Moment to Moment

Perhaps it's due to the severity and length of winter this year.  Maybe this is a by-product of the recession.  Or it could be that lately I've become more aware.  Then there was our county's "poll" last week of the homeless.  Whatever the reasons, I've seen a lot more homeless people than usual this spring.

On any given day, at any given hour, you are likely to encounter someone begging at our exit ramp from the interstate.  For a while, we gave money, trying to give enough for a sandwich but not enough for a six-pack, all the while knowing we've no right to judge how anyone spends our pittance.  Lately we've forgotten to carry the cash and have averted our eyes, feeling somehow guilty and resentful of that guilt, typical emotions of the average person who'd just rather not think about a problem that's so big and has no one solution.

However, the homeless have become a problem that won't go away, and they're not that invisible anymore.  I've seen people carrying their worldly possessions through local intersections, subdivisions, and down the sidewalk in front of our house.  They hover near the ATMs, outside the coffee shops.

Yesterday, a homeless woman came into the pub where we finally managed to have a belated Irish meal and pint.  At first, I didn't recognize her situation.  She was carrying a duffle bag, and wearing athletic clothes, and she looked exhausted, but I at first had the impression she'd perhaps just arrived back in town from a tournament. 

Her request of the server was definitely different; she asked for a cup of coffee in the middle of a hot afternoon.  No, she didn't want an Irish coffee, just plain coffee.  No, she didn't want anything to eat, god knows she eats too much.

That drew a second look.  She was emaciated.  And then I realized by the expression on her face, the way she was hunched over defensively, her look of having partied too much the night before was much more permanently etched on her face, but so was a certain tired dignity.

I averted my gaze.

He paid our tab, and I wheeled myself to the door, where the woman still sat, only now I could see she was asleep, in a deep sleep, the coffee finished.  I thought how kind the pub owner was.  I felt badly for the woman.  But I kept on going.

She wasn't asking for a handout, and I didn't want to disturb her sleep, nor did I wish to insult her.  But this morning I wish I had spoken with her.

Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.

...it seemed like such a small request.  C'mon, people.  I need some jokes, funny stories.  Lotsa hits, no comments.  Silence speaks.

Floaters are tiny spots or specks that float across the field of vision. Most people notice them in well-lit rooms or outdoors on a bright day. Floaters often are normal, but sometimes they warn of eye problems such as retinal detachment, especially if they happen with light flashes. If you notice a sudden change in the type or number of spots or flashes, see your eye doctor.

About.com, Women's Health

Soooo...near midnight, Wednesday, while grading, I got flashes in my left eye.  I went through this with my right eye three years ago, when the retina tore after my cataract surgery, but these flashes seemed more minor, and I was too exhausted to even contemplate getting my wheelchair in the car and toting myself down to the emergency room. 

Mr. Bluesky's been teaching out of town this week, and it's been difficult to manage on my own.  But I did it!

So, saying a little prayer that I was merely hallucinating because I was overly tired, I went to bed.

When I woke yesterday, the flashes were still there.  Worse.  Trying not to panic, I showered, loaded the chair and my work materials, and arrived at my eye doc's doorstep at 8 a.m. sharp.  On the drive over, the floaters appeared.  Lots of 'em.

I was listening to "Landslide" on the Pod when they called me back.

Big whew.  He could find no tears in the retina.  I just have to learn to live with the floaters, which will, as I know from experience, ebb and flow over time.  And I'll have to make regular visits to my eye docs.

Here's the big obstacle: how the hell do I grade?  I'm having a hard time reading what I write here.  I've discovered I can read the newspaper, which is printed on grayish paper.  It's the white backgrounds that are a problem.

Oh, and we're planning cataract surgery on that left eye in May.  I'm getting a little freaked here.

I've always loved a challenge, but it's getting ridiculous around here.

P.S.  Whatever you comment, please avoid "you poor thing" and other sympathetic terms.  I appreciate all the nice people who have been really great, but sympathy is the last thing I need right now.  I need humor.  American Girl was right.  So give my your jokes, give me your optimism, give me cheer, hell, give me a beer.  But no sympathy, please!

It's all in how you look at it.  I had a good day teaching yesterday, one of those days where all the planning really pays off and the students interact more than usual.  What happened after I left work was nothing short of a modern tale of chaos.  I emailed a friend about it all and thought about posting it here, but I realized, in reading it over again, that the three crappy things that happened to me and the struggle which they produced only took up about four hours out of twenty-four.  That's only one-sixth.  The other five-sixths of my day were spent either sleeping or working happily and productively.  Quantitatively, my focus is wrong, but perhaps it's skewed by the massive headache I have this morning, the residue of the half-hour I wasted in a hard cry before falling asleep.  On the one hand, the crying reduced the tension, but on the other hand, a half hour of laughing would have done the job as well and not left me with a headache.

There is no logic in hormones.

It seems to me that my attitudes toward reading tell me a lot about the state I'm in.  I've had two conflicting drives my entire life: to escape, and to be safe.  Both are illusory, but that's for another post.

As a kid, I read every chance I got.  I went from one author to another, devouring them like guilty pleasures because in our house you had to look busy, even when you weren't.  It was in this period that my family came up with catch-phrases for me: nose is always stuck in a book, all book-sense and no common sense.  These commonly repeated descriptions always seemed condemnatory both of me and of reading, so my time spent with books became something of a guilty pleasure, even though we made frequent trips to the library, especially in summers.  In those years I was addicted to mystery novels.  Reading was an adventure.

This feeling was reinforced at play and at school, where I was the geeky kid who wore glasses and reading wasn't something a kid was supposed to enjoy, at least not by kid standards.  This changed, gloriously, when I started my junior year advanced English class, where all the kids were like me, and the teacher planted the seed in my mind that grew me into a person who teaches English.  Two of the happiest years of my life were my last two years of high school, where I had finally found a place where I could be myself, to both explore and to soar.  It was exhilarating.  I read the greats, the contemporaries, the lesser-knowns.  Reading was my starship.

As a young wife to a man who had joined the Navy to see the world, I read lots of books about other parts of the world.  I became an armchair traveler.  As a young mother, I read romance novels almost exclusively, trying to alleviate the feelings of being trapped in an endless cycle of pregnancy (five), breastfeeding (24/7), diapers (cloth, and no dryer) that come with three children in 4 years and never a penny to spare.  Reading was an escape.

Once the kids were in school, I immersed myself in children, taking a part-time job at a school and volunteering for every organization that helped my kids grow.  There really was no time for reading, and I fell into bed exhausted every night.  All my reading in those years was about creative ways to parent my kids or lead a scout troop or coach young inventors, along with a great deal of child psych books.  Reading was a resource and a safety net.

I began studying literature as a 40-year-old college freshman.  At first, it was a re-creation of my high-school experience, a way to explore and express my individuality apart from the roles I'd assumed raising my kids.  For the next several years, reading opened doors I'd assumed were closed to me and took me to some of the places I'd only read about.  This was the most exciting period of personal growth I'd ever experienced, and I found friends again, friends who loved the same things, explorers all.  Reading was fulfillment.

Graduate school was the first, and I hope last, time I grew to hate reading.  Pursuing a graduate degree while teaching as the doors closed on what had been an open job market was the most dispiriting experience I'd had, and reading became a chore I never had enough time for.  By the time I finished my graduate degree, I'd developed the habit of reading only the first four chapters and conclusion of any book and skimming the rest.  It was a horrible practice, and soul-destroying for someone who loved books as I do.  It took me two years post-degree before I could read past chapter four of any book.  Reading had become an academic, ivory-tower, closeted, joy-sucking experience.

The first book, post-grad, that I could not put down was Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides.  Reading that novel was a return to the days when books were guilty pleasures that transported me to exotic places and into the minds of complex characters.  I was hooked again, already, but still, the scars of grad school made me move slowly.  I determined that summers were for reading, and last summer I read, guilt-free.  Once again, books were my companion, my freedom, and my portal.

Recently, I've been seriously overwhelmed by a convergence of pressures and hampered by a lack of mobility.  I called for help, and I was told that what I needed was an hour a day with a good book, no matter what the deadlines or other responsibilities.  I was given "permission" to read.  This permission has become my safety valve.  I just finished one novel and have started a new one.  For one hour a day, I am transported across oceans and cultures and time and space.  Reading is my escape, my old friend, my means of coping, of survival.

Reading has been a defining element in my life, but it has also given me an understanding of that life and of myself and others that is invaluable.  It frightens me to think that many young adults today have never really read a book unless they were made to, and, in fact, have never experienced pleasure in reading.  Reading sustains, challenges, and fulfills the very things which make us human.

Feeling tired?  Depressed?  Stressed?  Lonely?  Bored?  Misunderstood?  Pick up a good book.  Works for me!

Observation is a valuable tool.  I find that the loss of the use of my legs improves both my vision and my hearing.  I'm now once again aware of the fact that the general population treats people in wheelchairs as either invisible or an annoyance.  On the other hand, some outstanding people occasionally emerge, like Waldo, to open a door or begin a conversation that acknowledges the person rather than the chair. 

Yet vision is often accompanied by sorrow.  The realization that I will escape from this chair makes me aware of those who are serving life sentences.  There is a kind of recognition among people who cannot stand.  Often that connection occurs with a single glance or a smile which speaks volumes, a kind of you understand thing.  I want to carry each one of these moments in my heart long after the chair disappears, to remember the lessons I've learned.

Yesterday, because I strive so hard to live a "normal" life when that word is just a setting on my dryer (Patsy Clairmont, an author I followed religiously back in the day), we went to MOSI's opening of a new exhibit after work.  I am generally fiercely independent, but I find lately that I am grateful there's someone to take care of me at the end of the day, so for once I accepted his offer to push the chair. 

This time, he was the one to experience outrage when three employees of the museum cut us off in a crowded lobby, but it barely registered with me, and a really cool thing happened next.  We were in a corner, eating, when a boy of about 8 or 10 passed by in a motorized chair.  Hubby joked that I needed to get a motor so I could pick up some speed, and the boy turned and gave me one of those adorable boyish grins.  The world tilted, and I had a moment of insight into what each day might be like for this engaging child, to worry about what life might do to him.

This morning's remembrance of that moment makes me cry for him and for all others like him, who live lifetimes of struggle against not only their own limitations but also the stupidity and selfishness of "normal" people.  And I vowed, once again, to work hard at never forgetting these lessons, to become a better person, and to strive to always see and to hear others, especially those who live below the radar.

There are certain things I cannot change, but I can always change my attitude with a little help.

Evening is falling; there is a cool breeze that I can see, even if I can't feel it because I'm stuck working at the computer in the house, where the humidity is lower and I've only had to kill one mosquito today. 

The leaves are falling too, and the oak blossoms mingle to create a thick brown carpet.  The trees are heavy with new leaves all shades of green, which are serenely beautiful this time of day.  The sky is a deep blue with white wisps of clouds that move like smoke across the sky.

I tried to pick a bouquet of flowers today that were within my reach, and all I found were thorns.  At first I cursed the thorns, but slowly I came to understand that the sharp, hurtful things make the delicate, soft beauty of the blossoms stand out even more.

The music in my ears brings with it sensory images that evoke feelings nearly forgotten, faded yet more poignant with time, layered with experience and seasoned with pain, such as the pain I've experienced lately, unwanted but transitory, making me slow down to live tomorrow perhaps more fully than I lived yesterday.

It is the turn of the day and the turn of the seasons, and I find I am once again filled with gratitude for change.

Murphy's Law shoulda been named after me.  Mr. Bluesky came to my office to pick me up, took one look at me and declared we could celebrate our Irishness any day of the year.  He probably was so kind because he'd been working up the nerve for two days to break his travel schedule to me.  It sucks.  I ranted for about 30 seconds and then fell asleep in the car, and then took a short nap the minute I got to home-sweet-home. 

That nap was also short-lived because he turned on the local news in the next room.  I wandered in as soon as I was conscious enough to manage the wheelchair and saw the piece on the Sweetbay supermarket security breach which led to the theft of 4 million credit card numbers.  We don't shop there, but there's one about a mile down the road so we sometimes go in for an item.  I said, good thing we don't use our credit cards there, and he says, well, actually, I think I have once or twice in the last three months.  I said, okay, I'll check the credit card, thinking, what are the odds?

Apparently, pretty good.  There went the next hour, taking care of that, and the rest of the evening I spent feeling fairly violated.  Does anyone know if a credit card theft can lead to identity theft?  I don't have time right now to research the whole thing, and I don't know what to do to further protect ourselves.  I never thought anything like this would happen to us.  I know, that's what they all say.

What next?  And thanks for the support.  I think matchsticks are all that hold me up right now.

You know, life is crazy.  Insane.  I'm too old for this.  I can't do it anymore.  The one thought that kept recurring to me all day was: how the HELL did I do this two years ago, and with such enthusiasm and joy? 

I am not quite sure if this perception is right because I'm too exhausted to trust my perceptions, but, if I'm correct, and I'm not saying I am, but it's just possible that this is not a hallucination: I am the most exhausted and dispirited person still drawing breath on the planet, and if I have to speak to one more person, I don't care how wonderful or nice you are, I will either melt into an endless flood of tears or begin screaming like a banshee (what are those anyway) or swearing like a sailor.

And after only one working elevator in the whole freaking building, just-pretend-wheelchair-accessible restrooms (you've GOT to be kidding!) explaining to the nth person why I'm once again stuck in this stupid chair with this stupid apparatus on my leg and foot, the thousandth problem solved, the zillionth student dealt with, I get notice through the "official" channels that I should apply for a particular job with a one-year contract (full-time) and I wonder what the hell is happening here?  Why did I get good at a job that will never become a career at a time in my life when I'm just too damned tired to deal with all this?

If I am not the poster child for Right Place Wrong Time, I don't know who is.

Now pardon me while I finish my endless stack of work for today and shuffle off for a date with a man who deserves a woman who is conscious, conscientious, and caring but will get none of the above tonight...just another weepy, drained old woman in a wheelchair trying not to have that nervous breakdown she's earned.

As I've just explained to LITM, I'm about a quarter Irish and proud of it.  Typically we celebrate the day with our kids and I whip up an Irish meal, or we meet at the local Irish pub with all the crazy people.  This year I can do neither.  My son called yesterday to ask for my recipes and woefully told me that my Irish gingerbread is one of his fondest childhood memories.  Hint, hint, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.  But I cannot shop right now, and we're out of molasses, so there you have it.

Feeling a bit miserable and cantankerous here.  Wearing red, not green.  My ankle swelled up again and turned bruised yesterday for no apparent reason and is quite painful.  Have to work from home today but go in tomorrow.  If some kind soul would bring me a pint home tonight, mebbe the luck of the Irish would kick in.

Hint, hint, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

He lost his R & R because of me.  He never complained.  So when he tried to arrange to spend our last day of "vacation" the way we'd originally planned, beginning with a morning "walk" in the park and ending with sunset at the beach, I had to be tough.  It's hot and humid here, the beach is an annoying long drive in traffic and crowded as well, and I REALLY don't want to do these things from a wheelchair.  So I nudged him to gather his fishing gear and head out to our daughter's for some salt-water kayaking, which he loves and I loathe.

I started out the day exhausted and cranky and pretty much miserable, and I'd rather not inflict myself on anyone.  Some days are just meant for solitude, good books, music, and tea.

Because I teach a required course, most of my students are reluctant and many unwilling, and I can't say that any of them have ever said they enjoyed my class, but a surprising number who withdraw from my course because they are failing tell me that they want to retake with me.  I think this phenomenon is attributable to the fact that the students know I care about them as much as I care about the subject.

Fact of the matter is, I am a disciple of excellence, as hard on myself as I am on them.  I truly want my students to leave my course with the skills needed for success, not only in college but also in their careers.  I honestly don't think there are many things more important than the ability to think and communicate clearly and effectively.

Which brings me round to the topic of this post.  I can't say that I've ever sought out any of the "learning opportunities" that life has required of me, but once I find myself "enrolled," I roll up my sleeves and get to work.  I have my calvinistic, overly-earnest, and often overbearing predecessors to thank for this attitude that often makes me insufferable but always carries me through.

I don't often post email forwards, but this one's an oldie but goodie:

On the first day, God created the dog and said:  "Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past. For this, I will give you a life span of twenty years.'
 The dog said: 'That's a long time to be barking. How about only ten years and I'll give you back the other ten?' ( So God agreed.)
On the second day, God created the monkey and said: "'Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh. For this, I'll give you a twenty-year life span."  The monkey said: "Monkey tricks for twenty years? That's a pretty long time to perform. How about I give you back ten like the Dog did?"  (And God agreed).

On the third day, God created the cow and said: "You must go into the fields with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer's family. For this, I will give you a life span of sixty years."  The cow said: "That's kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. How about twenty years, and I'll give back the other forty?"  (And God again agreed).

On the fourth day, God created man and said:  "Eat, sleep, play, marry and enjoy your life. For this, I'll give you twenty years."  But the man said: "Only twenty years?  Could you possibly give me twenty years, plus the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back; that makes eighty, okay?"  (God said, "Okay, you asked for it, so you've got it."

So that is why for our first twenty years we eat, sleep, play and enjoy ourselves. For or the next forty years we slave in the sun to support our family. For the next ten years we do monkey tricks to entertain the grandchildren. And for the last ten years we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone.
 
Now, Life has now been explained to you.  There is no need to thank me for this valuable information. I'm doing it as a public service.

Thanks, all, for your thoughtful comments.  I'm alive and well, and the pain is minimal now even if the swelling isn't, since I'm grounded.  Still don't have the results back on the MRI but hopefully will hear today because if I'm to have a cast, I want to get started on the whole long process now and get it over with.

Even though I remember the lessons of the wheelchair well, since it's only been two years since the last time, I'd forgotten the intensity of the frustration and depression that go along with it.  I can handle this with a surprising amount of grace (for me) because I know how to laugh and have a sense of gratitude over the fact that this is only temporary.  I honestly have no clue how people who are permanently disabled cope with the anger and depression and downright despair that come with the territory.  I'm lucky and know it.

That said, everything you do from a wheelchair takes ten times the time and effort and about a hundred times the patience.  Your tendency is to want to throw things and scream and cry, about a hundred times a day, but you know that this will help no one, yourself least of all.  So you keep a tight lid on it all for the most part and laugh about it all later.

The lowest point?  That middle-of-the-night bathroom run (especially at that time of month).  You have to wake sufficiently to gently maneuver the quilt off your wrapped ankle without pulling it, put on the contraption that weighs so much and has so many moving parts, maneuver yourself out of bed and into the wheelchair, maneuver the wheelchair to back yourself out the narrow bedroom door into the narrow hall, maneuver yourself out of that onto the toilet, and then complete the process in reverse.  Takes about 15 minutes in the middle of the night.  To go pee.  Maddening.  And that's just one example.  I can't reach a lot of things, bathing is downright difficult (and I can only shave the one leg), the microwave is too high, and I'm at eye level to all the areas where normal clutter and dust bunnies, formerly unnoticeable, are now intolerable.  The one most important thing right now, since it's so difficult to navigate, is to keep everything clean and organized, because to find anything that's lost takes Herculean effort and more patience than I have left. 

You can imagine how tough this is on Mr. Bluesky, who is a clutterbug that I've picked up after his whole adult life.  He has to be neat, do most of the work and all of the errands, and shuttle me around.  And he does it all without killing me.  It's times like this that teach me what love really is.  Sign me...frustrated, depressed, impatient to the max, but very loved and enormously grateful for it!

My life seems to be cosmic comic fodder.  Life is too stressful, so we tell ourselves we will Relax, we will Enjoy Life, we will Have Fun.  And we do.  Until I take yet another in a long line of comic pratfalls.  I am the queen of slapstick.  Today, while we were hiking on trails I've hiked since I was a kid, I fell.  Hard.  My ankle will not bear weight.  It laughs at my pathetic and very painful attempts to stand.  No, not today.  No standing.  Sitting is allowed, in the dirt on the trail. 

We are past the four-mile marker on a trail that, fortunately, runs parallel to the river.  So, once it becomes apparent that I cannot even hobble two steps with a walking stick, he has to hike back, get a canoe, and paddle his way up river to me.  It is up to me to wait, swatting mosquitoes in the quiet woods.  It was quite a lovely view there of the river, the birds lulling me with their gentle music.

The really difficult part was maneuvering my way down a steep bank into a canoe without capsizing it.  Hurt like hell, but after three false starts, I did it.  And then the leisurely trip down river, with sunning turtles and a 6 to 8 foot gator, and then the helpful park rangers who carried me the rest of the way via golf cart to our car, and then the painful ride home.

So here I sit, our reservations for the rest of the week canceled, yes, but in relative luxury, my feet elevated, my laptop here for distraction, my wonderful partner waiting on me hand-and-foot, as it were.  Depending on what the doctor says in the morning (I made the call on my cell as I waited for rescue, having nothing better to do), the comedy routine will develop new chapters as I once again navigate campus impaired.

I considered giving up hiking altogether, sitting there and thinking about the fact that I've seriously sprained both my ankles and broken my foot multiple times.  But now that the pain is subsiding into a dull ache, I think perhaps that the pleasure of hiking is worth the pain and inconvenience, that my eye surgery in the later spring will help me with this problem, and that life is not meant to be lived too carefully.

So, enough about me.  I think I'll stick to fiction or casual life observations.

Next post: the zoo.  And no, it's not a metaphor for my life.

Oops

Big oops.

So, after much online conversation with my good friend LITM, I decided to give in and relax for a short time this morning.  So far, I've finished with the Hershey bars, the pretzels, and the Girl Scout cookies.  I've scrolled through Springer and reruns and The View.  I wanted to walk in the park, but inertia took over.  I've never been so tired. 

I'm feeling frantic.  I need to take ten more minutes and then get back to work after lunch.  Hurry up and relax, hurry up and relax. 

Clearly, I need a vacation.

Everything has been moving so fast lately, it's a blur.  I have little mental snapshots of the past week which make me realize that it's not that good to be in HyperWorkMode for too long.  Living like this will kill me yet, but, worse still, I don't like sealing myself off from the world of people I love and retreating to this dark, dank work closet world where everything is sacrificed for expediency.

But the job had to be done, as always.  Right now, I've got a few days of mop-up work, and I want to work my patootie off now so that I can take a REAL break over spring break.  I don't even want to check my email for a week and am thinking of living unplugged.

I need to disconnect from all I'm connected to and to reconnect to all I'm disconnected from.

The love of my life just left, but he waved bye-bye, opening and closing his fingers.  His new shoes make him walk like a stumble-bum, and he likes to throw things now with an I'm-bad-ain't-it-fun look.  The word "no" prompts a very matter-of-fact "dammit" from his rosebud mouth, which will undoubtedly say a lot worse down the road, if his dad is anything to judge by.  He flashes his toothy grin a lot and still loves to cuddle, and he expects a round of applause when he manages to throw the ball far.  The back yard is still scary; he loves the sounds of the smaller birds, but the hawk's cry makes him scurry to me for comfort.  He's still not sure whether Grandpa is to be trusted.  He's definitely Grandma's boy, but only for now. 

I wonder how life will shape him, but more and more it seems to me that much of who we are is innate.  In the final run, it is our choices and our responses to what happens to us that make us who we are.  Even though bad things happen to good people, our lives take a shape that is largely attributable to our perceptions. 

Kinda makes me want to stop whining and get busy.  So back to work.  Even though I want to dive into the pool of those big blue eyes and never resurface.