. I was strong. I finished a doctorate in anthropology at Brown in 2002. But my condition worsened. In 2008 I left a good tenure track position in Massachusetts. I was starting to experience complications. I published my dissertation as a book, an ethnographic monograph of young people in Mexico City. But I was now exhausted, hemorrhaging. Back in New York I tried to work in insurance, but couldn't. I drew down my savings, and eventually had to rely on friends and family. I sold some paintings. One day I got a visit from a dear friend. I had a small apartment on 28th Street at the time. She insisted on taking me to the hospital. She put her foot down. At Bellevue after several days of tests a small group of doctors came to see me. The head of surgery there said, Josue, you're having surgery first thing in the morning. Otherwise you're in real trouble. At that hospital I survived the war. I was disemboweled on a field of battle somewhere far away, but I survived the war. Friends came, time passed, I lived.
I now face a new reality. I'm in debt to friends, family, banks, credit cards. I'm living from adjunct teaching part time, but my functioning remains difficult. And yet, I'm absolutely overjoyed to be alive. It's a cliche I know about survivors, but it's true. Every day is a gift for me now. And, I've come to accept my life as it is. I'm finally able to ask for help. The academic career might no longer be possible, but I'm still part of a larger whole. I have a role to play in this city. I bring passions and skills cultivated over many years. I will fully recover and I will build a new life here.
That's where you come in. Please donate to my recovery. I need a calm space, some time, some sustenance. I need yoga, meditation, therapy, conversation. I've always been a creative person, and through my art and writing I will find another career, another purpose. (I'll explain my art in more detail in a later post.) Eventually I'll find a non-profit to work for, a think tank, a city agency. I'm an activist by nature.
This is the time your help would be most critical. My medical journey has taught me humility and gratitude. I'll always remember and value your contribution.
I sat in front of a blank screen for the longest time this morning. I never imagined I'd be fundraising for my own life. I thought some day I'd raise money for a civic cause, or for some worthy candidate. But my friends tell me that I should accept help, that I do have a community that loves and values me. And, that now I indeed need help.
I had three epic operations in the last couple of years, surgeries that saved my life. (At Bellevue Hospital and NYU-Langone.) I had months of intensive care, weeks when my numbers were not good, when I was just not recovering. Feeding tubes, nights of morphine and very worried doctors. In that dark place my life changed.
I was diagnosed with colitis in graduate school, and for several years I lived on steroids. I was strong. I finished a doctorate in anthropology at Brown in 2002. But my condition worsened. In 2008 I left a good tenure track position in Massachusetts. I was starting to experience complications. I published my dissertation as a book, an ethnographic monograph of young people in Mexico City. But I was now exhausted, hemorrhaging. Back in New York I tried to work in insurance, but couldn't. I drew down my savings, and eventually had to rely on friends and family. I sold some paintings. One day I got a visit from a dear friend. I had a small apartment on 28th Street at the time. She insisted on taking me to the hospital. She put her foot down. At Bellevue after several days of tests a small group of doctors came to see me. The head of surgery there said, Josue, you're having surgery first thing in the morning. Otherwise you're in real trouble. At that hospital I survived the war. I was disemboweled on a field of battle somewhere far away, but I survived the war. Friends came, time passed, I lived.
I now face a new reality. I'm in debt to friends, family, banks, credit cards. I'm living from adjunct teaching part time, but my functioning remains difficult. And yet, I'm absolutely overjoyed to be alive. It's a cliche I know about survivors, but it's true. Every day is a gift for me now. And, I've come to accept my life as it is. I'm finally able to ask for help. The academic career might no longer be possible, but I'm still part of a larger whole. I have a role to play in this city. I bring passions and skills cultivated over many years. I will fully recover and I will build a new life here.
That's where you come in. Please donate to my recovery. I need a calm space, some time, some sustenance. I need yoga, meditation, therapy, conversation. I've always been a creative person, and through my art and writing I will find another career, another purpose. (I'll explain my art in more detail in a later post.) Eventually I'll find a non-profit to work for, a think tank, a city agency. I'm an activist by nature.
This is the time your help would be most critical. My medical journey has taught me humility and gratitude. I'll always remember and value your contribution.