Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Six-Blessings

One Christmas, a few years ago, I completed my shopping, online, with several spirit-filled weeks to spare. Since discovering the ease, convenience, and seemingly endless choices available from the comfort of a chair that has memorized the precise dimensions of my oft-perched ass, I never looked back.
The requisite shipping deadlines, too, work to my advantage. Knowing there are only “five days left to order in time for Christmas delivery” forces me out of my usual procrastination, and while I don’t always match my inaugural performance, I have yet to fall into my former mall-inspired pattern of waiting until the very last minute.
This year, it was with no small measure of satisfaction that I clicked the “confirm order” button for the last time two weeks ago, secure in the knowledge that the few, small, miscellaneous items still needed could be purchased locally at a small store free of jostling shoppers, long lines, and the need to invoke “The Secret” in order to obtain a parking space less than a mile from the entrance.
Several days ago, during a lull in workday activity, I sat in front of a different computer monitor, eager to take advantage of another handy online tool. Tracking my purchases not only assures that I have, indeed, met the deadline, but it also provides me with an exact arrival date, allowing me to game-plan the sport of hide-and-seek my delivery man delights in playing.
All but one of my purchases had been shipped, and, to my horror, the approximate delivery date of the errant package flashed in holly-adorned graphics: “For arrival after December 25th.” After several hours spent in impotent outrageous indignation, I returned to the site, cancelled the order, and resigned myself to the reality of jostling shoppers, long lines at the check-out, and a rare winter-time opportunity to break out my hikers. I strengthened my resolve by inviting my son to go along, while reminding both of us that he, too, had some shopping to do.

Lists in hand, we set out early, determined to complete the task well before his 1:00 tip-off. Careful planning set our route, and we finished with an hour to spare, thanks to several very helpful salespeople. We sat down to lunch at my son’s favorite hamburger joint, where the portions are so big that neither of us could finish.
As was his usual custom, Shane had shed his coat much earlier in the day, encouraging his rush towards the car ahead of me in an effort to escape December winds. I aimed my key fob and clicked the locks open. A young girl with dulce-de-leche skin approached in my periphery. She held a cardboard box underneath her needy expression.

“Ma’am?” Her voice was soft, hesitant; prepared for refusal.
Shane, his hand already lifting the door handle, stopped, and turned.
I looked down at the girl, giving her permission to launch a whispery, mostly unintelligible pitch. My hand went to the wallet stashed in the back pocket of my jeans on finally deciphering nine words of what proved to be a rather lengthy, possibly practiced, speech.
“….so we can buy some presents for my Mom.” Her facial expression never changed.
I handed her a five dollar bill, and selected two plastic-beaded key chains from her boxed collection. Her hand folded the money while heading towards her pocket before she stopped and asked, more clearly this time, “Do I owe you any change?”
Somehow, the values spoken by her words assured me I had done the right thing.
“No, honey. Merry Christmas!”
I barely heard her wispy “Thank you.”, as she disappeared behind another car.
“Who was that, Mom?” Burgeoning masculinity laced Shane’s voice with protectionism.
“I don’t know honey…a girl trying to earn money to buy gifts for her parents.” I answered, distractedly, as we slid onto our seats.
“But, how do you know?” His skepticism surprised me. I stopped and considered my answer.
“You know? I don’t. But, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In this case, she was offering something for sale, and I chose to buy it; whether that be a hand-made key ring, or hope that my contribution may brighten another family’s holiday, does it really matter?”
Shane thought in silence.
“We can’t control what others do with the gifts we give them. All we are responsible for is the spirit in which we give.”
As our seatbelts clicked into place, his silence continued, even as my blessing doubled.

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Four-Surrender

As challenges go, today rates right up there…
Beth Hart wailed me to a good start, and as I exited my car in a driving downpour in order to pump gas, I anticipated the opportunity to “fluff” the raindrops into my hair, accentuating the “bed-head” look I had embraced on hearing the weather forecast.
Rhonda Byrne purred in my ear, between guitar riffs, and time stood still, once again.
The morning went swimmingly. As a controlled chaos persisted in my periphery, I was neither needed, nor involved, and managed to complete a trying Sudoku while ferrying telephone calls.
Curry, for lunch, was the perfect antidote to the dreary landscape outside the office windows. I finished, with fifteen minutes of my self-imposed time limit to spare, and used the time to check in on friends.
And then it began…

As my chair rolled to a stop in front of the telephone, it began to ring, and the noise didn’t let up for the next three hours. As soon as I disconnected my head-set with a promise to fax requested information, the ringing began, again. A yellow legal pad/desk blotter/armrest filled quickly, with the names and demographic information of prospective clients, and, as I struggled to keep all their balls in the air, the “right” side of my brain appreciated the interest, while the “wrong” side wondered when I would have time to satisfy all their demands.
One particularly eager client called five times in less than an hour. I memorized his telephone number, without effort, as it repeatedly paraded across my Caller ID, and, on seeing it, yet again, I squelched the desire to tell him he had absolutely no chance of qualifying; choosing, instead, to press “hold” as I collected my positive wits about me.
As the “big” hand on the clock over my desk creeped towards freedom, I turned my thoughts to the evening, and my son’s basketball game.
“Got a game tonight!”, I called through a co-worker’s open office door. “I’m hoping for another double-digit game!”
“Cool!”, he answered without raising his head. “Good luck!”
Pewter colored clouds, floating overhead, promised more precipitation, as I rolled to a stop, in rush-hour traffic. I remembered the forecast, and hoped the dark clouds would hang around long enough for the temperature to drop, while making a mental note to warn my northernmost friends of the darkness blowing their way. And later, while riding the passenger seat, on the way to the gym, I clutched my jacket about me, while thrilling at the obviously plummeting temperature, and the continuing chance of snow.
Sharing a spot along the gym wall with friends I hadn’t seen since football season ended, I readied my camera. As I positioned it, in anticipation of a “moment”, my friend leaned in to point out how short our players were in comparison to the other team. I smiled, benignly, while setting up the shot.

Play ensued, and our sons’ challenges became quickly apparent. Unfortunately, they had nothing to do with height. The score became lopsided, long before the halftime break, and I cringed at the expression on my son’s sweaty face, while determining to remind him of the importance of positive leadership after the game was over.
As we exited the gym, I drew my jacket closer, and lowered my head against what I hoped were snow-bearing winds. My son and I danced anxiously, outside the SUV, while his father/coach gave a trite-ridden, post-game speech to a supportive mother.
Three car doors slammed with emphasis, obscuring the first few words of my son’s post-game diatribe. A team-mate, touting an as yet unproven pedigree, had loudly announced his intention to quit the team. I listened as the two of them shared their experiences and opinions on the night’s activity.
A jar of peanut butter sat beside a sheaf of buttery crackers on the holiday-themed placemat in front of him. My son’s hand disappeared inside the peanut butter jar as I took a seat at the table beside him, while his father retraced his steps, in search of his jacket. Their conversation continued, as though uninterrupted, as I waited for a pause.

“Found it!” Roger’s call came from an adjacent room.
“You need a defense.”, I ventured.
Shane chewed as his father re-entered the room with purposeful, rubber-soled strides.
“Do you run plays?”, I asked. “I didn’t see plays. Do you have any?”
Roger’s head dropped to one hand as he slid onto a padded wooden chair.
“They won’t do it.”, he answered. “I tried. They won’t do it. Did you hear me calling “three”? That’s a play.”
“It’s a “pick-and-roll”, right?” Shane’s voice begged for confirmation.
“What about half-time?”, I asked, while re-running visions of seven aimless eleven year-olds, heaving the ball at the goal, in a game of “Me, first”.
“You can’t introduce plays at half-time!” The face Roger lifted from his hand was florid. “There’s not enough time! You don’t do that!” He paused to reposition his head inside his hand, while moving, from frustration, to defeat. “I tried.”
“Ok, so it’s only the second game of the season, and you’ve given up trying to teach plays?”, I asked.
“Mom!” This time, Shane spoke through a mouthful of butter-coated crackers. “He stopped after the second practice!”
“They don’t get it.”, Roger finished.
“I’ve seen it done.” My voice was resolute; full of experience, positive, and sure.
“When?” Roger rose up, placing his hands upon the table.
“Mandledove.”, I answered, simply, sedately; invoking the name of a former coach.
Rising to his full-while-seated height, color filled his face, and his voice, and frustration, flowed from his mouth.
“I’m sick of hearing about Mandledove! So, I suck!” He sucked a breath. “I suck at coaching.”

Numbers floated across the surface of my mind as I struggled to decide, at which point in puberty, his maturation had stunted.
“You’re a good coach, Dad.” Shane’s voice, free of buttery debris, remained weak, and indecisively supportive.
And, I watched, as a fifty-year-old man gave up, while an eleven-year-old boy struggled to determine the difference between what was real and what was important; and, I learned.
I learned that a positive outlook must be desired before it can be obtained.
And, with that, I raised my hand, in the universal sign of surrender, before training my eyes upon my son.
“Two minutes until shower time.”

Seven Day Mental Diet: Day Three-Hope

Upon my arrival in Destin, no matter who is accompanying me, my first order of business is a trip up two flights of concrete stairs that lead to my father’s condominium. After hours of mindless, sedentary driving, the sprint is welcome, as is the artificially cooled air that greets me as I reach the top, pushing open the storm door that separates him from heavily humid ocean breezes. He is, almost always, ensconced in an ergonomically perfect chair, placed strategically, in front of a flat panel television. Salt infused sunlight pours through vertical blinds meant to defray it, highlighting a conglomeration of books at his burnished bare feet.
The titles range from bestseller to obscure, dogmatic non-fiction, and he will read from each of them before the sun sets.
If reading is his favorite hobby, golf runs a close second. Philosophy ties both of them, and anything else important to him, together.
Marking my birthday, his celebratory telephone call has become a ritual. He delights in reminding me of my age. And, every year, I react in the same way.
“Well, if I am old, what does that make you?”
He laughs, as though considering the question for the first time, before answering.
“Really old!”

Over the years, our telephone calls, regardless of original intention, almost always stray onto another subject; something deeper, an arguable point, an opportunity to wax philosophical. And, as we talk, my father leafs through all the knowledge lying at his feet, and shines.
Today, after discussing my sister’s recent hospitalization, our conversation meandered into the state of our economy, and despite the horrific landscape, my determination to remain positive won the day.
“You want to know what I think?”, I ask, rhetorically.

“What do you think?”, he answers, automatically, through a smile.
“I think things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.” I pause here, for emphasis. “I think next year could get really rough, and, I don’t think we’ll ever get back to where we were. And, you know what?”
“What?” The word carries appreciative anticipation.
“I think that’s ok.” I pause, for the sake of argument.
“You might be right.” I picture him shifting inside ergonomic perfection.
“You know? I look at my son. And, he’s not alone…I look at my son; he’s eleven years old, and trotting out onto the football field. He’s got $200.00 worth of padded plastic on his head. Another $200.00 sits beneath his jersey, in the form of shoulder pads. His shoes cost $125.00. And, his gloves! He wears $30.00 on his hands, and he’s eleven years old! Add to this, the cost of registration, and the expense of fuel, required to travel back and forth to the practice field and games, which can be as much as twenty-five miles away! All told, Pee Wee football costs almost a thousand dollars to play!”

“Yeah….”
“I’m not involved in the expense. I leave that to his Dad. But, he’s not alone. This is what is expected…And, I look at all that money and think about what it could do!”
“Yeah…I understand.”
“So, I think it could be a good thing to get back to real values, you know? Obama talks about caring for our fellow man, and he’s labeled a socialist. I just think it would be a good thing if this economic crisis forced us to take a look at our excess, and reminded us of what’s really important.” Another breath.
“Truthfully?”, I ask, without waiting for an answer. “Crazy as it sounds, I welcome the challenge!”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right…I know.”
And, I feel good. Not just because my father allowed me to win the point; there is more. I welcome the realization that instead of worrying I am welcoming. Instead of wringing my hands, I am going forward; with an open mind, and, more importantly, an open heart; confident in the knowledge that this, too, shall pass, and, with any luck, we’ll come out better on the other side.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

Large, multi-colored lights, strung around the perimeter of the lot, winked at us for the last mile of the ride. My sisters and I occupied both rear seats, the one facing forward, and the one facing backward, in the woody “Vista Cruiser” station wagon my mother usually piloted. On this night, as on any occasion on which my father accompanied us, she rode the passenger seat.

For many years, our girlish chests swelled as we glimpsed the large, blue and white, wooden sign announcing our arrival at “Big John’s Christmas Trees”. The only “Big John” we knew, was my father, also known as “Mistah John” and “Mistah Howl”. He allowed us our sin of pride until we were old enough to know better.

As we disembarked the Buick, clay dust rose from the bottoms of our sneakers as we raced to be the first to breach the string of lights; and the search was on.

A plumbed line of Frasier firs stretched in either direction, as far as our young eyes could see, tethered at the top with a piece of simple cotton string. Each tree stood separate, tall, and full, allowing my father to reach inside and give the trunk a turn, as my mother stood apart; arms crossed, eyes squinting. A simple wave of her hand signaled my father to turn again, and wait, while she searched for “holes”. With her “No…” we moved to the next row. In the meantime, calls of “Here! Over here!” rang out from all corners of the lot.

After mounting the carefully chosen tree in the rickety metal stand, my father left us to complete the task. My mother took her job of lighting the tree very seriously, employing a step-stool to clip bulbs to the tallest branches. When she was done, she assumed a familiar stance; arms crossed, eyes squinting, looking for “holes”, until, satisfied, she dragged large, worn, brown paper boxes into the middle of the floor signaling it was time to hang the ornaments.

“Ohh, look at this one!”

“I made this!”

“No! I made that in kindergarten, I remember! Didn’t I Mom? I made that in kindergarten, remember?”

For the next couple of weeks, I spent countless hours on a living room couch that still carried the scent of the furniture store from which it was purchased. I laid and “watched” the tree…and dreamed.

“Mom!” The word was accompanied by a tug on the end of the shirt that was hard-wired to my heart.

“Mom! When can we get a tree?”

Shrugging on my coat, I felt inside the pockets, assuring my gloves were still where I left them, and I saw dust rising under my sneakers.

Horror diverted my attention as my oldest son entered the room, wielding a small, yet toothy, saw. Reaching to retrieve it, I sent him to get his coat.

Covered, from head to toe in an assortment of colorful, warming fibers, we began our trek. The woods behind our little farmhouse offered an assortment of acceptable firs. One year we found a perfectly shaped, five-foot scotch pine. The next, we settled for a scraggly cedar. And, then there was the year of the table tree; as we decorated, Snoopy played piano inside my head.

For the last ten years, the day after Thanksgiving has been set aside for Christmas decorating.

We roll to a stop in a parking place in front of a big-box hardware store that offers trimming and bagging at no extra charge. Tying our jackets about our waists, we head towards a pile of meshed Frasier firs in our shirt-sleeves. We stand them. We twirl them. We look for “holes”, with eyes wide open. The orange-aproned employee mounts our selection atop my car, securing it with bungee cord I provide.

A single-construction plastic stand screws on in minutes, and the tree is placed in front of the living room window. Carols, old and new, flow from wall mounted speakers as we begin decorating. Twenty minutes, and two boxes of ornaments later, the sound of a video game wafts in from the next room, and I realize I am hanging ornaments, alone.

And I remember; “Big John’s”, squinting eyes, sibling rivalry, “watching” the tree, tugging children, toothy saws, table trees, and Snoopy’s music.

Knowledge

Judging by the color of them, the ceiling tiles must have been recently replaced. The walls, unevenly covered by some kind of plaster and patched in several places, unsuccessfully blocked noises from surrounding exam rooms. There was a screw missing on a panel near the ceiling that might once have featured a clock. The glass covering an innocuous aluminum-framed print needed washing.

I began to feel the chill of institutionally gray tiles through my thin cotton tee shirt, and realized the danger must have passed. To my right, viewed between assorted steel railings supporting the bed between us, the P.A.’s navy-pinstriped legs moved slightly with her efforts. Her shoes were expensively sensible. I admired her slacks; the hang of them, the color, the fine weave of the fabric from which they’d been fashioned. I wanted to ask where she’d found them, but worried I might not be heard from my vantage point on the floor beside the bed.

I considered getting up, as the floor seemed to grow colder every minute I lay there. I eyed my jacket, draped across the back of the ridiculously uncomfortable chair I’d ridden for the better part of three hours.

“You ok down there?” Her Midwestern accented voice carried no judgment.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I answered, making the decision to stay put for the time being.

The sight of his sweat-pant covered legs, dangling as they did, from a gaping hole in the ceiling, alarmed me. All sorts of maternal recriminations sprouted inside my head, and I kept them there, knowing he would consider me unnecessarily concerned, and motherly. I approached with pursed lips in anticipation of cradling the box of ornaments he would hand down, and was met, instead, with a rain of limbs. He recalls his foot slipping from the ladder he meant to jump upon. I remember a slow-motion, herky-jerky, free-fall during which my mind immediately began to catalogue possible injuries.

As my brain continued its seamless shift into “medical-mode”, I watched the way his feet met the floor and felt sure he’d done no lasting damage. He plopped to a half-sitting/half-crouching position against the wall. Raising up as I bent towards him, he held one arm with the other hand, and below that was something I’d seen only in well-worn textbooks. I immediately bent his arm at the elbow, in an effort to close the gash.

Surreally, images of pioneer women rending their skirts flashed across my brain, before training took over again, and I envisioned the gridwork of veins and arteries snaking through that part of the human arm. I had no skirt to rend. The size of the dressing seemed most important to me as I envisioned wrapping towels of every size around his arm. Discarding each of them as too bulky, I raced through the house in the direction of the rag bag. Grabbing the telephone on my way back, I dropped it twice, before successfully dialing 911.

I raced back and forth around him following, implicitly, the instructions given by the emergency operator.

“Do I have to sit here?”, he asked from his puddle of blood.

“Well…” I hesitated, conjuring something akin to a “scene of the crime” kind of vibe.

He drew his legs up to rise.

“No! Wait!” Seeing he was determined, I helped him up, observing, as taught, for any changes in his gait.

I planted him on a chair in the kitchen.

“Hey? Can you get my cigarettes and coffee?”

Complying, I placed them before him as diffused strobe lights began to play in the next room, and removed them as quickly as I’d lain them down.

“It’s not cool to meet paramedics with your cigarettes and coffee between you.”

After opening the door, I left them to their ministrations, tempered with cheerful holiday banter. They were good at what they did.

The house was quiet again. The lights continued to play while they settled him inside the rig. I took the puppy out to feed him.

An insistent rapping against glass caught my attention and I fixed my expression on my way to meet the curious neighbors I’d been expecting. Robert lives next door.

“Yeah…” The word was jovial, coming from my smile.

“Uh, look, he wants to ask you something.” This was not what I had expected. “You know, I was just coming to make sure you were alright, and he stopped me. He wants some things from the bedside table, and he wants to ask you something.”

“Ok…thanks.”

“Let me know if you need anything…”

They had him strapped onto the gurney under very bright lights. He wore the grin that always means “I need you but you’re not going to like it.”

“Did you know that if I don’t ride, there’s no charge?”

I looked at the paramedic manning the door.

“Really?”

He inclined his head.

“Yep. Joe here’s not even gonna ride in back with him. He’s only a 3 out of 3. I mean if he’d been a 10 out of 10…but he’s only a 3 out of 3.” There was a hint of apology in his voice.

I marveled, silently, at the notion that the fuel required to drive a person to the hospital had more value than medical services rendered on site, before looking again into the jarringly bright light.

The grin had widened.

“Well, sure. I can drive you….sure. Let me get some things…We’ll take your car, you’re not comfortable in mine.” Most of this was thrown over my shoulder as I hurried back inside.

“God! You just seem miserable! You’re making me miserable! Just go home!” As he said it, from his perch on a bed in the middle of a room that, at least gave the look of being sterile, he turned his head away slightly.

“You know? Here’s the thing. It’s a problem of too much knowledge. It’s knowing that while we’re in here for hour upon hour, they are out there talking about what they served for Thanksgiving and flirting with the maintenance man they called to fix a drawer that won’t open, and they don’t care. It’s just a job, you know? I mean, they don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s just like you in your office. You visit right? You walk down the hall and talk to Chris or Steve, right? And you think nothing of it. It doesn’t matter that you’ve got reports on your desk that need editing. You’re bored. You walk down the hall. It’s the same here. And most people don’t know it, but I do, and I just want to go out there and say “Hey! I had plans here! My son is away for four days and I had plans tonight! This was supposed to be my night! Can we hurry things up here? Can you flirt with the guy from maintenance tomorrow maybe?”” Spent, I stopped.

Save for the sounds of a lift being pushed on a bed next door, and the beeps from a portable x-ray unit, and the sound of high heels on tile, and a rough-hewn voice that sounded like a maintenance man’s calling playfully, “Hey, come here!”, it was silent inside the room until the P.A. stepped inside.

After introducing herself she set about gathering supplies and began her work; the picture of kind efficiency. Holding a vial containing clear colored liquid over her head, she inserted a needle of some proportion, explaining that the lidocaine would “deaden the area”. I saw his sharp intake of breath as the needle disappeared behind his body and felt expected to do something. Averting my eyes as I approached the bed, I took his other hand.

“Here, squeeze this.”

I stood, and he squeezed for several minutes, before the back of my knees began to tingle. I bent them slightly as taught in chorus so many years ago and focused on an array of buttons set in the opposite wall. The buttons, and even the wall, itself, became cloudy and I attempted to will it away by blinking. When I realized I could no longer hear the cheerfully kind banter of the P.A., I patted his hand, explaining I should sit down. As I struggled with consciousness, I remembered the coolness of a tile floor, and I climbed off my chair, hoping no one would notice.

Rain sheared across the windshield as I struggled to make out faded lines in the road.

“What was that about?” His speech still carried Dilaudid. “You were a nurse!”

“Now, you know.”

“What? What do I know?”

“You know the real reason I didn’t want to come.”

“But you were a nurse! You saw things like that all the time! How did you do it?”

“It’s different…when the outcome affects the picture you carry in your head, of your life.”

We rode in silence for several minutes before he spoke again.

“Did I imagine it, or did you tie a dust-rag around my arm?”

“So from the beginning the fight we were winning…”

We are not, generally speaking, a family of tradition…

Quilts and afghans, created by my great-grandmother, out of a sense of need rather than an expression of creativity, draped the top of a battered box of castaways, labeled for curb-side pick up. Decades-old ceramic dinner plates, depicting a green-hued scene of men in powdered wigs and frock-coats, were discarded as soon as the cardboard box containing geometrically patterned stoneware was opened. My favorite jelly glass, the one depicting Fred Flintstone piloting his ragtop, is gone.

For years, we shared holiday dinners with a family of Chicagoan transplants, who preferred butter over margarine, and felt like pickled peaches were a viable food choice. Until, we didn’t.

Understandably, I was flummoxed, when upon herding my burgeoning family around the massive, dark-stained dining table of my youth, a request was made for a show of gratitude. One-by-one, each anticipatory diner rattled off an item for thanksgiving. A furtive glance told me I was fourth in line. My mind fractured; one side struggled with personal performance, while the other hoped my children wouldn’t embarrass me, or, worse yet, themselves. Blessedly, we all managed to extrapolate an acceptable offering, and I made a mental note to never come unprepared, again.

For several years, we took our seats and racked our brains, as steam wafted off the stuffing. Until, we didn’t.

Today, as I danced about my kitchen to a soundtrack only I could hear, I adjusted my earphones with one hand, stirred a cheese sauce with the other, and found myself wishing someone would ask the question. For once; I am prepared.

This has not been an easy year for me. In March, I lost my best friend. He had red hair, and a goofy smile, and, as far as he was concerned, the sun rose, and set, in my eyes. He died peacefully; but, he died. Hundreds of dollars spent to insure his comfort afforded me little solace as I stood over him, willing that breath not be his last.

Two of my sons lost their jobs, and their home, in one fell swoop. For a mother, it doesn’t get any harder than this. The fact that their change of fate was hastened by a cherished family member only sweetened the blow….

I began work as a hospice volunteer this year. Within two months of my first visit I had lost two patients. Death is not an easy thing to see. “Natural causes” render a person to a most unnatural state.

Personally, I continue to ride a roller coaster I seem to have ridden so long, that the foam-enhanced seats carry a permanent imprint of my ass. And still, I grab the roll bar, finger rusty metal exposed by fidgeting fingers chipping paint, roll my lips back, and meet the rushing wind, helter-skelter.

And..it’s alright….

The roller coaster is mine to ride, or not. No matter how many times I stand on queue to ride it, it always stops. Sooner, or later, it rolls to a stop, laden with fading screams; and, as I dismount, it is my decision whether or not to rejoin the queue.

After two months of ambivalent effort, I took a leave of absence from hospice work. I have only one patient of the original three, and, some days, I am sure she will outlive me. As I stop to focus on other things, I pray she will know me upon my return.

Both of my sons found new careers. One is happy, and one, his mother’s son, works hard at it, every day.

And, tomorrow, Murphy comes to live with me. He won’t be Otis. He couldn’t be. But, he might be my best friend.

Twelve years ago, I was handed a prescription for anti-depressants, which I immediately filled with all the enormity the diminutive, curly-locked doctor imported.

“Bad” days became less bad.

“Good” days, became colorless.

I’ve tried, many times, to handle life on my own terms, only to find her overbearing…until I didn’t.

He Said, She Said

He doesn’t so much sit as drape a chair; filling it with athletic grace. His head lies cradled in the receiver as he drags one sturdy hand through a day’s growth. His eyes squint, unseeing, as his own mortality supersedes the flashing image on the other side of the room.

“Have you thought about marriage?”

I push my hair behind my ear as I cross, hurriedly, into the next room. A familiar irony fills me.

My hand holds the same telephone, in the same room, in the same chair. My daughter’s voice comes through the receiver, and, as my hand parts my hair, I ask my question.

“Is this what you really want?”

Pride and Joy

“I Am
By: Shane Carroll

I am a football fool
I wonder what I’ll be when I grow up
I hear crickets chirping in my front yard
I see football clouds in the sky
I want to be rich
I am a football fool

I pretend to be Peyton Manning
I feel like I have my team on my shoulders
I touch the moon
I worry about my Mom
I cry when I’m sad
I am a football

I understand I need help in math
I say I love school but sometimes I don’t
I dream I’m Peyton Manning
I try hard in football
I hope I’m rich when I grow up
I am a football fool”

“Kirkin’ of the Tartans”

Joy was hard to find amongst the throng of worshipers gathered in the narthex of the church. Standing at 4’11”, in her sensible shoes, and colorful tartan skirt, her painted lips broke into a smile as we rounded the pair of taller men blocking our view. Her arms flew wide in my son’s direction, and he fell into them, as expected. As he pulled away, she retained her hold on his arms, looking him almost eye-to-eye, and exclaimed her delight at seeing him. Turning towards me, she fussed with the vest she’d squeezed beneath her jacket as I complimented her skirt.

She’d seen the pastor’s wife, so she was relatively sure the pastor had arrived as well, but she hadn’t seen the bagpiper. We discussed seating. She hoped it would be alright if we sat near the front. “I can’t sit too far back. It’s hard to hear…”

Three rows from the front, she sidled into a pew, allowing just enough space for our three bodies. Joy likes to touch. I could smell her perfume.

She’d been to the opera since I’d seen her. Rossini was one of her favorite composers, but she’d not seen this performance before. She described it as beautiful, light, and airy. She’d liked it very much.

The pews around us filled as I refreshed my memory of the sanctuary. Fashioned from gracious blonde wood, the ceiling arched high to accommodate and enhance the majesty of organ music, and the builders had preferred graceful curves to corners, giving the room a fluid feel. There was little decoration, save for a table on the rising in front of us, holding a single round of bread and a silver goblet. Behind the table, a three-piece band readied itself for the service, opposite a large, tartan-draped pulpit.

I sat, appreciating the warm simplicity of my surroundings, as my son surveyed the crowd of strangers. I wondered what he was learning. I complied with Joy’s request for a stick of gum.

And the music began…very softly at first, as though far away; a single bagpipe playing a familiar refrain. Placing my hand on his leg, I directed my son’s attention, and we turned to look behind us.

The piper was a sturdily built, older woman dressed in traditional Scottish garb. Heavy, utilitarian boots covered thick woolen socks that met her kilt, the plaid of which was repeated in the sash that partially covered her black woolen jacket. Her reddened cheeks alternately expanded and deflated as she sucked for air between blows, and I was immediately struck by her effort.

Behind her, a stately procession of tartans flowed in on tall poles carried by practiced, stern-faced parishioners. Each pole featured a symbol, and the name of a clan, above their corresponding plaid, and, as they passed, the large swatches of colorful material fluttered at us, gracefully. The music resounded against graceful blonde arches above us, and as the procession continued, my eyes filled with its proud beauty.

The musician took her place to one side of the rising as the tartans flowed in and around her, coming to rest at their designated spots along the thoughtfully curved walls, until we were surrounded by ancestral colors, the haunting strains of a lone bagpiper, and synchronicity.

The speaker, an older man of Scottish descent, and one-time pastor of this church, took the podium, proudly wearing the kilt of his clan. He began his address by explaining Jewish tradition, and, at first, I found myself captivated more by his soft, brogue-enlaced speech, than his message. His focus was on the concept, and importance of, “we, first-person plural…”. He credited early Jewish tradition with introducing the concept, and early Presbyterians with embracing it. He related the history of the “Kirkin’ of the Tartans”, and the prohibitions and ensuing violence that his ancestors had survived. As he spoke, I surveyed the proud plaids lining the walls behind him, and I understood.
We rose, as directed, and I added my voice to the others, as we sang “Amazing Grace” to the accompaniment of a single bagpipe….

As a child, I attended church every Sunday. The car rolled to a stop, and my mother unlocked the doors to let us out. As an adult, I attended for many years until politics monopolized our Sunday school lessons, souring me. World history classes, required by my major, officially debunked most of the Bible, assuring me that my soul was, indeed, in my own hands. Since that time, my attendance in church has been sporadic, and usually socially driven.

My choice to attend today was fueled by a desire to provide, for my son, an experience. The emotion I experienced was unexpected. As I sat in the sanctuary, surrounded by parishioners, and tartans, and history, I came to understand why they were there. I felt their belonging.

The bagpipe began to whine again, announcing a reversed procession. The plaids fluttered in the opposite direction, and I watched through tear-filled eyes. The music faded as the last tartan passed, before growing stronger again, causing me to turn, again, towards the front of the church.

She stood, singularly; framed by double doors. Sunlight rained upon her and the unlikely instrument, and after several minutes, the music continued as she turned, proudly, and walked away.

Blessings

The continuing ability to grow is a blessing.

“Wordsong”, the inspiration of my sister, my father, and a friend who believes in me when I can’t, was a gift I gave myself. She was dark…and stark…relying on my words for warmth; a true reflection of where I was.

In a marvelous example of serendipity, a single, innocently spoken word, uttered by a virtual stranger, sparked a metamorphosis; causing me to think, challenging me to grow.

And, this is where I am…

Grateful.