I work full time at a hard job that is in demand, that I figure counts in life and is satisfying more often than not. I make a living wage, more than many folks in jobs involving manual labor of any kind.
I have worked enough benefits-free, crappy, dead-end, part-time jobs in my life to know the kind of hopeless fatigue that sets into bones. I know the gut drop sensation when the stated wage per hour and the total expected on the check has nothing to do with reality, nor does it come up to the figure of the added up bills. I know about the daily scan of classifieds and fliers for yet another part time or temporary job. Even now, with a decent wage, we live in a tiny apartment that we found out is going condo- and far out of our reach or desire for purchase, when our lease is up next year.
My dear one worries because he is doing grad school full time, and I will not compass him working more than a small job, because this is his later-in-life, last, best chance. Because although making rent and having security matter deeply to us, money, really, when we stop to think about it, does not.
I used to kid him that I had married him for his money. Then quote Casablanca: "(Shrug) I was misinformed." We both came together when we had nothing, and were scrabbling along. We both leapt into the dark of our future, with no idea how we were going to float. We took turns holding each other's heads up, breathing in shifts, until we found our feet. Now that he has found his own course, he is feeling guilty that I am the one holding him up. And I say.
Bunk.
We are not living our lives to make money. We are not living our lives to own a home, or a car, or travel the world. Desirable comforts all, but not the point. We love and are loved. We have friends, and new found cousins, we care deeply for. We are curious and helpful. He is happy researching, and writing and growing his considerable intellect. Happy.
When we first got together, he said his goal in life was to make me happy. Seemed utterly unreasonable to me then, but he did it. Does it every day. So, what could I do but my damnedest to reciprocate? This is our Deal. We each try to live up to the other's opinion of us. And become better people for the effort. Money is a kind of barometer- which we share and save to make sure we are ok. But no more, really, than say chocolate or warm sweaters.
I want him to be happy. To have work that he enjoys, to feel competent and of value in the face of the world. He wants that satisfaction. We want to live in that space between desperation and smugness.
It's taking longer than expected, but we've come further than I would once have imagined.
I really married him for his dimple.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Breathe
Breathing is good. Breathing is wonderful. Breathing after I thought I might not take another breath is a miracle. Today I have bruises on my rib edges, a sore back and shoulders, a raw throat, a tendency to tear up, and a very worried man beside me. I send out my gratitude to the world, the EMTs, Rowley police, various new met cousins of my cousins Elizabeth and Ed, more friends and cousins, and my own dear one who stayed calm and did what was needed.
It was a party. I had a bit of wine, not usual for me, I was enjoying myself, nibbling on appetizers, enjoying the mild air, the good people, being welcomed, watching Ed's joy as the small party became a surprize huge gathering. He was given a very silly hat, which he wore with aplomb. I decided to get a bit more substantial food, a bit of steak tips. They were a bit gristly, and I thought I'd bitten through enough to swallow a small bit, but the larger bit stuck and went down as well. I couldn't cough it up, I mimed to D the Heimlich maneuver, which he immediately started. I figured it would just pop right out, like in the movies, like in the CPR class descriptions. It stayed glued. D got someone else to try, and I heard the new rescuer say "bend over!, bend over!" wondering if that would make a difference. And started to go black. I didn't mind dying for my own sake, but I went out agonized at leaving D, in such a messy, pointless way. How stupid to die at a birthday party, in front of so many people. But I was helpless, my throat blocked, my life collapsing.
Then I was on my side, looking at dirt, and glory, glory, glory, I was breathing. Raspy uncertain breaths, but I was breathing! I never realized how lovely dirt could look. And I could hear a voice saying "She looks much less blue" and "She's pinking up." More phrases that made sense at the time, but I can't remember now. I wanted to reassure them, I said "Breathing is good" and I'm fine, I'm fine, and Hi, wow that was scary. One voice said "She'll feel better if you wipe that dirt off" I said I didn't mind the dirt at all, it was beautiful dirt, as long as I was breathing. I can't say that is what actually was heard, but I think I got a few relieved laughs. A man told me he was giving me a face mask with oxygen, coaxing me into accepting it. Completely unnecessary, I jammed it onto my face and sucked in, my chest easing, delicious oxygen. I found my cousin Fran holding my right arm, and she looked so beautiful and caring. I reached out to my left and felt D's shoe, and we found each other's hands, and I drank in his worried face. I'm fine, I'm fine, breathing is wonderful, this was scary. Said a bright Hi to the woman in the uniform who came and took my vital signs and asked me questions.
I didn't want to get taken to the hospital. We can't afford the expense, I will be fine, but oh, my head is sparkly. I deferred to D, who said go. I complied. My EMT talked to me the whole weird ride in the ambulance, the same kind of litany that I do for my recovery room patients. I cried the whole way, but she believed me when I just said Ignore it, normal stress reaction. By the end of the ride, I'd managed to tell her what I did for a living, and she laughed that I knew everything she'd been telling me. Didn't mind, I'd found it very reassuring. The heavy pain below my zyphoid eased after a belch or two before we got to the hospital. I put out my hand when the gurney moved, and there was D's hand. We grinned.
I was checked, monitored, watched. My oxygen levels were the acceptable over 90%, but not the good over 95%, for a while. My throat hurt, I was wiped of all energy or desire to move. They listened to my lungs, my gut. My head spun, partly from the wine. By 7PM I talked them into letting me go home. Even D didn't object by then. I was given precautions on the potential sequela from the resuscitation effort. They reluctantly discharged me after a few more signatures. Elizabeth took us back. When she drove into the driveway, Ed stood waiting, then gathered me into his arms. I felt like a long lost child, welcomed back from the grave. For so I was, and I was just as glad to see him.
Death had come to the party, so when I came back alive, everyone there had to touch me, to reassure themselves, which also reassured me. I was happy to hug any of these lovely people. I was alive, because of them. There was more humor, the advantage of a party with the addition of red and blue flashing lights- regarding the reputation in the neighborhood. The joy of breathing. Stealing the spotlight from the birthday boy. (So what if it was his 70th.)
Today, I feel very fragile. D is worried and shaken, keeps holding me with a kind of wordless desperation. I have emailed people, because I needed to connect with my life, our life. Moby was very skittish when we got home, and he let me hold him a long time. He was at our feet all night, and as near to me as he could get all day.
I am alive. I breathe. I am deeply grateful.
I feel very loved.
It was a party. I had a bit of wine, not usual for me, I was enjoying myself, nibbling on appetizers, enjoying the mild air, the good people, being welcomed, watching Ed's joy as the small party became a surprize huge gathering. He was given a very silly hat, which he wore with aplomb. I decided to get a bit more substantial food, a bit of steak tips. They were a bit gristly, and I thought I'd bitten through enough to swallow a small bit, but the larger bit stuck and went down as well. I couldn't cough it up, I mimed to D the Heimlich maneuver, which he immediately started. I figured it would just pop right out, like in the movies, like in the CPR class descriptions. It stayed glued. D got someone else to try, and I heard the new rescuer say "bend over!, bend over!" wondering if that would make a difference. And started to go black. I didn't mind dying for my own sake, but I went out agonized at leaving D, in such a messy, pointless way. How stupid to die at a birthday party, in front of so many people. But I was helpless, my throat blocked, my life collapsing.
Then I was on my side, looking at dirt, and glory, glory, glory, I was breathing. Raspy uncertain breaths, but I was breathing! I never realized how lovely dirt could look. And I could hear a voice saying "She looks much less blue" and "She's pinking up." More phrases that made sense at the time, but I can't remember now. I wanted to reassure them, I said "Breathing is good" and I'm fine, I'm fine, and Hi, wow that was scary. One voice said "She'll feel better if you wipe that dirt off" I said I didn't mind the dirt at all, it was beautiful dirt, as long as I was breathing. I can't say that is what actually was heard, but I think I got a few relieved laughs. A man told me he was giving me a face mask with oxygen, coaxing me into accepting it. Completely unnecessary, I jammed it onto my face and sucked in, my chest easing, delicious oxygen. I found my cousin Fran holding my right arm, and she looked so beautiful and caring. I reached out to my left and felt D's shoe, and we found each other's hands, and I drank in his worried face. I'm fine, I'm fine, breathing is wonderful, this was scary. Said a bright Hi to the woman in the uniform who came and took my vital signs and asked me questions.
I didn't want to get taken to the hospital. We can't afford the expense, I will be fine, but oh, my head is sparkly. I deferred to D, who said go. I complied. My EMT talked to me the whole weird ride in the ambulance, the same kind of litany that I do for my recovery room patients. I cried the whole way, but she believed me when I just said Ignore it, normal stress reaction. By the end of the ride, I'd managed to tell her what I did for a living, and she laughed that I knew everything she'd been telling me. Didn't mind, I'd found it very reassuring. The heavy pain below my zyphoid eased after a belch or two before we got to the hospital. I put out my hand when the gurney moved, and there was D's hand. We grinned.
I was checked, monitored, watched. My oxygen levels were the acceptable over 90%, but not the good over 95%, for a while. My throat hurt, I was wiped of all energy or desire to move. They listened to my lungs, my gut. My head spun, partly from the wine. By 7PM I talked them into letting me go home. Even D didn't object by then. I was given precautions on the potential sequela from the resuscitation effort. They reluctantly discharged me after a few more signatures. Elizabeth took us back. When she drove into the driveway, Ed stood waiting, then gathered me into his arms. I felt like a long lost child, welcomed back from the grave. For so I was, and I was just as glad to see him.
Death had come to the party, so when I came back alive, everyone there had to touch me, to reassure themselves, which also reassured me. I was happy to hug any of these lovely people. I was alive, because of them. There was more humor, the advantage of a party with the addition of red and blue flashing lights- regarding the reputation in the neighborhood. The joy of breathing. Stealing the spotlight from the birthday boy. (So what if it was his 70th.)
Today, I feel very fragile. D is worried and shaken, keeps holding me with a kind of wordless desperation. I have emailed people, because I needed to connect with my life, our life. Moby was very skittish when we got home, and he let me hold him a long time. He was at our feet all night, and as near to me as he could get all day.
I am alive. I breathe. I am deeply grateful.
I feel very loved.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Crisis
I am who you want in a crisis. I stop, listen, see, and act. My anxiety disappears, I do. I will gather the children, I will have my gas mask on, I will run for the Defibrillator, I will run toward the victim, I know. I have. I do not quite remember when I knew this of myself, during my first resuscitation in nursing school? The first car accident I was in? The next day I will fall apart, but in that critical hour, I will stand.
I believe in triage, although trained, it was always very right intuitively to me. Save who you can, do what you can, move on. Brutal choices, no looking back. Simple choices, action. Still, it took me longer than I thought reasonable to automatically prioritize breathing, a common failing. A year working surgery-recovery to thoughtlessly, automatically, pull out the O2, pull up the jaw to clear the airway, check breathing first and always. I think the reason may be deeply ingrained genetic history. That if a person is not breathing, until modern times, they were not salvageable, so the ingrained human reaction is to go on to the next and staunch bleeding- which is survivable under rough conditions.
Two stories from the first week of hurricane suffering: patients in a nursing home abandoned to the flood, and an ICU nurse, for days, manually breathing for a patient on a ventilator. The first is condemned as heartless and selfish, the second as noble and right. To me, in my darkest hours, I know the first is the sadly, selfishly human survival action, and the second foolish and wasteful, if admirable in impulse. The staff (with the culpable owners off elsewhere) could little have saved disabled elderly, had little choice or resources to do else. The second, who could have eased suffering among others, chose to focus on one who would not survive anyway. Survival is not pretty, and those on-the-ground choices are not always how we want to see ourselves. Altruism is the high risk gamble, the ideal we want others to embody.
So, most of us save the young who will be strong and carry us along, and one will save the oldest member whose grandmother told him about getting to the next valley that may not be flooded. The ghosts follow along, for good or ill.
And the criminals? The ones shooting at the rescuers? Some were shot, some slipped through to safety as well. We want to be innocent, but it is not necessarily a survival trait.
We are thousands of years of disaster and war and each other. We panic and kill, rescue and defend. We are the genes of the survivors, mostly the pragmatic and brutal, a scattering of the lucky and altruistic.
No wonder we want a god to forgive us.
I believe in triage, although trained, it was always very right intuitively to me. Save who you can, do what you can, move on. Brutal choices, no looking back. Simple choices, action. Still, it took me longer than I thought reasonable to automatically prioritize breathing, a common failing. A year working surgery-recovery to thoughtlessly, automatically, pull out the O2, pull up the jaw to clear the airway, check breathing first and always. I think the reason may be deeply ingrained genetic history. That if a person is not breathing, until modern times, they were not salvageable, so the ingrained human reaction is to go on to the next and staunch bleeding- which is survivable under rough conditions.
Two stories from the first week of hurricane suffering: patients in a nursing home abandoned to the flood, and an ICU nurse, for days, manually breathing for a patient on a ventilator. The first is condemned as heartless and selfish, the second as noble and right. To me, in my darkest hours, I know the first is the sadly, selfishly human survival action, and the second foolish and wasteful, if admirable in impulse. The staff (with the culpable owners off elsewhere) could little have saved disabled elderly, had little choice or resources to do else. The second, who could have eased suffering among others, chose to focus on one who would not survive anyway. Survival is not pretty, and those on-the-ground choices are not always how we want to see ourselves. Altruism is the high risk gamble, the ideal we want others to embody.
So, most of us save the young who will be strong and carry us along, and one will save the oldest member whose grandmother told him about getting to the next valley that may not be flooded. The ghosts follow along, for good or ill.
And the criminals? The ones shooting at the rescuers? Some were shot, some slipped through to safety as well. We want to be innocent, but it is not necessarily a survival trait.
We are thousands of years of disaster and war and each other. We panic and kill, rescue and defend. We are the genes of the survivors, mostly the pragmatic and brutal, a scattering of the lucky and altruistic.
No wonder we want a god to forgive us.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Hold
My job as a small girl was to hold the hands of elderly relatives and neighbors. It was what I did. Mrs. G lived across the street, and I would visit with her, listen to her stories, talk to her, hold her hand, pick at her wicker porch furniture. Later, when she was just lying in a hospital bed in her house, her sister caring for her, I would hold her hand quietly, fascinated by the pattern of blue veins and the soft fragility of her skin. She died the week I started kindergarten.
Mr. M. was also on my rounds, and he told me of being a railroad engineer, and promised to take me for a ride one day. I listened, holding his large, once powerful hands, and dreamed with him of driving a locomotive, and coupling freight cars.
Mrs R. was my next door Italian grandma. I'm told she was the only person I always smiled for as a baby, her hugs were all encompassing. I can still hear her singing my name, welcoming and embracing. I could spend hours in her company, leaning on her as she read. I think she missed me when I grew older, and busier with my life. I missed the simple joy of disappearing into her bosom.
My Grandmother was bedridden for most of my life, her daughter caring for her roughly, she only got up once a day, and later not even that. Her right ear eventually became deformed from lying only on that side, the bed being pushed against the wall on the other side. She seemed a very tall woman to my small self, even lying so still in bed. She spoke very little English, I spoke no French, I held her hand kindly, but with very little attachment. I wonder what kind of mother she actually had been. My father and his sister and brothers often said she would not live through the winter, through the summer, through the winter. She lived to be 95. She remains a cypher who never got my name right.
My Granny, now she was a pistol. Busy, cantankerous, bright and active right up to the end at 93. Had her cane taken away from her the week before she died because she was hitting people with it. Infuriated and monopolized my Aunt Evelyn, coddled my Aunt G. played favorites and Euchre with equal aplomb. My memory of her is largely her relationships with her children, not with me. She had wonderful hands, of great age.
I hold hands. In the face of overwhelming disaster and global suffering, I reach out to one hand, and sit quietly, observing the texture of the skin, the color, the map of veins. I am a tiny girl, being warned not to make a pest of myself, holding very still.
Mr. M. was also on my rounds, and he told me of being a railroad engineer, and promised to take me for a ride one day. I listened, holding his large, once powerful hands, and dreamed with him of driving a locomotive, and coupling freight cars.
Mrs R. was my next door Italian grandma. I'm told she was the only person I always smiled for as a baby, her hugs were all encompassing. I can still hear her singing my name, welcoming and embracing. I could spend hours in her company, leaning on her as she read. I think she missed me when I grew older, and busier with my life. I missed the simple joy of disappearing into her bosom.
My Grandmother was bedridden for most of my life, her daughter caring for her roughly, she only got up once a day, and later not even that. Her right ear eventually became deformed from lying only on that side, the bed being pushed against the wall on the other side. She seemed a very tall woman to my small self, even lying so still in bed. She spoke very little English, I spoke no French, I held her hand kindly, but with very little attachment. I wonder what kind of mother she actually had been. My father and his sister and brothers often said she would not live through the winter, through the summer, through the winter. She lived to be 95. She remains a cypher who never got my name right.
My Granny, now she was a pistol. Busy, cantankerous, bright and active right up to the end at 93. Had her cane taken away from her the week before she died because she was hitting people with it. Infuriated and monopolized my Aunt Evelyn, coddled my Aunt G. played favorites and Euchre with equal aplomb. My memory of her is largely her relationships with her children, not with me. She had wonderful hands, of great age.
I hold hands. In the face of overwhelming disaster and global suffering, I reach out to one hand, and sit quietly, observing the texture of the skin, the color, the map of veins. I am a tiny girl, being warned not to make a pest of myself, holding very still.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Grey
I was at Mayfest at my university, stealing a guilty hour from finals study time to dither and shop the booths. Pottery, tie-dye t-shirts, save the animals and become a libertarian, come to the library, and have your fortune told. I opted for the last one in my ditherment. A young woman asked me what appealed, palm or cards, choosing stones in a bag. Hadn't heard about the stones, and so I closed my eyes, and picked out a half dozen. She read them for me, but mostly was amazed that every one was grey. She dumped out the whole of the bag, full of colorful stones. I was in the last throes of my "marriage" grinding out A's as my life depended on it, and felt very defensive about my choices. What was wrong with grey? The stones all felt pretty interesting. Still, I took it to my heart. I was wearing an oversize grey rayon jumper, large pockets, very comfortable, my daily uniform, rather shabby. I noticed how little color was in my closet. Camouflage.
I had won a soft grey stuffed rabbit at a church Easter party, guessing the number of jellybeans in a huge jar. Ecstatic, I'd never won anything, and for such a lovely critter. Older kids stole it from me while I waited for my mother to pick me up. The church committee found out and later gave me a bright yellow bunny to replace it. I'd loved the real looking one, and the soft grey fur. They thought they had gotten me a better one. I cried later.
In high school, I bought a skirt, pinwale corduroy, dark charcoal grey, long, slim. I felt so stylish in it. Unprecedented. My parents always complained when I wore it, too dark and severe they thought, not allowed when visiting relatives or for church, and I had uniforms for school. So, a few school dances, until my hips took a growth spurt, and it no longer fit. I have a shortish knit soft one now, discovered on sale, and very subtle, makes me feel daring and sensual.
I have had grey coats, and hats, all soft. Grey to me is comforting, or very sophisticated, elegant. Cool, neutral and natural. Grey is what I wear for myself, to feel solid and certain. I like to think angels wear grey, dark heather charcoal grey, gently flowing, walking in our midst.
I had won a soft grey stuffed rabbit at a church Easter party, guessing the number of jellybeans in a huge jar. Ecstatic, I'd never won anything, and for such a lovely critter. Older kids stole it from me while I waited for my mother to pick me up. The church committee found out and later gave me a bright yellow bunny to replace it. I'd loved the real looking one, and the soft grey fur. They thought they had gotten me a better one. I cried later.
In high school, I bought a skirt, pinwale corduroy, dark charcoal grey, long, slim. I felt so stylish in it. Unprecedented. My parents always complained when I wore it, too dark and severe they thought, not allowed when visiting relatives or for church, and I had uniforms for school. So, a few school dances, until my hips took a growth spurt, and it no longer fit. I have a shortish knit soft one now, discovered on sale, and very subtle, makes me feel daring and sensual.
I have had grey coats, and hats, all soft. Grey to me is comforting, or very sophisticated, elegant. Cool, neutral and natural. Grey is what I wear for myself, to feel solid and certain. I like to think angels wear grey, dark heather charcoal grey, gently flowing, walking in our midst.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Poem
It's only my opinion, it's only my belief/ that a caterpillar giggles as he wriggles across a hairy leaf.
Don't ask me who wrote this. Nash? Perhaps. I like amusing poems. My taste in poetry is remarkably low. I know the good stuff when I read it. I just don't always respond to it. Limericks seem to me perfectly wonderful.
My mother preferred the melodramatic 19th century narrative poems, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, The Highwayman, Grandfather's Clock. She liked the sentimental and romantic poems, Irish Blessings and Bible verses, Drummond and Longfellow, seafaring yearning. It was, she said, the only part of school she had liked. Memorizing long poems, a real joy for her, what she was good at. She laboriously typed out the text for a children's story book of color poems; "Hailstones and Halibut Bones." She loved it. I remember the next line was "... and some people's telephones." (!?)
Taking poetry apart in school, struck me as a pointless and cruel exercise. Repeatedly analyzing The Road Not Taken - Frost, until I came upon "Satire, that Blasted Art", which took apart all the sentimentalism of the poem and made the convincing argument that it is satire. Aha! Poems as subversive art. That was cool. I learned that poem, and it is in my repertoire. Only due to my understanding, an intellectual satisfaction.
I only had to memorize a few in grade school, one about fairies;
Up the (something) mountain/down the rushy glen I dare not go a' hunting for fear of little men. (Ugh)
When asked to pick one to memorize, I learned High Flight (John Gillespie McGee Jr) by heart because it was the text of an oft run tv ad for the Air Force. Lewis Carroll's mockery of poetry, I can recite Jabberwocky. I do like the poems, I am just not transported as I am with a good prose. Poems seemed too pretty, too short to engage me. Sketch work instead of a complete world with real people. I liked more story, dialogue. Or much less, like the Tao Te Ching.
Obviously, I am also not enamored of squishy Hallmark versification. Birthday cards with sentimental lines, and pretty flowers, - nauseating. My Aunt Evelyn spent a great deal of time finding the one that said just the right thing, and I would pretend to read it and go soft in gratitude. 'Oh, that is just perfect', and a hug. Like soft pop music, I considered it uselessly sweet without substance or flavor, however well meant. I have to accept the phenomenon that such stuff touches hearts. Leaves me quite cold.
So what is with me, that the highest verbal expressions in such a rich language that I love, leaves me shrugging my shoulders? Did I just have the magic sucked out of it in English classes? Distancing myself from my mother? A total lack of sentimentality? Lack of taste or refinement? Or do I just need it set to music for it to come to life? Ah. Mystery partly illuminated, though not at all solved.
One of the poems I memorized was the Wreck of the Julie Plante -Drummond. A funny poem in French Canadian inflected English about a shipwreck. The CBC had an animation, set to music, of the verses, that I saw in my 30s. I cried. This strange, familiar, consciously humorous bit of doggerel, when given a song, and a voice, touched me. Who knew?
So, dear poets who are my friends, sing me thy verses, I seem not to be up to supplying my own melody. That or it's Vogon poetry, only good for sappy greeting cards, and I will never tell.
Please, enjoy this poetical interlude. I will be humming.
The Wreck of the "Julie Plante": A Legend of Lac St. Pierre
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below—
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck too—
He call de crew from up de hole,
He call de cook also.
De cook she 's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',--
De sout' win' she blow too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do ?"
Den de captinne t'row de beeg ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore,
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak hurricane
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.
William Henry Drummond
Don't ask me who wrote this. Nash? Perhaps. I like amusing poems. My taste in poetry is remarkably low. I know the good stuff when I read it. I just don't always respond to it. Limericks seem to me perfectly wonderful.
My mother preferred the melodramatic 19th century narrative poems, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, The Highwayman, Grandfather's Clock. She liked the sentimental and romantic poems, Irish Blessings and Bible verses, Drummond and Longfellow, seafaring yearning. It was, she said, the only part of school she had liked. Memorizing long poems, a real joy for her, what she was good at. She laboriously typed out the text for a children's story book of color poems; "Hailstones and Halibut Bones." She loved it. I remember the next line was "... and some people's telephones." (!?)
Taking poetry apart in school, struck me as a pointless and cruel exercise. Repeatedly analyzing The Road Not Taken - Frost, until I came upon "Satire, that Blasted Art", which took apart all the sentimentalism of the poem and made the convincing argument that it is satire. Aha! Poems as subversive art. That was cool. I learned that poem, and it is in my repertoire. Only due to my understanding, an intellectual satisfaction.
I only had to memorize a few in grade school, one about fairies;
Up the (something) mountain/down the rushy glen I dare not go a' hunting for fear of little men. (Ugh)
When asked to pick one to memorize, I learned High Flight (John Gillespie McGee Jr) by heart because it was the text of an oft run tv ad for the Air Force. Lewis Carroll's mockery of poetry, I can recite Jabberwocky. I do like the poems, I am just not transported as I am with a good prose. Poems seemed too pretty, too short to engage me. Sketch work instead of a complete world with real people. I liked more story, dialogue. Or much less, like the Tao Te Ching.
Obviously, I am also not enamored of squishy Hallmark versification. Birthday cards with sentimental lines, and pretty flowers, - nauseating. My Aunt Evelyn spent a great deal of time finding the one that said just the right thing, and I would pretend to read it and go soft in gratitude. 'Oh, that is just perfect', and a hug. Like soft pop music, I considered it uselessly sweet without substance or flavor, however well meant. I have to accept the phenomenon that such stuff touches hearts. Leaves me quite cold.
So what is with me, that the highest verbal expressions in such a rich language that I love, leaves me shrugging my shoulders? Did I just have the magic sucked out of it in English classes? Distancing myself from my mother? A total lack of sentimentality? Lack of taste or refinement? Or do I just need it set to music for it to come to life? Ah. Mystery partly illuminated, though not at all solved.
One of the poems I memorized was the Wreck of the Julie Plante -Drummond. A funny poem in French Canadian inflected English about a shipwreck. The CBC had an animation, set to music, of the verses, that I saw in my 30s. I cried. This strange, familiar, consciously humorous bit of doggerel, when given a song, and a voice, touched me. Who knew?
So, dear poets who are my friends, sing me thy verses, I seem not to be up to supplying my own melody. That or it's Vogon poetry, only good for sappy greeting cards, and I will never tell.
Please, enjoy this poetical interlude. I will be humming.
The Wreck of the "Julie Plante": A Legend of Lac St. Pierre
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below—
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck too—
He call de crew from up de hole,
He call de cook also.
De cook she 's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',--
De sout' win' she blow too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do ?"
Den de captinne t'row de beeg ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore,
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak hurricane
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.
William Henry Drummond
Song
My mother sang to me, hummed and lullabyed. Brahm's, Rock-a-bye Baby. Together we sang "Downtown" (Yes, Petula Clark.) She would sing "Stay Awake" to me at bedtime, sarcasm learned in the cradle. I learned a lot of old songs, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, It's a Long Way to Tipperary, Clementine. We sang in the car, we sang together.
In church I loved the music most of all. Crown Him With Many Crowns, I joined the choir as soon as I was old enough, and stayed with it until I left the church entirely. It was such a solace to open my throat and sing out, and sit far away from my parents, often going to a different mass entirely. To be part of the procession with candles intoning 'Praise We Christ's Immortal Body" an old and wonderful chant, very moving. I would gradually become more and more uncomfortable with the imagery, the dogma of the songs. The masculinity of the words, the overwhelming paternal identity of God, my exclusion for being female. The music of it, wordless truth, remains.
Popular music filled my head, I sang along. I listened to the WNIC, soft hits all the time. I am the Eagle, Country Roads, Oh Very Young, John Denver, Cat Stevens. It's not that I didn't have taste, it is that I had little exposure to what I would like. On my few albums, I tended to find the one oddball song and memorize it. Polka-dots and Moonbeams, Forest Lawn. My brothers left behind records when they left home. Tommy- The Who I nearly memorized complete. I wound up a DJ at an automated country radio station in Kalkaska Michigan, trying to tolerate the country music. There were specks of gold amidst the dross- Emmylou Harris, Nancy Griffiths, Johnny Cash. Still hating Country in general, I learned a more expansive musical eclecticism. Mainstream radio stations were becoming more corporate, homogenized, I was for a brief moment part of the problem. I examined my conscience, my mindless swallowing of pop.
I'd always got drizzles of folk and international music. The folk dances in college played music from all over. I listened to more NPR. Jazz I tried and found it to be habañero pepper, good only in tiny amounts. The difference - knowing quality from crap, and my taste from just not-to-my- taste. I sought out the corners, and the old stuff, and began to loathe the pabulum.
Then, well, the pantheon became available. International Music, still not easy to find, but no longer impossible. Schicklele Mix, the web, All Songs Considered, BBC, a world of music leaked in around the edges. Paul Simon and his Rhythm of the Saints pushed, Buena Vista Social Club, Oh, Brother Where Art Thou? all ate away at the monolith. Not all good, but trying. More genuine, more unfucked with, hardy stuff, raw, real.
The crap, of course, is everywhere. Read Dave Barry's 'Bad Song Book.' At work when the Soft Rock station is on, I can't turn it off. Or a James Taylor CD is brought in- if I ever run into the man on the street, I will kick him in the shins. I fixate on the words to pop love, the dysfunctional sentiments, the anti-feminism. "She's gone/It'll be the devil to replace her/she's gone/what went wrong?"- well, duh. If I never hear another Jackson Browne song, it will be a good start. The soullessness of it, the commercial slickness, the endless repetition, how many times does anyone need to hear REO Speed-wagon, Hesuschristpullingaricksaw? I will leave stores playing Elton John on the Muzak. Mediocrity infuriates me, neither hot nor cold, I spit it out. With music it feels an obscenity, cheapening the sacred.
Although the mainstream will always be there, I am comforted by more side-streams flowing, oxbows forming, harmonies and dissonances overtones and undertones, more voices chiming in, and turning the music.
I am learning new songs. Harmonizing.
In church I loved the music most of all. Crown Him With Many Crowns, I joined the choir as soon as I was old enough, and stayed with it until I left the church entirely. It was such a solace to open my throat and sing out, and sit far away from my parents, often going to a different mass entirely. To be part of the procession with candles intoning 'Praise We Christ's Immortal Body" an old and wonderful chant, very moving. I would gradually become more and more uncomfortable with the imagery, the dogma of the songs. The masculinity of the words, the overwhelming paternal identity of God, my exclusion for being female. The music of it, wordless truth, remains.
Popular music filled my head, I sang along. I listened to the WNIC, soft hits all the time. I am the Eagle, Country Roads, Oh Very Young, John Denver, Cat Stevens. It's not that I didn't have taste, it is that I had little exposure to what I would like. On my few albums, I tended to find the one oddball song and memorize it. Polka-dots and Moonbeams, Forest Lawn. My brothers left behind records when they left home. Tommy- The Who I nearly memorized complete. I wound up a DJ at an automated country radio station in Kalkaska Michigan, trying to tolerate the country music. There were specks of gold amidst the dross- Emmylou Harris, Nancy Griffiths, Johnny Cash. Still hating Country in general, I learned a more expansive musical eclecticism. Mainstream radio stations were becoming more corporate, homogenized, I was for a brief moment part of the problem. I examined my conscience, my mindless swallowing of pop.
I'd always got drizzles of folk and international music. The folk dances in college played music from all over. I listened to more NPR. Jazz I tried and found it to be habañero pepper, good only in tiny amounts. The difference - knowing quality from crap, and my taste from just not-to-my- taste. I sought out the corners, and the old stuff, and began to loathe the pabulum.
Then, well, the pantheon became available. International Music, still not easy to find, but no longer impossible. Schicklele Mix, the web, All Songs Considered, BBC, a world of music leaked in around the edges. Paul Simon and his Rhythm of the Saints pushed, Buena Vista Social Club, Oh, Brother Where Art Thou? all ate away at the monolith. Not all good, but trying. More genuine, more unfucked with, hardy stuff, raw, real.
The crap, of course, is everywhere. Read Dave Barry's 'Bad Song Book.' At work when the Soft Rock station is on, I can't turn it off. Or a James Taylor CD is brought in- if I ever run into the man on the street, I will kick him in the shins. I fixate on the words to pop love, the dysfunctional sentiments, the anti-feminism. "She's gone/It'll be the devil to replace her/she's gone/what went wrong?"- well, duh. If I never hear another Jackson Browne song, it will be a good start. The soullessness of it, the commercial slickness, the endless repetition, how many times does anyone need to hear REO Speed-wagon, Hesuschristpullingaricksaw? I will leave stores playing Elton John on the Muzak. Mediocrity infuriates me, neither hot nor cold, I spit it out. With music it feels an obscenity, cheapening the sacred.
Although the mainstream will always be there, I am comforted by more side-streams flowing, oxbows forming, harmonies and dissonances overtones and undertones, more voices chiming in, and turning the music.
I am learning new songs. Harmonizing.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Work
When I grew up, I became a nurse in surgery. I never saw it coming. I had considered nursing in high school, but a nun -Sr. Judith Nameless, who taught chemistry, badly, said I couldn't be a nurse because I was bad at chemistry. Perhaps she did me a favor, since I did have a lot to learn of a non-chemical nature.
I spent school trying to figure out what I would be, my interests scattered all over the landscape. I wanted to be a pilot, because my uncle was a private pilot. A disastrous idea, since I have no sense of where I am in space outside of my own skin. I fantasized about being a dancer, but even then I knew I wasn't good enough, nor the right shape. Had fad aspirations based on tv shows, a comment in The Courtship Of Eddie's Father had me wanting to be a pediatrician- even though I didn't like children even as a child myself. Mostly I had no idea, outside of (even I would admit) the unrealistic 'actress', what I could really do. It was just answering adults. The societal demand that a career had to start in grade school. Well, it was only a generation away from apprenticeships when that was true.
I wanted to be one of the actors on a tv show, tell stories, live in a well scripted world, touch people all over the world. When I earned a full scholarship, I started in a dedicated theater curriculum, took every class to get the degree, studied hard, and never got cast in a play. Oh, I played an old lady in a grad student directed production, and I was in the croc costume for Peter Pan, not exactly portfolio material. Couldn't remember lines to save my life, I was stiff and tense, awkward and self conscious, cried at all the wrong moments. I looked all wrong for most parts. I took me 3 1/2 years to realize I would starve as an actor, and for good reason. I found that I hated being told exactly what to say and how to do my job. But also hated having to fight just to have a job to do, auditions were a nightmare. Especially when rare and critical jobs were based on my vanity. Of which I have some, but it is of a peculiar variety. I quit in my last semester, feeling a failure, unwilling to scrape through in despair.
In my intervening years of confusion, I was a radio DJ, podiatrist assistant, library aide, phone researcher (real research, and before it became such a nuisance, forgive, please) movie concessions, ballroom dance instructor, costumed "Litter Bug," waitress (2 weeks), auditor, art model, mall market researcher, as well as the Army National Guard and nurse. Each job taught me at least one lesson I use daily. Together, that mess of employment gave me empathy. I know about crappy, dead end jobs. After years of chronic underemployment, I value my living wage.
I know that no education is ever wasted, and today I can stand up and talk, in front of one person, or a group, speak clearly and calmly, and explain well. With humor. Useful for smarting off to surgeons or finessing anxious family members. I can empathize with any person, after writing many character studies. I can imagine a reason a difficult patient, or surgeon, is being an ass, and find a way to get through to them, or at least diffuse their hostility. Or else just duck--from stage fighting classes. When not to take moaning seriously- being able to spot a drama queen at a glance. I am wicked good at finding an analogy to describe a situation, having ushered so damn many plays, and BEING THE LIGHTBULB in actor games (ugh). Useful for answering patients questions about utterly alien experiences.
Surgery is my wonderfully, ridiculously structured work place, where I am an expert in my own sphere, and develop my own lines, and adapt creatively to changing situations. I have no homework. I will always have a job. I am happy not wearing make-up, I wear pyjamas every day that are magically cleaned by someone else. My appearance doesn't matter, aside from clean and concerned. Bleeds off (pun intended) my tendency to fuss and fix at people, and my paranoia at the vagaries of life. I am competent and cheerful, because the work fits.
I get the best stories first hand, the juicy not-for-the-dinner-table kind.
And I did just fine in college chem.
Now, I teach myself to be a writer. We shall see.
I spent school trying to figure out what I would be, my interests scattered all over the landscape. I wanted to be a pilot, because my uncle was a private pilot. A disastrous idea, since I have no sense of where I am in space outside of my own skin. I fantasized about being a dancer, but even then I knew I wasn't good enough, nor the right shape. Had fad aspirations based on tv shows, a comment in The Courtship Of Eddie's Father had me wanting to be a pediatrician- even though I didn't like children even as a child myself. Mostly I had no idea, outside of (even I would admit) the unrealistic 'actress', what I could really do. It was just answering adults. The societal demand that a career had to start in grade school. Well, it was only a generation away from apprenticeships when that was true.
I wanted to be one of the actors on a tv show, tell stories, live in a well scripted world, touch people all over the world. When I earned a full scholarship, I started in a dedicated theater curriculum, took every class to get the degree, studied hard, and never got cast in a play. Oh, I played an old lady in a grad student directed production, and I was in the croc costume for Peter Pan, not exactly portfolio material. Couldn't remember lines to save my life, I was stiff and tense, awkward and self conscious, cried at all the wrong moments. I looked all wrong for most parts. I took me 3 1/2 years to realize I would starve as an actor, and for good reason. I found that I hated being told exactly what to say and how to do my job. But also hated having to fight just to have a job to do, auditions were a nightmare. Especially when rare and critical jobs were based on my vanity. Of which I have some, but it is of a peculiar variety. I quit in my last semester, feeling a failure, unwilling to scrape through in despair.
In my intervening years of confusion, I was a radio DJ, podiatrist assistant, library aide, phone researcher (real research, and before it became such a nuisance, forgive, please) movie concessions, ballroom dance instructor, costumed "Litter Bug," waitress (2 weeks), auditor, art model, mall market researcher, as well as the Army National Guard and nurse. Each job taught me at least one lesson I use daily. Together, that mess of employment gave me empathy. I know about crappy, dead end jobs. After years of chronic underemployment, I value my living wage.
I know that no education is ever wasted, and today I can stand up and talk, in front of one person, or a group, speak clearly and calmly, and explain well. With humor. Useful for smarting off to surgeons or finessing anxious family members. I can empathize with any person, after writing many character studies. I can imagine a reason a difficult patient, or surgeon, is being an ass, and find a way to get through to them, or at least diffuse their hostility. Or else just duck--from stage fighting classes. When not to take moaning seriously- being able to spot a drama queen at a glance. I am wicked good at finding an analogy to describe a situation, having ushered so damn many plays, and BEING THE LIGHTBULB in actor games (ugh). Useful for answering patients questions about utterly alien experiences.
Surgery is my wonderfully, ridiculously structured work place, where I am an expert in my own sphere, and develop my own lines, and adapt creatively to changing situations. I have no homework. I will always have a job. I am happy not wearing make-up, I wear pyjamas every day that are magically cleaned by someone else. My appearance doesn't matter, aside from clean and concerned. Bleeds off (pun intended) my tendency to fuss and fix at people, and my paranoia at the vagaries of life. I am competent and cheerful, because the work fits.
I get the best stories first hand, the juicy not-for-the-dinner-table kind.
And I did just fine in college chem.
Now, I teach myself to be a writer. We shall see.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Limbo
I am in limbo. Never mind the particulars, I've told everyone and their dogs the whole chain of circumstances that bind me over and over and over and... well, it feels like that anyway. Nevermind. Chaos, The Hanged Man, the waiting is the hardest part thank you Tom Petty. So what do I do when I have little to do but wait? Well, I procrastinate, of course. Not creative, but stifling. I try to write, mentally pacing a small room, kicking at the wall at each rapid turn.
It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.
I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.
I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.
(written before the move to Boston.)
It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.
I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.
I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.
(written before the move to Boston.)
Friday, August 19, 2005
Fiction
I read Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate, in particular her advice to writers, involving compassion and seeing another's point of view, her own issues with her difficult mother, and culture clashes. I have a difficult father, estranged completely for years, we never had any kind of peace or understanding. He is referred to in other essays, as I skirt him as a subject too painful. I try to starve my lifelong anger. I want it to settle and fade. But her words urged me to do more, to tell his story, inasmuch as I can. Let it be fiction, but let it help me understand a rather stupid and emotionally disturbed man who fathered me as well as he probably could. I cannot write his cadences, in his voice, although I hint at it, because I find it is too much like chewing on aspirin. Nor can I write it as a first person narrative, his sexuality is far too personally unsettling for me to handle. Ever. I can let go of my bitterness, but he remains galling. So here it is. Forgive the mess.
There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)
So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.
He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?
He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.
Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.
It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?
It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.
(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)
There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)
So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.
He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?
He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.
Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.
It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?
It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.
(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Love
How do I know that it is the real thing, that I am in love, that this is the one? Such an awful, unanswerable, and misleading question. Everyone who wants to love and be loved has asked it. I have heard many glib answers. Like 'well... you'll just know.' The pervasiveness of bad relationships and failed marriages exposes this as a glib lie. Or it's an old theory of Finding The Right One, applied to the modern problem of making what was long a social/economic construct and jamming it into a Hollywood Ideal of Romance. Only by reframing the question can any sense come of it. Then, it is one of those answers that can only come out of experience. How do I know a particular individual seed will grow? By planting it and finding out.
It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.
I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.
I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.
When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.
Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't treat me like shit.
Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:
3. Never take each other for granted.
4. Always get each other toys.
Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.
We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?
And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.
It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.
I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.
I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.
When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.
Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't treat me like shit.
Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:
3. Never take each other for granted.
4. Always get each other toys.
Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.
We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?
And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Chocolate
February 15th is a wonderful holiday. It is Half-Price Chocolate Day. I stumbled up on it almost accidentally, a joke gone terribly right. We have never done Valentine's Day, or any of the other commercially mandated holidays. Ours has been a practical romanticism, a fun sense of romance. Toys and silliness more than hearts and roses. But I have a terrible sweet tooth, at least when it comes to chocolate. D knew I was happy with him when I told him I loved him as much as chocolate. That I considered him a solid chocolate bunny- the same to the core and all wonderful.
One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.
My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.
While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.
When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....
Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.
One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.
My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.
While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.
When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....
Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Mom
I feel I have been rather unfair to my mother in these essays. She did pretty well in many areas. And with a very different set of priorities. She made sure I had a roof over my head, food on the table, clothes on my back. I was never physically hurt, and I had an intact family. She took me to the doctor when I was sick, I always had good shoes for my misshapen feet. I was sent to ballet lessons, ice skating, even flute and violin for a while, despite a lack of talent. I had a pottery class from my grade school. I went on all the class trips.
She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.
She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.
She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.
She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.
She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.
She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.
She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.
She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.
Tattoo
I do not remember the first tattoo I ever saw. An uncle, a neighbor? I always wanted my skin marked. I longed to at least wear a bubble-gum temporary tattoo, but I was not allowed. I drew on my hidden skin with pens. I do remember the first woman I saw with a tattoo. She worked in a downtown drugstore with a lunch counter. She was in her fifties, with a rose on her forearm. I shyly asked her about it, and she talked willingly. She loved it, she'd always wanted it and never for a moment regretted it. She said it made her feel beautiful in a way that would never go away. I dearly wanted to touch her eloquent skin.
The night I escaped, the ex broke all the mugs I'd collected one by one. Wine glasses from a long lost friend. He broke windows, furniture, everything breakable, save his computer. I wanted nothing around me that could be taken from me, nothing smashable. The idea of a tattoo emerged. Art that could not be removed from me.
Seven years waiting for the right image, the right time, laying it at the back of my mind to germinate. The spark came when I was in a nursing school clinical, when I met a woman with a Camel cigarette tattoo in the ICU with ARDS. I spoke to her on her first day, when she was ill, but talking. I heard her story, I saw her. As she worsened, she was filled with fluids to keep her leaky vascular system from collapsing, much of it leaking out between the cells, tripling her weight, making her unrecognizable. Intubated, she could not communicate. Except for the tattoo. That Camel logo kept her humanity, her story, in the front of my mind when she no longer looked human. She survived to leave the hospital. I expected to mourn her, instead I relish her story.
I pondered for over a year, I was 35, and I found an image of a leaping cat. Chose a spot on my belly, as I had been belly-dancing for about a year. I found a reputable place. I got a fairly young tattooist, the owner was impatient with my dithering, and questioning, said I had to trust them. I sat in the chair, and was told it would be a scratch. I took it all very badly. The pain was so intense, although it went away when the needle went away. Finally, I could not stand more. The outline was done, he convinced me to let him shade it a bit. I was sweating and shaking and trying to breathe and stay calm. As soon as I saw my outlined cat, I loved it. I did everything I needed to to heal it, watched the redness go away, occasionally filled it in with a surgical skin marker. I began to think of it as my ghost cat. And began planning another.
I have four now, all larger, longer sittings, more refulgent lines. Celtic knots, black and bold. I found a better, more experienced tattoo artist, Bones at Southern Thunder, a real artist- a good human being. I would find the pain more bearable after the first one. I took at least a year deciding on the design for each. The last the most readily visible, a cat sitting with his tail wrapped around my calf. Once in a huge standing crowd, a small finger touched the cat, the finger's owner, a toddler stared up at me alarmed. I asked him if he liked my cat, he nodded, withdrew and buried his face in his parents' legs. I wonder what kind of tattoo he will wear. Last week a woman on the street laughed and said it was the most perfect tattoo she had ever seen. Another woman also laughed and said "Mouse, mouse!" And then something in Spanish. We shared a moment of joy, if not understanding.
Nursing involves seeing bodies, and I have seen many, many tattoos. Ugly ones, amateur ones, funny and lovely. Military insignia on old Vets. A woman with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her lower abdomen was getting a kidney transplant. She was willing to sacrifice her tattoo for the kidney, but the surgeons took a few minutes at the end to re-attach Pooh's head. I have seen wings and roses, shy small ankle smudges and full sleeves of death's heads and naked cuties. Youthful folly or mature elaboration, simple and tiny to ornate swathes, all speaking profundities of their wearers. As for my stains, I like a kind comment, or an honest question. The only unanswerable is "What does that mean?" If I could have put it into words, I would not have gone through the pain of needling it onto my skin. I am marked, scarred, changed immutably, blessed. It means, but I cannot say how. I am not sure what mine say about me. But there they are.
I am awaiting the time for the next one.
Ask me, if you want to touch.
The night I escaped, the ex broke all the mugs I'd collected one by one. Wine glasses from a long lost friend. He broke windows, furniture, everything breakable, save his computer. I wanted nothing around me that could be taken from me, nothing smashable. The idea of a tattoo emerged. Art that could not be removed from me.
Seven years waiting for the right image, the right time, laying it at the back of my mind to germinate. The spark came when I was in a nursing school clinical, when I met a woman with a Camel cigarette tattoo in the ICU with ARDS. I spoke to her on her first day, when she was ill, but talking. I heard her story, I saw her. As she worsened, she was filled with fluids to keep her leaky vascular system from collapsing, much of it leaking out between the cells, tripling her weight, making her unrecognizable. Intubated, she could not communicate. Except for the tattoo. That Camel logo kept her humanity, her story, in the front of my mind when she no longer looked human. She survived to leave the hospital. I expected to mourn her, instead I relish her story.
I pondered for over a year, I was 35, and I found an image of a leaping cat. Chose a spot on my belly, as I had been belly-dancing for about a year. I found a reputable place. I got a fairly young tattooist, the owner was impatient with my dithering, and questioning, said I had to trust them. I sat in the chair, and was told it would be a scratch. I took it all very badly. The pain was so intense, although it went away when the needle went away. Finally, I could not stand more. The outline was done, he convinced me to let him shade it a bit. I was sweating and shaking and trying to breathe and stay calm. As soon as I saw my outlined cat, I loved it. I did everything I needed to to heal it, watched the redness go away, occasionally filled it in with a surgical skin marker. I began to think of it as my ghost cat. And began planning another.
I have four now, all larger, longer sittings, more refulgent lines. Celtic knots, black and bold. I found a better, more experienced tattoo artist, Bones at Southern Thunder, a real artist- a good human being. I would find the pain more bearable after the first one. I took at least a year deciding on the design for each. The last the most readily visible, a cat sitting with his tail wrapped around my calf. Once in a huge standing crowd, a small finger touched the cat, the finger's owner, a toddler stared up at me alarmed. I asked him if he liked my cat, he nodded, withdrew and buried his face in his parents' legs. I wonder what kind of tattoo he will wear. Last week a woman on the street laughed and said it was the most perfect tattoo she had ever seen. Another woman also laughed and said "Mouse, mouse!" And then something in Spanish. We shared a moment of joy, if not understanding.
Nursing involves seeing bodies, and I have seen many, many tattoos. Ugly ones, amateur ones, funny and lovely. Military insignia on old Vets. A woman with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her lower abdomen was getting a kidney transplant. She was willing to sacrifice her tattoo for the kidney, but the surgeons took a few minutes at the end to re-attach Pooh's head. I have seen wings and roses, shy small ankle smudges and full sleeves of death's heads and naked cuties. Youthful folly or mature elaboration, simple and tiny to ornate swathes, all speaking profundities of their wearers. As for my stains, I like a kind comment, or an honest question. The only unanswerable is "What does that mean?" If I could have put it into words, I would not have gone through the pain of needling it onto my skin. I am marked, scarred, changed immutably, blessed. It means, but I cannot say how. I am not sure what mine say about me. But there they are.
I am awaiting the time for the next one.
Ask me, if you want to touch.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Feet
My feet are messed up. Started out that way, turned in, squashed in. (Tiny suffering mom, big baby.) Wore special shoes to turn them out. Then wore shoes on the wrong feet, expensive leather hard encasements, told I kicked the foot of my crib through the night. Rhythmically I hope. My smallest toes didn't touch the ground, wrapped up on top of the next toes, an amusement when making childish footprints. Only had eight toes! I started very young to squeeze these toes down, reshaping them. At that age, it can work, and I did it all the time. Those smallest digits are now in a more or less normal position. I always had good fitting, solid shoes. Not pretty, but I cared very little about what shoes looked like. Obviously, my feet were not pretty. The concept was so alien to me when I first came across the idea that feet were anything other than functional. And my preference is still for the beaten, muscular feet of dancers.
I was sent to ballet class to turn my feet out when I was 7. The classes were at Patton Park, so I assume they were fairly inexpensive. The instructor provided the leotards, dyed black and rather baggy. I pointed my toes and proudly suffered cramps in my arches, stuffed my feet into ballet slippers, white to start with. Grey after use. I learned grace and discipline and got used to how I looked moving in a mirror, and the feel of my body in space. Longed to be on Pointe. Stopped long before I was old enough, too young for musculature developed enough to stand on my toes.
This led to my pronation, unfortunately. Fallen arches, I roll my feet forward, and need arch supports or my back hurts as well as my feet. In college the first time, I got soft cheap shoes, and my feet started really hurting for the first time. I was dancing and fencing and running, all in cheap shoes. Cotton Chinese shoes, canvas boots from Payless, sneakers. I started having back problems and my feet ached, but I just lived in the pain. I was young and stupid and on my own, making mistakes I pay for today. Such is life.
I worked for a while as a podiatrist assistant in a downtown Detroit clinic. Old, worn feet. Abused old lady feet, stuffed into too small, pointy toed shoes for decades. I got the whirlpool ready, did the x-rays, cleaned surfaces, shuffled patients, and tried to hurry the podiatrist (my real, and semi-official, job.) I never judged the feet as aesthetic issues. Just a source of pain for their owners. It would be years before I got better shoes for myself.
My "honeymoon" involved hiking through the Grand Tetons. I had never hiked before, and the one person who should have cared about me and hiked enough to know I needed decent hiking boots was too concerned about his own gear. My sneaker clad feet were wet throughout, I suffered altitude sickness and blisters. It was beautiful beyond belief, and today I remember it as something I did alone, so that I can remember the beauty. I cannot quite forget the cold feet.
My doctor told me to get some arch supports about four years ago, so I did. The pain over the first month was incredible, but gradually my foot pain eased, and my back pain did as well. Then I moved to Boston, and my feet became a source of daily awareness, again. I have good shoes now, good arch supports. I will walk, or die.
Well, eventually I will die anyway, but at least I will walk there.
I was sent to ballet class to turn my feet out when I was 7. The classes were at Patton Park, so I assume they were fairly inexpensive. The instructor provided the leotards, dyed black and rather baggy. I pointed my toes and proudly suffered cramps in my arches, stuffed my feet into ballet slippers, white to start with. Grey after use. I learned grace and discipline and got used to how I looked moving in a mirror, and the feel of my body in space. Longed to be on Pointe. Stopped long before I was old enough, too young for musculature developed enough to stand on my toes.
This led to my pronation, unfortunately. Fallen arches, I roll my feet forward, and need arch supports or my back hurts as well as my feet. In college the first time, I got soft cheap shoes, and my feet started really hurting for the first time. I was dancing and fencing and running, all in cheap shoes. Cotton Chinese shoes, canvas boots from Payless, sneakers. I started having back problems and my feet ached, but I just lived in the pain. I was young and stupid and on my own, making mistakes I pay for today. Such is life.
I worked for a while as a podiatrist assistant in a downtown Detroit clinic. Old, worn feet. Abused old lady feet, stuffed into too small, pointy toed shoes for decades. I got the whirlpool ready, did the x-rays, cleaned surfaces, shuffled patients, and tried to hurry the podiatrist (my real, and semi-official, job.) I never judged the feet as aesthetic issues. Just a source of pain for their owners. It would be years before I got better shoes for myself.
My "honeymoon" involved hiking through the Grand Tetons. I had never hiked before, and the one person who should have cared about me and hiked enough to know I needed decent hiking boots was too concerned about his own gear. My sneaker clad feet were wet throughout, I suffered altitude sickness and blisters. It was beautiful beyond belief, and today I remember it as something I did alone, so that I can remember the beauty. I cannot quite forget the cold feet.
My doctor told me to get some arch supports about four years ago, so I did. The pain over the first month was incredible, but gradually my foot pain eased, and my back pain did as well. Then I moved to Boston, and my feet became a source of daily awareness, again. I have good shoes now, good arch supports. I will walk, or die.
Well, eventually I will die anyway, but at least I will walk there.
Restaurant
I used to have awful restaurant karma.
Finicky eater, it was texture and odor more than flavor that put me off. Gristle killed my appetite. Coconut in cake was like finding a hair. Grease gave me the queasies. My mother's lack of cooking skill, or imagination, was not helpful. Her baking, though, was amazing, there was dessert after every meal. She had a way with sugar, I still have the sweet tooth to prove it. Nutrition was meat, milk and potatoes. Growing up so poor herself, she did not have milk, ate shortening and brown sugar on bread as a treat. Her idea of vegetables was mashed potatoes, with milk and margarine, salt and pepper. French fries, slightly browned, lots of salt. Fried potatoes, potato casserole- baked with milk and cheese. Canned green beans heated up. Lettuce with tomatoes and dressing- salad. Mandatory glass of milk with every meal. Meat was the core of every meal, but that meant fried or baked chicken- battered. Hamburger or meatloaf only edible with a thick layer of ketchup. Canned-salmon patties. Occasional perch over cooked. Much lemon juice to cover up that taste. Not that I blame her, she was not cooking for an appreciative group. I would have lived on cinnamon toast for breakfast and pb&j the rest of the time, with her desserts. With a small budget, she resisted restaurants because she 'could feed us for a week on what would be spent on one meal'. Her words. No doubt accurate.
Restaurants were for traveling only, and at that time, McDonalds was the best choice. Family vacations, 10 days of enforced togetherness, and chancy food, and emotions running high. I never knew what to order, it was the only time I was given a choice about food. So I went with cheap and safe, which is not a good strategy altogether. Not that I had any idea of needing a menu strategy. Kid menus were years in the future. My parents were not up on the idea of tipping. There was too much food, with the horrible expectation that I would "clean my plate."
I really started eating out in college. Had some wonderful Greek meals, and a whole lot of wrong orders, burnt, undercooked, or otherwise inedible food. Ditto Mexican, Chinese, Polish, and American Diner cuisine. Often to do with being poor and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. I got frustrated and angry at waiters and cooks. The ex used to apologize to them in my hearing for my "bad manners" without ever trying to teach me how to order better.
I lowered my expectations with mess halls-it was after all free. There were Drill Sergeants whose job it was to be 'chow hall push', "If you're talking, you're not eating!", "IF you can taste it you are eating. too. slow." And other forms of harassment to keep the flow of soldiers going through the feeding process. I didn't need much urging- it was true, if I ate fast enough, the taste didn't matter. I would inhale whatever it was and have a few precious minutes alone to walk back to the barracks. Fair trade. Free food.
After that, I could eat anything. But I also decided that if I were eating out, I was going to order nothing that would show up in a chow hall. I slowly came to realize that it mattered what you ordered, and where. That I needed a strategy. It would take a while. D also tended to try to apologize for me, which I quashed as condescending, with the caveat that he work with me. He agreed, apologized, and did. I learned to be pleasant-no easy skill for me. I finally had enough income to eat out- a key element. We became regulars at the Rio Grande Cafe at the former train station in Salt Lake. Gradually I worked out a list of rules for avoiding bad service and bad food, and it had more to do with how I looked at eating than what I was given.
1. Never order hamburger at a place that does mostly Fish.
2. Don't order the only fish on the menu.
3. Don't order the cheapest thing on the menu, especially if it is grilled cheese.
4. If my waiter is slow or having trouble hearing me, do not order anything that needs adjustment, i.e. 'no onions'. Just order something that doesn't have onions.
5. Don't get mad or picky, just be firm and apologetic, and flexible. Trading plates will make my friends happier than me sitting there fuming with no food. Eggs are eggs, regardless of how they are cooked, just eat them.
6. Don't go into a restaurant very hungry with low blood sugar, the order will certainly never show up, or be grossly wrong. Get a candy bar first.
7. Order the same thing every time when I am with a large group, it's the friends not the food. And they can order for me if I am in the restroom. Or too tired to chose well. (Dave will probably still have a salad with honey mustard dressing, on the side. )
8. Add an extra $5-10 when I am sharing a group check, someone always forgets the tax or is cheap about tips, don't let it be me.
9. If I can't afford it, eat home first and get an appetizer, or dessert. I am not paying for the food, I am paying for the service and ambience, no matter what I might think.
10. Become a regular.
I made a lot of mistakes and was very irritable before I worked out these rules. I annoyed my friends, ruined many an evening, embarrassed D, and shamed myself. I finally stopped blaming, and expecting perfection because I was paying for this. I took what I was given, and looked for the good in it. Places have lost my business because they would not meet me halfway, but I have stopped making scenes. Even when it comes to restaurants, you can't buy happiness, you have to take it in with you.
I still miss the Rio Grande Cafe. But let me take you out to Wok 'n Roll.
Finicky eater, it was texture and odor more than flavor that put me off. Gristle killed my appetite. Coconut in cake was like finding a hair. Grease gave me the queasies. My mother's lack of cooking skill, or imagination, was not helpful. Her baking, though, was amazing, there was dessert after every meal. She had a way with sugar, I still have the sweet tooth to prove it. Nutrition was meat, milk and potatoes. Growing up so poor herself, she did not have milk, ate shortening and brown sugar on bread as a treat. Her idea of vegetables was mashed potatoes, with milk and margarine, salt and pepper. French fries, slightly browned, lots of salt. Fried potatoes, potato casserole- baked with milk and cheese. Canned green beans heated up. Lettuce with tomatoes and dressing- salad. Mandatory glass of milk with every meal. Meat was the core of every meal, but that meant fried or baked chicken- battered. Hamburger or meatloaf only edible with a thick layer of ketchup. Canned-salmon patties. Occasional perch over cooked. Much lemon juice to cover up that taste. Not that I blame her, she was not cooking for an appreciative group. I would have lived on cinnamon toast for breakfast and pb&j the rest of the time, with her desserts. With a small budget, she resisted restaurants because she 'could feed us for a week on what would be spent on one meal'. Her words. No doubt accurate.
Restaurants were for traveling only, and at that time, McDonalds was the best choice. Family vacations, 10 days of enforced togetherness, and chancy food, and emotions running high. I never knew what to order, it was the only time I was given a choice about food. So I went with cheap and safe, which is not a good strategy altogether. Not that I had any idea of needing a menu strategy. Kid menus were years in the future. My parents were not up on the idea of tipping. There was too much food, with the horrible expectation that I would "clean my plate."
I really started eating out in college. Had some wonderful Greek meals, and a whole lot of wrong orders, burnt, undercooked, or otherwise inedible food. Ditto Mexican, Chinese, Polish, and American Diner cuisine. Often to do with being poor and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. I got frustrated and angry at waiters and cooks. The ex used to apologize to them in my hearing for my "bad manners" without ever trying to teach me how to order better.
I lowered my expectations with mess halls-it was after all free. There were Drill Sergeants whose job it was to be 'chow hall push', "If you're talking, you're not eating!", "IF you can taste it you are eating. too. slow." And other forms of harassment to keep the flow of soldiers going through the feeding process. I didn't need much urging- it was true, if I ate fast enough, the taste didn't matter. I would inhale whatever it was and have a few precious minutes alone to walk back to the barracks. Fair trade. Free food.
After that, I could eat anything. But I also decided that if I were eating out, I was going to order nothing that would show up in a chow hall. I slowly came to realize that it mattered what you ordered, and where. That I needed a strategy. It would take a while. D also tended to try to apologize for me, which I quashed as condescending, with the caveat that he work with me. He agreed, apologized, and did. I learned to be pleasant-no easy skill for me. I finally had enough income to eat out- a key element. We became regulars at the Rio Grande Cafe at the former train station in Salt Lake. Gradually I worked out a list of rules for avoiding bad service and bad food, and it had more to do with how I looked at eating than what I was given.
1. Never order hamburger at a place that does mostly Fish.
2. Don't order the only fish on the menu.
3. Don't order the cheapest thing on the menu, especially if it is grilled cheese.
4. If my waiter is slow or having trouble hearing me, do not order anything that needs adjustment, i.e. 'no onions'. Just order something that doesn't have onions.
5. Don't get mad or picky, just be firm and apologetic, and flexible. Trading plates will make my friends happier than me sitting there fuming with no food. Eggs are eggs, regardless of how they are cooked, just eat them.
6. Don't go into a restaurant very hungry with low blood sugar, the order will certainly never show up, or be grossly wrong. Get a candy bar first.
7. Order the same thing every time when I am with a large group, it's the friends not the food. And they can order for me if I am in the restroom. Or too tired to chose well. (Dave will probably still have a salad with honey mustard dressing, on the side. )
8. Add an extra $5-10 when I am sharing a group check, someone always forgets the tax or is cheap about tips, don't let it be me.
9. If I can't afford it, eat home first and get an appetizer, or dessert. I am not paying for the food, I am paying for the service and ambience, no matter what I might think.
10. Become a regular.
I made a lot of mistakes and was very irritable before I worked out these rules. I annoyed my friends, ruined many an evening, embarrassed D, and shamed myself. I finally stopped blaming, and expecting perfection because I was paying for this. I took what I was given, and looked for the good in it. Places have lost my business because they would not meet me halfway, but I have stopped making scenes. Even when it comes to restaurants, you can't buy happiness, you have to take it in with you.
I still miss the Rio Grande Cafe. But let me take you out to Wok 'n Roll.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Nothing
I love doing nothing. I have vivid memories of long hours in my backyard, sitting on the grass peeling leaves, or on my back feeling the earth revolve beneath me in the summer. Or taking very deliberate steps in the fresh snow, imagining I was the first to step in that snow. Staring into the brilliance until I became white blind. On the swing as high as I could swing for as long as I could until I entered some kind of altered state of mind. Lonely at times, I also know how to be content alone, comfortable with silence and idleness.
The next part of my life that enriched my spiritual silence was surprisingly in the Army, Fort Dix New Jersey. My body was kept busy, sleep was inadequate, but my mind had little to do, as I spent much time waiting, or marching. I learned to love the beauty of dawn, watched geese flying over, the red blue flashlights swinging through the pre dawn dark of early marches. I came to feel rather than see when my platoon was in step, we all must have because by the end of the two months, thirty women marching in boots sounded like one woman walking quietly. We responded as one to commands, a strange kind of alertness that was like meditation. Cadences shouted- sung filled the mind like a mantra, keeping out the whining that I was always prone to. When I ran, in pain and exhaustion, I chanted "I'm young, I'm strong, I'm health-y" and the pain faded. I could feel the earth pushing back at my steps, giving me a push forward. I took satisfaction in having all my uniform hangers three finger widths apart, all my buttons buttoned, hat straight. Hugging the earth at the ranges, which kept me out of the wind screeing off the ocean smelt but not seen.
Out in the wind, we would huddle around the smallest thinnest women to warm them, rub arms and backs to warm each other, put woolen socks in the webbing of our helmets to keep the wind from whistling around our heads. I was outside more than I had ever been in my life, at least in October November and December. The fall leaves were brilliant, the mud constant, the cold a presence like the pain. But there was no escape, only acceptance, and the duty of taking care of each other. My feet went numb during bivouac, and that was that. No excuses, no gratitude, doing and letting the mind follow, the only way out was through. Laying in my bunk at night listening to people breathing, knowing who was on night CQ by the sound of their footsteps. We reeked of Ben Gay, and one CQ sergeant would always say,
"Smells like my Grandmother in here!"
At first startled- waking to companies shouting outside as they marched past our barracks through the night, later I slept reassured by those sounds. Field stripping an M16 blind, yes I still could -I am sure. Just as I could always hit what I aimed at with one. My meddling busy mind was too tired to care, so I simply got on with the work at hand. Payment would come later, but I learned what I could do, and I understood how strong a quiet mind is. Nothing in busyness.
When I started back to school at the U. I was very alone, isolated by my attitude and precarious position. Too much silence, but no one to be quiet with. Until I found myself again at the whim of the government, and I found D. Waiting in Colorado to be sent to Saudi Arabia, we spent many hours sitting with our backs leaning together, sometimes talking or reading, or as often simply being together. The gift of silence, shared. Doing nothing, we built a haven together. Out on the bleachers for the parade field, I was recovering from a bad sinus infection, and fell asleep in the sun with my head on his lap. Such peace. Him finally asleep on the concrete, on my lap as we waited in the underground garage in Kobar for the C130 to take us to our housing outside Riyadh. I watched him like a vicious dog guarding her master, lest anyone think it funny to do anything to him. Because being on guard and alert is part of meditation, oblivious to the irritation, acutely aware of danger.
After such a difficult move, with too much to do, this week my mind is insisting on nothing. If I try to push myself into thinking, my thoughts collapse. My body hurts, my brain aches. But the words this week have been gushing out, pouring onto the screen. A deep desire to communicate while I can only do nothing. I idle, and orient. As long as I do nothing.
The next part of my life that enriched my spiritual silence was surprisingly in the Army, Fort Dix New Jersey. My body was kept busy, sleep was inadequate, but my mind had little to do, as I spent much time waiting, or marching. I learned to love the beauty of dawn, watched geese flying over, the red blue flashlights swinging through the pre dawn dark of early marches. I came to feel rather than see when my platoon was in step, we all must have because by the end of the two months, thirty women marching in boots sounded like one woman walking quietly. We responded as one to commands, a strange kind of alertness that was like meditation. Cadences shouted- sung filled the mind like a mantra, keeping out the whining that I was always prone to. When I ran, in pain and exhaustion, I chanted "I'm young, I'm strong, I'm health-y" and the pain faded. I could feel the earth pushing back at my steps, giving me a push forward. I took satisfaction in having all my uniform hangers three finger widths apart, all my buttons buttoned, hat straight. Hugging the earth at the ranges, which kept me out of the wind screeing off the ocean smelt but not seen.
Out in the wind, we would huddle around the smallest thinnest women to warm them, rub arms and backs to warm each other, put woolen socks in the webbing of our helmets to keep the wind from whistling around our heads. I was outside more than I had ever been in my life, at least in October November and December. The fall leaves were brilliant, the mud constant, the cold a presence like the pain. But there was no escape, only acceptance, and the duty of taking care of each other. My feet went numb during bivouac, and that was that. No excuses, no gratitude, doing and letting the mind follow, the only way out was through. Laying in my bunk at night listening to people breathing, knowing who was on night CQ by the sound of their footsteps. We reeked of Ben Gay, and one CQ sergeant would always say,
"Smells like my Grandmother in here!"
At first startled- waking to companies shouting outside as they marched past our barracks through the night, later I slept reassured by those sounds. Field stripping an M16 blind, yes I still could -I am sure. Just as I could always hit what I aimed at with one. My meddling busy mind was too tired to care, so I simply got on with the work at hand. Payment would come later, but I learned what I could do, and I understood how strong a quiet mind is. Nothing in busyness.
When I started back to school at the U. I was very alone, isolated by my attitude and precarious position. Too much silence, but no one to be quiet with. Until I found myself again at the whim of the government, and I found D. Waiting in Colorado to be sent to Saudi Arabia, we spent many hours sitting with our backs leaning together, sometimes talking or reading, or as often simply being together. The gift of silence, shared. Doing nothing, we built a haven together. Out on the bleachers for the parade field, I was recovering from a bad sinus infection, and fell asleep in the sun with my head on his lap. Such peace. Him finally asleep on the concrete, on my lap as we waited in the underground garage in Kobar for the C130 to take us to our housing outside Riyadh. I watched him like a vicious dog guarding her master, lest anyone think it funny to do anything to him. Because being on guard and alert is part of meditation, oblivious to the irritation, acutely aware of danger.
After such a difficult move, with too much to do, this week my mind is insisting on nothing. If I try to push myself into thinking, my thoughts collapse. My body hurts, my brain aches. But the words this week have been gushing out, pouring onto the screen. A deep desire to communicate while I can only do nothing. I idle, and orient. As long as I do nothing.
Movie
I grew up on television, as many of my age did. When it was still educational and no one was worried about it being an electronic babysitter. Not that it wasn't bad, but no one thought so. I lived for cartoons and Hallmark Special Presentations that meant I could stay up an hour later, or Charlie Brown Specials and the Wonderful World of Disney. It was there that I first found movies. The (Three Lives of Thomasina) sticks in my heart although I can hardly remember the plot.
I was taken to most of the G rated films showing, which is to say Disney. I loved (Winnie the Pooh) and (Mary Poppins), but more (Darby O'Gill and the Little People) -the banshee scene is seared into my mind. I would get swept up into the story and want to know the characters. I would live in that world for days after a movie, didn't matter if it was on TV or in a theater. I fantasized being a character in their world, telling other stories with them. I also starred in my own Mary Tyler Moore type sitcom, but that really is another story. As I got older and movies changed, the only G rated films were (The Voyage of Ra), and (Chariots of the Gods) those dreadful, but wonderfully Fortean, Sun Film productions. Saturday afternoon, and Sunday too, were about those awful dubbed Swedish children's movies, B&W, SF, Horror and Biblical flicks. They all smear together in my memory, one huge mass of grey strangers living out incomprehensible lives. I may have wanted to act as a way to enter that world.
I really consummated my love for movies when I went to college. There was a Wayne State University film society that showed late afternoon movies in a screening room in the Film department, $1. Many foreign or independent, not mainstream at all. Eye openers - Just a Gigolo-, or the frankly sexual -Montenegro-. Peeking into far stranger realities and alien points of view. The Unitarian church down the street showed all kinds of odd stuff, including -Five Easy Pieces-, and erotica (some arty thing involving a cucumber, I still shudder to think.) The Detroit Institute of Arts had a Film Theater, several series of French films (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) and Hitchcock's canon - finally saw all of (The Birds.) They had a Sunday afternoon film series where I saw (Grapes of Wrath.) I often got the mainstream movies when I went to the downtown theaters for Tuesday dollar night like (48 Hours) Eddie Murphy. I was a bit daunted laughing at his particular brand of humor being the only pale face in a crowded theater, until I realized I would be drowned out, and no none cared what I thought, anyway. There was also the Punch and Judy, a lovely restored theater that showed Independent and second run shows, I saw (Apocalypse Now) there, among many others.
I took two semesters of Film classes- Prof Spaulding exposed me to directors like Scorcese and John Ford, Fellini and Kurosawa. I learned to read films, and sharpen my eye to what was good, or bad. I grew to hate Disney as I opened my eyes to the sexism and petty twisted "values" of them. Not to mention the flat photography and over-saturated colors. I learned to look for themes and motifs and messages, styles and details. I figured I saw 4-5 movies a week for almost four years. I have a knowledge base that is rather impressive.
And D? Well, he is far worse than I am, if less thoroughly trained. Cable he ... oh wait, can't give that away. Just say he saw a lot of movies on cable, shall we? He can name a movie seen for less than 30 seconds on screen, even if he has never seen the film in question. He spots actors with aplomb, and can tell me what else they have been in. In part, he does this better because of the IMDB. That site is the only reason I have the movies above listed correctly. I remember scenes and stories, but the names escape me unless I practice. D gives me lots of practice. We talk in Movie. We have a game where we name a motif, and have to list movies that have it. It's all about shared stories. And here is a completely unprovoked plug for Netfllix. We have rated over 3000 movies there, so far.
I have largely given up on mainstream Hollywood movies today. The Incredibles was the first in a long time, and the last one with real heart that I loved completely, and wanted to join their world (and figure out what Superpower I wanted to have.) I am a snob, I want well told stories, (Ikiru) complicated or warm (Triplets of Belleville). I want characters that I would like to see more of (Return To Me.) I want witty writing (Murder My Sweet) and true heart (Twilight Samurai.) I will not tolerate mediocrity or obvious manipulation (Basic Instinct.) I'm a huge MST3K fan, so I do like bad movies (Plan 9 From Outer Space) done with enough unbalanced energy. I want perfect movies, the ones that meet the goals they set (That Thing You Do.) Or even imperfect movies that have a redeeming feature, (Tank Girl) - simply because of Lori Petty, or the deeply flawed (Romeo+Juliet) because of so many good ideas, Pete Postlethwaite, and the Queen Mab speech. But neither do I think that a film is good simply because it is Arty. Pretentious crap is still pretentious crap wherever it is shown (Koyaanisqatsi.)
D. has come up with three rules of seeing movies, that we now live by
1. You are smarter than the movie. If you feel like you are not getting it, it just isn't there, even if the director would like to pretend it is. After sitting through (Mindwalk), (Eraserhead.)
2. Don't play chicken with the movie. Never stay to see the end thinking it cannot get any worse. It can, it will. Just leave. Even at the end of two otherwise good movies (Realm of the Senses) and (Pi.)
3. There is no point at which you cannot stop watching a movie. First five, last five, doesn't matter. If it is not working for you, just stop, walk away. Learned on (Meet the Parents), (Johnny Nemonic) You will be happier if you do.
Film is a refuge and a window into the minds and hearts of others.
Film is powerful, and should be used for good, not for evil.
I was taken to most of the G rated films showing, which is to say Disney. I loved (Winnie the Pooh) and (Mary Poppins), but more (Darby O'Gill and the Little People) -the banshee scene is seared into my mind. I would get swept up into the story and want to know the characters. I would live in that world for days after a movie, didn't matter if it was on TV or in a theater. I fantasized being a character in their world, telling other stories with them. I also starred in my own Mary Tyler Moore type sitcom, but that really is another story. As I got older and movies changed, the only G rated films were (The Voyage of Ra), and (Chariots of the Gods) those dreadful, but wonderfully Fortean, Sun Film productions. Saturday afternoon, and Sunday too, were about those awful dubbed Swedish children's movies, B&W, SF, Horror and Biblical flicks. They all smear together in my memory, one huge mass of grey strangers living out incomprehensible lives. I may have wanted to act as a way to enter that world.
I really consummated my love for movies when I went to college. There was a Wayne State University film society that showed late afternoon movies in a screening room in the Film department, $1. Many foreign or independent, not mainstream at all. Eye openers - Just a Gigolo-, or the frankly sexual -Montenegro-. Peeking into far stranger realities and alien points of view. The Unitarian church down the street showed all kinds of odd stuff, including -Five Easy Pieces-, and erotica (some arty thing involving a cucumber, I still shudder to think.) The Detroit Institute of Arts had a Film Theater, several series of French films (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) and Hitchcock's canon - finally saw all of (The Birds.) They had a Sunday afternoon film series where I saw (Grapes of Wrath.) I often got the mainstream movies when I went to the downtown theaters for Tuesday dollar night like (48 Hours) Eddie Murphy. I was a bit daunted laughing at his particular brand of humor being the only pale face in a crowded theater, until I realized I would be drowned out, and no none cared what I thought, anyway. There was also the Punch and Judy, a lovely restored theater that showed Independent and second run shows, I saw (Apocalypse Now) there, among many others.
I took two semesters of Film classes- Prof Spaulding exposed me to directors like Scorcese and John Ford, Fellini and Kurosawa. I learned to read films, and sharpen my eye to what was good, or bad. I grew to hate Disney as I opened my eyes to the sexism and petty twisted "values" of them. Not to mention the flat photography and over-saturated colors. I learned to look for themes and motifs and messages, styles and details. I figured I saw 4-5 movies a week for almost four years. I have a knowledge base that is rather impressive.
And D? Well, he is far worse than I am, if less thoroughly trained. Cable he ... oh wait, can't give that away. Just say he saw a lot of movies on cable, shall we? He can name a movie seen for less than 30 seconds on screen, even if he has never seen the film in question. He spots actors with aplomb, and can tell me what else they have been in. In part, he does this better because of the IMDB. That site is the only reason I have the movies above listed correctly. I remember scenes and stories, but the names escape me unless I practice. D gives me lots of practice. We talk in Movie. We have a game where we name a motif, and have to list movies that have it. It's all about shared stories. And here is a completely unprovoked plug for Netfllix. We have rated over 3000 movies there, so far.
I have largely given up on mainstream Hollywood movies today. The Incredibles was the first in a long time, and the last one with real heart that I loved completely, and wanted to join their world (and figure out what Superpower I wanted to have.) I am a snob, I want well told stories, (Ikiru) complicated or warm (Triplets of Belleville). I want characters that I would like to see more of (Return To Me.) I want witty writing (Murder My Sweet) and true heart (Twilight Samurai.) I will not tolerate mediocrity or obvious manipulation (Basic Instinct.) I'm a huge MST3K fan, so I do like bad movies (Plan 9 From Outer Space) done with enough unbalanced energy. I want perfect movies, the ones that meet the goals they set (That Thing You Do.) Or even imperfect movies that have a redeeming feature, (Tank Girl) - simply because of Lori Petty, or the deeply flawed (Romeo+Juliet) because of so many good ideas, Pete Postlethwaite, and the Queen Mab speech. But neither do I think that a film is good simply because it is Arty. Pretentious crap is still pretentious crap wherever it is shown (Koyaanisqatsi.)
D. has come up with three rules of seeing movies, that we now live by
1. You are smarter than the movie. If you feel like you are not getting it, it just isn't there, even if the director would like to pretend it is. After sitting through (Mindwalk), (Eraserhead.)
2. Don't play chicken with the movie. Never stay to see the end thinking it cannot get any worse. It can, it will. Just leave. Even at the end of two otherwise good movies (Realm of the Senses) and (Pi.)
3. There is no point at which you cannot stop watching a movie. First five, last five, doesn't matter. If it is not working for you, just stop, walk away. Learned on (Meet the Parents), (Johnny Nemonic) You will be happier if you do.
Film is a refuge and a window into the minds and hearts of others.
Film is powerful, and should be used for good, not for evil.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Death
Death was no kind of taboo subject in my otherwise silent family, and for that I am grateful. Unavoidable, I think, I grew up going to funerals. I attended more than I can count. (In contrast, only went to three weddings before I was 21.) I met my cousins and much of my family attending viewings and rosaries for the Great Aunts and Uncles, then aunts and uncles, then both grandmothers- all by the time I was 24. Funerals I understand. I go in, be respectful, offer comfort, listen, hug, and it is sad, so I cry quite easily amist grief and loss and shock. And when the guest of honor had lived a long life, especially if they had suffered through a long dwindling, then, after the tears (often mixed in with them) the stories would start. Everyone would have some funny remark, a favorite joke, and the tears would ease. We got a bit loud, we laughed and celebrated. Healing and comfort and connection.
Not to say I was comfortable with death. I hated having to pray while staring at that waxy, frightening form in the satin lined casket. I tried to stare at the flowers, the wood, the rosary in the stiff hands, rather than the painted face, especially if I had known the Aunt well. I feared the dead. I obsessed about dying and all manner of gruesome ways of ending up a stiff. Normal for an adolescent, and I was especially morbid. A girl in high school died of leukemia. A neighbor boy and his cousin died in a car crash the night of their graduation- the naked grief of that funeral was breathtaking.
I was terrified of cemeteries, in part because there was one under the turn of the bridge that my father always took way too fast, and I always figured I would die there. Not buried, thrown from the car and killed in the cemetery. Nightmare fodder. My father worked as a custodian at a cemetery from the time I was about 12, after his factory closed and he was glad to have health insurance and an income as an unskilled worker in his mid 50's. I did everything I could not to go with my mother to pick him up. And when I was learning to drive at 17, guess where they thought it would be a great place for me to practice. I hated it.
Death became part of my job, at 33, when I had my shiny new RN license, working in a hospice/rehab floor of a nursing home. About a week in, a CNA called to me as I came on shift. Terrified, unprepared, I walked into that quiet room, alone with my stethoscope. I listened, heard nothing, and called the other nurse in. She found my bother amusing, but backed me up, and helped me make the calls and fill in the paperwork, while others did the hands-on that morning. That would be the first death of many requiring my presence. I came to know that look, the "um...." the tone to my name as the aide notified me of a death, often very much expected, occasionally not. I would wash the dead, talk to families, call the funeral homes. I would watch for the last breath, and hold the hands of the dying. I always cried, not sobbing, just a few minutes of pouring tears, then or later at home.
Weird things happened when people died. A sweetly demented woman who never got up at night, came to the desk at 2am saying two men were in her room wearing black suits. This was highly out of character for her. There was nothing when we went and checked, she calmly went back to sleep. One of our men on the other end died in the midst of this.
Another elderly woman, confused but more or less coherent, had been admitted for pneumonia. Every night she asked us if she was going to die. I always told her I thought she would live a while longer, which seemed to satisfy her. Then one night, after she was much better, and was being evaluated for going home, she told me "I'm going to die tonight." I stopped, and considered my words. "Then we will watch over you." Which also seemed to satisfy her. About midnight, she stopped breathing, her heart stopped. But neither the other nurse nor I were convinced she was dead. We moved her roommate to an empty room, washed her and called her family. They were not surprized, said she had told them earlier and they had said their goodbyes then. We called the mortuary, SOP. And went back to make sure we were right- repeatedly- not usual. She seemed still there, still alive, as though still confused about what she should do next. We went down to listen again through that night, even saying out loud "You are dead, you can go now. " Glad that the particular mortuary, normally so on time, didn't show until 6am. Because by then, the sense that she was still there, was gone.
I watched one woman heal up bedsores in a week. I had cleared her throat, when she turned her head with a startle, stared and took a last, sighing breath in my arms. I was told by a woman dying miserably of esophageal cancer that it (death) was "Not so bad."
I have seen those dying of lung disease keep breathing intermittently for a half hour after their hearts had stopped. Normal impulse to breath is a high CO2 sensor, long term pulmonary disease burns this out, and the secondary impulse- low 02 will continue to function. Nothing like dying to reduce oxygen levels. One such had died during lunch, we closed the door and would take care of her in an hour, but her friends came in, then came to tell us they had just made it, and seen her "Last Breath!" We did not clarify that she had died somewhat earlier than her last agonal breath.
In Surgery, death is far more rare, and more bitterly fought. A 14 year old boy hit by a bus, cleaning the gore from him after the attempts at resuscitation and surgical repair, so that his parents could see him in those poor remains. The old-school nurses wrapping his hands in warm blankets so he would have warm hands, and perhaps not seem so dead to his mother.
A young woman killed in a climbing accident, her organs harvested for others, for a while I'd held her heart. I stayed to wash her, as I had the most experience of any present to do this for her. I cried as I did so.
Another woman, damaged at birth, and losing to an overwhelming infection, whose heart I had shoved into a few more minutes of work. I later sat with her in a surgical education room, until her family could come, they braided her hair.
A elderly woman, seemed to me supremely disinterested in her impending amputation. I figured she had other plans that evening, regardless of what we did. She died in surgery, after an hour of intermittently working resuscitation. Her family insisted we put her leg back on. The surgeon wrapped it in place, all that seemed possible at that point.
A young man, receiving a liver transplant, the surgeon losing self control, the man losing way too much blood, the family insisting on coming into that chaos to see him alive one last time- to all our astonishment. They were eventually brought in, allowed to kiss their son-- intubated, invasive lines, his blood permeating the room, all the noise of the surgeons continuing the useless fight, but we found out later they understood better because they were allowed in.
Death is not a fearful prospect for me. It is too familiar. I do not know what happens, but it is profound, with much the same hot press of a birth. A blessing when the suffering would be far worse. Inevitable, impartial. I have seen those who stare into the face of death, and there is beauty there. I'm told it's not so bad. My own death awaits me, the path where my soul will walk alone.
Not to say I was comfortable with death. I hated having to pray while staring at that waxy, frightening form in the satin lined casket. I tried to stare at the flowers, the wood, the rosary in the stiff hands, rather than the painted face, especially if I had known the Aunt well. I feared the dead. I obsessed about dying and all manner of gruesome ways of ending up a stiff. Normal for an adolescent, and I was especially morbid. A girl in high school died of leukemia. A neighbor boy and his cousin died in a car crash the night of their graduation- the naked grief of that funeral was breathtaking.
I was terrified of cemeteries, in part because there was one under the turn of the bridge that my father always took way too fast, and I always figured I would die there. Not buried, thrown from the car and killed in the cemetery. Nightmare fodder. My father worked as a custodian at a cemetery from the time I was about 12, after his factory closed and he was glad to have health insurance and an income as an unskilled worker in his mid 50's. I did everything I could not to go with my mother to pick him up. And when I was learning to drive at 17, guess where they thought it would be a great place for me to practice. I hated it.
Death became part of my job, at 33, when I had my shiny new RN license, working in a hospice/rehab floor of a nursing home. About a week in, a CNA called to me as I came on shift. Terrified, unprepared, I walked into that quiet room, alone with my stethoscope. I listened, heard nothing, and called the other nurse in. She found my bother amusing, but backed me up, and helped me make the calls and fill in the paperwork, while others did the hands-on that morning. That would be the first death of many requiring my presence. I came to know that look, the "um...." the tone to my name as the aide notified me of a death, often very much expected, occasionally not. I would wash the dead, talk to families, call the funeral homes. I would watch for the last breath, and hold the hands of the dying. I always cried, not sobbing, just a few minutes of pouring tears, then or later at home.
Weird things happened when people died. A sweetly demented woman who never got up at night, came to the desk at 2am saying two men were in her room wearing black suits. This was highly out of character for her. There was nothing when we went and checked, she calmly went back to sleep. One of our men on the other end died in the midst of this.
Another elderly woman, confused but more or less coherent, had been admitted for pneumonia. Every night she asked us if she was going to die. I always told her I thought she would live a while longer, which seemed to satisfy her. Then one night, after she was much better, and was being evaluated for going home, she told me "I'm going to die tonight." I stopped, and considered my words. "Then we will watch over you." Which also seemed to satisfy her. About midnight, she stopped breathing, her heart stopped. But neither the other nurse nor I were convinced she was dead. We moved her roommate to an empty room, washed her and called her family. They were not surprized, said she had told them earlier and they had said their goodbyes then. We called the mortuary, SOP. And went back to make sure we were right- repeatedly- not usual. She seemed still there, still alive, as though still confused about what she should do next. We went down to listen again through that night, even saying out loud "You are dead, you can go now. " Glad that the particular mortuary, normally so on time, didn't show until 6am. Because by then, the sense that she was still there, was gone.
I watched one woman heal up bedsores in a week. I had cleared her throat, when she turned her head with a startle, stared and took a last, sighing breath in my arms. I was told by a woman dying miserably of esophageal cancer that it (death) was "Not so bad."
I have seen those dying of lung disease keep breathing intermittently for a half hour after their hearts had stopped. Normal impulse to breath is a high CO2 sensor, long term pulmonary disease burns this out, and the secondary impulse- low 02 will continue to function. Nothing like dying to reduce oxygen levels. One such had died during lunch, we closed the door and would take care of her in an hour, but her friends came in, then came to tell us they had just made it, and seen her "Last Breath!" We did not clarify that she had died somewhat earlier than her last agonal breath.
In Surgery, death is far more rare, and more bitterly fought. A 14 year old boy hit by a bus, cleaning the gore from him after the attempts at resuscitation and surgical repair, so that his parents could see him in those poor remains. The old-school nurses wrapping his hands in warm blankets so he would have warm hands, and perhaps not seem so dead to his mother.
A young woman killed in a climbing accident, her organs harvested for others, for a while I'd held her heart. I stayed to wash her, as I had the most experience of any present to do this for her. I cried as I did so.
Another woman, damaged at birth, and losing to an overwhelming infection, whose heart I had shoved into a few more minutes of work. I later sat with her in a surgical education room, until her family could come, they braided her hair.
A elderly woman, seemed to me supremely disinterested in her impending amputation. I figured she had other plans that evening, regardless of what we did. She died in surgery, after an hour of intermittently working resuscitation. Her family insisted we put her leg back on. The surgeon wrapped it in place, all that seemed possible at that point.
A young man, receiving a liver transplant, the surgeon losing self control, the man losing way too much blood, the family insisting on coming into that chaos to see him alive one last time- to all our astonishment. They were eventually brought in, allowed to kiss their son-- intubated, invasive lines, his blood permeating the room, all the noise of the surgeons continuing the useless fight, but we found out later they understood better because they were allowed in.
Death is not a fearful prospect for me. It is too familiar. I do not know what happens, but it is profound, with much the same hot press of a birth. A blessing when the suffering would be far worse. Inevitable, impartial. I have seen those who stare into the face of death, and there is beauty there. I'm told it's not so bad. My own death awaits me, the path where my soul will walk alone.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
Path
I longed to live an interesting life, being isolated in the petty destructiveness of my parent's home. I lived in a small circle of family- aunts and uncles, grandmothers, that we visited each week. I had my own narrow back yard, and the occasional neighborhood child for play, but never really friendship. I was deeply lonely and very alone. There was little money for entertainment, the Library was my consolation, and my first employer. Family vacations, car trips on a shoestring, took us far- Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Appalachian Trail, Nova Scotia, all were a peek out to the wider world, but inevitably devolved into my father's ill temper and rages. Catholic high school, especially with bright classmates who were friends truly, allowed me to breathe for the first time. Still small and straited into parental expectations, I grew inside, had ideas about what I might be. I had the skills to study well, and endure much, and lurk inside myself until my path became clear. I was desperate to escape my naiveté, my narrow choices, my stifling safety.
I escaped up North to a radio station job, but failed, quit. Being more alone, with my parents trying to rescue me to feel important themselves, instead of letting me fall and find my own way, I crawled back. I used my scholarship toward a Theater degree, at Wayne State, learned about Shakespeare and standing up in front of others. No talent for acting, and I learned what I didn't want- relying for my livelihood on the constant approval of unpredictable others. Almost learned, I lived with and then married an entirely wrong 15 year older man, quit school, moved to where he had family in Salt Lake. I would never have thought of Utah on my own. I only knew I needed to get far far away from my parents, and Detroit. We neither of us had anything like job skills. He liked to spend money on himself. I desperately saved it. I worked several part time jobs at a time, modeling for art classes for cash, survey research, whatever. He got a job at the library because he went to school in Idaho with the personnel director, and I was hired shortly after- part time. I shelved books. Worked hard. There was a tax reduction initiative that threatened that small job, so I looked harder. Checked the want ads daily.
One ad said "Part Time, Earn money while you train. Money for school. Utah National Guard." I figured what the hell, if it was a good deal, I'd go for it. Took the ASFAB the next day, and by Friday I had raised my hand, and joined up. Didn't get really scared until right before I left. Had no idea. But it would change how my brain worked, permanently. Push me to limits I would have drawn much smaller. Get me away from a bad marriage. I was 26.
I met many interesting people, who had joined the Army for all kinds of odd reasons. D was the best. I thought him 17, but he was 20 when we first started talking. Bright, opinionated as men that age are, an unaccountably stretchy mind, given such narrow experience of life in Mormon suburban Utah. Emotionally insightful, though lacking the language to describe his truths. We got to know each other when we were sent off to Colorado Springs, then Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. He was not easy to get to know, but he was generous and curious, unfailingly kind, loyal, warmly affectionate, he was who I needed to let me grow out of my hurts and distrusts. He had-has- the rare gifts of always being able to make me laugh, and of being comfortably silent. Sees nothing wrong in me, ever. Never turns his anger at me. Taught me not feed my anger.
With his indispensable support, I made it through nursing school. And my first year in surgery, which was harder than getting my degree. My work, which I love,has supported us while he got through his BA. And now he is in grad school here in Boston, as I do the traveling/agency nurse shtick, which gives us housing. I have cousins here, that I did not know I could count on, but who rescued us from a night on the floor of the train station, and have befriended us.
His friends, some which he has had since grade and high school, surround us. And they keep marrying into each other. So we stretch and strengthen our bonds. I have a non-genetic, but altogether real family. A family that opens up the world, instead of contracting in. We continue to grow together. And gather in more people.
My life, my mistakes and whimsical decisions, seem to have lead us to a place of great joy, and there seems to be more on the horizon. Perhaps Fate, an ineffable pattern forming. I stretch out, aspiring to be an intelligent, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, eccentric woman who has lived all over, fallen in love, broken my heart, been out on a number of limbs, seen transplants and traumas, deaths and births, thrown pots, danced, sang, gone to war, and is still often an idiot willing to try another adventure. I did want an interesting life. What the hell.
I escaped up North to a radio station job, but failed, quit. Being more alone, with my parents trying to rescue me to feel important themselves, instead of letting me fall and find my own way, I crawled back. I used my scholarship toward a Theater degree, at Wayne State, learned about Shakespeare and standing up in front of others. No talent for acting, and I learned what I didn't want- relying for my livelihood on the constant approval of unpredictable others. Almost learned, I lived with and then married an entirely wrong 15 year older man, quit school, moved to where he had family in Salt Lake. I would never have thought of Utah on my own. I only knew I needed to get far far away from my parents, and Detroit. We neither of us had anything like job skills. He liked to spend money on himself. I desperately saved it. I worked several part time jobs at a time, modeling for art classes for cash, survey research, whatever. He got a job at the library because he went to school in Idaho with the personnel director, and I was hired shortly after- part time. I shelved books. Worked hard. There was a tax reduction initiative that threatened that small job, so I looked harder. Checked the want ads daily.
One ad said "Part Time, Earn money while you train. Money for school. Utah National Guard." I figured what the hell, if it was a good deal, I'd go for it. Took the ASFAB the next day, and by Friday I had raised my hand, and joined up. Didn't get really scared until right before I left. Had no idea. But it would change how my brain worked, permanently. Push me to limits I would have drawn much smaller. Get me away from a bad marriage. I was 26.
I met many interesting people, who had joined the Army for all kinds of odd reasons. D was the best. I thought him 17, but he was 20 when we first started talking. Bright, opinionated as men that age are, an unaccountably stretchy mind, given such narrow experience of life in Mormon suburban Utah. Emotionally insightful, though lacking the language to describe his truths. We got to know each other when we were sent off to Colorado Springs, then Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. He was not easy to get to know, but he was generous and curious, unfailingly kind, loyal, warmly affectionate, he was who I needed to let me grow out of my hurts and distrusts. He had-has- the rare gifts of always being able to make me laugh, and of being comfortably silent. Sees nothing wrong in me, ever. Never turns his anger at me. Taught me not feed my anger.
With his indispensable support, I made it through nursing school. And my first year in surgery, which was harder than getting my degree. My work, which I love,has supported us while he got through his BA. And now he is in grad school here in Boston, as I do the traveling/agency nurse shtick, which gives us housing. I have cousins here, that I did not know I could count on, but who rescued us from a night on the floor of the train station, and have befriended us.
His friends, some which he has had since grade and high school, surround us. And they keep marrying into each other. So we stretch and strengthen our bonds. I have a non-genetic, but altogether real family. A family that opens up the world, instead of contracting in. We continue to grow together. And gather in more people.
My life, my mistakes and whimsical decisions, seem to have lead us to a place of great joy, and there seems to be more on the horizon. Perhaps Fate, an ineffable pattern forming. I stretch out, aspiring to be an intelligent, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, eccentric woman who has lived all over, fallen in love, broken my heart, been out on a number of limbs, seen transplants and traumas, deaths and births, thrown pots, danced, sang, gone to war, and is still often an idiot willing to try another adventure. I did want an interesting life. What the hell.
Pain
My tonsils came out when I was 5. I woke up from anesthesia to shocking amounts of pain. I had no idea it would hurt so much, I had never had anything hurt so much. It was awesome and terrifying and endless. The adults around me were nowhere near as concerned as I thought they should be, and I was bereft and helpless. I work today in surgery and a Post Anesthesia Care Unit (PACU ) and I fear working with children, lest I fail them in that moment of suffering and terror. I am a nurse who never needed to be convinced that children feel pain. I know. I remember. I generously give drugs.
There was no such thing as migraines in children when I was a child, so mine were never diagnosed, nonetheless treated. Anxious in a house of quietly desperate dysfunction, bullied at school, illness was the only time I was defended, given any peace. My gut knotted and my head throbbed to give me respite. Children do whatever they have to do. My body protected me the only way it knew how. It never quite learned to forget- when I had my life to myself. I have been gaining on it over the years, and I am finally really coming around.
As an adult, the migraines were incapacitating. Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, squeezing my head, I would have gladly put a bullet in my brain, not to die, but just on the off chance that it would stop the pain. Finally diagnosed and given drugs, wonderful drugs, when I was in my 30's, I now only fear going though a migraine unmedicated. A rare aura developed at work once, and I told the anesthesiologist so that someone in the room knew I might go down soon. He offered me IV drugs. I rolled up my sleeve. It was a very strange exchange, for which I am still grateful. Wonderful drugs.
Pain, I have found, I can ignore, while being drained of energy. Accumulated back injuries from numerous falls dancing, slipping on ice, moving patients, car accidents have left me vulnerable. I was thrown from a see-saw when I was very small, hit my head on the fulcrum, lost consciousness, and woke to agony. I fell down the wooden stairs in my parent's house, numerous times, bruised and my breath shocked out of me, then wracking sobs that my brothers tried to stop by making me laugh. Made it worse, but at least they were there. Four impacted wisdom teeth that ached for months and then oral surgery to top it off. An abscessed tooth, debrided without anesthetic, several moments of excruciating sensation. Breathing in CS gas in Basic, the worst two minutes of my life. I never knew lungs could hurt so. I broke a toe once, getting out of bed. As I healed, I walked around a winter campus on hills, as to be expected at the University of Utah, every step a wince. Or rather, every other step. I kept going. (Step, ow. Step, ow.)
My D smashed his elbow. I knew from first getting to know him in the middle of a war zone that he was brave, quietly deeply brave. I forgot for a time, and was forcibly reminded when I met him at the Instacare out in West Valley. Grey, tight, holding his arm delicately, still his eyes (slightly) lit when he saw me. He joked with me, laughed at my attempts at humor.
All through that long night until he would have surgery the next day, he never complained, never asked 'why me?' Throughout the next year of physical therapy, and a second surgery, he never played up the pain, never asked for pampering, was constantly grateful for anything done for him. He complained about the pain meds making him feel nauseated, angry at himself for not being able to do what he needed, whined a bit when the pain got too much, but did all the therapy, took two busses to make it to every appointment. Played his guitar the day after the second surgery, because he could finally make his arm bend enough (one four bar blues bar, it counts.) It hurt him, but that was his grail. He tends to hide the scar, and the misshapen arm to this day. But I kiss D'elbow, knowing what he endured. And because I fell in love with him again, having forgotten for a time how great his soul was. Pain is a great revealer of character.
Pain is not to be courted, but when it comes, it has wisdom to teach. A Vietnam Veteran at the Vet center talked with me after I got back from Gulf War I. I felt guilty when I was showered, along with the other new vets, with lavish public thanks, after merely an annoying time at war. I was suffering, but it seemed like it was over a bunch of nothing. He told me the worst pain he ever had was when he was hit by shrapnel, the wound that got him sent home But when he gets a paper cut that is the worst pain ever at that moment. He told me that pain does not compare, not from person to person, nor even from one part of my life to another. It may be telling us to stop, or be still, to listen, to change, to accept, to fight or flee. Inside of pain is the small voice with the real message, perhaps in a code that I can only decipher years later. Let me have ears to hear, lest I suffer in vain.
There was no such thing as migraines in children when I was a child, so mine were never diagnosed, nonetheless treated. Anxious in a house of quietly desperate dysfunction, bullied at school, illness was the only time I was defended, given any peace. My gut knotted and my head throbbed to give me respite. Children do whatever they have to do. My body protected me the only way it knew how. It never quite learned to forget- when I had my life to myself. I have been gaining on it over the years, and I am finally really coming around.
As an adult, the migraines were incapacitating. Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, squeezing my head, I would have gladly put a bullet in my brain, not to die, but just on the off chance that it would stop the pain. Finally diagnosed and given drugs, wonderful drugs, when I was in my 30's, I now only fear going though a migraine unmedicated. A rare aura developed at work once, and I told the anesthesiologist so that someone in the room knew I might go down soon. He offered me IV drugs. I rolled up my sleeve. It was a very strange exchange, for which I am still grateful. Wonderful drugs.
Pain, I have found, I can ignore, while being drained of energy. Accumulated back injuries from numerous falls dancing, slipping on ice, moving patients, car accidents have left me vulnerable. I was thrown from a see-saw when I was very small, hit my head on the fulcrum, lost consciousness, and woke to agony. I fell down the wooden stairs in my parent's house, numerous times, bruised and my breath shocked out of me, then wracking sobs that my brothers tried to stop by making me laugh. Made it worse, but at least they were there. Four impacted wisdom teeth that ached for months and then oral surgery to top it off. An abscessed tooth, debrided without anesthetic, several moments of excruciating sensation. Breathing in CS gas in Basic, the worst two minutes of my life. I never knew lungs could hurt so. I broke a toe once, getting out of bed. As I healed, I walked around a winter campus on hills, as to be expected at the University of Utah, every step a wince. Or rather, every other step. I kept going. (Step, ow. Step, ow.)
My D smashed his elbow. I knew from first getting to know him in the middle of a war zone that he was brave, quietly deeply brave. I forgot for a time, and was forcibly reminded when I met him at the Instacare out in West Valley. Grey, tight, holding his arm delicately, still his eyes (slightly) lit when he saw me. He joked with me, laughed at my attempts at humor.
All through that long night until he would have surgery the next day, he never complained, never asked 'why me?' Throughout the next year of physical therapy, and a second surgery, he never played up the pain, never asked for pampering, was constantly grateful for anything done for him. He complained about the pain meds making him feel nauseated, angry at himself for not being able to do what he needed, whined a bit when the pain got too much, but did all the therapy, took two busses to make it to every appointment. Played his guitar the day after the second surgery, because he could finally make his arm bend enough (one four bar blues bar, it counts.) It hurt him, but that was his grail. He tends to hide the scar, and the misshapen arm to this day. But I kiss D'elbow, knowing what he endured. And because I fell in love with him again, having forgotten for a time how great his soul was. Pain is a great revealer of character.
Pain is not to be courted, but when it comes, it has wisdom to teach. A Vietnam Veteran at the Vet center talked with me after I got back from Gulf War I. I felt guilty when I was showered, along with the other new vets, with lavish public thanks, after merely an annoying time at war. I was suffering, but it seemed like it was over a bunch of nothing. He told me the worst pain he ever had was when he was hit by shrapnel, the wound that got him sent home But when he gets a paper cut that is the worst pain ever at that moment. He told me that pain does not compare, not from person to person, nor even from one part of my life to another. It may be telling us to stop, or be still, to listen, to change, to accept, to fight or flee. Inside of pain is the small voice with the real message, perhaps in a code that I can only decipher years later. Let me have ears to hear, lest I suffer in vain.
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