A(other) New Understanding

I have not posted in several weeks, for which I am sorry. Perhaps you are not. Not that I haven’t tried. Each time I sit down to write, I get sleepy or distracted or uncomfortable. I itch, I sneeze, something’s too tight or the room is too hot or too cold.

The only thing I have been able to keep up with is the exercising. I joined a boot camp that meets at 5 in the morning. I still go to the gym five days a week. I still make a token effort to tidy up around the house. (Emphasis on token effort.)

But otherwise, I’ve been off. Grumpy, distracted, unsettled. I’ve tried to figure it out, and my last post was my first glimmer of understanding.

You’ll recall that I noted that my body started to kick up a fuss just around the anniversary of the brain tumor surgery and seizure, and coma and “the unpleasantness”. We had my son’s wedding on October 4 (which was lovely), but starting during the third week of October, I began my descent.

How to describe this? It is exactly as if my body’s deepest consciousness was tugging at my robe, trying to get my attention. “Hey! Pay attention to us! Something is wrong! You aren’t listening!”

No, I wasn’t. I was not planning to mark the two-year anniversary in any way. As far as I was concerned, I am cured with nothing to worry about. But my body and soul is determined to remember.

And so for the last six weeks or so, we have been fighting it out. From my conscious perspective, everything has gone wrong. My clean eating habits have been forgotten. I count the hours until I can go back to bed. I’ve been lonely and sad and scared and needy and angry – so angry – all at once.

But joy is returning! This morning, on December 8^th, the NEW me – the BETTER me – has returned. This cannot be a coincidence. Two years ago, on December 12^th, I left the hospital in Dallas to come home. Of course I still had rehab to do, and I was in pretty rough shape, but the nightmare of “the unpleasantness” was over.

Is this a coincidence? I think not. I was talking with a dear, wise friend last evening about this, exploring whether you brain itself can have interior memories that “you” haven’t directed. I absolutely believe this is true.

There is you – your personality, your conscious thoughts – the part that directs your body’s movements when you want to go somewhere or do something or think about something. And then there is a deeper, more interior self that seems to be separate and apart, able to have an independent life experience. It seems to me that this interior self has a higher value, a more profound process. I think it must be your soul.

It was my soul that kept me alive during “the unpleasantness”. And it has been my soul that has been so deeply angry and distressed during these recent long weeks.

The term “troubled soul” is thrown around from time to time – usually to describe someone who is not making a good go of things. It’s more important than that.

I believe your soul remembers things at the deepest levels. I believe your soul wants you to remember, too.

Next year, I will know to pay more attention as I enter the third week of October. I will be more careful, because there is black ice on the pavement ahead.

Of Dreaming Whores and Bright Colors

My sainted father was a man of rich vocabulary and wry, dry humor. He was very, very funny – and I never realized until I was almost an adult that much of what we laughed about was probably not appropriate for childish ears. I don’t care. That man was a delight.

It’s probably worth noting that he went to the live burlesque shows in Kansas City every Monday night for years. He went with a friend of his, John Gillies, and always swore he went for the comedians. Which, of course, is like readying Playboy for the articles.

I don’t know when I learned that some strippers could twirl their tassels in opposite directions, but it was probably way to early.

One of daddy’s favorite stories was that on the first Monday after he and mother married, he called John and asked him if he was ready to go to the Follies. Mother was at a meeting or something, don’t you see, so he thought it would be funny to call John. I still think that’s damn funny.

But anyway, about two of daddy’s favorite phrases – the first is “a whore’s dream”. A whore’s dream is anything absurdly colorful or wildly outrageous, especially loud colors where they are not expected. Let’s say you paint your house a vivid lilac (some people did, and I suppose still do) or bright green. THAT looks like the stuff of a whore’s nighttime fantasies.

The other favorite phrase was “a sartorial jackpot”. I still use this one. A sartorial jackpot is an outfit that is a wild gathering of items that do NOT go together. A plaid shirt with striped pants and a polka dot tie – THAT would do it. Or it’s several shades of red worn together. Hard to describe, but you know it when you see it. (As if you are a Supreme Court justice looking at pornography.)

Generally, the two phrases are not used together. But I did know one person who was a perfect confluence of the two.

When we lived in Chicago, most mornings I would meet a black transvestite prostitute walking home as I was walking to the express bus downtown. Just two working girls, we’d nod and speak.

She was magnificent. Very tall – probably 6’4” – but wearing giant platform, thigh-high leather lace-up boots. And she had a very short black leather miniskirt, and a fluffy black fur jacket. All of this topped with a magnificent mane of black hair teased very high and swept back, too much exquisite makeup and rhinestone eyelashes. She walked with two black Doberman pinschers.

Obviously a sartorial jackpot – but in a good way, and the stuff of dreaming whores everywhere.

In Which I Consider a Career in Greece

You may have noticed (or perhaps not) that I’ve taken a break for a couple of months.

Two things have happened. My older son got married to a beautiful young woman. There is much to be said for family celebrations. We had most all of our families there and dear friends who are family whether they like it or not. It was a lovely service – designed to fit those two like the proverbial glove. We were all extremely happy and delighted with the day.

This happened just a couple of weeks ago, just short of my two-year anniversary of the brain tumor and seizures that nearly ended my social life. Permanently.

The other thing is that anniversary. I was not planning to mark it in any way. How tiresome to go around thinking about all that again. Even worse, annoying others by bringing it up.

My body had other plans. About two weeks out, indeed just after the wedding, my physical self started to recognize the timing. It was the strangest thing. This must be the way a tree responds to autumn – suddenly leaves change color; the whole tree is rattled by the wind.

I was determined to pay no attention to all this, willfully ignoring and determined that this will go away if I ignore it.

Instead, my body kept knocking until I paid attention. Headaches, disturbed sleep, flashbacks to hospital experiences I haven’t remembered (who would want to?). Like a fist banging on the door of my thoughts – this was NOT going to go away.

Finally, I got smart enough to pay attention to what my body wanted to tell me. “Listen to us. We’re here, just around the corner of your consciousness. Pay attention to the past two years.”

One of the things I’m pondering is the rehab experience and how profound it is. It’s funny the way it starts. Everyone in rehab is absolutely convinced they do not need to be there. I wonder if that’s the way it is for alcoholics and drug addicts? You look around you and think, “That poor bastard. He’s a mess”. As I got to know my fellows better, I heard every one of us say – “I don’t really need to be here”. To a one, each of us was convinced we were fine, just fine.

Some of us, I’m happy to say, went on to “graduate” into a more or less functional future. Others, sadly, didn’t.

In the meantime, there was much discussion of the “don’t” list – things you can no longer do after a Traumatic Brain Injury.

This has given me hours of fun, especially as you extend the basic rule to its nonsense extremes. For example –

No Motorcycles. This seems obvious enough – especially as so many of the rehab patients were there because of motorcycle accidents. But the extension is great. I cannot have a new career riding motorcycles in the circus in that cage of death thing – that sphere where the rider goes up and down and round and round, very fast and very noisy. No. Similarly, no stunt jumps over the Grand Canyon or lines of cars or school buses. No off-road racing. Lots of careers are closed to me.

Beware of horseback riding. Fair enough. Horses are tall. But this limits my planned career as a barrel racer. Or steeplechase. Or riding to the hounds (which I think is extremely limited now.) No polo. Bucking broncs are out of the question. I will not be winning a big rodeo buckle now.

For that matter, bull riding is also off the list. Drat. I had planned to take this up. I suppose this means I cannot ride sheep or pigs, either.

My neurologist assures me I could be a rodeo clown, so long as I could run fast enough to jump into the barrel when the bull is chasing me, but as that seems unlikely I suppose my rodeo days are over.

No heavy equipment driving. Probably a good idea. But I had seriously considered highway construction as a second career. Or being a long-haul trucker, or a crane operator.

Boxing. This would seem obvious, but the therapists assured me that some people considered going back to this. Really. The extension here is Mixed Martial Arts fighting, no-rules cage matches, and whatever that is with the high kicks aimed at the opponents’ faces. I had not really considered this as a career option, but somehow I bristle at the notion there is anything I can’t do.

Anything involving heights. Falling on your head is a bad idea. So, no high-rise construction or anything that requires a ladder.

See what fun this is? You can spend way too much time thinking about things that are too fast, high, or heavy. I have long maintained that after 40 one should probably not get one’s ass higher than one’s head, unless one is already in a bed. I think I am right about that.

So, what should one do for a second career after brain injury? What is obvious is that most people really don’t want you around. (Unless they loved you before the incident. And there are a few friends who are glad to see you.) As for the rest of society? Not so much.

What I really have in mind as a new career is to be the Oracle at Delphi. People will come and sit at my feet and I will tell them what to do. They will bring me offerings.

What could go wrong? My pedestal doesn’t need to be all that high. It’s a slow profession, with no heavy lifting. No animals are involved. The wardrobe is great.

I can hardly wait.

More About Our Binary World

More About Our Binary World

A dear friend just commented on my post about my new play featuring a woman who never makes the right decision. (Just scroll down.)

In it, I opine that the world is binary. That it’s yes/no, in/out, off/on. My friend accuses me of spending too long in Texas, ignoring the many shades of grey/gray. Well, I don’t know, pardner. Maybe it is a Texas thang.

But I look at binary like a decision tree flow chart. You pose a question or challenge, and then follow the decisions you make to the obvious solution.

To wit: I need some money. I could (a) get a job, or (b) rob a bank. Some members of our communities will go with (b).

I am going to rob a bank. (Just for a moment, I must tell you about the time I covered the attempted robbery at a Federal Land Bank, where the robber got away with about $30 from the secretary’s purse. He didn’t know what a Land Bank was. So, I guess we should start with identifying a bank that has money in it.)

So, I am going to rob a bank (a) by myself, or (b) with some friends. But I don’t know any bank robbers. If I did, I wouldn’t trust them, I’d have to split the money, and I’d have to shoot them to keep them quiet so it’s probably just as well I go this alone. After all, if you want something done right…

I am going to rob a bank by myself…with/without a disguise, with/without my own car, with/without a gun…if you keep at this long enough, you will arrive at a plan to rob a bank.

But roll it back there, Scooter. You made your mistake when you decided to rob a bank. Really? That’s the best answer you could come up with? Apparently, for a fair number of people every day, it is.

That handsome guy just asked me out. Yes or no? Well, I know two of his ex-wives, one of whom he married twice. I just noticed he’s using his father’s credit card to pay his bar tab. I’m not sure where he’s working now, but he’s not at my company any longer. Well, yes or no? Yes! It’s not like I’m looking for a relationship, and what could go wrong?

I’m really sad today, and I’m mad at everybody. This would be a good day to get my hair cut. Yes or no? Why, yes! Shave one side of my head and put in blue streaks? Sure!

Yes, the world is binary. Very few shades of grey/gray – especially when you’re in a bad mood and reach for the bleach.

Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You

Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You

My friend, Jan, who you’ve read about in the coma-awakening story (and she’s the person I brought to love Elvis) lives in a verysmall  apartment in Los Angeles. Through daily calls I’ve shared her three month-long saga of trying to save her bathroom from crumbling away.

It should be noted she does not own this building. She could have left the damn thing to rot and mold and turn to wet muck.

But, good citizen that she is, she notified the management of a damp wall, now crumbling. This, she noted, could be a bad thing.

Setting the stage here – the apartment is very small. No doubt there are campers with bigger bathrooms. It is the smallest possible bathroom that can accommodate a small bathtub. A person of good stature could probably touch all four walls (two at a time, of course) without much effort. Now crumbling.

The discussion began. Apparently, this situation was worthy of very careful consideration. It was studied by workers who said “hmmm” in several languages. At last, it was determined that Something Needs To Be Done. (A note from me here. Things that are obvious need no contemplation.)

Early in the process, someone painted the wall to cover the wet spot and crumbles. Ah, if only paint would get rid of the ravages of age!

But, our men of the tools finally discovered what women already know. Paint will not cover structural problems. And so, six weeks ago, men of questionable skill came in fix this mess. First, they made a mess tearing out the wet wall. They found a leaky pipe. (We are not surprised. I diagnosed this from Texas.)

After the diagnosis, time passed. When dealing with construction, it seems necessary for everyone to take a day or two to decompress from actually doing some work. An unsatisfactory plumber eventually fixed the pipe, which had to be fixed again. The wall needed to dry. (Another note from me. If one is following the trade of being a plumber, it seems to me that repairing a pipe is a fairly straightforward bit of business. No moving parts. You see what leaks. You cut it out, put in a new piece, seal it up and then rest from your labors. You have not been asked to assemble a jet engine or take four toddlers to the zoo.)

Someone else came in to deal with mold. Then everything had to dry. No doubt everyone needed a good, long rest.

Two weeks passed, and some fellows arrived to rebuild the wall and plaster. The toilet goes into the bathtub again. Noisy. Messy. Much head and ass scratching as everyone thinks about the situation. Something needs to dry.

It was time to sand and paint. Scheduling seems to be more difficult than wall repair. Tomorrow, not tomorrow becomes two weeks.  

But it finally commences. Two workers – one very tall, broad, and muscular man and his colleague, short and very round. They work together in the teeny, tiny bathroom with the door shut. (Another thought from me. The door opens in. That means these two large men, and their accouterment had to get in far enough to close the door.) It has been very hot in LA, and the apartment has no air conditioning. They will need to dry.

Now my dear friend hears the scritch-scritch-scritch of sanding. They eventually paint the base coat. Now it has to dry.

Today they came back to do the final coat. One would think it’s finished. One would be wrong. My friend just texted me…this is the actual text: “Mother of God. They won’t be back until Monday to put the towel rails up because the walls…have…to dry.”

I think she’s crying. She will need time to dry.