Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Not Like Them


She looks nervous. 

 

Did they tell you what to expect?  I ask.

 

“Sort of,” she responds.

 

I change seats, coming closer to her so the others don’t have to hear the description of what they have already seen.  She’s never been in an ICU before.  She doesn’t know what she will see.  If she can handle it.  And knowledge is power, even when you’re powerless.

 

She’s got a lot of machines hooked up to her, ok?  But they are mostly just monitors.  It’s a good thing.  So they know right away when something is wrong.  And there is a tube coming out of her mouth.  That is the ventilator.  What’s making sure she breathes.  It’s about this big, maybe like a quarter?  And right now there’s a tube coming out of her nose and sometimes some gunk comes out of it.  No big deal.  It’s supposed to happen.   It’s a good thing.  Getting out all the gunk.  And there’s a lot of other tubes and wires and stuff, and those compression boot things on her feet and legs, you know to keep it all circulating.  And she’s really swollen. But you have to remember that as swollen as she looks it was much worse a couple days ago.  So it’s a good thing.  I mean, not the swelling, but how she looks today as compared to the other day.  She’s in a good place.  You have to keep that in mind.  Ok?

 

She nods her head.  Thanks me for preparing her.  She still looks uneasy, but not so shrunken anymore.

 

One more thing, I say.  She’s almost at the end of the unit.  She’s in bed 25.  You have to go past 24 beds before you get to hers.  And you know how when you walk past regular rooms and all the doors are closed and you can’t see the beds?  This isn’t like that.  The doors are all open.  You’re supposed to be able to see them, you know?  So the nurses can always see.  But you, you don’t want to see.  Ok?  Because there’s a lot of sick people in an ICU. But if you’ve never done this, you need to not look.  Because some of them…  Some of them are pretty grim.  But the girl you’re going to see?  The one in bed 25?

 

And for this I wait for her eyes to meet mine.

 

Our girl is not like them.

 

She’s not like them.

 

Do you understand?

 

She nods.

 

You can look on the way out if you want.  It’s weird, seeing a stranger like that.  But it can’t always be helped.  But on the way in, you find a way to help it.  Look at the floor.  Better yet, look at the nurses.  Look at the strong, healthy people who are taking care of the people here.  Look at how busy they are, busy saving people’s lives.  That’s what they do here. 

 

Do you understand?

 

She nods.

 

She’s not like them.  And you need to remind yourself of that all the way out.  Because it’s true.

 

She nods.

 

It’s her turn.  She disappears for a little while.  When she returns she looks stronger.  Braver. 

 

Are you ok?  I ask.

 

She is.  Because she looked at the nurses.  Saving people’s lives.  And saw the girl, just as I described her.  And she believes, she’s not like them.

Who Are You Voting For?

This election is not about policies and politics. It is not about who is right and who is wrong. It is about people. It is about you and me and the people we love.

I am voting for Barack Obama because Romney's immigration policies would have kept my friend Daniel, an upstanding, educated, contributing member of society, married to an American citizen and father of an American citizen, illegal and unable to pursue becoming an American citizen, which he did.

I am voting for Barack Obama because when my roommate Whitney, someone who has been employed full time in her job for several years, got a horrifically painful stress fracture in her foot she could not afford to go to a doctor because she has no insurance. I watched her in excruciating pain for weeks because she knew the necessary x-rays would cost her hundreds of dollars she does not have.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I know that teachers like my friend Sarah are already fighting an uphill battle to educate our children enough to survive, let alone succeed. They and we cannot afford anymore cuts to funding.

I am voting for Barack Obama because if Romney has his way, the marriage of my friend Paul to his long time partner, one of the most beautiful and supportive relationships I have ever had the pleasure to witness, would be invalidated.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I don’t want my sister Karre's children or the children of my friends to suffer the same financial burdens I have in order to receive an education. I don’t want these incredibly intelligent kids to ever have to make a choice on learning based on their wallet. I never want the rest of us to suffer the loss of the contributions these beautiful kids could make to society because they could not afford to get the training they need to do so.

I am voting for Barack Obama because when I was in college with no insurance, Planned Parenthood was the only access I had to healthcare and they were able to help me with EXCRUTIATING pain caused by endometriosis. I never want my friends or their daughters to not have that option.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I believe that all the women I know should get paid just as much as the men I know for doing the same job. And because the fact that we are still talking about this in the year 2012 is nothing less than tragic.

I am voting for Barack Obama because the people I know who choose to work as independent contractors rather than for major corporations, who still pay income tax like everyone else, should have access to health care that won’t put them into bankruptcy.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I will not support anyone who tells my friends who they are allowed to love. I will not support anyone who tells them they are second class citizens because they are different than me or you. I would tag them… But there are so many. Because I know that having people in my life who are different than me, who love differently than me, makes me a better person.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I know that PBS was a huge contributing factor to my development as a person, starting with basic learning from shows like Sesame Street when I was a kid, all the way through the things I watch today that help open my eyes to the rest of the world.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I know that more of the people we know than you think have received government assistance to support their families, not because they are lazy, but because they were strong enough to ask for help before it was too late.

I am voting for Barack Obama because I know that in this country, the law says you can believe whatever you want to believe. But you can’t force me to believe it too. And you can’t legislate me into believing it.

I am voting for Barack Obama because of all the things I believe in, first and foremost I believe in love. And that love reminds me that I am not voting for issues, I am voting for people. When someone asks me “Who are you voting for?” I know that the true answer to that is not a candidate; it is the name of the candidate who represents the people I love, my friends, my family, my co-workers. I do not vote for me. I vote for them. And because of this, my choice is clear.

So, ask yourself. Who am I voting for? And then act accordingly.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Body Before Brain


There is this boy.  I could tell you the whole of our history, the three incarnations of our relationship, each one ending for a different reason. 

And the same reason. 

I could tell you how each of the three times we tried to make something work were different from each other, a new version of an attraction that was so intense, neither one of us really understood how to make it into what we needed.  But the important thing to know is that it ended.

And that there was a time when I thought I could someday love this boy.

That possibility has passed.  Long since passed.  For many reasons.  For so so many reasons.  But still, when he called not long ago and wanted to try yet another version of our failure, it took every ounce of nerve I had to say, not this time.  The third time was not the charm.  And it left me feeling empty.  And I can’t let you make me feel empty anymore.  It’s not what you mean to do.  It’s maybe not even your fault in a way.  But it’s the (possibly) unintended consequence of your inability to someday love me too.

So I said no.  And that was the end of that.  And I know it was the right decision.  Because I can’t afford anything that makes me feel empty.  And it cannot afford me. 

And then today he appeared.  It was seconds.  Maybe ten.  Probably less.  It’s been so long since I had seen him, 7 maybe 8 months.  And he was out of place where I saw him.  Squarely on my turf.  Smack in the middle of the corner of my world he was never ever part of.  So out of place and so long since I saw him last that it took me a minute to connect the dots.  And there were dots to connect.  Because when I saw him I stopped talking.  Forgot for a split second where I was.  Heard nothing the people talking to me were saying.  It was a little like a movie, when the camera pans to the door and then stops, the only clear thing in the frame the person you are supposed to see.  My heart began to race, and I felt my stomach flutter. 

Just for a second.

And all before I realized who it was.

Because you see,

My body recognized him before my brain did.

My body, the subconscious part of me that knows him so well, that knows him so well that it recognized his energy before it recognized his face, the part of me that recognized his energy from the moment he first walked through a door many years ago before I even knew his face, that part of me is still in there somewhere. 

Buried.  Because it has to be.  Because it’s over.  Because he made it that way.  Because I want things he cannot give me. 

Like something to fill the empty.  Which he can’t do.  Because he doesn’t know how to be a part of something.  He knows only how to attract.

And a magnet never fills anything, it just pulls things in.

And I am not one to be moved without my permission.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

When Waiting Is Enough


I’ve spent the last week in an ICU waiting room.


A girl, a 23 year old girl.

 
Technically a woman, I know.  But you get to a point when anyone younger than you is a girl or boy.  I’m there.

 
She’s on life support.  She’s been asleep for 7 days.  But slowly, very very slowly, showing signs of progress.


I know this girl.  Not well.  But I know her.  Before this I knew her brother well.  I knew her mother a little.  I’d met her father once.  Now I know them all.  Aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends.  And I love them.  With all my heart.


 I went the first day to stay for a little while and left after 10 hours.  Because I wanted to do something.  Anything.  Anything to make them feel just a little bit better.  And the only thing I could do…  Was wait.


It wasn’t enough, is still not enough.  But it’s all that I can do.   


The waiting room for an intensive care unit is an odd place, the most perfectly awful mixture of hope and anxiety.

 
There was another family the first day.  And the second day.  But not the third.  The first day for the family I know was difficult.  But the second day was better.  And the next day was better.  And as aunts and uncles and friends arrived, they buoyed each other in the way that families are supposed to. 


They are strong.  And brave.  And beautiful. 

 
As the girl I know grew a little stronger, the man the other family knew grew weaker.


As we began to smile and laugh and talk too loud and relax a little, the other family grew more fragile.


Sometimes I wanted to tell them we were sorry.  But we weren’t sorry.  Sorry for their suffering, yes.  But not sorry for our hope. 


The people I knew, they needed to laugh and love and wear their bravery right on their sleeve. 


They needed their energy to say, “Not today universe.  And not tomorrow.  And not for a long long time.  You don’t scare us.  She’s ours.  And we’re not finished with her yet.”


And on the third day, the man they knew ended his fight.


And on the third day, the girl I know showed us hers was not over.


On the third day they were leaving as I arrived, huddled together in the hall, a nurse on her knees talking to the matriarch of the family, slumped in a wheelchair.  Patting her hand.  My eyes met those of one of the others, a daughter I assume.  I wanted to tell her how sorry I was.  I wanted to hug her.  I wanted to hold her hand.  You develop this unspoken relationship with the other people in the room.  I didn’t say or do any of those things.  But she knew.  And her eyes thanked me.  And told me, it’s ok.  We’re going to be ok.  And they are.


And so is the family I know.

 
The girl is getting stronger every day.

 
And so are the people who love her.

 
And when she wakes up they have so much to tell her about what happened while she was sleeping.


Like the movie.


But better.

 
Until then


They wait.


And I wait.


With them.

 
For them.

 
For her.

 
Because it’s not enough.

 
But it’s all I can do.
Welcome to my new blog.
 
 
No theme. 

 

No rules.

 

No one style.

 

Just me.

 

And the things that make me think.

 

And the things that make me write.

 

And the moments that need more than what they were.

 

And everything I meant to say.

 

And probably things I didn’t.