Compassion is a verb…

Often when I close my eyes now after our horrific home invasion, I see little black Ninja heads bobbing and weaving in the darkened doorway of my bedroom. Suddenly one of them lunges, landing on top of me to grab the cell that I am frantically trying to dial under the covers. I hear my husband calling my name, then howling in pain after the loud report of a 9 mm…And then I scream and scream and scream…in unison with my wounded husband. According to our Tico neighbors down the hill, our screams could be heard for over a mile for at least thirty minutes, maybe longer. Gracias a dios, we are alive!

K and I have talked about that night a lot since it happened. We’re still fitting together the pieces of the puzzle, since a lot of the details have been surpressed by the sheer terror of it all. We have the tapes from the surveillance cameras in our house and surrounding our property, but I won’t let K watch them. At least not yet. Maybe never. Let the police do their job while we focus on the light of recovery and healing.

What we now know is that the four bad guys, aka ladrones, started at the top of our development and worked their way down the hill to our house. They came heavily armed, or loaded for bear, as they say…two guns, a machete and a nunchuck thingy that they used to smash K’s head in as he tried to reach me in the bedroom. My dear, sweet husband, who has never been in a fight in his life, not even when he played hockey in Canada, took a bullet to protect me…a bullet that shattered his left femur and spilled over 3 liters of blood all over the living room floor…I get chills…

I can still hear them demanding the money and the gold. What money, what gold, I asked?! I gave them the $600 from K’s wallet, but they wanted more. Our safe only had electronics in it. Our money is in the bank, I insisted. En el banco!! We have no gold!! No tengo oro!! My words fell on deaf ears. They tossed aside jewelry, credit cards, electronics, tools, cell phones, tablets. Everything of value that the ordinary thieves around here snatch and grab as they flee on foot to their motos. Donde esta el dinero!! DONDE ESTA EL ORO!!

When they were tying my hands behind my back, they caught a glimpse of my wedding ring, which I happily surrendered. Just let me help my husband, I pleaded, please!! POR FAVOR!!! MI ESPOSO!!

When it was over and they were gone, I stumbled out to K with my hands still zip-tied behind my back. Somehow I managed to find some scissors in the kitchen, and somehow K managed to cut the ties so I could call for help.

After that, all I remember is seeing K lying in a pool of blood, lots and lots of blood.

Poor, sweet Patricia wept as she cleaned it up the next day, absorbing the pain and fear of that night as she did so. Love and bless her. And love and bless Patricia, Ronald, Danny and Cristina, who took turns sleeping on the couch outside my bedroom so I wouldn’t be alone those first few nights while K was in the hospital. At first I protested, urging them to sleep in the casita…but the first time I awoke in the middle of the night with visions of Ninjas dancing in my head, I was eternally grateful for their foresight and protective instincts.

Fast-forward 19 days since the break-in. I’ve been experiencing huge mood swings, vacillating from euphoria to rage to despair to insensibility in the blink of an eye. When we learned that there were horrid rumors of our complicity in this ungodly nightmare racing through the tightly-wired grapevine of our small town, I was devastated. Even more so when we learned that some of the sources were right here in our neighborhood. To our utter astonishment, to this day, not a single “neighbor” has reached out to us…where is the humanity?

After the rumors hit fever pitch, I became inconsolable and ran to the local doctor to get a prescription of Zanax to cope with the tsunami waves of depression. But before popping that first pill, I found solace in writing, which has always been my drug of choice.

I have also succombed to bouts of rage since the “incident”, targeted of course at the Ninjas, but also towards anyone else who dares behave in a socially unacceptable, or more accurately, despicable way. When a business deal recently tanked after the associate we had naively trusted defaulted, he demanded that we pay him five figures to execute the mortgages he was contractually bound to execute. To add insult to injury, his demand came while K was lying in a hospital bed with bullet fragments floating in his thigh. I went ballistic.

And then there was the dog lady that I had been forced to name and shame to get her to take control of her aggressive, unvaccinated pack of street dogs so that we could be safe in our own home and neighborhood. It seemed like a reasonable request that had been meet with unexplainable venom.

At any rate, while at the grocery story a few days ago, she and one of her friends sneered at me and said “bad things happen to bad people.” Yeah, I get that she resented my blogging to force her to take responsibility for her dogs, but she’d left me no choice after she’d rejected all efforts to amicably resolve the problem.

Again, back at the grocery store, I was devastated by their cruel words as I rummaged through my purse, searching for the Zanax that I’d neglected to buy. Damn. When I got home that afternoon, there she was, out on the street, walking the free-roaming pack and taunting me, making faces at me and my friend. We drove away quickly as a torrent of anguished tears let loose. I vowed never to leave, dare I say it, the safe confines of home again.

Normally I would have laughed off her antics, but my emotions are too raw to withstand such bullying. Her boyfriend has not even returned one of our calls since that night. She told me at the store that he’d been home the night of the invasion, which surprised me because I had called him twice that night to warn him of the potential dangers that might be headed his way. He didn’t pick up, then or since. Radio Silence prevails in our neighborhood which is enshrouded in a dark cloud of rancor and animosity. Not even a near fatal home invasion is enough to touch people’s hearts and souls enough to find common ground in our shared humanity.

As I slog through these first few weeks, I feel like a total stranger in my own skin. It doesn’t help that my sleep patterns are sporadic and my culinary skills have taken a vacation. The cacophony of anger, grief, sorrow and depression are visceral and symphonic, changing like the shapes and colors of a kaleidoscope to a soundtrack played by a thrash metal band.

K and I realize that we are both suffering from some of the classic symptoms of PTSD. We have talked about it, and share a much deeper appreciation for the soldiers who endure weeks, months, even years of violence – and survive. The answer is that many do not. Love and bless them all.

Which brings me to an issue faced by many expats here on how best to support a victim of violence. Of course every victim and every supporter is different. I can only speak for myself and what I do when consoling a wounded soul in need. My solid rule of thumb is to reach out as soon as possible and express love and support, and offer to do something specific, like give rides or make food or sit and chat. Or take their dog for a walk, or pick up some groceries. Or just do it without asking because you know what they like. I don’t make the victims ask for things or reach out to me. I know from personal experience that asking for help might be too difficult for them. If I run into them out in public, I don’t avoid eye contact and run away. I give them a hug and let them know that they are not alone and that they are loved and supported. If they want to be left alone in a cocoon of isolation also known as privacy, they will tell me. Most, believe me, do not. There is nothing worse than feeling like an escapee from a leper colony who is shunned and avoided.

For us as victims in our hour of need, the folks who continued to check in, brought food without having to ask (because cooking is really tough when you’re traumatized), fixed things around the house because we cannot, brightened our day with some flowers and a laugh, were the true angels of mercy on our road to recovery. We did not feel stranded on a desert island with no life lines. Thanks to Leah and Jim and Jan and Joe and Shelly! And bless Doug and Sharon, dear friends from the States, who immediately booked a flight down to help out and cheer us up as K powers through his recovery. I am doing my very best, but I’m exhausted emotionally and physically and welcome their love and support with open arms and great anticipation.

On the other hand, most of the Ticos we know instinctively understand what kind of love and support is needed at times like this…and we are so grateful to have such an amazing support system in the community…love you Danny, Cristina, Patricia, Ronald and Yeyo. Veronica, Kai, Olman and Xinia. And our neighbors Francisco, Marjorie, Verjita and Don Juan Campos. Bless you all.

We truly are grateful to be alive and to wear a smile in our hearts as we continue our journey into the light. Namaste