I find beauty in almost all things. In most people -- internal and external. In nature -- from the broad palette of the sky overhead to the minutest of flora and fauna crawling and sprawling across the surface of the earth. What others might overlook, a beetle intent upon hauling his newly discovered cache of discarded food or dropped animal waste, I catch and catalog in my memory banks, awed by the effort of one so small and common, incredulous as I contemplate the tiny but significant corner that this one creation fills with circle-of-life importance. The melodic strains of a violin composition buried within the larger soundtrack of a film, the emotional movement of string across string, capable of playfulness, passion, the stirring of feelings thought long dormant. A worn woman of indeterminate age whose youthful vitality has long since waned while her contemplation of youth itself remains a shadowy figure in a mind and body once wholly associated with active synaptic connections and ease of jointed motion.
The symphony of beauty inherent in daily life, that which surrounds us all whether we choose to bear it witness or not, comforts me. Consciously. Sub-consciously. I am most grateful to its longstanding presence. It moves me to prayer and connects me to the whole. It evokes deep wells of gratitude within me which resonate from my core and ripple outward to crest upon the banks of everything and everyone around me. Beauty exists as the jewels in the crown of my life. The grace of Jesus sits as the center stone, the most precious of carbonized and faceted gems. My husband and children, emeralds. My siblings, rubies. And the multi-hued brilliance of friends catch the light with topaz, lapis, amethyst, and turquoise. A setting in precious metals, platinum, gold, silver, reflects art in its myriad forms, those found in nature and those formed by the hands of human kind. From the time I could walk and talk, cognizant of the elemental world in whose folds I was coddled, I was mindful of the simplicity, and the elusiveness, of beauty abounding everywhere.
Everywhere, that is, but in me.
Though to pinpoint the exact moment I withdrew myself from the loop, when my personal discernment withered on the vine, is not possible, my earliest memories are of a girl caught up in judging herself, criticizing her form, berating her thought processes . . . holding herself up to the harsh light of compare and contrast and finding herself most wanting. I can assure you it is no way to live a life. The process, one of exhaustion in the emotional and physical realms, weakens the spirit and hinders the soul in its spiritual quest. And, really, my ability to extend myself, to help and give and love as I believe I was created to do, has been diluted. Thus, whatever true and lovely imprint I am intended to disperse to awaiting recipients in my sphere of influence prevails at half-strength. And that simply will not do any longer.
That bit of personal revelation doubtless comes as no surprise to those people closest to me. Loved ones who express their concern judiciously. Confidants who assure me that which I presently can not see yet lives within me. A husband who shores me up with humor and affection and patience. Children who encourage as only my own babies ever could. It is all for the good. It does not land on deaf ears or settle into a cold heart. But the plowed fields of self yield as crops planted and watered, weeded and mulched, but never fertilized. It's time to increase production.
In that vein, the month-mark is right around the corner: my 28 days of dutifully swallowing a tiny pale pink pill. Last night I called in my prescription refill. My brain chemistry has mellowed. The anti-depressant is working. Within the first week, I sensed a shift, beyond the medication-induced fatigue which encouraged a few extended afternoon naps, beyond the initial possibility of placebo-effect. At week two, I knew beyond a shadow of doubt (in my experience, doubt often presents with more presence than that of a peripheral mist) that a positive change had taken hold of me. I was still me, still Gloria, but less intense, a bit more relaxed. The speeding train of endless thoughts had slowed down. The urge to cry and shout in recurring bouts of frustration, sorrow, anger, and irritation? Decreased significantly if not all together. But my humor remained intact. My ability to sense God in my life, to bend my spirit to supplication -- all still there. Able to be accessed with more ease, in fact. Each of these things are, taken one at a time or consumed as one giant horse pill, answers to a lifetime of seeking and prayer. My decision to go down this road can be chalked up as an emerging victory.
That is a beautiful thing.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Natural Inclinations
I'm cycling through a few thoughts.
Gary and I have had more than a few conversations over the past two weeks. He's been a source of encouragement when it came to my decision to try an anti-depressant. And he did remind me that I should be willing to take my own advice. We joked about how bad my side-effects could actually be in light of his reactions to several medications he has ingested over the past year. Including, but not limited to, falling asleep due to extreme mood-stabilizer-induced-drowsiness which landed him face-first in his breakfast cereal at the table he shares with the other clients on his ward at Napa State Hospital. He was practically a narcoleptic there for awhile before the doctors finally wised-up and switched his meds.
One of the guys he befriended on the first ward he entered upon admission was a pyromaniac who went by the nickname 'Raven.' They were pretty tight there for awhile until Raven's paranoia and jealousy kicked in. He's the one who threw the hot tea in Gary's face in an effort to burn him. A most unfortunate cellmate who situated himself on Raven's bad side in prison woke up one morning to find himself wrapped up and set alight. That landed Raven in the hospital. Raven has also attempted to turn himself into a human torch more than once. I can't begin to comprehend the history, brain wiring, and internal pain which shove a man onto such tortuous paths as those. Recently, Raven landed himself into enough trouble to end up in the local jail, awaiting court and a possible trial for the part he played in injuring a fellow patient. Gary knew this and felt a bit bummed though he wasn't surprised; he didn't hate the guy . . . just knew he was bad news and incredibly unstable.
So, Gary is in the day room one day. The local news pops up on the television. Somewhere between weather and sports is a story about a man housed at the jail after being transferred from the state hospital. This man had wrapped himself in toilet paper and set himself on fire. That was all they had. No more. No less. Gary immediately knew it was Raven. He had employed that identical M.O. on himself before. It was an unpleasant moment. These are the types of people in his world. These intense broken men are his friends, his enemies, his acquaintances, his roommates. His compassion for them is palpable. It creates confusion within him as to where to draw clear lines in order to maintain his sanity and safety.
I wonder if it will prove too much for Gary.
In a separate conversation -- or maybe an extension of the same one, how can I ever be sure with the multiplicity of calls between us? -- we hashed over his Tuesday counseling sessions with the 78 year-old psychologist/college professor who so generously agreed to become Gary's one-on-one. In her role as facilitator and helper, she shares thoughtful stories about herself and folks she has known. They get Gary's wheels to turning. Give a little. Get a little.
She told him of a woman who once worked at the hospital as a psychologist. Many years ago. Her mother had been a patient of the hospital; her mother went through pregnancy and delivery at the hospital. Thus, this psychologist was born to a ward of the State of California. This was the reason she pursued psychology. She chose to work there when the opportunity arose in order to give back. To honor her mother. To make a difference. All the many idealized and romantic reasons any zealous greenhorn harbors at the onset of his or her pilgrimage into adult life.
But she found herself in a personal quandary. The more she delved into her job, the more challenging it became to clearly decipher her place in the pecking order. Who did she side with? Where did her loyalties lie? (Or is that 'lay?' Michael, are you reading?) After all, these concrete walls and sterile halls were her first home, her place of origin. Her knowledge of her own mother created an empathy for all institutionalized patients which blurred the lines when it came to clearcut therapy. She was a professional who was there to work and assist. She was also the child of a woman who fell into the ranks of men and women who were trudging through her office on any given day. Eventually, she felt too compromised to be effective and vacated her position there.
When I heard this woman's story, it stayed with me. Almost like a haunting, though without the accompanying fear. Her dilemma fascinated me. The trajectory of her journey, from birth there to working there, with childhood and schooling sandwiched in between, reflects a purposeful patience I understand. And she had no guarantee it would all coalesce as she wished in the end. This, too, I get. Every other day I remind myself that loving my brother, continuing to be his friend, encouraging him to believe in a future -- none of it ensures a happy ending. So, I don't approach it with that expectation. At least not anymore.
Regardless of what lies ahead, I will simply love him because from the moment I knew he was a growing seed in my mother's belly, I was excited for his arrival and I wanted to know everything about him before he came. I loved him before he ever was a solid thing that I could discern with my five senses. I loved him without being privy to his future. Without any expectation that he should please me or fill any need within me. Because he was a human being, my natural inclination was to love him.
My natural inclination continues to prevail.
Gary and I have had more than a few conversations over the past two weeks. He's been a source of encouragement when it came to my decision to try an anti-depressant. And he did remind me that I should be willing to take my own advice. We joked about how bad my side-effects could actually be in light of his reactions to several medications he has ingested over the past year. Including, but not limited to, falling asleep due to extreme mood-stabilizer-induced-drowsiness which landed him face-first in his breakfast cereal at the table he shares with the other clients on his ward at Napa State Hospital. He was practically a narcoleptic there for awhile before the doctors finally wised-up and switched his meds.
One of the guys he befriended on the first ward he entered upon admission was a pyromaniac who went by the nickname 'Raven.' They were pretty tight there for awhile until Raven's paranoia and jealousy kicked in. He's the one who threw the hot tea in Gary's face in an effort to burn him. A most unfortunate cellmate who situated himself on Raven's bad side in prison woke up one morning to find himself wrapped up and set alight. That landed Raven in the hospital. Raven has also attempted to turn himself into a human torch more than once. I can't begin to comprehend the history, brain wiring, and internal pain which shove a man onto such tortuous paths as those. Recently, Raven landed himself into enough trouble to end up in the local jail, awaiting court and a possible trial for the part he played in injuring a fellow patient. Gary knew this and felt a bit bummed though he wasn't surprised; he didn't hate the guy . . . just knew he was bad news and incredibly unstable.
So, Gary is in the day room one day. The local news pops up on the television. Somewhere between weather and sports is a story about a man housed at the jail after being transferred from the state hospital. This man had wrapped himself in toilet paper and set himself on fire. That was all they had. No more. No less. Gary immediately knew it was Raven. He had employed that identical M.O. on himself before. It was an unpleasant moment. These are the types of people in his world. These intense broken men are his friends, his enemies, his acquaintances, his roommates. His compassion for them is palpable. It creates confusion within him as to where to draw clear lines in order to maintain his sanity and safety.
I wonder if it will prove too much for Gary.
In a separate conversation -- or maybe an extension of the same one, how can I ever be sure with the multiplicity of calls between us? -- we hashed over his Tuesday counseling sessions with the 78 year-old psychologist/college professor who so generously agreed to become Gary's one-on-one. In her role as facilitator and helper, she shares thoughtful stories about herself and folks she has known. They get Gary's wheels to turning. Give a little. Get a little.
She told him of a woman who once worked at the hospital as a psychologist. Many years ago. Her mother had been a patient of the hospital; her mother went through pregnancy and delivery at the hospital. Thus, this psychologist was born to a ward of the State of California. This was the reason she pursued psychology. She chose to work there when the opportunity arose in order to give back. To honor her mother. To make a difference. All the many idealized and romantic reasons any zealous greenhorn harbors at the onset of his or her pilgrimage into adult life.
But she found herself in a personal quandary. The more she delved into her job, the more challenging it became to clearly decipher her place in the pecking order. Who did she side with? Where did her loyalties lie? (Or is that 'lay?' Michael, are you reading?) After all, these concrete walls and sterile halls were her first home, her place of origin. Her knowledge of her own mother created an empathy for all institutionalized patients which blurred the lines when it came to clearcut therapy. She was a professional who was there to work and assist. She was also the child of a woman who fell into the ranks of men and women who were trudging through her office on any given day. Eventually, she felt too compromised to be effective and vacated her position there.
When I heard this woman's story, it stayed with me. Almost like a haunting, though without the accompanying fear. Her dilemma fascinated me. The trajectory of her journey, from birth there to working there, with childhood and schooling sandwiched in between, reflects a purposeful patience I understand. And she had no guarantee it would all coalesce as she wished in the end. This, too, I get. Every other day I remind myself that loving my brother, continuing to be his friend, encouraging him to believe in a future -- none of it ensures a happy ending. So, I don't approach it with that expectation. At least not anymore.
Regardless of what lies ahead, I will simply love him because from the moment I knew he was a growing seed in my mother's belly, I was excited for his arrival and I wanted to know everything about him before he came. I loved him before he ever was a solid thing that I could discern with my five senses. I loved him without being privy to his future. Without any expectation that he should please me or fill any need within me. Because he was a human being, my natural inclination was to love him.
My natural inclination continues to prevail.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Reluctant Victories
Today history is in the making. I'm mesmerized. I have a front row seat to monumental government change in Egypt courtesy of our 42-inch Samsung flatscreen and the worn brown leather couch cushioning my fanny. Without going into great detail and thus exposing the gaping holes in my knowledge of foreign policy in the Middle East, suffice it to say that after weeks of demonstrations by the varied peoples of Egypt at large, President Hosni Mubarek has finally LEFT THE BUILDING! Left the country! My curiosity is greatly piqued concerning the repercussions which will be felt around the world. Especially how the United States will handle the transition of power with an allied country now on the cusp of developing their own democracy. The role of the Internet, especially Facebook, in this real-life drama cannot be underplayed. Times . . . they keep a-changin.
And in that vein, this overwhelmed suburbanite is experiencing her own sizable shifts in personal history. All morning, a blue plastic package, roughly 3x8 inches and a 1/2-inch wide, has held my inner and outer attention. I pick it up. Turn it around and around. Read the label. Set it back down on the coffee table. Move on to a chore. Return to the coffee table. Repeat . . . without a lather and rinse. It's been there since yesterday afternoon when I brought it home from the pharmacy. Where it had been called in as a prescription by my primary care doctor after a follow-up visit for fatigue and related symptoms. A visit where I ended up connecting dots I've long found creative ways to keep separate.
To be honest, I think I have known for a year that the emotional quicksand bogs of my periods had begun popping up with increasing frequency and their pull on me went from requiring a mountaineering rope to a construction crane! And the line between PMS and everyday began to blur. I was -- I am -- investing far too much daily effort to wrest myself free of the sucking pit at my feet. Well, over my feet, over my knees, and sometimes higher.
Factor in the uncommon: my ongoing struggles with an eating/body image disorder which has dogged me since the impressionable age of 10; the burden I willingly shoulder for my brother as he battles his childhood, drug use, mental illness, and institutionalized thinking; standing tall in the wake of two major life crises within our nuclear family over the past two years; supporting my youngest sister as she wends her way through psychiatric treatment/recovery and the Colorado court system after the post-partum psychotically enacted deaths of her two children.
Include the more common life occurrences: your child graduating and moving on to college, responsibilities to volunteer and do your part with church and school and sports, being there for friends and extended family, keeping a household and its finances out of the RED ink. Shake it all up and pour it into one person's brain. Somewhere in that challenging and volatile mix, even the most motivated of thinkers, the most principled of prayer-seeking, the most befriended of gals, the most driven of individuals, the most balanced of 'emoters,' (I think you see where I'm going with this) may discover the quicksand is entirely too wide to avoid, too deep to rely upon the regular rescue. And folks, I'm not the MOST of anything on that list, save for possibly the 'befriended' category. 1 outta 5 ain't bad!
All of that to say this: I'm depressed. Out of the seven options in 'dictionary.com' for the word DEPRESSED, there are two I would choose to fit my situation. I'm combining them here.
adj. sad; dejected; being below the norm
(I also like a segment of the botanical/zoological definition: flattened down)
Though I don't fit the stereotypical profile of clinical depression which most people carry around in their heads -- I don't sleep all day, neglect personal upkeep, shun social interaction -- I do check off on every single symptom, save for suicidal thoughts, on the depression checklist. The fact that I can write a positive blog or laugh or find beauty in small things or force myself to exercise, get dressed, and generally push through my days, doesn't exclude depression. Quite the opposite, as I am consciously making myself do each of these things to fight the descent I feel within me. People rely on me. God has a plan for me. I don't want it there. I reject its presence. I've tried a host of non-medication assists to root it out. But what I'm feeling is beyond a "read your Bible more and pray often" approach. It has surpassed what the benefits of exercise-induced adrenaline offers. Organic foods and herbal remedies won't touch it. The power of positive thinking gains only a foothold. I'm flattened down.
In a nutshell -- I rather like the appearance of the Brazil nut -- I am in turns angry, irritated, upset to the point of crying, sometimes sobbing, more than is healthy for my outlook. More than is healthy for my kids to witness. Or for my husband to comfort. I don't enjoy gardening, cooking, reading or writing with the same passion I once did. My once sharp edges are dull. Outside of the iron- and B12-deficient fatigue dragging me down, there is an underlying weariness which constantly tugs at every elemental corner of who I am. I recognize this dark character as someone I've met in other men and women over my lifetime. When he gains entry, some folks allow him to unload his furniture and live rent-free while he tears down brightly-painted walls and rips out gorgeous hardwood flooring. I have no wish to be his landlord. Instead, I'm hoping to serve final eviction papers. ASAP!
SSRI's (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) are a specific class of antidepressants which can pick up the slack where personal efforts leave off for people truly seeking a leg UP and OUT of the quicksand. They work by increasing the brain's level of serotonin -- a hormone which acts as a neurotransmitter and is often considered a 'feed good' chemical. Think Prozac, Paxil, Luvox, Lexapro, Zoloft, and Celexa. Prozac was sub-branded several years back as a product called Sarafem and marketed to counter the very real effects of PMDD (pre-menstrual dysphoric disorder). The actual word, 'seraphim' refers to celestial beings, the highest order of angels, and appears in Isaiah's vision as written in the Old Testament. I'm not sure what the company was alluding to there though I have actually cried out to the heavens during my more agonizing period episodes and felt the opposite of angelic in the foggy emotion-impaired state preceding these monthly painful interludes! My little blue plastic box contains the generic version of Celexa.
You know, I tell my brother, "Gary, you have a chemical imbalance in your brain which you can't control. Take the lithium while you get counseling and gather the tools you need to begin managing your life!" and I believe it. Beyond all doubt, I know he needs medication. I've listened to the very real stories of close friends and family members who reached similar points in their own lives, some with obvious triggers and others with no discernible cause, and they were helped by antidepressants. Combining their use with counseling, exercise, stress reduction, and time, in varying degrees, improved their ability to function outside of the robotic life movements which often accompany moderate depression. These were not not flawed, weak, or 'crazy' people. I didn't judge them. I could appreciate their journey out of a mental and emotional quagmire.
You know, I tell my brother, "Gary, you have a chemical imbalance in your brain which you can't control. Take the lithium while you get counseling and gather the tools you need to begin managing your life!" and I believe it. Beyond all doubt, I know he needs medication. I've listened to the very real stories of close friends and family members who reached similar points in their own lives, some with obvious triggers and others with no discernible cause, and they were helped by antidepressants. Combining their use with counseling, exercise, stress reduction, and time, in varying degrees, improved their ability to function outside of the robotic life movements which often accompany moderate depression. These were not not flawed, weak, or 'crazy' people. I didn't judge them. I could appreciate their journey out of a mental and emotional quagmire.
But I am judging myself, as is my habit, afraid I will turn out to be the broken one who can't be repaired. I'm also beating back that lurking fear of medication which kept me from taking something as simple as OTC ibuprofen for labor-like period pains for over a year. I also realize that by posting this, it leaves me open to criticism and conjecture. There is yet a mystique associated with an endeavor like this. My own teenage daughter exclaimed, "Oh my God, what's the matter with you!?" when I told her I was trying an antidepressant. On the other side of that coin, though, are people who identify with all or part of this cycle. Maybe this will encourage a fellow sufferer to take the plunge. Or remind one in the midst of treatment that he or she made the right choice. Or I'll receive a healthy dose of empathy from one of the many success stories out there who have graduated from 'forcing their way through life' to 'purposefully navigating through life.'
The reality, however, is painfully clear to me. Unless I enjoy thick sludgy nastiness flooding my ears, eyes, nose, and throat, I'd better pop the foil on that RDY 343-imprinted Citalopram tablet and chase it back with a full eight ounces of cool filtered water.
Bottoms up.
Bottoms up.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
White or Wheat?
(This may or may not be the final edited version of a 'mandatory-750-word-or-less' short story submission for a contest in which the entire story takes place in a restaurant or bar. This is a condensed literary telling of my brother's first public meal upon his release from over 12 years of prison. We dined at a Mimi's Cafe in California. And, YES, they do give a customer that many choices!)
“Would you like wheat, white, blueberry, sourdough, or English muffin with that?” The pretty waitress was young. She smiled at me. This was not the blank face of a female guard or barely-there infirmary nurse. This was a friendly honest-to-God woman. Extending courtesy. Showing respect. Asking me to make what should have been a simple choice between the selection of breads served with the bacon and egg breakfast I ordered.
But I was paralyzed. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as if someone had filled the space between them with denture adhesive cream. My face flamed. A creeping warmth flew up the back of my neck before burrowing its way beneath my hair and across my scalp. If you asked me which was the most agonizing of my dilemmas, I’d be hard pressed to give you a straight-up answer. It was all bad.
My first encounter as a social peer with a bonafide member of the gentler sex. My first personal choice in what would be an avalanche of decisions on everything in my life from here on out. My first sit-down meal in a public place with metal silverware and crockery mugs, hearing the piped-in elevator music pulsating all around me, feeling the eyes of strangers moving across this table overflowing with family, before settling on me with my #2 haircut and tattoos I couldn’t hide beneath my shirt, sensing something different about me, something indefinable in my posture, the tightness of my shoulders, the way I squared off in my chair as if expecting something more troublesome than a glass of ice water to come my way. Doubtless at least a few of them realized what state-run facility was situated a mere fifteen minutes down the highway.
I looked up at my sister. Everything around me had taken on that underwater feeling. Slowed down. Surreal. It seemed as if the entire establishment had ceased and desisted. Of course, everyone continued to clank their glasses, and scrape their forks across their plates, and pay their tabs. Everyone but me.
Those final months of waiting, the days leading up to this moment, the last hours of trepidation, they were a solid in my gut, a watery foulness in my bowels, a sour backwash in my throat. They were a presence suspended in the space between me and this long-suffering sister who chose to have my back for well over two decades. She knew I was stuck. She knew our doubtful brother observed, weighing it all over his cup of morning brew. She knew our mother could sense my discomfort and probably felt we should have bypassed this outing so close on the heels of my reemergence. She knew the kids were awash in the excitement of me and the promise of restaurant food -- what kid doesn’t love eating out, the whole thing of ordering too much, guzzling the chocolate milk, asking for extra syrup?
“Help me!” my eyes screamed to my sister, my lifeline of the meandering letters and chock full-o-stuff packages. She of the sustained hope in the face of every uncertainty my entire adult life cast upon her responsible shoulders. I was every old dog given a shotgun escort behind the barn. I was the trapped fox ready to gnaw off its foreleg. Once again, I needed to her to drag me to shore before I sank myself; fear and doubt threatened to shove me under before I could even begin to float. Here in this bright, clean, totally safe eatery, I was as desperate as I’d ever been as the punk kid on the cell block with unsettled debt hanging over my head and the promise of a knife in the back.
With a quick smile and an assurance I hoped one day to possess, my big sis grabbed for me. The waters parted. My lungs reacquainted themselves with oxygen. “You know,” she said to the cheerful waitress at my side -- a girl so close I could see the fine hairs curling around her ears, could detect the faintest scent of an unfamiliar perfume -- “he’s never eaten here before and the music is rather loud. What were those choices again?” The waitress nodded. For a second time, that crazy long list of breads was recited. And I took my first wobbly baby step into this new world, “White. White toast would be good. Real good. Th-thanks.”
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Gary and The Pisser
I haven't mentioned Gary in awhile. That doesn't mean he's not on the radar screen any more, however. Not by a long shot. Most days, we talk at least once and sometimes twice. On those late evenings when the iPhone screen hasn't lit up with his number, I still find that I must mentally work through an obstacle course of concerns, doubts, and conjectures. Retraining my brain. Rewiring my heart. Mainly, whether or not drugs outside of his meds have turned his head. On the rare occasion that two days go by, I breathe, remember that it's HIS life and there are choices that HE must make. By the third day, I call him. My worries are generally ungrounded. For whatever myriad garden-variety reasons, he either didn't feel like picking up the phone or he didn't think about dialing me up. Normal stuff. In his life, attaching 'normal' to specific behaviors is a very good thing.
And I realize this all goes with the territory -- this brave new world in which we both find ourselves in, by which daily communication is possible and anything on our minds can be hashed out within hours instead of weeks if need be. As the case might be with anybody in constant contact, some days are 'talk worthy' and some days . . . not so much. In the past two and a half months, he's battled a traveling cold virus that has visited almost every man in his 64-resident ward there in Napa; some more than once. Because his 'rode hard' immune system is more susceptible to an exacerbation of illness, Gary tends to experience a longer bout of down time when thus afflicted. He leans toward asthma, so we watch his lungs. (Picture me on the couch, staring at a screen ablaze with an enlarged image of my brother's expanding and contracting lungs, munching on popcorn, looking for signs of compromise, wondering if I should have grabbed a box of red vines for the extended feature.)
Sidebar, shall we? I was a tad irritated earlier in the fall when the administering of a pneumonia vaccine resulted in a severe reaction requiring medical attention; he couldn't remember an incident in prison several years back whereby the same scene was enacted and evidently his records were not accessed. However, in the space of an afternoon, I ferreted out the highlighted page from the medical records folder Gary had shipped to me right before his release from prison. Our lesson learned? Have big sister check before moving forward with certain procedures where a fuzzy recollection, AND lack of adequate state staffing for research, could result in possible death.
His November was one long weary viral fest of a month. Arriving on the heels of Nurse Donna's death, in the ongoing aftermath of administrative reaction and questions and tightening up there at the hospital, an encroaching dull depression wrapped itself around him like a scratchy wool blanket. He slept more, sometimes skipping mealtimes, many times feeling the need for an afternoon nap of several hours, often ready for sleep by 9 or 10 in the evening. Our conversations were often short and bland. Just a checking in for the day. I'd take his pulse and fill him in on the antics o' the day: children, hubby, neighbors, news, Fabio the cat. Others included updates on Sister Rebekah during the course of my Colorado trip over the Thanksgiving holiday. Reports on our mother's progress after her knee surgery.
Ironically, both my mother and Gary developed disturbing lower back pain around the same time. Sadly, while mom is experiencing some relief after wheeling her way via wheelchair and Rollator through a gauntlet of exams, appointments, and scans, Gary is yet trying to convince staff that he hopes for a diagnosis and possible treatment and NOT a new pill. Once a drug addict, always a drug addict in a hospital setting. Everything resembles drug-seeking behavior. He has to work doubly hard to advocate for himself and find a way to effectively communicate his needs without crushing toes in his frustration. That is hard work for him. I will report that he did manage to eke out an x-ray appointment for today; after that, he is scheduled for an MRI.
This particular pain issue stems from an incident whereby he was shoved down a flight of stairs by a prison guard while in handcuffs. I'm sure Gary was mouthing off, expressing his opinion, and otherwise creating a negative atmosphere over his anger at yet another surprise move. But I think we can all agree that his childish arrested-development behavior does not warrant such a tumble. (Picture my teenage son ignoring my admonitions to finish cleaning his bedroom; hear his sullen reply; note his defensive posture and his surprise when I state that per his disrespect he can count on remaining 'in house over the weekend'; and cover your ears for the ensuing yell of outrage at my perceived overreaction. Now . . . do you picture me pushing him down our stairwell over this?!)
I sense that Gary is turning a corner in his attitude and overall mood. For the past week or so, he's deliberately tried to engage his thoughts and convey a bit more cheer, whether he's feeling it or not. I reminded him that is a skill. A skill every human being on the planet has to exercise at some point or another. Because of his social isolation, he's sometimes unclear on what is unique to his set of behaviors and what ties him to the general population at large. He needs to see ties in order to believe he is capable of adapting and integrating while still retaining the character and positive traits which make him uniquely Gary Wayne.
In this vein, there has been what we both consider to be an almost miraculous development in his treatment. During Gary's first months as a newbie at ye olde state psychiatric hospital, he met a spry elderly Asian woman who impressed him with her verve and her appreciation of his core humanity. She was a college professor and psychologist; his exposure to her came by way of a group she led in conjunction with a colleague. When I was in Napa back in June and July of 2010, we discussed her at length during my very first visit with Gary. After I left him that afternoon and arranged my lodging at the Married Nurses Dorm, I set out on a speed walk within the sprawling confines of the hospital property. At one point I crossed a small dirt parking lot off to the side of the main administration building. I noticed a petite well-dressed woman getting into her car who matched the description of the good doctor. Yes, I most certainly did approach her! And I put in a few good words regarding my brother and how she impressed him. She was most gracious. I remember her well.
Fast forward to a bleak first December for Gary at the hospital. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of this remarkable woman in months. And then there she is. In the hallway of his ward. It turns out she was there to put in a request to add a patient to her calendar. When Gary alerted her as to his availability, she agreed to become his one-to-one therapist beginning January of 2011. Meeting him once a week, every week, for as long as he wanted and/or needed. The best that Gary was hoping for was to procure the services of a social worker at some point in the not too distant future. The one-on-one therapy list is long in names and sluggish in movement. Instead, a series of chance circumstances led him to the 'cream of the crop' therapist. I'm cautiously optimistic. But ever hopeful. They've already had two sit-down sessions!
There's one story Gary told me about a patient there on his ward that encapsulates the entirety of his present experience. Being a high-functioning 'mental' patient on a floor bereft of any true order, rife with apathy on the sides of staff and residents alike, and overflowing with men who've given up on trying to stay connected with reality, makes for a daily battle to remain calm and sane. Quite literally. We were in the middle of a conversation during one of my chilly afternoon walks. Gary exclaims something unintelligible; he sounds disgusted. "This . . . " he exhales, and I imagine him running his hand through his carpet of thick hair, " . . . this is what I mean. You wouldn't believe some of these guys if I told you!" Of course, I want the skinny on what I won't believe.
"Well, this one dude here, he's drippin' piss. EVERYWHERE! Right now! I mean, he pees the bed all the time. Nighttime. Daytime. Anytime. He does it so often that they took out the floor beneath his bed and replaced it with this new stuff that has a waterproof lacquer or something over it. It's thick and grainy and shit. I don't know WHAT it is. But the guy, __________ (name here, can't mention), he always comes out here soaked. On one side or the other. Sometimes on the bottom. His clothes smell. Even in his hair! And he leaves this trail of urine on the floor, from his room to the nurses station or wherever." I want to know if floor fouler cleans himself or mops up his yellow dotted line. "No," Gary replies, "They do. Staff. They wipe the floor. Change his clothes. And he goes on. He knows what he's doing. He's aware. It's his thing. People pay him attention." We both mull over this man and his bladder manipulation, "That's the thing here. It's just so-o much. Really crazy fu@$!* shit. I try to stay in my room as much as I can. But you have to come out. Come right out into someone else's piss and mess."
And isn't that how it can go for all of us every now and again? Until next time . . . be careful when you come out.
And I realize this all goes with the territory -- this brave new world in which we both find ourselves in, by which daily communication is possible and anything on our minds can be hashed out within hours instead of weeks if need be. As the case might be with anybody in constant contact, some days are 'talk worthy' and some days . . . not so much. In the past two and a half months, he's battled a traveling cold virus that has visited almost every man in his 64-resident ward there in Napa; some more than once. Because his 'rode hard' immune system is more susceptible to an exacerbation of illness, Gary tends to experience a longer bout of down time when thus afflicted. He leans toward asthma, so we watch his lungs. (Picture me on the couch, staring at a screen ablaze with an enlarged image of my brother's expanding and contracting lungs, munching on popcorn, looking for signs of compromise, wondering if I should have grabbed a box of red vines for the extended feature.)
Sidebar, shall we? I was a tad irritated earlier in the fall when the administering of a pneumonia vaccine resulted in a severe reaction requiring medical attention; he couldn't remember an incident in prison several years back whereby the same scene was enacted and evidently his records were not accessed. However, in the space of an afternoon, I ferreted out the highlighted page from the medical records folder Gary had shipped to me right before his release from prison. Our lesson learned? Have big sister check before moving forward with certain procedures where a fuzzy recollection, AND lack of adequate state staffing for research, could result in possible death.
His November was one long weary viral fest of a month. Arriving on the heels of Nurse Donna's death, in the ongoing aftermath of administrative reaction and questions and tightening up there at the hospital, an encroaching dull depression wrapped itself around him like a scratchy wool blanket. He slept more, sometimes skipping mealtimes, many times feeling the need for an afternoon nap of several hours, often ready for sleep by 9 or 10 in the evening. Our conversations were often short and bland. Just a checking in for the day. I'd take his pulse and fill him in on the antics o' the day: children, hubby, neighbors, news, Fabio the cat. Others included updates on Sister Rebekah during the course of my Colorado trip over the Thanksgiving holiday. Reports on our mother's progress after her knee surgery.
Ironically, both my mother and Gary developed disturbing lower back pain around the same time. Sadly, while mom is experiencing some relief after wheeling her way via wheelchair and Rollator through a gauntlet of exams, appointments, and scans, Gary is yet trying to convince staff that he hopes for a diagnosis and possible treatment and NOT a new pill. Once a drug addict, always a drug addict in a hospital setting. Everything resembles drug-seeking behavior. He has to work doubly hard to advocate for himself and find a way to effectively communicate his needs without crushing toes in his frustration. That is hard work for him. I will report that he did manage to eke out an x-ray appointment for today; after that, he is scheduled for an MRI.
This particular pain issue stems from an incident whereby he was shoved down a flight of stairs by a prison guard while in handcuffs. I'm sure Gary was mouthing off, expressing his opinion, and otherwise creating a negative atmosphere over his anger at yet another surprise move. But I think we can all agree that his childish arrested-development behavior does not warrant such a tumble. (Picture my teenage son ignoring my admonitions to finish cleaning his bedroom; hear his sullen reply; note his defensive posture and his surprise when I state that per his disrespect he can count on remaining 'in house over the weekend'; and cover your ears for the ensuing yell of outrage at my perceived overreaction. Now . . . do you picture me pushing him down our stairwell over this?!)
I sense that Gary is turning a corner in his attitude and overall mood. For the past week or so, he's deliberately tried to engage his thoughts and convey a bit more cheer, whether he's feeling it or not. I reminded him that is a skill. A skill every human being on the planet has to exercise at some point or another. Because of his social isolation, he's sometimes unclear on what is unique to his set of behaviors and what ties him to the general population at large. He needs to see ties in order to believe he is capable of adapting and integrating while still retaining the character and positive traits which make him uniquely Gary Wayne.
In this vein, there has been what we both consider to be an almost miraculous development in his treatment. During Gary's first months as a newbie at ye olde state psychiatric hospital, he met a spry elderly Asian woman who impressed him with her verve and her appreciation of his core humanity. She was a college professor and psychologist; his exposure to her came by way of a group she led in conjunction with a colleague. When I was in Napa back in June and July of 2010, we discussed her at length during my very first visit with Gary. After I left him that afternoon and arranged my lodging at the Married Nurses Dorm, I set out on a speed walk within the sprawling confines of the hospital property. At one point I crossed a small dirt parking lot off to the side of the main administration building. I noticed a petite well-dressed woman getting into her car who matched the description of the good doctor. Yes, I most certainly did approach her! And I put in a few good words regarding my brother and how she impressed him. She was most gracious. I remember her well.
Fast forward to a bleak first December for Gary at the hospital. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of this remarkable woman in months. And then there she is. In the hallway of his ward. It turns out she was there to put in a request to add a patient to her calendar. When Gary alerted her as to his availability, she agreed to become his one-to-one therapist beginning January of 2011. Meeting him once a week, every week, for as long as he wanted and/or needed. The best that Gary was hoping for was to procure the services of a social worker at some point in the not too distant future. The one-on-one therapy list is long in names and sluggish in movement. Instead, a series of chance circumstances led him to the 'cream of the crop' therapist. I'm cautiously optimistic. But ever hopeful. They've already had two sit-down sessions!
There's one story Gary told me about a patient there on his ward that encapsulates the entirety of his present experience. Being a high-functioning 'mental' patient on a floor bereft of any true order, rife with apathy on the sides of staff and residents alike, and overflowing with men who've given up on trying to stay connected with reality, makes for a daily battle to remain calm and sane. Quite literally. We were in the middle of a conversation during one of my chilly afternoon walks. Gary exclaims something unintelligible; he sounds disgusted. "This . . . " he exhales, and I imagine him running his hand through his carpet of thick hair, " . . . this is what I mean. You wouldn't believe some of these guys if I told you!" Of course, I want the skinny on what I won't believe.
"Well, this one dude here, he's drippin' piss. EVERYWHERE! Right now! I mean, he pees the bed all the time. Nighttime. Daytime. Anytime. He does it so often that they took out the floor beneath his bed and replaced it with this new stuff that has a waterproof lacquer or something over it. It's thick and grainy and shit. I don't know WHAT it is. But the guy, __________ (name here, can't mention), he always comes out here soaked. On one side or the other. Sometimes on the bottom. His clothes smell. Even in his hair! And he leaves this trail of urine on the floor, from his room to the nurses station or wherever." I want to know if floor fouler cleans himself or mops up his yellow dotted line. "No," Gary replies, "They do. Staff. They wipe the floor. Change his clothes. And he goes on. He knows what he's doing. He's aware. It's his thing. People pay him attention." We both mull over this man and his bladder manipulation, "That's the thing here. It's just so-o much. Really crazy fu@$!* shit. I try to stay in my room as much as I can. But you have to come out. Come right out into someone else's piss and mess."
And isn't that how it can go for all of us every now and again? Until next time . . . be careful when you come out.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Admitting to a Trend I Just Couldn't 'BUCK'
"A tall salted caramel hot chocolate doesn't just HIT the spot . . . it SLAMS into the spot!"
"Necessary Coffee o' The Day Snapshot: say hello to my grande friend!"
"Bold and unadulterated!"
"Mister Jim paying for our liquid gold at SB's in Sioux City."
"Jimmy Valdez conquering Iowa one venti plain house brew at a time!"
"Hanging out at one of the umpteen million Starbucks in NYC, writing one of my 24 postcards."
If you can decipher the what of the above single lines, then you either post a lot of pictures on Facebook or you skim the captions of more than a few pictures on Facebook. (Facebook. Now there's a whole 'nother trend I would reluctantly cop to the partaking of but there's no need: EVERYBODY knows! But for me, it's a fun word forum, folks. A WORD forum.) Oh, and you are a no-holds-barred patron of that fave ubiquitous coffee establishment, Starbucks.
Anyhoo, this particular entry diverges from the usual content for this blog, but as it seems to be in keeping with the whole reticent housewife theme, I thought it best to write at this location.
A friend of mine sent me a link to a blog entry, authored by the son of a friend, who put into words his love for Starbucks. Specifically, his FAVORITE Starbucks. Unabashedly. Unashamedly. And with great photos to boot. Now, he lives in Munich. He's also been to Bali. His shots of said exotic locale establishments are pretty high quality. Since my mother is exercising her Facebook farming rights on my laptop while she recovers from her knee surgery, and ALL of my up-to-date shots are housed in its hard drive, I had to root through my uploaded photos on Facebook to search for MY high quality shots. Alas, there are none. Most arrived courtesy of my iPhone and involved affectionate close-ups of freshly brewed cups of anything and everything, often accompanied by their human caffeine imbibers. From these I gather I'm rather fond of both my husband AND tall soy lattes.
Now, for me, the romance with Starbucks has very little to do with the insides of the stores themselves. Often, my contact is via the drive-thru. In fact, before I became an official coffee drinker, I spent more time sitting and chatting on site than I do now as a gold card carrier who's earned more than her decent share of FREE DRINK coupons for swiping said card 15 times per. For those not in the know, until the early summer of 2010, my hot drink of choice was herbal tea. Once in a great while, I splurged on a soy chai latte at Starbucks; those usually coincided with a Saturday morning away from home with the hubby or a Wednesday night hanging with my 20-something daughter while waiting for the younger kids to finish up with church youth. To the chagrin of one of my friends, I was even known to bring my own Tazo Calm tea bag and ask for a cup of hot water. Hey! I left a tip.
But I enjoyed my trips to Starbucks as it afforded me social time in a lively setting with various members of my family. It was even the festive backdrop for several enjoyable coffee and iced drink runs with my younger brother, Gary, upon his release from a 12+ year stint in prison. (Now, I do have a smashing photo record of those visits.) It's simply that coffee never interested me. Even after that famous comment made by my husband several years back whereby he quipped that if I drank coffee, I'd be the PERFECT woman. Wow! One bold roast steaming drink away from perfection and I wasn't biting. Besides, the one or two times that I did 'bite,' the jitters and nausea were so intense that my entire day was ruined.
On the fiscal front, spending more than a dollar on a cup of coffee, every day, oft times several times a day, seemed the height of financial stupidity. What a waste of hard earned cash! What was wrong with those people who showed up on a daily basis, surrendering to the capitalistic maneuverings of what was basically a glorified coffee and pastry shop? And not very good pastries at that. Get a coffee maker and a bottle of sweet flavored syrup. Wake up ten minutes earlier. It's just a plant seed. (Though being a gardener, I'd like it on that front.)
The day I surrendered to the magic bean, everything changed. Literally. I figured out the perfect amount of calories I needed to consume prior to coffee ingestion to ensure the lovely effects of caffeine without the miserable sidebar issues I previously experienced. Because my body, unlike my mom's or husband's, DOES register caffeine. Soy lattes and those $2 summer treat receipts were my best buddies during my trip to California. They felt good and tasted good. Seeing the trademark store signage set off Pavlovian-like responses in my nervous system. Within a week, I was emboldened enough to try adding extra shots. Forget wimpy weak brews -- I needed to taste strength on my palate. That slightly 'earthy mixed with ashes' aftertaste -- needed that, too! Yeah! Achieving gold card status suddenly became quite important: I wanted to have mine in hand before my mom and brother. I soon discovered cafe Americanos. What could be better than a marriage of black coffee and espresso?! And then those delightful Christmas cups, so red and merry, turned up with the changing of the seasons. Someone told me about the salted caramel hot chocolates. Instant best friend for the holidays! Even better with a shot of espresso. LOADS better when a barista suggested I just alter a [soy] cafe mocha to save some money. Thanks, guy!
These days I tell my friends -- with a real grin, I might add -- that in this one instance, I'm thoroughly enjoying being manipulated in mind and checkbook by a corporate giant. I'm shameless. And, strangely, rather proud of it. For a gal who's often neck deep in serious introspection or serious life problems, its my fun. That's F-U-N. Safer than crack. Healthier than cigarettes.
And if I had to pick an actual FAVORITE location, it'd be the one in Napa. Just a stone's throw from the state hospital. Right there on the main drag, anchoring a strip mall, with the big comfy couch snugged into the far corner with the full windowed view of the parking lot and outside drinkers and smokers, just opposite the counter with its never-ending line of customers. I drove through in the mornings, eager to snatch up my awakening latte before my hospital outings; I entered with laptop and $2 treat receipt in hand for my iced latte after my visits with Gary. There I tapped out some of my best blog entries. I was close to brother. I was experiencing something new and totally outside of my regular cul-de-sac life. And who can forget those hapless surfer dudes who spilled out of that girl's car, along with their multiple beer empties in that cracked Styrofoam cooler, just as that police officer sauntered out of the Chinese place with his late lunch/early dinner in hand? Priceless. And me with a front row seat to the happenings. Stimulating stuff.
Thank you, Starbucks, for my half-year of living caffeinated. I'm enjoying the ride.
CLICK HERE to read the witty blog entry I referenced! DC Allen. Add him to your blog faves.
"Necessary Coffee o' The Day Snapshot: say hello to my grande friend!"
"Bold and unadulterated!"
"Mister Jim paying for our liquid gold at SB's in Sioux City."
"Jimmy Valdez conquering Iowa one venti plain house brew at a time!"
"Hanging out at one of the umpteen million Starbucks in NYC, writing one of my 24 postcards."
If you can decipher the what of the above single lines, then you either post a lot of pictures on Facebook or you skim the captions of more than a few pictures on Facebook. (Facebook. Now there's a whole 'nother trend I would reluctantly cop to the partaking of but there's no need: EVERYBODY knows! But for me, it's a fun word forum, folks. A WORD forum.) Oh, and you are a no-holds-barred patron of that fave ubiquitous coffee establishment, Starbucks.
Anyhoo, this particular entry diverges from the usual content for this blog, but as it seems to be in keeping with the whole reticent housewife theme, I thought it best to write at this location.
A friend of mine sent me a link to a blog entry, authored by the son of a friend, who put into words his love for Starbucks. Specifically, his FAVORITE Starbucks. Unabashedly. Unashamedly. And with great photos to boot. Now, he lives in Munich. He's also been to Bali. His shots of said exotic locale establishments are pretty high quality. Since my mother is exercising her Facebook farming rights on my laptop while she recovers from her knee surgery, and ALL of my up-to-date shots are housed in its hard drive, I had to root through my uploaded photos on Facebook to search for MY high quality shots. Alas, there are none. Most arrived courtesy of my iPhone and involved affectionate close-ups of freshly brewed cups of anything and everything, often accompanied by their human caffeine imbibers. From these I gather I'm rather fond of both my husband AND tall soy lattes.
Now, for me, the romance with Starbucks has very little to do with the insides of the stores themselves. Often, my contact is via the drive-thru. In fact, before I became an official coffee drinker, I spent more time sitting and chatting on site than I do now as a gold card carrier who's earned more than her decent share of FREE DRINK coupons for swiping said card 15 times per. For those not in the know, until the early summer of 2010, my hot drink of choice was herbal tea. Once in a great while, I splurged on a soy chai latte at Starbucks; those usually coincided with a Saturday morning away from home with the hubby or a Wednesday night hanging with my 20-something daughter while waiting for the younger kids to finish up with church youth. To the chagrin of one of my friends, I was even known to bring my own Tazo Calm tea bag and ask for a cup of hot water. Hey! I left a tip.
But I enjoyed my trips to Starbucks as it afforded me social time in a lively setting with various members of my family. It was even the festive backdrop for several enjoyable coffee and iced drink runs with my younger brother, Gary, upon his release from a 12+ year stint in prison. (Now, I do have a smashing photo record of those visits.) It's simply that coffee never interested me. Even after that famous comment made by my husband several years back whereby he quipped that if I drank coffee, I'd be the PERFECT woman. Wow! One bold roast steaming drink away from perfection and I wasn't biting. Besides, the one or two times that I did 'bite,' the jitters and nausea were so intense that my entire day was ruined.
On the fiscal front, spending more than a dollar on a cup of coffee, every day, oft times several times a day, seemed the height of financial stupidity. What a waste of hard earned cash! What was wrong with those people who showed up on a daily basis, surrendering to the capitalistic maneuverings of what was basically a glorified coffee and pastry shop? And not very good pastries at that. Get a coffee maker and a bottle of sweet flavored syrup. Wake up ten minutes earlier. It's just a plant seed. (Though being a gardener, I'd like it on that front.)
The day I surrendered to the magic bean, everything changed. Literally. I figured out the perfect amount of calories I needed to consume prior to coffee ingestion to ensure the lovely effects of caffeine without the miserable sidebar issues I previously experienced. Because my body, unlike my mom's or husband's, DOES register caffeine. Soy lattes and those $2 summer treat receipts were my best buddies during my trip to California. They felt good and tasted good. Seeing the trademark store signage set off Pavlovian-like responses in my nervous system. Within a week, I was emboldened enough to try adding extra shots. Forget wimpy weak brews -- I needed to taste strength on my palate. That slightly 'earthy mixed with ashes' aftertaste -- needed that, too! Yeah! Achieving gold card status suddenly became quite important: I wanted to have mine in hand before my mom and brother. I soon discovered cafe Americanos. What could be better than a marriage of black coffee and espresso?! And then those delightful Christmas cups, so red and merry, turned up with the changing of the seasons. Someone told me about the salted caramel hot chocolates. Instant best friend for the holidays! Even better with a shot of espresso. LOADS better when a barista suggested I just alter a [soy] cafe mocha to save some money. Thanks, guy!
These days I tell my friends -- with a real grin, I might add -- that in this one instance, I'm thoroughly enjoying being manipulated in mind and checkbook by a corporate giant. I'm shameless. And, strangely, rather proud of it. For a gal who's often neck deep in serious introspection or serious life problems, its my fun. That's F-U-N. Safer than crack. Healthier than cigarettes.
And if I had to pick an actual FAVORITE location, it'd be the one in Napa. Just a stone's throw from the state hospital. Right there on the main drag, anchoring a strip mall, with the big comfy couch snugged into the far corner with the full windowed view of the parking lot and outside drinkers and smokers, just opposite the counter with its never-ending line of customers. I drove through in the mornings, eager to snatch up my awakening latte before my hospital outings; I entered with laptop and $2 treat receipt in hand for my iced latte after my visits with Gary. There I tapped out some of my best blog entries. I was close to brother. I was experiencing something new and totally outside of my regular cul-de-sac life. And who can forget those hapless surfer dudes who spilled out of that girl's car, along with their multiple beer empties in that cracked Styrofoam cooler, just as that police officer sauntered out of the Chinese place with his late lunch/early dinner in hand? Priceless. And me with a front row seat to the happenings. Stimulating stuff.
Thank you, Starbucks, for my half-year of living caffeinated. I'm enjoying the ride.
CLICK HERE to read the witty blog entry I referenced! DC Allen. Add him to your blog faves.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
My Free Hour
The other night I had a free hour in my brain all to myself which I spent over an incredibly tall pile of dishes. It was a simple domestic act that I actually welcomed after more than a week away from the duties of home and hearth. Generally, I'd either fill the open mental space with a litany of thoughts over the myriad complexities of life, a podcast with some intellectual and humorous value, or a library audio book. Though my iPhone houses several hundred songs which span an array of musical genres, melody and rhythm rarely travel the distance from electronic gadget to earpiece.
On the aforementioned night, a Saturday mid-evening sandwiched between my Friday return to Tennessee and the Sunday twilight hours spent with my kids putting up the Christmas tree in the company of my pre-surgical mom, a few tunes seemed appropriate. Perhaps I'd been stimulated by the musical movie Sarah and I viewed while crunching our way through an entire large-size bucket of theater popcorn: Cher and Christina Aguilera singin' and a'dancin' a la burlesque. While not in danger of incurring any amount of Oscar buzz, it offered toe-tapping entertainment with a modicum of taste per today's standards, avoiding overt sex scenes though the stage antics were a bit tongue in cheek at times!
The Soggy Bottom Boys always draw me in with their twangy yet moving version of [I Am a Man of] Constant Sorrow. The lyrics remind me of my brother, Gary. Straightforward, troubled, the thread of the lighthearted melody a perfect foil to the theme of thwarted life. It evokes such a strange mixture of hope and sadness within me. Much like thoughts of my brother do. The writing is superb, simple and profound. It hits all the right notes, no pun intended, and reaches across the aisles to all people under a burden, regardless of their placement on the social ladder. Somehow, it manages to purge the stagnant waters in my soul and make way for fresh clear pools. Two to three rounds just about does the trick, most of the time. Is it an irony that it hails from a movie entitled Brother, Where Art Thou?
After shaking my way through an Michael Jackson classic and a Rhianna staple, funny enough it was called Breakin' Dishes, I happened upon my latest purchase from iTunes. Evidently, there's a group that goes by the name of Florence + The Machine -- would that be a blender, food processor, or hand mixer, perhaps -- and they pound out a Celtic-like ditty that makes my feet move in ways not likely to land on a slick MTV video but it feels invigorating all the same. The Dog Days Are Over. I don't even know the lyrics to save my life, except for that one line. But there's always a welcoming spot in me for it.
In the wake of my trip, there was an unspoken need to let it all go, especially those two intensely tiring days of court in Lamar with my sister. The dance of circles and hops, skips and kicks, head and arm swings, resembling more a tribal celebration of urgent crop weather asked for and received or lives spared in the wake of battle, was executed for my niece and nephew and sister. And for the other family members so hurt and affected by this strange and painful set of events. I inhabited a space of freedom which none of them are able to enjoy. With emotional abandon, I danced and danced, the kitchen appliances my witnesses, the washed and unwashed dishes a mute audience, and any reason to do otherwise unable to be found.
It ended abruptly. My own healthy and alive children entered the room, prepared to further their personal agendas for the evening, exacting their own dance of words and wills. I muted my mini concert in trade for dialog and even a bit of argument. We hammered out our agreements and moved ever closer to a Sunday morning and away from a Saturday night. The yellow dish gloves crept back over my hands. Suds and silverware busied me for a time. Thoughts of rest and what I might or might not do in the near future captured valuable brain space.
The music, and the moment, was over. But it happened. As are all of us who love without restraint and beyond any set of hard and fast rules, I am bound to those who inhabit my heart with a passion that infuses every aspect of my existence. Including an hour spent in the mundane and melodic refrain.
On the aforementioned night, a Saturday mid-evening sandwiched between my Friday return to Tennessee and the Sunday twilight hours spent with my kids putting up the Christmas tree in the company of my pre-surgical mom, a few tunes seemed appropriate. Perhaps I'd been stimulated by the musical movie Sarah and I viewed while crunching our way through an entire large-size bucket of theater popcorn: Cher and Christina Aguilera singin' and a'dancin' a la burlesque. While not in danger of incurring any amount of Oscar buzz, it offered toe-tapping entertainment with a modicum of taste per today's standards, avoiding overt sex scenes though the stage antics were a bit tongue in cheek at times!
The Soggy Bottom Boys always draw me in with their twangy yet moving version of [I Am a Man of] Constant Sorrow. The lyrics remind me of my brother, Gary. Straightforward, troubled, the thread of the lighthearted melody a perfect foil to the theme of thwarted life. It evokes such a strange mixture of hope and sadness within me. Much like thoughts of my brother do. The writing is superb, simple and profound. It hits all the right notes, no pun intended, and reaches across the aisles to all people under a burden, regardless of their placement on the social ladder. Somehow, it manages to purge the stagnant waters in my soul and make way for fresh clear pools. Two to three rounds just about does the trick, most of the time. Is it an irony that it hails from a movie entitled Brother, Where Art Thou?
After shaking my way through an Michael Jackson classic and a Rhianna staple, funny enough it was called Breakin' Dishes, I happened upon my latest purchase from iTunes. Evidently, there's a group that goes by the name of Florence + The Machine -- would that be a blender, food processor, or hand mixer, perhaps -- and they pound out a Celtic-like ditty that makes my feet move in ways not likely to land on a slick MTV video but it feels invigorating all the same. The Dog Days Are Over. I don't even know the lyrics to save my life, except for that one line. But there's always a welcoming spot in me for it.
In the wake of my trip, there was an unspoken need to let it all go, especially those two intensely tiring days of court in Lamar with my sister. The dance of circles and hops, skips and kicks, head and arm swings, resembling more a tribal celebration of urgent crop weather asked for and received or lives spared in the wake of battle, was executed for my niece and nephew and sister. And for the other family members so hurt and affected by this strange and painful set of events. I inhabited a space of freedom which none of them are able to enjoy. With emotional abandon, I danced and danced, the kitchen appliances my witnesses, the washed and unwashed dishes a mute audience, and any reason to do otherwise unable to be found.
It ended abruptly. My own healthy and alive children entered the room, prepared to further their personal agendas for the evening, exacting their own dance of words and wills. I muted my mini concert in trade for dialog and even a bit of argument. We hammered out our agreements and moved ever closer to a Sunday morning and away from a Saturday night. The yellow dish gloves crept back over my hands. Suds and silverware busied me for a time. Thoughts of rest and what I might or might not do in the near future captured valuable brain space.
The music, and the moment, was over. But it happened. As are all of us who love without restraint and beyond any set of hard and fast rules, I am bound to those who inhabit my heart with a passion that infuses every aspect of my existence. Including an hour spent in the mundane and melodic refrain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)