Tess

Psychiatry was, far and away, my favorite clinical rotation. It lasted for three months, and my patients were housed in the county hospital. This was when I learned that the “Psych Floor” is always on, or near, the top floor, though I have never been sure if this geography is dictated by distance from the front doors, and possible escape, or more a part of an “out of sight, out of mind” mentality.

I was jealous of other students garnering more glamorous assignments; a shelter for troubled children, a drug rehabilitation center, or a home away from home, inhabited by alcoholic men whose families had swallowed the last straw. But, that was before I realized that the Psychiatric Floor of a hospital is very much like an urban emergency room; you never know what you’re going to get, but you can be sure it will be exciting, and if you can shove your fear aside long enough, there is much to learn.

Following an orientation overseen by a frumpy, 30-something man named Mark, who favored once-expensive, over-sized sweaters, and Levi’s, over desert boots, I met with several patients whose grasp on reality was apparently restored by an overnight stay.

And, then I met Tess. Tess was a hard-timer, painfully familiar to staff and patients alike, thanks to her frequent admissions, and long stays. I learned, during morning rounds, that she suffered from schizophrenia, and, despite my training, I entered the hallway, leading to her room, with visions of Sally Field, as “Sybil”, dancing in my head.

The door wheezed as I muscled it open.

“Good morning!” This was the beginning of a verbal assault, suggested by my professor, intended to ground us both with the reality of time. I would go on.

“It’s Monday, February 17th. The sun is out, but the wind is cold!” The words were spoken loudly, with a forced gaiety I now recognize in other nurses, and earned no response.

My eyes rested, for just a moment, on the centerpiece of all hospital rooms. The bed was vacant. She sat next to the window, affording me a view of her long, brown hair, and slender shoulders, covered by a red shirt, putting me in mind of a union suit. I could have stared for as long as I liked. She was oblivious.

As I approached, I strained for a glimpse at what she was watching until, reaching her, I realized I could never see what captivated her. Her eyes were lightless.

I entered her room in this manner for three days to the same response. On day four, the wheeze of the door was barely noticeable above the sound of her mumblings. She stood, just inside the closet door, wearing a mask of complete anxiety. Her eyes, no longer lifeless, danced frenetically inside her head, lighting upon mine just long enough to reignite her terror, before jumping back into the closet.

That she felt she had lost something was apparent. I attempted to talk with her; to discover what she sought. My overtures agitated physically, sparking flailing arms, and a twisting, spittle-producing mouth that quieted mine.

I watched, helplessly, for several minutes, before mutely joining her search. Within minutes, the mumbling ceased and determined focus reshaped her features. She shadowed me, mimicking my movements. Her eyes softened, retaining their light. The corners of her mouth relaxed, and for a moment, I imagined what she might have been like; what “normal” could have been for her.

Our search failed. I left her that day feeling impotent, rattled, and very, very sad. The minute’s vision I’d held of the promise her mother must have seen, long ago, affected me. The fleeting irony of human life was spelled out, succinctly, in language I could understand, before the image, like her eyes, went dark.

Respite

I write.

You wait.

The television plays.

The telephone rings.

The bathroom door opens, and closes, at your bidding.

And, when I’m finished, I yank the room, and my imagination, into darkness, with a single movement.

“I’m done!”

I listen, as I speak, for tell-tale signs of guilt I refuse to feel.

“Good!”

Your voice is buoyant, and your eyes, over glasses perched on the tip of your nose, welcoming, as you offer your arms.

Best Laid Plans

I rarely plan anything.

Take vacation, for example. Work schedules require that I set time aside, well in advance. This done, however, I’ve been known to wait, until the week before, to choose a destination, ensuring that the following week will be spent in a mad flurry of telephoning, shopping, cleaning, and packing.

Don’t ask me what I’m bringing to the party. And, telling me what to bring is a complete waste of both our times. Several days before your event, I will peruse various websites, offering tantalizing recipes, and select my favorites, just before I leave to shop for ingredients. I’m a good cook. You know you can count on me to provide something unique, in taste and presentation. Just don’t attempt to build your menu around my dishes.

If you happen to be present when I rise on a weekend morning, you would be better served to go with my flow, than to inquire as to my plans. I don’t have any, and I will resent your efforts to schedule my “free” time. Of course, there isn’t any real “free” time. But, reminding me of that, when I am so intent on the notion, is not in our best interest. If we have an event that requires schedule coordination, wait until I have left my office, and have, at least, exchanged pajamas for street clothes. My wardrobe change is a signal that I am, purportedly, ready to begin the day.

“What are you wearing?”

If two women plan to attend an event together, this question will be asked, several times, in the preceding days. Some men, too, prefer to coordinate. I won’t ask, and I am loathe to answer. I will, as the event looms, conduct a careful study of the closet I carry around inside my head. I will settle upon, and discard, a number of outfit options, before allowing a select few to remain in the recesses of my mind. I will consider jewelry, shoes, and handbags; creating a slideshow of fashion that will occupy free moments, coming to the forefront, for several nights, as I lay down to sleep. Amidst a flurry of discarded clothing, that now decorates every available surface, my decision will be made minutes before you announce the “warm up” of the car.

I don’t know “what’s for dinner”, until I’ve come home, and had time to view, at close quarters, the contents of the refrigerator, the pantry, and the freezer. If, as I move between larders, you see me halt, wearing a glazed-over expression, do not be alarmed. I am “planning”, on the fly.

“On the fly”, is a term I can sink my teeth into. I am also partial to “by the seat of my pants”, and “que sera, sera”. I like to keep my options open.

“Don’t fence me in…”

All of the above is true, and, due to a symphony of circumstance, under careful review.

The start of a new year puts one in mind for planning, even if she chooses not to follow the herd intent on making resolutions that won’t last. I rise upon the dawn of a new year, to a yawning day, and, restlessness, brought on by an inherent opportunity to turn leaves.

My new workout plan is being monitored by a good friend whose fortitude has brought about admirable results. She listens, wearing a knowing smile, as I describe the measures I have taken to ensure success, and waits until I am finished, to speak.

“Have you written up a workout plan?”

Several coworkers and I share the break-room table. Conversation has turned to the weekend ahead, and one of us bemoans a lack of time.

“And, this is why I have started scheduling weekends.” A hush falls over the room, as all eyes turn towards the speaker, a part-timer, and mother of two.

“My Weight-Watchers leader recommended it, and it really works for me! I get so much done!”

Silence holds fast, until an innocent bystander enters the room, giving us cause to expel held breaths.

A friend calls, and I lay down my dust-rag to view the Caller ID. A glance at the wall-clock tells me there is plenty of time left to polish my desk, before I push “Send”. After several minutes of catching up, and political back-and-forth, he turns the conversation to my blog, punctuating the conversation with a question.

“So, what do you write about?”

Words tumble out, one upon the other, as I struggle to answer the question, finally mumbling something about “writing what I know”. He ignores my response, going on to explain his penchant for all things technical. But, the question sits between us, settling finally, firmly upon my mind.

Later that evening, I relate the conversation to a writer-friend of mine, who poses a question of his own.

“Have you written a mission statement?”

I gulp for breath, as my eyes search my desk for a suitable resting place.

“A mission statement?”, is all I can manage.

“Yes, a mission statement!” His words take on purpose, as he prepares to drive his point home.

“But, isn’t that too much like work?” The whine in my voice is embarrassing.

“But, writing is work! You have to decide what you’re going to do, where you’re going. What do you want to do with your writing?” Passion fills his words.

And, as I search the recesses of my work-weary brain, my struggle with spontaneity begins, and I realize that, just because it has worked for me up until now, doesn’t mean it’s working now.

For several days, now, I’ve received one, consistent, message. Everything in me fights it.

And, I never back down from a challenge…..

Girlfriend

Audrey is Jamaican; gorgeous, witty, intelligent, and when she speaks, each word is decorated by a latent trace of island accent. Since the first day, of the first season our sons’ were old enough to play youth sports, we have shared their ups and downs, together.

For four months, out of each of the last five years, we’ve met at the football field dressed in our finest blue and orange. We chant cheers, critique plays, and call our encouragement out to each boy, by name. And, as the coach brings the players together for a post-game prayer, we heft our gear and wave three, free fingers, as “See you next week” is called out in a variety of feminine voices.

Football ends in November. Basketball begins four weeks later, and, this year, we share both. There is no gear to heft. The gym is relatively warm. The chairs we carry upon our backs, comfortable, and placed side by side. For one hour and fifteen minutes, twice a week, we call our encouragement out to the boys by name, each relying upon the other to supply the names of children we don’t know.

“Great job…!” I call out before leaning close, in case his parents flank my other side. “What is his name?”

“Alex, that’s Alex.” Her voice comes from the other side of her head, as she continues to follow the play.

“I can’t keep them straight!” I whisper loudly. Her hand on my arm supports her giggle, as her head moves with the trajectory of the ball.

Our star player hefts the ball down-court, in the direction of…no one.

“Oh, dear!” The words escape before my hand covers my mouth.

Laughter competes with her accent, making her words even more melodious.

“Imagine what he could do if he looked in the direction he was throwing!”

And, later, my hand finds her wrist.

“Your son is on the floor.”, I deadpan.

Her head swivels as she searches the court, and on finding him unharmed, laughs, again.

“Well, it’s the third quarter. It had to happen some time!”

The ball is re-bounded by a boy whose girth limits his playing time. I call out my congratulations, just before he collides with a boy who outweighs him by at least twenty pounds. The boys wallow on the expensively tiled court for several seconds, and my hand, again, finds my mouth.

“Oh! What happened?” Both boys struggle, with much flailing of limbs, to rise, drawing a concerted sigh of relief from the parents lining the court.

Audrey, her smooth-skinned chin in one hand, points one carefully manicured nail with the other, as she begins to answer.

“Well…” She hesitates, as though studying the scene before us. “That one fell upon that one…” And, that was as far as she got.

Our giggles erupt, simultaneously, and go on for several minutes. Audrey alternately covers her face with her coat, and wipes her eyes with her pointer finger, as I struggle to contain myself. A second or two passes before our giggles erupt, again, and the sequence repeats several times, over several more minutes.

Mindful of running mascara, I, too, wipe tears from my eyes with mittened hands, and re-cross my legs in an act of composure, as Audrey finally manages to speak.

“Basketball is such a stress reliever, isn’t it?”

And, like two little girls, we giggle, again.

This is the gift of friendship.

Child to Child

I saw him.

I saw your child.

Bullies on your playground backed you into a corner, and he came out.

Your eyes blazed.

Your voice changed.

Confidence and bravado were exchanged for whining demands accompanied by the impotent stomping of rubber-soled feet.

A plush pout replaced your sardonic grin while red-rimmed eyes held years of unshed tears at bay.

And arms that should have held you crossed, instead, across my chest.

Clarity

I expected more clarity.

I bought into the old adage, “With age comes wisdom.” I hung my hat on it. As I floundered through my teens and twenties, I quieted myself with the notion that one day everything would magically fall into place, and the world would make sense. One day, I would be the one who had been there and done that, who had seen what life had to offer, plucked the juiciest bits from her burgeoning tree, and secreted her lessons inside my apron pockets, so that all that showed of my experience was a smile of complacent serenity.

It didn’t happen that way.

As I’ve aged, I’ve realized that, no matter how much life I live, answered questions are quickly stored away to make room for new quandaries. Conquered challenges are afforded only a modicum of celebration before the next hurdle comes barreling into view, and there is always more to learn.

Opportunity Knocks

Chance only develops into opportunity when mixed with desire.

Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.

Unmade

Last year, I bought my favorite watch of all time. A man’s watch, it features a large, thin face, thick, brown leather bands, and the word “Fossil”, prominently displayed at the top of the dial.

And, yet…

My life is a rushed blur of missed opportunities, rescheduled appointments, unfinished projects, and tasks that need doing.

There was a time in my life when accepting an invitation to go to a concert meant an evening filled. Now, the offer requires careful calendar manipulation, and the certainty of playing catch-up the following day.

A visit to the hair salon used to be a welcome distraction, breaking up a lazy Saturday afternoon. My last appointment was scheduled, with surgical precision, over a month in advance. I rescheduled twice.

There is a jigsaw puzzle on a table in my office. The box is displayed, prominently, as an aid in connecting the pieces, which lay in a misshapen mound in front of it. Beside the table is an easel, bearing the weight of an unfinished canvas. If you squint, you can almost make out the image of wolves drinking from a stream.

The drawer in my wine cabinet is stuffed full of collected corks. I spent quite a bit of time searching for an appropriately-sized bulletin board on which to glue them. A friend finished hers last year. I saw it. It was cute, and I’m sure mine will be, too, when I get around to it. The glue gun is ready. I am not.

I have never “finished” the laundry. The pile is never-ending, growing faster than it shrinks.

My sewing box runneth over.

The hardwood floors, stripped of carpeting in hopes of easier maintenance, gather mounds of dusty dog hair in their corners, even as I sweep.

The pine trees, shading my house, weep brown needles faster than I can rake them.

I live life, as a perpetually unmade bed.