Summer #22: Seafair Grinch

Summer #22: Last week, Seattle celebrated all things fast and loud that cause traffic jams at the annual Seafair festival. The first weekend, there was a downtown run and a "torch-light" parade featuring clown-like pirates. This weekend, the more offensive weekend, boats raced in Lake Washington, and the Blue Angels, the navy's performance jets, danced and roared overhead. The pilots practiced Thursday and Friday and performed Saturday and Sunday. The planes come very close to our home. One pilot with dark hair and a mustache was picking his nose. Really.

Since we live in the area, these practice flights make us feel like we're like living in a war zone. The house shakes, and the roar as the planes pass stops any conversation. I wonder what this might feel like for those refugees and veterans who have lived in war. I know the dogs don't like it. For a few years, we followed the "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," philosophy and watched the planes in their intricate formations from a nearby park. Impressive, but too much a reminder of how many of our resources we commit to war instead of to social services and education.

I am a Seafair curmudgeon. A Seafair Scrooge. A Seafair Grinch.

Ann and I went to Paradise on Mount Rainier to escape the onslaught and to see the stunning displays of pink and white heather, snow-white avalanche lillies, majenta Indian paintbrush, and purple Lupine gracing the mountainsides that lead to the towering Mount Rainier. Thursday and Friday were beautifully sunny, but then the weather gods must have thought my siblings were there, so the rain and mist moved in on Saturday. No hail, though, as there was the summer my sister visited.

The trails at Paradise are paved and mostly free of snow by now, so I can hike there with Ann's help. She took a morning walk for about an hour Friday morning, and then we did basically the same walk together. Our walk together took four hours. I'm not fast, but I did walk four hours, so that's progress. I remember the days before brain surgery when I eschewed these trails because they were too easy and too crowded. No longer. Now I embrace them.

There's both a local and an international crowd on that mountain. We met people along the way from our neighborhood, Alabama, China, and West Africa. I took a picture for three guys hiking together, one from China and the other two from West Africa. I summoned my college French and counted, "Un, deux, trois...." One of the guys said to another, "Was she speaking French?" and then to me, "Merci." I summoned the last of my French, "De rien." I doubt I would have had such a deep international conversation at Seafair. In all of our accents, those of us on the trail said to one another, "Isn't this beautiful!"

Driving home, Ann and I listened to the Indigo Girls' album Indians, Nomads, Saints. When they sang, "Everywhere I turn all the beauty just keeps shaking me," I knew exactly what they meant.

Mary

Summer #21: Down to the River

Summer #21: Last Saturday, Ann and I went on my longest bike ride since radiation with our friends Renee and Alex. We took the Cedar River trail from Renton and rode about ten miles to a place by the river where Latino families were picknicking in the shade and playing with kids in the shallow water, and teenagers with innertubes disembarked from their ride down the river, generally towing a cooler behind. It was a hot summer day for this area, in the high 80s, but we've just returned from North Carolina's high 90s, so to us it felt beautiful. We had our own picnic in the shade: local cherries, ham from PCC and bread from a local bakery as we watched the families play in the water. I said the scene reminded me of the swimming hole (tanke)  I frequented the summer I lived in Michoacan, Mexico. Alex said it reminded her of Mexico, too. Renee said it reminded her of Pennsylvania. Maybe there's a universal river scene that makes us all nostalgic.

The summer I lived in Michoacan, I lived in a small town with three other Americans volunteering with a program called Amigos de las Americas. On hot weekend days, it seemed that everyone in the town went to the tanke to picnic in the shade and rest or play in the water. In the shade, families built smoky fires and snacked their treats. We were more interested in the water. We watched the scene for a while and then slipped, unobtrusively, we thought, into the water. The sixty or so people in the water, unaccustomed to white people in their tanke, moved immediately to the edge, sat on the rocks and, silently, watched us. Fortunately, Juan, whose parents were originally from Mexico, had foreseen this possibility and had brought a football and a frisbee, and finally the kids slipped back into the water, coaxed by the fun of play.

As a teenager, I spent my summers first as a camper and then as a counselor at a sailing and waterskiing camp on the Neuse River, near North Carolina's coast. I love being outside, getting such fun exercise in the sun and heat. Many campers' best loved "jeep rides" where campers would pile into trailers at the back of jeeps and go off-roading, generally getting wet and muddy in the process and in the end eating an ice-cream treat. Despite the temptation to ice-cream, I loved this time best because much of the camp would empty and I could sail or waterski or shoot at the shooting range without waiting in line. From a cabin in the river's bank, I watched the most beautiful lightening storm I have ever witnessed. the lighting fell onto the water as counselors, sillouettes against the night sky,  pulled their sailboats to safety. I wondered about their safety, especially when lightening struck the nearby boathouse when such a loud bang that, after checking to see that the sillouettes were still there, I abandoned the dance of light and storm and went back in to my own caccoon.

One tradition in our church's delegations to a sister community in Chaletenango, El Salvador, is a trip with our hosts to the Rio Sumpul. Though the scene of a massacre during their "civil war" in the 1980s and 1990s, it's now a beautiful spot again, and our hosts pack up tortillas and chicken and such and we spend the day celebraing in the river together. On one trip, an American teenager named Graham and his Salvadoran friend Mario swam to a large rock, climbed onto the rock, and talked in the sun for hours. At the time, Graham didn't speak Spanish and Mario didn't speak English, but somehow they managed quite an extensive conversation.

So, as Allison Kraus sings, "Let's go down to the river to pray," which might look a lot like play. Mary

Summer #20: Cries like a Girl

Summer #20: I don't cry as much as I should. A therapist told me that if I'm not crying at least once a week, I need to do something that will make me cry, like watch a sad movie or a life insurance commercial (that one with the eight year-old boy waving to his father out the back window of the school bus). Apparently, crying make it less likely that a person will get depressed, and depression is a common side-effect of brain surgery.

I have cried at times after surgery. As I lay in my hospital bed after brain surgery, in order to try to get me to talk more, I guess, my second speech therapist asked me to describe the ways my life had changed after my surgery: I had been an athlete and was now unable to walk; I couldn't flush the toilet or shower on my own; I saw double and in some cases had blind spots. I didn't say any of this. I cried. That was the end of that session and the last time I saw a speech therapist.

I'm seeing a chiropractor now to help me regain some flexibility in my neck. I like him a lot. At the end of each session,  he has me visualize how my body moved and felt before surgery and imagine what it would take to move that way again. I cry each time.

I also tear up when the announcer introduces the WNBA Storm players before each game. I have no desire to be one of those players, but I feel incredible relief and joy that women can make that choice as long as they can make that team.

I prefer these tears of joy. I'll have to find that therapist and ask her if those count. Mary

Summer #18: The Cat out of the Hat

Summer #18: Sunday morning I had to get up at the crack of mid-morning to take Ann to the airport for a trip to Boston with her math colleagues. To ease out of normalcy, I did yoga and ate some fruit before going back to bed, but then my inner cat in the hat ermerged. For lunch, instead of the chicken breast and brocolli slaw she left, I ate a banana and mayonaise sandwich with potato chips. Then, I didn't put my dishes in the dishwasher. I just piled them on the counter beside the sink. I closed all the windows to the cold summer afternoon--no real need for fresh air--and turned on the gas fire place to toast the place up.

For dinner my friend Rose must have sensed that I was planning maple walnut ice-cream, so she brought over Middle-Eastern milk pudding with pastachios, not exactly health food for dinner, but she did point out that it had protein and vitamin D. So does maple walnut ice-cream. For the coup de grace, I dropped my dirty clothes on the floor by her side of the bed and went to sleep before the sun set. I slept diagonally that night.

I love living with Ann, it's the most fulfilling part of my life, but sometimes for a moment or two I like to be alone with my soul and my mess.

Tonight, Ann returns home, so today I've cleaned the kitchen by putting the dishes in the dishwasher and cleaning by hand the ones that don't go. I wiped off the countertops, even. I opened her mail with a letter-opener (I'm trying to teach her through example not to just rip into envelopes) and I have stacked the mail neatly at her place. I've sorted through the stack that's been at my place since our last trip. The potato chips areout of the living room and back in the kitchen cupboard. I've eaten all the brocolli slaw. Sheets are clean, and the bed is made. My mess is back in the place reserved for my mess.

When Ann comes home, she'll comment on how tidy the place looks, and I'll shrug as if it was no bother, that's the way I've kept things while she's gone. But really, I love the joy she takes out of tidyness.

Maybe I'll even clean up the computer table. No, that would be over the top. She would suspect. Mary

Summer #19: You're okay.

Summer #19: I saw the chiropractor today. He had looked at my MRIs and said that there's "chaos" in the architecture of my neck muscles. He also said that there has been a lot of atrophy (I seem to have fat in the back of my neck. Will the horrors never cease?) and in order to maintain current function, I should have regular massage--that without it, I'll lose function. The loss of function in my neck is disappointing. The prospect of further massages is not.

On the number 3 bus on the way home, I didn't notice a man in a wheelchair coming off and didn't move my feet out of the aisle to make way, so he bumped my arms and legs. He apologized profusely (something the person who ran over my toes never did), and I said, "You're okay," meaning he didn't hurt me and could go forward. Though his speech was quite gutteral and garbled, I clearly heard, "No. I am not okay." I acknowledged his clairty: "No. Me neither." We smiled at one another, and he rolled off the bus.

Mostly, I am okay. I am healing enough to enjoy the outdoors again and to get around on the bus. I can read on my kindle and bike on my trike. I get to write my blog. My partner supports me, and we play together. My family loves me but does not take any guff off me. I am about to be working again. (End of summer has a very different meaning for teachers than for parents.) I experience joy and notice grace in my life every day. My primary emotional state is gratitude.

Sometimes, though, I remember how much I have changed, and I grieve for what I've left behind. Brain surgery isn't the only time I've experienced loss, of course, and each time I feel loss I also remember how much life can follow loss.

So, yeah. I'm okay. Mary

Summer #17: Agressive Kindness

Summer #17: Public transportation like airplanes and busses are the most notable places for folks who are aggressively kind. In Dallas last week, I acquiesced to a ride in a wheelchair down the ramp. The airline attendant asked me if I'd like her to arrange wheelchairs at my next stops. "No, thank you. I'll be fine." She nodded. In St. Louis and again in Seattle, a person with a wheelchair met me at the gate. So much for No, thank you. In Seattle, I asked the woman with the wheelchair just to take me to the end of the jetway. "Oh, no. It's too far," she insisted. When I tried to get out, she would have none of it and pushed me back into the chair. Ann tried to argue, but I've been through this before, so I sat back and enjoyed the ride and said thank you at the end.

On another flight a couple of years ago, the attendants insisted they call for one of those cars that beeps at everyone in order to take me to the exit. Again, after some arguing I acquiesced, but Ann refused and walked ahead with our luggage. I started to wonder how I was going to find her. Now, she rides with me.

My favorite time was when the attendants really wanted to call a second wheelchair for Ann, who has white hair and was holding my cane for me while I put on a sweatshirt. Now Ann makes me hold my own cane.

As I was getting off the bus last week, an older woman asked me if I needed help. "No, thank you." She decided to help me anyway. She tried to help me get up and move down the aisle anyway, but she wasn't so steady herself and nearly knocked me down.

If you've been following this blog since the beginning, you already know about the two homeless guys who helped me across the crosswalk when I didn't want to cross the street.

When, as a teenager, I was taking CPR, I remember learning to ask someone who seemed in trouble, "Are you okay?" I found the idea of performing mouth-to-mouth on someone who was just sunbathing funny. Now I know how important that question is, and how important it is to listen to the answer.

If you are aggressively kind, I appreciate your spirit, but really, no thanks unless I say yes please. Mary

Summer #16: Shame on You!

Summer #16: I got kicked off the plane on my first international flight, from New York JFK to London Heathrow to Dublin, Ireland. When I boarded the gigantic plane, a woman was already in my seat. We had matching tickets, except for our names. The nice attendant said they'd get it straightened out, no worries. Just wait right here. Just off the plane. About twenty others joined me just off the plane; the attendants blocked he doors like they were storm troopers, and we were herded back to the concourse. "Our computers have been sabotaged," claimed a Hogan's Heroes caricature with round glasses and an exaggerated German accent posed as an airline agent. Pan Am agents rebooked me and my peers (we had become peers) onto a flight going from New York to Germany to London and from there I would continue to Dublin. I sat in the upstairs area with a high school wrestling team. In Germany, a bomb went off in the airport, though I didn't realize that was the cause of all the sirens when we landed. Finally, I flew to Heathrow and on to Dublin where my friend Sara did her best impersonation of O.J. Simpson (before the slow chase days) leaping over obstacles to greet me a day later. Mom wrote a letter to Pan Am, closing, "Shame on you!" They refunded the price of my ticket, and this flight prepared my for low expectations when I fly, an attitude that has come in handy.

About ten years ago, Ann and I had a more frightening ride on  a small Costa Rican airplane. We had been to the Pacific Coast and took a taxi to our "terminal." The taxi left us off at a meadow in the middle of what seemed to be nowhere. We stood in the field with our suitcases and gradually about ten other Americans joined us. Eventually, two small airplanes landed in our field. An overweight pilot took our bags and the bags of four others and started shoving them into the baggage hold. One woman had a suitcase as large as my mother's suitcase, and the pilot grunted and sweated so much that we feared he might have a heart attack. We boarded the six-seater and prepared for take off. No drinks would be served on this flight. As the pilot took off, I wondered if the red flashing light was important and was then distracted by the mountain that we were headed towards. At what seemed like the last minute, the pilot banked, and went at it again, this time clearing the mountain. As we flew, the plane kept hitting air pockets and the plane would sink. Thinking we might die, I was thankful that this flight was at the end of the vacation instead of the beginning, and I wondered if someone would develop the pictures I had taken with my new camera. Deep thoughts for a dying person. Everyone else, somewhat green, had their faces in their barf bags. I doubt their thoughts were any deeper. When we finally landed no one cheered or even looked at each other. We got our bags and shuffled off to find our next flight.

On another miserable flight, not scary but unpleasant, we were returning with our friends Marion and Wolfgang to Seattle from our Mexico vacation. We landed in an intermediary city, maybe Phoenix, and found that our flight to Seattle would not be going. Everyone on this flight would need to rebook. The next flight to Seattle was in three days. We booked a flight to Portland, tried unsuccessfully to find a hotel for the night, and finally slept on the airport floor. At least we had our luggage with us since the airport was cold at night. We put on all our clothes. The next morning, I sat with Ann's and my luggage as she went to find Marion and Wolfgang for breakfast. Aware of all those airport announcements about unattended luggage but also experiencing Montazuma's Revenge, I dragged all of our luggage into the restroom with me. Whew. Made it. Finally, we flew to Portland, rented a car, and drove home to rest for our day back at work in a few hours.

A few months after my brain surgery, Ann and I flew to NC for the annual summer beach trip. Our seats were in the very last row. I sat in the middle, and when the attendant brought me a cup of ice-water at the beginning of the flight, I didn't notice that the tray was tilted. The cupful slid into my lap. That ice was cold, and when we landed my britches were wet. I was walking with a walker and could not see well, so as soon as we got to a bathroom, I tried to dry up. I could just see others in the airport thinking, "Oh, that poor disabled woman wet her pants."

This year, our flight from Raleigh to Seattle  wasn't as bad, and some of the misery was our fault, but the flying experience wasn't joyful. Confused about the day our flight left, we arrived at the airport about 24 hours late for our flight. After much hemming and hawing, the airilne reparesentative rebooked us on the same flight for that night. Ann bought a new ticket, but because I was flying using frequent flyer miles, I just lost my first class status. Because of mechanical problems, our flight would leave two hours late, so we found a pub and had dinner and a large beer, knowing there would only be expensive cheese and crackers or peanuts on the plane. This tasty beer was the best part of the night. The napkin served with our on-board drinks read, "Turn flights and everyday purchases into lifetime memories." There's humor everywhere. We just missed our connection to Seattle in Dallas, so we spent the night in Dallas, got up the next morning and caught a flight to St. Louis and then finally returned to Seattle in time for my dentist appointment.

I understand why rich people have jets. Mary