All posts by Teri

The Seven Minute Theory

Observe & Ponder


Yesterday, I came across the meme shown above.

This viral meme suggests that the human brain remains active for about seven minutes after death, replaying its most cherished memories.

Calling someone your “seven minutes” means they are your most treasured memory—the person or event you would want to replay in your mind as you leave this earth behind.

I was intrigued.

An instant replay at death?

I found the concept cathartically soothing and deeply reflective.

Unable to get the meme out of my head, I went on my usual Google search-rampage for more information.

According to my research, the “seven minutes” phenomenon stems from observations of the dying process in near-death experiences. When the heart stops, blood and oxygen stop flowing to the brain, but neurons don’t die immediately.

Studies on animals and recordings from the brains of dying humans have shown brief, intense bursts of electrical activity, known as gamma waves, during the brain’s shutdown phase.

Some scientists have observed brief bursts of brain activity just moments after death, resembling patterns linked to memory or dreaming.

The “seven minutes” concept holds that this final surge of neural activity—caused by oxygen deprivation and a flood of neurotransmitters—can trigger a dreamlike state or sudden, vivid, and fragmented recall of memories.

An instant replay of sorts.

Other scientists are adamant that a seven-minute duration is questionable, arguing that the brain retains residual electrical energy for less than seven minutes before irreversible damage occurs. Yet they also acknowledge that the time can vary depending on the circumstances.

The bottom line? Nobody really knows.

Neural activity after death is an unfounded mystery, and there is no way to know whether the seven-minute instant replay claim is true.

I know nothing about the validity of consciousness during the dying process, but I am intrigued by the possibility.

There is no conclusive, hard scientific evidence that the brain remains alive for seven minutes or for any length of time after death.

And yet, I can’t stop fantasizing about it.

For my purposes, and at my age, the mere thought that at death, instead of being terrified right before dying, there is a possible miraculous opportunity to experience pure joy for seven long minutes stuck with me as I tried to sleep last night.

In my last moments on earth, I would love an instant replay of the person or memory I cherish most.

Who wouldn’t?

Which then prompted me to ask myself:

If I had only seven minutes to relive the best moments of my life, which would I choose?

What or whom would I see?

Whose laughter would I hear?

Who would be holding me tight?

What vision would flash before my eyes in the fleeting minutes before I faded into the unknown?

I was sleepless in New York, so I had countless hours to replay countless moments with countless precious somebodies in my head.

The idea of my brain replaying my best memories in those final moments before my death was as eerie as it was comforting.

I began instant replaying some of my most glorious memories.

“That night, we ran through the dark and then rolled around together in fits of laughter.”

“The adoration in your eyes as we held hands and climbed the snowy hill to sled.”

“Your beaming face pressed against the boards of the ice rink.”

“You were so excited to tell me that one of those adorable puppies was mine.”

“DIAPES!”

“I love you to the moon and back.”

“Making roses from tissues and a bobby pin.”

“Regrets, I had a few.”

“The goose poop was everyway!”

“Teh? Teh?”

“I was unwanted, but you looked at me as if no one else were in the room.”

“Pee Pants.”

“You jumped into that puddle, which covered you in mud, and then you hugged me tightly.”

“Once upon a time, there was AAA.”

“I winced as you hurdled over the pews during the prayer service, in your diaper-wadded tights.”

“How peacefully you slept in my arms, for hours and hours.”

“What happens in the hotel room stays in the hotel room.”

“I would take a bullet for you.”

“Our constant texting during Storm Sandy until both our phones died.”

“Not even in a tunnel.”

“Mon petit chou.”

“The laughter that poured out of both of you as I pulled you through the snow in the dark.”

“You comforted me when I was at my lowest point.”

“I love you more than life.”

“The dozen roses you bought me with your allowance for Mother’s Day.”

“I read the newspaper to you every day after school.”

“That day, you photographed me washing my hair in the rain.”

“You are all my seven minutes.”

I thought about the treasured people who had passed through my life, my triumphs, and the many stupendously happy memories I had long since forgotten.

And honestly, the memories were so vivid, and I felt so present. And, surprisingly, they didn’t make me sad. They made me ecstatically happy.

There were so many people I hadn’t thought of in years. Displaced moments, scattered memories—some so sweet I was shocked I had forgotten them.

I relived times in my life that never made it into my highlight reel, even though many of those moments defined my entire persona.

A random meme about seven minutes of replay at death was the reason I spent all night reliving many of my favorite memories of so many people I loved and still love.

Then I started wondering…

I wondered whether so many of those I thought about last night will ever know how much they mean or meant to me.

I wondered whether those who now exist only in a paradise I hope to one day join know that I think about them all the time and that they will always hold a special place in my heart.

I wondered about those who are still here but not with me—whether they know how much I love them and, if they do, whether they care.

I wondered whether I would someday be someone’s seven minutes.

If only.

Bullies and Intimidators = Haters

Bullies

When asked to describe myself, my go-to response is:

You may not like what I have to say, but you’ll always know where I stand.

Which can often be a relationship-changer, and not always in a good way.

Expressing myself through words—written and spoken—has required immense resolve, and courage. As a result, I have my fair share of haters, mostly because they tried (and failed) to bully or intimidate me.

I’m not sure whether my haters actually hate me, secretly respect me, or are merely afraid that I will expose them and the truth.

Or maybe all of the above.

I have no choice but to push back against haters, mainly because I promised myself that my days of being bullied and intimidated were over a long time ago.

Now I have no choice but to stand up for what’s right—LOUD and proud, so that bullying or intimidating me will backfire on anyone who dares to try.

It doesn’t take a mathematician to figure out that bullies and intimidators = haters. And haters = chronic fault-finders who bully and intimidate others because they are insecure, jealous, and feel “less than” in their own lives.

As a result, when the bullies and intimidators, i.e., haters, try to come for me, I deliberately deploy my words to level the playing field. My intention is not to wield power or hold it over anyone, but to protect myself from those who try to wield power over me.

At my age, my thinking is threefold:

  • The haters can bully and intimidate me only if I let them.
  • What do I have left to lose that I haven’t already lost?
  • I can out-roar and out-charge the best of them.

I learned the hard way that being vulnerable in my words and actions can only take me so far. And sometimes people mistake my willingness to be vulnerable for a weakness—at their peril.

My courage to share my vulnerable side does not equate to timidity.

Rather, it is the opposite.

Yes, my courage helps me open up, be vulnerable, and share my weaknesses, but it can also bring out the charging bear in me.

You come for me and mine, and I come for you 2.0.

Don’t poke the bear.

Protecting myself and my loved ones with my voice and words is my forever armor, so bullies, intimidators = haters, beware.

And let’s be honest, no matter what I say or don’t say, haters will always try to stir the pot. That’s what they do.

So let them take their best shot. Let’s see how it works out for them. And if they choose to roar, they should brace for a thunderous echo.

Because the cost of hiding behind a carefully managed self is no longer an option for me, and hasn’t been for quite some time.

And anyway, I want to be the kind of writer—and woman—who isn’t afraid to write—or speak—about who I am, how I feel, and what I will and won’t tolerate.

I want to be remembered not only as a woman who uses words to expose my fragility but also as a warrior who uses them to challenge the hierarchy.

The kind of Teri-truth-telling that risks being vilified for using my not-so-nice words to put people who are legends in their own minds in their place, both written and spoken.

Not because I think I’m masterful at it, but as a raw, visceral presence, like “Don’t F with me because you’re not as tough or important as you think you are, which is why you have no power over me.”

Proverbs 28:15 warns that a wicked ruler over a poor people is like a roaring lion and a charging bear.

My Stolen Diaries — Chapter 35: Ernie Barrett

Teri's Novelog — My Stolen Diaries, , ,


[Ernie Barrett is a fictional character, but his persona is dedicated to Arn Berglund, a very special friend and my hero. May he rest in peace.]

CHAPTER 35

ERNIE BARRETT

July 6, 1967

Roberto, aka “Rob,” loves to brag all day and night about our house sitting on a full acre of land. Brook Glen is a lifetime away from our rundown slum tenement on White Street or our attached apartment in Success Park. But I would give anything—NO, I would give everything—to go back to either one.

Yesterday, I met Ernie, the boy next door and an Eagle Scout. Ernie seems like an okay kid, but he’s no Chris Santoro.

Today I went for a long walk through the Nature Center off Brook Glen and ran into Ernie, wearing an olive-green short-sleeved shirt and matching Bermuda shorts, with binoculars around his neck. I tried to pretend I didn’t see him, but he caught up to me.

As he focused on the trees, I focused on how to get rid of him. He was staring through his stupid binoculars, pointing out this bird and that bird, as if I cared.

I didn’t want to hurt Ernie’s feelings, but I had zero interest in being his friend, and anyway, it was obvious we had nothing in common.

Or maybe we did, because when we both heard a loud tapping high in the trees, Ernie pointed out an adorable black-and-white woodpecker.

He gave me a strange look when I told him it was my first-ever sighting, even though I’d seen Woody Woodpecker on television a thousand times.

His love of birds reminded me of the time when that poor bird family died on the back porch on White Street.

On my way home, he followed behind me and explained all his merit badges.

He was proudest of his First Aid, Life-saving, and Emergency Preparedness badges. He excitedly told me he had an Eagle Scout card signed by JFK and that he wanted to become a doctor when he grew up.

I told him about the one time I went to Girl Scout Camp for two horrific weeks on a scholarship, but I got kicked out for pooping behind our tent because I was afraid to use the disgusting outhouse. He looked at me, dumbfounded.

And that’s when I decided to tell him, “Until two days ago, my name was Tony Morgan, but now it’s Tonya Russo because my mom married a jerk who decided I should have new first and last names.

And also, the jerk’s name is Roberto, but he goes by Rob now because, in addition to being a jerk, he’s a liar and a fake.”

For whatever reason, I told Ernie everything about me, including growing up in the slums, having a grandmother who raised me and my teenage mom, the rats and cockroaches, and a father I never knew because he gave me up.

I was on a roll, so then I said in a loudish voice, “I was baptized Catholic when I was eight, so I could go to a new school to get away from Tit, who was beating me up every day, and speaking of birds, I used to have a nest of birds that I loved, but they ate the rat poison on our back porch on White Street and croaked.”

I could tell by the look on Ernie’s face that he had never met anyone like me before, and not in a good way.

I made him promise to keep his mouth shut about what I told him, and he said, “Scout’s honor.”

When we arrived at Ernie’s house, he stood frozen in place, suffering from severe shell shock. As I walked away from him, I looked back and shouted that if anyone deserved a merit badge and a card signed by JFK, it was me.

Maybe Ernie’s not so bad after all, but he’s still no Chris Santoro.

Stay tuned for Chapter 36: The Longshore Country Club Pool

Reconciling Alienation and Estrangement

Family & Relationships,

I’m the newest member of a group focused on alienation and estrangement.

I’ve only attended two sessions, but I’m already on the road to healing, mainly because I no longer feel alone in the isolation of rejection.

I’ve already formed powerful connections with some in the group who, like me, are powerlessly disconnected, if that makes any sense.

By definition, reconciliation is the process of restoring harmony. Its primary purpose is to resolve conflicts, verify accuracy, and align differing data sets or views. It requires honest communication among the connected parties involved.

But what if there is no resolution?

What if restoration is an illusion?

What if reconciliation is irreconcilable?

At 73, I’ve learned that life is mostly about love and pain.

And connections.

And each connection is crucial to connecting all the dots.

Or not.

I liken estrangement to being unable to complete the popular children’s puzzle, “Connect the Dots.”

The incomplete result is that I’m unable to reveal or understand the hidden picture—deeper and more complex than any child’s puzzle.

Reconciliation may never happen for me, but now I know it’s not a measure of my worth. It took my daughter era, my mother era, my grandmother era, and my sisterhood era to figure that out. That’s a whole lot of eras.

Strength, resolve, acceptance, and personal healing might have to be enough for me to live out the rest of my years with some semblance of normality. Even though I fully recognize that there is nothing normal about alienation or estrangement.

Or that reconciliation might mean accepting that I will forever be in a state of ongoing distress to some degree.

That’s probably all I’m ever going to get.

But then I think about those beloved and precious dots out there. Those connections who may or may not know they’re part of my puzzle.

And then I’m right back where I started—on a road with no end.

Some say that hope is necessary to survive.

And I agree.

Some say the fear of missing out is the most painful part of estrangement.

But I disagree.

I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

I feel like a huge chunk of me is missing.

And I’m bleeding out.