I suppose I should write this today lest I wait another week and attribute my current love for my first period class to a bout of temporary insanity. Remember, please, that this is a one-day story of pleasantries and is no way indicative of my actual year-long experience with this class. Remember too, however, that these children are ninth graders and are thus prone to daily vacillations in their behavior.
I, as their teacher, must remember the same thing.
On Tuesday of this week I was perilously close to repeatedly banging my head into a student’s desk. The day wasn’t much different than any other: first period a few students took fourteen minutes to find a pencil; I collected homework to discover that the majority of my students have been lying to me about completion presumably all year; then my second period class decided to “raise the roof” during my attempts to teach and somehow managed to signal the beginning of a human “wave” which swept through my room as I discussed imperialism. The day went downhill from there, and I thus concluded that I would either sacrifice my desire for perfect attendance by getting “sick” on Wednesday, or I would have to show a movie in order to survive the week. As I own a copy of Hotel Rwanda, I opted for the latter and, on Wednesday, preemptively discussed the connection between the Rwandan ethnic conflict and Belgian colonization.
During first period on Thursday, at the midpoint of the movie, I felt myself start to unravel a bit. Despite the fact that I’ve seen the movie twelve times already, the removal of the majority of the United Nations peacekeeping force, coupled with the separation of the Europeans from the Rwandans strangled my idyllic belief that good ultimately triumphs over evil. So, in sticking with my apparent predilection for self-imposed public humiliation, I started to cry. I knew full well though, that if my first period class witnessed my emotional outburst, I would never command their respect again, so I tried really hard to fight off my tears. I expended so much energy attempting to do this, in fact, that I started to sweat and felt my face flush fuchsia. Then it happened: my eyes got wet, and my nose started to run. I tilted my head upwards towards the ceiling and tried to mentally will the tears to stay in my eyes, and the snot in my nose. I knew if I sniffed (which I obviously needed to do) or wiped my eyes with my sleeves, I would attract the attention of twenty-seven pairs of eyes. Such an attraction, in my paranoid mind, would undoubtedly unleash a litany of mini-disasters: the kids would find the undoing of their teacher more entertaining than the movie; I, resenting their amusement at my expense would be forced to act teacherly and mean and turn off the movie; I would be forced to spontaneously invent some type of alternative assignment on the following chapter which I had yet to read, and they would never understand the connection between European imperialism and the mess that currently exists in Africa. God. Please don’t sniff!
But amidst all of my internal pleading, an innocent tear ran down my cheek (bringing mascara with it), and a small line of snot suddenly stretched between my nose and my mouth. It was disgusting. I had to do it. I had to sniff.
The row of kids sitting closest to me uniformly whipped their heads around to look (as predicted), and one of them blurted out, “Ms. Hooks is crying!” (Also predicted.) But then, rather than the predicted sequence of mini-disasters, four of my female students turned to look at me and they were crying too (I have never been so relieved to see other people in tears!). One of my kids stood up to hand me a roll of paper towels (it’s a city school, we have no tissues), and Darrin, whose mom’s phone number is on speed dial in my cell phone, piped up with, “Ms. Hooks, it’s okay – I’m crying on the inside.”
So this is what I conclude: my first period class, while driving me effectively batty all year long, is filled with the exact thing that the movie so pointedly lacks – goodness.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Airports, Cancer, Anger and Sunshine
Last year I went on a blind date to the Holocaust museum in D.C. Not only was the location intensely romantic, the actual set-up was too - it was planned by my students. In fact, they came along. So did my mom. So my "date", my mom, my students and I all traveled from Baltimore to D.C. on a yellow school bus. My 9th grade students had been raving about their old middle school teacher, Mr. Sanders, for months, so when it came time to organize the field trip a few of them were adamant that he join us as a chaperon. It seemed innocent enough (especially since Mr. Sanders was my little brother's age and had a girlfriend), but in the days leading up to the trip I was bombarded by comments like, "Ms. Hooks, Mr. Sanders is so cute! You'll love him. He looks like a J. Crew model" and, "Ms. Hooks, Mr. Sanders won't care about the wheelchair - he's so nice." Suffice to say, the whole thing started to make me feel a little bit awkward. My kids were right, though - Mr. Sanders was exactly as they described. Plus the fact that he was 3+ years younger than me and had a girlfriend, allowed me to quickly replace my trepidation with appreciation for the 24 year-old "J. Crew model" who took a day off to accompany us to D.C.
That story becomes relevant later.
In the meantime, my ex-boyfriend's mom was diagnosed (for the third time) with cancer. The chemo treatments seemed to be effective until about two weeks ago, when the cancer decided to spread to her brain. While my ex-boyfriend is really more of a current friend than an actual ex, there was a good ten-minute span of time when I thought he had to be "the one" merely because I loved his family so much. I still do. So after Eric and I tried (unsuccessfully) to date, we remained friends - a relationship that has been far more sustainable than any romantic endeavor ever was. So now, every time I fly home to visit my family, I visit Eric, his wife, and his family as well - I'll never find in laws that I love as much as I love them.
Anyway, when Eric told me about his mom, I could not stop crying - it was pathetic, actually. One of my best friends was telling me about his mom, and I couldn't even keep it together to offer support or ask proper questions. Plus, I am completely incomprehensible when I'm crying, so even my meagre efforts at compassion sounded much like my mom's 8-pound shitzhu howling. Comforting, I know. So I decided to fly home the following weekend to visit her; there wasn't much to say anyway.
Unless a terrorist had commandeered the plane en route to Rochester, NY, I doubt the weekend could have been much worse. But, in the words of Walt Whitman, Eric's mom, Phyllis, is "so much sunshine per square inch" and just being in her presence is like finally holding hands with someone you've liked for a really long time - it just feels right. Warm and still and right. So despite the fact that I think I cried more last weekend, than all other times in my life combined, I am so, so glad I went.
During the flight back to Baltimore, I realized that this was the first time in my life, where the upcoming work week seemed less stressful than the weekend (even though I couldn't remember what I was actually teaching about the next morning). When the plane landed, I got my suitcase, placed it on my lap, and headed outside to wait for the bus that would take me to the airport parking lot. While waiting, I heard someone call my name:
"Ms. Hooks!"
I shuddered a little, assuming that one of my students was at the airport. Cautiously, I turned around. There, looking as J. Crew model-esque and kind as my students had promised, was Mr. Sanders.
"Hey! What are you doing here?"
(Is that not the stupidest question you could ever ask someone who is at the airport?)
So Mr. Sanders and I proceeded to talk - mostly about school - until the bus arrived to take us to the daily parking lot. When the bus arrived, 20+ other people scrambled on, and Mr. Sanders asked the driver to put the ramp down so I could get on. This request, however, seemed to confuse the bus driver, who was unable to operate the ramp. Eventually Mr. Sanders climbed into the bus and manually pried the ramp up and out so I could board, but once I was on, there wasn't really anywhere for me to go. The only empty spot was right next to the driver, and the driver started to explain that he couldn't drive the bus until I was "strapped in."
I fly a lot, by the way, and I take these airport transport buses almost every time I do - I had never been "strapped in" before. I told the driver that wheelchair strapping was totally unnecessary, and went back to my conversation with Mr. Sanders. A few minutes passed and Mr. Sanders was in the middle of his weekend story, when I realized we hadn't moved. I briefly interrupted, and asked the bus driver why we hadn't moved. His response?
"I told you, I need to strap you in."
Why he never made any effort to do this himself alludes me, but apparently the entire bus load of people needed to wait until another airport employee was available for the job. In the meantime, I stopped listening to Mr. Sanders and started to feel my face get hot. I immediately forgot all of my other redeeming features, and traded in my inner peace and social competence for oppressive sentiments of guilt. I was a. embarrassed, b. horribly burdensome, c. ridiculously conspicuous and d. helpless. I wanted to jump out of my wheelchair and throw myself dramatically off the (non-moving) bus, but my MS kept me still. Still and mortified. Then, two men - both in their late fifties - started to get impatient.
One man moved towards the front of the bus, "Hey, why aren't we moving? I have places to be."
The bus driver explained that I needed to be strapped in. This did not appease the angry man.
"Well let me off this bus then, I'm not sitting here for one more minute because of one person."
The bus driver calmly opened the door, and the man squeezed by me and hurriedly stumbled off the bus. His absence provided another angry man the opportunity to berate the bus driver (and, through proxy, me). Angry man # 2 stormed to the front of the bus and began aggressively pointing at me,
"You are telling me that we're sitting here because of ONE person?!" (He continued to erratically point at me. His face was red and the line through his brow was so deep that I thought his head might split open.)
The bus driver said nothing, the man kept angrily gesticulating and telling the entire bus load of people that the delay was entirely my fault, and I started to cry. I also felt like I was in a sauna. So instead of saying something witty to appropriately verbally combat Angry Man # 2, I just sat there sweating while my eye-makeup ran down my face in streaks. At this point, Mr. Sanders had apparently heard enough of Angry Man # 2, and decided to say a few of the things that I would have said if I wasn't silently choking on sobs.
"Excuse me sir, but this is not her fault. You do not have to talk about her like this - she's crying now!"
Angry Man # 2 did not apologize. He looked at me, appeared somewhat pleased to see me crying, and looked back at Mr. Sanders. He continued to coldly stare at Mr. Sanders for the next five minutes while the airport employee (finally) strapped me in, and we (finally) headed towards the daily lot. The entire bus load of people was entirely silent, and the only words uttered between the airport and the lot were directed at Angry Man # 2, and were assertively articulated by Mr. Sanders,
"STOP looking at me like that." (Mr. Sanders has an exceptionally powerful teacher-voice. Though it must be noted - the man did not stop glaring at him.)
Oh, and the best part? Angry Man # 1, who had abruptly evacuated the bus because he had "better things to do than wait" ended up back on board, because no other bus had arrived. It is only in retrospect that I can appreciate the irony of Angry Man # 1's misfortune.
Mr. Sanders and I got off the bus at the first stop in the lot. He helped me get my wheelchair and my luggage off in a reasonable amount of time, and I tried to stop crying for long enough to properly thank him for his help. There were a lot of things I wanted to thank him for, actually, but communication was apparently not my forte last week.
I headed off towards my car (or where I thought I had parked my car. I lose my car in the garage every time I go to the airport. Thank God for the panic button.), and while I aimlessly wheeled up and down the aisles of the dark garage looking for my navy Toyota, I overheard a few girls in the adjacent aisle, at a nearby car. The girls couldn't see me as I was (obviously) in my wheelchair and significantly below eye-level, but they were close enough for me to hear their conversation. This is where my faith in humanity begins to be restored:
Girl # 1: Can you believe the assholes on that bus?
Girl # 2: Seriously. I am so glad that guy finally said something.
Girl # 1: I wanted to do something, but didn't know what to do.
Relieved to know that other people on the bus were more mortified with the behavior of the angry men, than the time we spent waiting for my wheelchair to be properly strapped in, I did what any slightly irrational and extremely emotional person would do: I cried. Again.
Then I found my car, disassembled my wheelchair, shoved my green suitcase in the trunk, and began the 20 minute trek back to my apartment. Except I had a perilously low amount gas, so I had to stop at the first exit I found on 295 to prevent further drama from infiltrating my evening. At the B.P., where the gas was drastically over-priced, I stuck the nozzle into my gas tank, and leaned up against the car while unleaded fuel dripped life into my car and out of my bank account. Listening to the cheesy 80's music that blared into the lot of the gas station, I continued to think - about the weekend and about the angry men on the airport bus. The juxtaposition of people like Phyllis with the two mean men on the bus, was almost disorienting; an extreme example of beauty and goodness on one hand, and unmitigated self-righteousness and evil on the other. It was smothering. And I was on emotion-overload from the weekend anyway, so naturally I continued to cry.
Then a man in a red Subaru drove by me in the opposite direction of the gas station parking lot. I felt him look at for me for a second, and keep driving. He continued to drive for about fifteen-feet, stopped the car, and threw it into reverse. Suddenly the red Subaru was directly across from me, stopped in between the two gas pumps. The man rolled down his window:
"Hey. Miss, are you okay?"
(I've mentioned already that I cannot talk while I'm crying, right?)
I squeaked a barely audible, "I'm fine, thank you", but the man was apparently unconvinced.
"Really? Are you sure? Do you need any help?"
I shook my head, but my continued sniffles caused the man to probe a little further into the state of my disarray.
"What's wrong?"
Noting his persistence, I realized that I had to respond. So I did,
"People were really mean on a bus."
(This must have seemed the singularly most ridiculous thing to hear based on the fact that I was pumping gas into a car, and was no longer particularly near the airport or, for that matter, any means of public transportation.)
The man was apparently unfazed and continued, "Okay. What bus? Where were the people mean to you?" (He was definitely talking to me like I was missing some chromosomes, but I can't blame him. Really.)
I tried then to briefly explain what had happened - I was at the airport and I needed to take the bus from the baggage claim to the parking garage, the driver didn't know how to strap my wheelchair in and two mean men became exceedingly impatient etc. (Please remember, though, that I am standing at my car pumping gas. There is no wheelchair in this man's line of vision. My sanity must have been in question at this point.)
He seemed confused, but calmly reassured me and told me not to worry about impatient, "mean" men. I thanked him for his concern and compassion, he smiled and started to roll his window up. Before he drove off, though, he said one more thing,
"Well, at the very least I hope you had an excellent vacation."
Why I couldn't maintain composure for 30 more seconds is beyond me, but I couldn't. I lost it entirely. Again. The man was appalled,
"God. What did I say? What? What happened?"
Still crying I told him, "I was visiting someone I love very much, and she has cancer and it just spread to her brain and it's so, so unfair."
At that point, the man opened his door and muttered, "Sweetie, you need a hug." Leaving his car running, he walked between the two gas pumps and hugged me. It was a real hug too. I held on tightly, burying my face into the strange man's shoulder while I sobbed. He let me cry for a few minutes before letting me go. When he did, he looked at me very seriously and asked if I'd be all right. I told him I would. He told me not to drive while I was crying. I told him I wouldn't. Then I thanked him and he left.
So that is where this story ends. In a gas station parking lot, with bad 80's music, a strange man and a hug that convinced me - at least for the time being - that everything would be all right.
That story becomes relevant later.
In the meantime, my ex-boyfriend's mom was diagnosed (for the third time) with cancer. The chemo treatments seemed to be effective until about two weeks ago, when the cancer decided to spread to her brain. While my ex-boyfriend is really more of a current friend than an actual ex, there was a good ten-minute span of time when I thought he had to be "the one" merely because I loved his family so much. I still do. So after Eric and I tried (unsuccessfully) to date, we remained friends - a relationship that has been far more sustainable than any romantic endeavor ever was. So now, every time I fly home to visit my family, I visit Eric, his wife, and his family as well - I'll never find in laws that I love as much as I love them.
Anyway, when Eric told me about his mom, I could not stop crying - it was pathetic, actually. One of my best friends was telling me about his mom, and I couldn't even keep it together to offer support or ask proper questions. Plus, I am completely incomprehensible when I'm crying, so even my meagre efforts at compassion sounded much like my mom's 8-pound shitzhu howling. Comforting, I know. So I decided to fly home the following weekend to visit her; there wasn't much to say anyway.
Unless a terrorist had commandeered the plane en route to Rochester, NY, I doubt the weekend could have been much worse. But, in the words of Walt Whitman, Eric's mom, Phyllis, is "so much sunshine per square inch" and just being in her presence is like finally holding hands with someone you've liked for a really long time - it just feels right. Warm and still and right. So despite the fact that I think I cried more last weekend, than all other times in my life combined, I am so, so glad I went.
During the flight back to Baltimore, I realized that this was the first time in my life, where the upcoming work week seemed less stressful than the weekend (even though I couldn't remember what I was actually teaching about the next morning). When the plane landed, I got my suitcase, placed it on my lap, and headed outside to wait for the bus that would take me to the airport parking lot. While waiting, I heard someone call my name:
"Ms. Hooks!"
I shuddered a little, assuming that one of my students was at the airport. Cautiously, I turned around. There, looking as J. Crew model-esque and kind as my students had promised, was Mr. Sanders.
"Hey! What are you doing here?"
(Is that not the stupidest question you could ever ask someone who is at the airport?)
So Mr. Sanders and I proceeded to talk - mostly about school - until the bus arrived to take us to the daily parking lot. When the bus arrived, 20+ other people scrambled on, and Mr. Sanders asked the driver to put the ramp down so I could get on. This request, however, seemed to confuse the bus driver, who was unable to operate the ramp. Eventually Mr. Sanders climbed into the bus and manually pried the ramp up and out so I could board, but once I was on, there wasn't really anywhere for me to go. The only empty spot was right next to the driver, and the driver started to explain that he couldn't drive the bus until I was "strapped in."
I fly a lot, by the way, and I take these airport transport buses almost every time I do - I had never been "strapped in" before. I told the driver that wheelchair strapping was totally unnecessary, and went back to my conversation with Mr. Sanders. A few minutes passed and Mr. Sanders was in the middle of his weekend story, when I realized we hadn't moved. I briefly interrupted, and asked the bus driver why we hadn't moved. His response?
"I told you, I need to strap you in."
Why he never made any effort to do this himself alludes me, but apparently the entire bus load of people needed to wait until another airport employee was available for the job. In the meantime, I stopped listening to Mr. Sanders and started to feel my face get hot. I immediately forgot all of my other redeeming features, and traded in my inner peace and social competence for oppressive sentiments of guilt. I was a. embarrassed, b. horribly burdensome, c. ridiculously conspicuous and d. helpless. I wanted to jump out of my wheelchair and throw myself dramatically off the (non-moving) bus, but my MS kept me still. Still and mortified. Then, two men - both in their late fifties - started to get impatient.
One man moved towards the front of the bus, "Hey, why aren't we moving? I have places to be."
The bus driver explained that I needed to be strapped in. This did not appease the angry man.
"Well let me off this bus then, I'm not sitting here for one more minute because of one person."
The bus driver calmly opened the door, and the man squeezed by me and hurriedly stumbled off the bus. His absence provided another angry man the opportunity to berate the bus driver (and, through proxy, me). Angry man # 2 stormed to the front of the bus and began aggressively pointing at me,
"You are telling me that we're sitting here because of ONE person?!" (He continued to erratically point at me. His face was red and the line through his brow was so deep that I thought his head might split open.)
The bus driver said nothing, the man kept angrily gesticulating and telling the entire bus load of people that the delay was entirely my fault, and I started to cry. I also felt like I was in a sauna. So instead of saying something witty to appropriately verbally combat Angry Man # 2, I just sat there sweating while my eye-makeup ran down my face in streaks. At this point, Mr. Sanders had apparently heard enough of Angry Man # 2, and decided to say a few of the things that I would have said if I wasn't silently choking on sobs.
"Excuse me sir, but this is not her fault. You do not have to talk about her like this - she's crying now!"
Angry Man # 2 did not apologize. He looked at me, appeared somewhat pleased to see me crying, and looked back at Mr. Sanders. He continued to coldly stare at Mr. Sanders for the next five minutes while the airport employee (finally) strapped me in, and we (finally) headed towards the daily lot. The entire bus load of people was entirely silent, and the only words uttered between the airport and the lot were directed at Angry Man # 2, and were assertively articulated by Mr. Sanders,
"STOP looking at me like that." (Mr. Sanders has an exceptionally powerful teacher-voice. Though it must be noted - the man did not stop glaring at him.)
Oh, and the best part? Angry Man # 1, who had abruptly evacuated the bus because he had "better things to do than wait" ended up back on board, because no other bus had arrived. It is only in retrospect that I can appreciate the irony of Angry Man # 1's misfortune.
Mr. Sanders and I got off the bus at the first stop in the lot. He helped me get my wheelchair and my luggage off in a reasonable amount of time, and I tried to stop crying for long enough to properly thank him for his help. There were a lot of things I wanted to thank him for, actually, but communication was apparently not my forte last week.
I headed off towards my car (or where I thought I had parked my car. I lose my car in the garage every time I go to the airport. Thank God for the panic button.), and while I aimlessly wheeled up and down the aisles of the dark garage looking for my navy Toyota, I overheard a few girls in the adjacent aisle, at a nearby car. The girls couldn't see me as I was (obviously) in my wheelchair and significantly below eye-level, but they were close enough for me to hear their conversation. This is where my faith in humanity begins to be restored:
Girl # 1: Can you believe the assholes on that bus?
Girl # 2: Seriously. I am so glad that guy finally said something.
Girl # 1: I wanted to do something, but didn't know what to do.
Relieved to know that other people on the bus were more mortified with the behavior of the angry men, than the time we spent waiting for my wheelchair to be properly strapped in, I did what any slightly irrational and extremely emotional person would do: I cried. Again.
Then I found my car, disassembled my wheelchair, shoved my green suitcase in the trunk, and began the 20 minute trek back to my apartment. Except I had a perilously low amount gas, so I had to stop at the first exit I found on 295 to prevent further drama from infiltrating my evening. At the B.P., where the gas was drastically over-priced, I stuck the nozzle into my gas tank, and leaned up against the car while unleaded fuel dripped life into my car and out of my bank account. Listening to the cheesy 80's music that blared into the lot of the gas station, I continued to think - about the weekend and about the angry men on the airport bus. The juxtaposition of people like Phyllis with the two mean men on the bus, was almost disorienting; an extreme example of beauty and goodness on one hand, and unmitigated self-righteousness and evil on the other. It was smothering. And I was on emotion-overload from the weekend anyway, so naturally I continued to cry.
Then a man in a red Subaru drove by me in the opposite direction of the gas station parking lot. I felt him look at for me for a second, and keep driving. He continued to drive for about fifteen-feet, stopped the car, and threw it into reverse. Suddenly the red Subaru was directly across from me, stopped in between the two gas pumps. The man rolled down his window:
"Hey. Miss, are you okay?"
(I've mentioned already that I cannot talk while I'm crying, right?)
I squeaked a barely audible, "I'm fine, thank you", but the man was apparently unconvinced.
"Really? Are you sure? Do you need any help?"
I shook my head, but my continued sniffles caused the man to probe a little further into the state of my disarray.
"What's wrong?"
Noting his persistence, I realized that I had to respond. So I did,
"People were really mean on a bus."
(This must have seemed the singularly most ridiculous thing to hear based on the fact that I was pumping gas into a car, and was no longer particularly near the airport or, for that matter, any means of public transportation.)
The man was apparently unfazed and continued, "Okay. What bus? Where were the people mean to you?" (He was definitely talking to me like I was missing some chromosomes, but I can't blame him. Really.)
I tried then to briefly explain what had happened - I was at the airport and I needed to take the bus from the baggage claim to the parking garage, the driver didn't know how to strap my wheelchair in and two mean men became exceedingly impatient etc. (Please remember, though, that I am standing at my car pumping gas. There is no wheelchair in this man's line of vision. My sanity must have been in question at this point.)
He seemed confused, but calmly reassured me and told me not to worry about impatient, "mean" men. I thanked him for his concern and compassion, he smiled and started to roll his window up. Before he drove off, though, he said one more thing,
"Well, at the very least I hope you had an excellent vacation."
Why I couldn't maintain composure for 30 more seconds is beyond me, but I couldn't. I lost it entirely. Again. The man was appalled,
"God. What did I say? What? What happened?"
Still crying I told him, "I was visiting someone I love very much, and she has cancer and it just spread to her brain and it's so, so unfair."
At that point, the man opened his door and muttered, "Sweetie, you need a hug." Leaving his car running, he walked between the two gas pumps and hugged me. It was a real hug too. I held on tightly, burying my face into the strange man's shoulder while I sobbed. He let me cry for a few minutes before letting me go. When he did, he looked at me very seriously and asked if I'd be all right. I told him I would. He told me not to drive while I was crying. I told him I wouldn't. Then I thanked him and he left.
So that is where this story ends. In a gas station parking lot, with bad 80's music, a strange man and a hug that convinced me - at least for the time being - that everything would be all right.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Blech...
Not to be melodramatic, but I honestly think this is the worst I've ever felt. And that says a lot, because I don't have the greatest luck in the world to begin with.
I need to vent. This is not a proper blog story where something beautiful happens and I realize that I'm loved and blessed and just generally at peace with the universe. I'm still all those things, but I feel like shit.
I don't know if the aforementioned sentiments are a direct result of health concerns/fears, or if this is all a result of coming off the Paxil, but I currently feel about 2 millimeters away from falling into a waterless gorge. When I discussed this "edginess" with my primary care physician, he responded with:
"Well Kate, you have a lot to be angry with and upset about, the way you're feeling makes a lot of sense. Maybe you should accept the possibility that you might need an SSRI to keep your biochemistry in check..."
I seriously thought about choking him with his stethoscope. Fearing, though, that such a rash reaction would further fuel his conviction that I'm certifiable, I opted for a different approach:
"With all due respect Dr. _____, I will never take an SSRI again. I think Paxil is the devil. I fought my neurologist for 4+ years regarding antidepressants and I cannot adequately express how much I regret giving in."
(Then, naturally, just to add validity to my proclamation of sanity, I started crying and my words turned all gurgled and shaky.)
I continued, "You need to believe me, Dr. ______, I was never depressed. I never had the urge to stab a student in the head with a fork, or rip out my own arm hair with my teeth before the Paxil, so I blame these extremely irrational feelings on the Paxil (or lack thereof). How long will this last? Just someone tell me, how long will this last?"
He didn't really answer. I don't think he knows.
Anyway, so now it's 4 days later and I'm slightly less dizzy/disoriented, but I still feel like unmitigated s-h-i-t. I just turned on Extreme Makeover Home Edition while I was eating dinner, took one look at the woman in a wheelchair getting a new house, and started crying into my veggie lentil soup. So I turned the TV off (lest I see a Hallmark commercial and lose it entirely), finished my soup, folded my laundry, and sat down in here to write.
Really, though, this is all I want:
- A freaking back massage. I think my back muscles are slowly turning into hardened challah bread because I cannot seem to relax.
- Even a small improvement on the MS-front. Just a hint that things might get better post-Zanapax. I'm not asking to run a bloody marathon, but it'd be nice to shower without pulling the towel-bar out of the wall and ending up in a crumpled pile of dripping naked limbs/hastily grabbed towels/metal towel-bars etc. on the floor of the bathroom. That would be so nice.
- Someone to share this with. No. I actually don't want that, because I'd feel so guilty. Or I'd spend all of my time trying to convince the other person that I'm okay and end up feeling exactly as shitty as I do now (maybe even, as history suggests, shittier). But I'm lonely I guess. I really am. At the very least I'd do almost anything (within reason) for the aforementioned back massage. Hmpf.
- Oh. And I'd love to get through a day without crying to Anique, or wanting to roll myself out of my third-floor window during 7th period. Those kids, bless their hearts, are making me want to chug gin at 1:15 everyday, and that would be highly frowned upon by my department head...
There's my diatribe. Advice can be directed to myself and prayers can go straight to God. My faith's a little shaky lately (which actually trumps all of my other concerns right now). I think I need all the help I can get.
Yeah. Blech...
I need to vent. This is not a proper blog story where something beautiful happens and I realize that I'm loved and blessed and just generally at peace with the universe. I'm still all those things, but I feel like shit.
I don't know if the aforementioned sentiments are a direct result of health concerns/fears, or if this is all a result of coming off the Paxil, but I currently feel about 2 millimeters away from falling into a waterless gorge. When I discussed this "edginess" with my primary care physician, he responded with:
"Well Kate, you have a lot to be angry with and upset about, the way you're feeling makes a lot of sense. Maybe you should accept the possibility that you might need an SSRI to keep your biochemistry in check..."
I seriously thought about choking him with his stethoscope. Fearing, though, that such a rash reaction would further fuel his conviction that I'm certifiable, I opted for a different approach:
"With all due respect Dr. _____, I will never take an SSRI again. I think Paxil is the devil. I fought my neurologist for 4+ years regarding antidepressants and I cannot adequately express how much I regret giving in."
(Then, naturally, just to add validity to my proclamation of sanity, I started crying and my words turned all gurgled and shaky.)
I continued, "You need to believe me, Dr. ______, I was never depressed. I never had the urge to stab a student in the head with a fork, or rip out my own arm hair with my teeth before the Paxil, so I blame these extremely irrational feelings on the Paxil (or lack thereof). How long will this last? Just someone tell me, how long will this last?"
He didn't really answer. I don't think he knows.
Anyway, so now it's 4 days later and I'm slightly less dizzy/disoriented, but I still feel like unmitigated s-h-i-t. I just turned on Extreme Makeover Home Edition while I was eating dinner, took one look at the woman in a wheelchair getting a new house, and started crying into my veggie lentil soup. So I turned the TV off (lest I see a Hallmark commercial and lose it entirely), finished my soup, folded my laundry, and sat down in here to write.
Really, though, this is all I want:
- A freaking back massage. I think my back muscles are slowly turning into hardened challah bread because I cannot seem to relax.
- Even a small improvement on the MS-front. Just a hint that things might get better post-Zanapax. I'm not asking to run a bloody marathon, but it'd be nice to shower without pulling the towel-bar out of the wall and ending up in a crumpled pile of dripping naked limbs/hastily grabbed towels/metal towel-bars etc. on the floor of the bathroom. That would be so nice.
- Someone to share this with. No. I actually don't want that, because I'd feel so guilty. Or I'd spend all of my time trying to convince the other person that I'm okay and end up feeling exactly as shitty as I do now (maybe even, as history suggests, shittier). But I'm lonely I guess. I really am. At the very least I'd do almost anything (within reason) for the aforementioned back massage. Hmpf.
- Oh. And I'd love to get through a day without crying to Anique, or wanting to roll myself out of my third-floor window during 7th period. Those kids, bless their hearts, are making me want to chug gin at 1:15 everyday, and that would be highly frowned upon by my department head...
There's my diatribe. Advice can be directed to myself and prayers can go straight to God. My faith's a little shaky lately (which actually trumps all of my other concerns right now). I think I need all the help I can get.
Yeah. Blech...
Monday, December 04, 2006
MS-iness
I haven't written in so long that I actually forgot my username - never a good sign.
The truth is, though, that I've struggled to see the positive aspects of things lately. I write to feel better about stuff - to write myself out of a funk. Lately, though, whenever I pick up a pen (or sit down at the keyboard) I write myself into the exact same place that I started: a little too deep below the surface to see the flowers or the fertilizer around me. This place is dirty and dark, and whenever I climb a little closer to the top, an unforseen swine takes a dump on my head.
I saw my neurologist last week. He confirmed what I already know: things aren't going the way we planned. So I got an MRI to see if there were new lesions on my brain or c-spine (whatever the hell that is), and there aren't. That sounds good, right? - no lesions = no new symptoms. Or so I thought. But the truth is that there are new symptoms. And while I manage to pinpoint an immediate catalyst to blame for every new physical malfunction, the catalyst ends and the deterioration doesn't. I've lost a little coordination in my left hand now (previously my only symptom-free limb), and my right foot and calf have started to go completely numb whenever I swim. Last week I tried to cook while in my wheelchair (I managed to burn pasta), and tried to vacuum on my knees (equally ineffective). Curious as to why I have these new problems and no new lesions, I emailed my doctor a hastily written diatribe of my confusion.
This morning he wrote me back:
Kate - MRIs are only sensitive to inflammation as occurs typically in relapsing MS, I believe that your worsening without change on MRI points towards axon damage from chronic demyelination as is seen in secondary progressive MS.
I guess I knew that already. Lord knows it's been a good seven years since my last "remission", but somehow seeing the words secondary progressive written stung a little more than I thought they would. I rested my chin on my hand and stared at the words on my laptop until my 2nd period students began to trickle in. Then I swallowed the lump and all the other things that threatened to come out of me, and taught for the rest of the day (with a little less patience than usual).
I finally weaned myself off the overly-numbing antidepressant last week.
My timing sucks.
The truth is, though, that I've struggled to see the positive aspects of things lately. I write to feel better about stuff - to write myself out of a funk. Lately, though, whenever I pick up a pen (or sit down at the keyboard) I write myself into the exact same place that I started: a little too deep below the surface to see the flowers or the fertilizer around me. This place is dirty and dark, and whenever I climb a little closer to the top, an unforseen swine takes a dump on my head.
I saw my neurologist last week. He confirmed what I already know: things aren't going the way we planned. So I got an MRI to see if there were new lesions on my brain or c-spine (whatever the hell that is), and there aren't. That sounds good, right? - no lesions = no new symptoms. Or so I thought. But the truth is that there are new symptoms. And while I manage to pinpoint an immediate catalyst to blame for every new physical malfunction, the catalyst ends and the deterioration doesn't. I've lost a little coordination in my left hand now (previously my only symptom-free limb), and my right foot and calf have started to go completely numb whenever I swim. Last week I tried to cook while in my wheelchair (I managed to burn pasta), and tried to vacuum on my knees (equally ineffective). Curious as to why I have these new problems and no new lesions, I emailed my doctor a hastily written diatribe of my confusion.
This morning he wrote me back:
Kate - MRIs are only sensitive to inflammation as occurs typically in relapsing MS, I believe that your worsening without change on MRI points towards axon damage from chronic demyelination as is seen in secondary progressive MS.
I guess I knew that already. Lord knows it's been a good seven years since my last "remission", but somehow seeing the words secondary progressive written stung a little more than I thought they would. I rested my chin on my hand and stared at the words on my laptop until my 2nd period students began to trickle in. Then I swallowed the lump and all the other things that threatened to come out of me, and taught for the rest of the day (with a little less patience than usual).
I finally weaned myself off the overly-numbing antidepressant last week.
My timing sucks.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Why I go to Church
Jim and I broke up over a year ago, and in my aggressive attempt to be okay, I made myself list all the reasons why I, Kate Hooks, was better off without him. I was very proud of myself upon creation of this list, and did all but publish the eleven reasons in the City Paper. I read it to my friends, re-read it to myself, hung it on my fridge etc. One of the most compelling and real reasons at the time, was that Jim didn't inspire me to be a better person. I underlined that reason and buried it deep inside me - right between the left ventricle of my heart and my internal moral high ground. At the time I was more than a little bit certain that my predilection for beer and my irrational irritation with the string bikini clan at my gym was not caused by my own character flaws, but by Jim. Like I said, my attempt to be okay was somewhat aggressive.
I told my friend, Taylor, about my epiphany. I was so matter-of-fact, so wise and so completely non-judgmental as I relayed my most recent revelations to Taylor; I explained that Jim would be an excellent person for someone, but clearly not for me. I had grandiose plans to be a fabulously selfless individual and do regular physical therapy exercises and eat healthily and start a righteous revolution to improve city schools, inspire urban youth etc. My diatribe culminated with the exclamatory statement:
"See, Taylor, Jim wasn't inspiring me to do these things. He didn't make me want to be better at anything! He obviously wasn't the one..."
There was dead air on the phone for a second, and then my agnostic friend (who, incidentally, I met through Jim) responded:
"Kate, you're Christian. Shouldn't Jesus inspire you to be a better person?"
It was seriously such an innocent question. I could tell that Taylor was genuinely curious; he wanted to understand my quirky walk of faith a little better. But I still wanted to reach through the phone and lodge my cuticle scissors into his ear. I hate it so much when other people are right. I felt like I did when I was six and carved my name into the back of my dad's (new) car and got caught. I was so blatantly wrong and defenseless and six years-old, that I couldn't even offer an explanation. More than twenty years later, I found myself in the same predicament. But Taylor was on the phone this time, and I felt reason # 4 in my quest to be okay dislodge itself from my left ventricle along with my internal moral high ground.
Naturally, I stammered through a weak response to Taylor, and changed the subject.
The thing is - and this is the God's honest truth - as recently as a year ago, Jesus was just some esoteric concept to me. Jesus was someone I grew up with and actively rejected during my high school years. He was someone I ignored in college, and was angry with after getting MS. He let me down. Not only had he let me down, I wondered how anyone could watch the news on a somewhat regular basis and attempt to explain Jesus as a benevolent, loving and living God? The world seemed like a giant, mortally wounded mess.
Six years ago, though, despite this mortally wounded world, I started to think about Him a lot more often; I prayed to Him at night, talked to Him in my car, wrote about Him in my journal, and even started a non-committal tour of Baltimore churches. I slowly let go of my high school-inspired rejection of God, and (even more slowly) of my MS-inspired anger. It was like plucking in-grown hairs, though: almost impossible. Because my anger and resentment and cynicism were as deeply embedded in my personality as my thankfully resilient sense of humor. I pried and prayed and dug and scraped and waited until the answers started peeking through cracks in my calloused skin. The answers came in all shapes and sizes and some came much, much later than I'd hoped for. Eventually, though, I found pieces of myself, and the pieces - not to gloat -were beautiful! They were raw pieces of hope and courage and honesty and faith that were much stronger and enduring than their resentful and angry predecessors.
Like I said, though, this was a slow process. For a while I'd think I was fine and centered and very deep, and then I'd realize that a piece of anger was still hanging around, preventing me from solving my internal rubix cube. I think this is why I was waiting for a person to inspire me. I wanted some faith-filled hero-type to swoop down and rearrange my inside bits until I was all grace and courage and strength. This hero would naturally manifest himself as my boyfriend and - along with his supernatural capacities - would help me with my laundry and would clean my kitchen for me without even asking. With expectations like these, it is glaringly obvious that Jim was a disastrous disappointment. I guess it's also obvious why Jesus remained an esoteric concept who I purported to believe in, but who I neither knew intimately nor aspired to please. Sure, Jesus was responsible for the good pieces inside of me, but I wanted a person to bring these pieces to the surface permanently. Jim didn't do it, my friends didn't do it, my family didn't do it, and even the half-dozen churches I'd visited fell short.
And then, through another friend who I met via Jim, I found New Song. This concrete-constructed building is so un-church-like that it makes the bare-walled Quaker building I attended look elaborate. There are no stained glass windows, or wooden pews. There are no tiled mosaics of Jesus and Mary, or marble bird baths filled with holy water or intimidating "stations of the cross". It's just a hastily constructed cream-colored concrete building in the heart of Baltimore's most "mortally wounded" neighborhood. There are broken cars in the parking lot with their hoods permanently opened, cracks in the pavement in the sidewalk outside and occasional empty bags of UTZ potato chips floating by in the adjacent gutter. But when I went into the church last summer, it was the first time in my 27 years that God was literally palpable.
For me, God is Jesus, but no matter who or what God is to you - even if you don't believe in Him at all - I think you'd feel this too. In fact, I'm positive. There are kids who come without their parents, and Lord the kids are gorgeous! There is this incredibly diverse body of people who are commonly united in a struggle for something. Mostly it's just the struggle to be okay; to recover from their own lives or addictions or loss, but inside this church the struggle to heal is collective, which - in my opinion - makes it so much easier to do. There are a lot of people in the church whose hurt runs deep enough to give even the best scuba divers the bends, and there are others who wade through occasional mud puddles, but inside the building everyone is united in hope and perseverance and - not to sound too cheesy - love. It is seriously the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful thing I have ever seen.
It is inside the walls of this church that I felt Jesus nudging me - ever so slightly - to be a better person. It was the first time in my life that a church-inspired nudge wasn't accompanied by an undertone of guilt. There are no hell, fire and damnation sermons about fixing your life at New Song, just a constant reminder that Jesus loves us all so much, and that the most radical thing we can do in return is to be honest and true to ourselves and to give as much as we can to the people around us in need. The pastor's adopted daughter even gets this. A few weeks ago I cried myself through the two-hour worship service (a hormone-inspired melt-down of sorts), and resorted to paper towels to keep the mess of myself relatively contained. After the service, as I deconstructed my wheelchair to put it into my trunk, she sauntered over to me.
"Miss Kate, why were you cryin' so much?"
I told her that I really didn't know. Just that I was a little sad sometimes.
Her dimpled brown cheeks and warm eyes looked up at me, and her eight-year-old self sheepishly uttered,
"Well, I love you."
(Which of course made me cry again.)
So I guess Taylor was right: I shouldn't want to be a better person for my boyfriend. I shouldn't wait for a hero-type to enter my life and spoon-feed me perseverance and patience and selflessness. Instead I should feed myself (with Jesus' help) and share everything I can with the people at New Song who silently hold me up - week after week.
There are times when Old Angry Kate bubbles to the surface and I feel myself internally lamenting the bikini girls who get in my way at the gym, or I say bad words to no one in particular when my wheelchair breaks at inopportune times. (Both of which happened just yesterday, in fact.) What I finally understand, though, is that I am forgiven and loved in spite of these things. And even when I feel forsaken and forgotten by Jesus himself, I am never really alone in this mortally wounded world.
Which is exactly why I go to church.
I told my friend, Taylor, about my epiphany. I was so matter-of-fact, so wise and so completely non-judgmental as I relayed my most recent revelations to Taylor; I explained that Jim would be an excellent person for someone, but clearly not for me. I had grandiose plans to be a fabulously selfless individual and do regular physical therapy exercises and eat healthily and start a righteous revolution to improve city schools, inspire urban youth etc. My diatribe culminated with the exclamatory statement:
"See, Taylor, Jim wasn't inspiring me to do these things. He didn't make me want to be better at anything! He obviously wasn't the one..."
There was dead air on the phone for a second, and then my agnostic friend (who, incidentally, I met through Jim) responded:
"Kate, you're Christian. Shouldn't Jesus inspire you to be a better person?"
It was seriously such an innocent question. I could tell that Taylor was genuinely curious; he wanted to understand my quirky walk of faith a little better. But I still wanted to reach through the phone and lodge my cuticle scissors into his ear. I hate it so much when other people are right. I felt like I did when I was six and carved my name into the back of my dad's (new) car and got caught. I was so blatantly wrong and defenseless and six years-old, that I couldn't even offer an explanation. More than twenty years later, I found myself in the same predicament. But Taylor was on the phone this time, and I felt reason # 4 in my quest to be okay dislodge itself from my left ventricle along with my internal moral high ground.
Naturally, I stammered through a weak response to Taylor, and changed the subject.
The thing is - and this is the God's honest truth - as recently as a year ago, Jesus was just some esoteric concept to me. Jesus was someone I grew up with and actively rejected during my high school years. He was someone I ignored in college, and was angry with after getting MS. He let me down. Not only had he let me down, I wondered how anyone could watch the news on a somewhat regular basis and attempt to explain Jesus as a benevolent, loving and living God? The world seemed like a giant, mortally wounded mess.
Six years ago, though, despite this mortally wounded world, I started to think about Him a lot more often; I prayed to Him at night, talked to Him in my car, wrote about Him in my journal, and even started a non-committal tour of Baltimore churches. I slowly let go of my high school-inspired rejection of God, and (even more slowly) of my MS-inspired anger. It was like plucking in-grown hairs, though: almost impossible. Because my anger and resentment and cynicism were as deeply embedded in my personality as my thankfully resilient sense of humor. I pried and prayed and dug and scraped and waited until the answers started peeking through cracks in my calloused skin. The answers came in all shapes and sizes and some came much, much later than I'd hoped for. Eventually, though, I found pieces of myself, and the pieces - not to gloat -were beautiful! They were raw pieces of hope and courage and honesty and faith that were much stronger and enduring than their resentful and angry predecessors.
Like I said, though, this was a slow process. For a while I'd think I was fine and centered and very deep, and then I'd realize that a piece of anger was still hanging around, preventing me from solving my internal rubix cube. I think this is why I was waiting for a person to inspire me. I wanted some faith-filled hero-type to swoop down and rearrange my inside bits until I was all grace and courage and strength. This hero would naturally manifest himself as my boyfriend and - along with his supernatural capacities - would help me with my laundry and would clean my kitchen for me without even asking. With expectations like these, it is glaringly obvious that Jim was a disastrous disappointment. I guess it's also obvious why Jesus remained an esoteric concept who I purported to believe in, but who I neither knew intimately nor aspired to please. Sure, Jesus was responsible for the good pieces inside of me, but I wanted a person to bring these pieces to the surface permanently. Jim didn't do it, my friends didn't do it, my family didn't do it, and even the half-dozen churches I'd visited fell short.
And then, through another friend who I met via Jim, I found New Song. This concrete-constructed building is so un-church-like that it makes the bare-walled Quaker building I attended look elaborate. There are no stained glass windows, or wooden pews. There are no tiled mosaics of Jesus and Mary, or marble bird baths filled with holy water or intimidating "stations of the cross". It's just a hastily constructed cream-colored concrete building in the heart of Baltimore's most "mortally wounded" neighborhood. There are broken cars in the parking lot with their hoods permanently opened, cracks in the pavement in the sidewalk outside and occasional empty bags of UTZ potato chips floating by in the adjacent gutter. But when I went into the church last summer, it was the first time in my 27 years that God was literally palpable.
For me, God is Jesus, but no matter who or what God is to you - even if you don't believe in Him at all - I think you'd feel this too. In fact, I'm positive. There are kids who come without their parents, and Lord the kids are gorgeous! There is this incredibly diverse body of people who are commonly united in a struggle for something. Mostly it's just the struggle to be okay; to recover from their own lives or addictions or loss, but inside this church the struggle to heal is collective, which - in my opinion - makes it so much easier to do. There are a lot of people in the church whose hurt runs deep enough to give even the best scuba divers the bends, and there are others who wade through occasional mud puddles, but inside the building everyone is united in hope and perseverance and - not to sound too cheesy - love. It is seriously the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful thing I have ever seen.
It is inside the walls of this church that I felt Jesus nudging me - ever so slightly - to be a better person. It was the first time in my life that a church-inspired nudge wasn't accompanied by an undertone of guilt. There are no hell, fire and damnation sermons about fixing your life at New Song, just a constant reminder that Jesus loves us all so much, and that the most radical thing we can do in return is to be honest and true to ourselves and to give as much as we can to the people around us in need. The pastor's adopted daughter even gets this. A few weeks ago I cried myself through the two-hour worship service (a hormone-inspired melt-down of sorts), and resorted to paper towels to keep the mess of myself relatively contained. After the service, as I deconstructed my wheelchair to put it into my trunk, she sauntered over to me.
"Miss Kate, why were you cryin' so much?"
I told her that I really didn't know. Just that I was a little sad sometimes.
Her dimpled brown cheeks and warm eyes looked up at me, and her eight-year-old self sheepishly uttered,
"Well, I love you."
(Which of course made me cry again.)
So I guess Taylor was right: I shouldn't want to be a better person for my boyfriend. I shouldn't wait for a hero-type to enter my life and spoon-feed me perseverance and patience and selflessness. Instead I should feed myself (with Jesus' help) and share everything I can with the people at New Song who silently hold me up - week after week.
There are times when Old Angry Kate bubbles to the surface and I feel myself internally lamenting the bikini girls who get in my way at the gym, or I say bad words to no one in particular when my wheelchair breaks at inopportune times. (Both of which happened just yesterday, in fact.) What I finally understand, though, is that I am forgiven and loved in spite of these things. And even when I feel forsaken and forgotten by Jesus himself, I am never really alone in this mortally wounded world.
Which is exactly why I go to church.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The Line
I know teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, but I definitely do. Kevin is my favorite. He has an identical twin who writes a little better and is quieter in class, but there's something about Kevin that I've never been able to pin point. He and his brother transfered into City from a vocational high school in the neighborhood, and while I'm skeptical of the decision that removed two 17-year-old sophomores from a reputable vocational school to a college preparatory high school, I cannot imagine this year without them.
From the second week of school forth, Kevin has tested "the line" with me. He pokes his head into my classroom on a regular basis and adds insight to my history lessons. His insight usually comes in the form of loud, pseudo-musical utterances of "Baby, baby... UGH!" Then he closes the door behind him and saunters off to the bathroom. He says I walk like a duck, and when I showed my students a picture of me running in college, he responded with, "Wait, why didn't you run like a duck?" I guess he conveniently forgot my introductory spiel in the beginning of the year when I told his class that I'd gotten MS when I was 19.
One day, earlier this year, he told a few of his peers about watching me push my wheelchair up the steps, and I felt him encroaching upon the esoteric "line." He was laughing and his classmates were laughing and, in an effort to take myself less seriously, I was probably laughing, but I'm horribly self-conscious sometimes, and I hate thinking about what I look like to others. I got the class settled and told Kevin - in a barely audible tone - to stay after class. Slightly shaken by my suddenly serious demeanor, he uttered, "Am I in trouble? You callin' my mom?" I reassured him that he was neither in trouble nor about to receive a parent phone call, and reiterated that I only wanted to talk to him for a second.
When the bell rang, his 27 peers charged out of the room, and Kevin remained seated, his already large eyes stretched wider than usual. He watched as I wheeled over to his desk and parked myself two inches away from him.
"Kevin, you're not in trouble, but there's something I want you to understand... I have a really good sense of humor - about pretty much everything, and especially about my MS. But I want to make sure you know that there are thousands of other people with disabilities who aren't anything like me. I'm one of the only people I know that laughs at myself and jokes about stuff that is actually kind of serious."
He looked away. "I know, Ms. Hooks."
I continued, "I mean, I don't want you to start making fun of someone someday, expecting that they'll laugh like I do, because -
"I know, Ms. Hooks. My dad's in a wheelchair."
I tried not to register a look of surprise on my face, and continued the conversation, "Really? And is he in his wheelchair all the time?"
"Yeah, he got shot."
"And do you joke around with him like you do with me?"
"No. Definitely not."
"Well I guess I just want you to know that as ridiculous as I act all the time, I don't want to 'duck walk' around this classroom and push my wheelchair up the steps every morning, okay? You can still joke with me, just -
"I got it Ms. Hooks. I'm sorry."
And with that, Kevin grabbed his Nike backback and left. He still pops his head into my room during just about every period, and he is still the center of attention all the time, but at this point - at least to Kevin - the duck-walk is dead.
From the second week of school forth, Kevin has tested "the line" with me. He pokes his head into my classroom on a regular basis and adds insight to my history lessons. His insight usually comes in the form of loud, pseudo-musical utterances of "Baby, baby... UGH!" Then he closes the door behind him and saunters off to the bathroom. He says I walk like a duck, and when I showed my students a picture of me running in college, he responded with, "Wait, why didn't you run like a duck?" I guess he conveniently forgot my introductory spiel in the beginning of the year when I told his class that I'd gotten MS when I was 19.
One day, earlier this year, he told a few of his peers about watching me push my wheelchair up the steps, and I felt him encroaching upon the esoteric "line." He was laughing and his classmates were laughing and, in an effort to take myself less seriously, I was probably laughing, but I'm horribly self-conscious sometimes, and I hate thinking about what I look like to others. I got the class settled and told Kevin - in a barely audible tone - to stay after class. Slightly shaken by my suddenly serious demeanor, he uttered, "Am I in trouble? You callin' my mom?" I reassured him that he was neither in trouble nor about to receive a parent phone call, and reiterated that I only wanted to talk to him for a second.
When the bell rang, his 27 peers charged out of the room, and Kevin remained seated, his already large eyes stretched wider than usual. He watched as I wheeled over to his desk and parked myself two inches away from him.
"Kevin, you're not in trouble, but there's something I want you to understand... I have a really good sense of humor - about pretty much everything, and especially about my MS. But I want to make sure you know that there are thousands of other people with disabilities who aren't anything like me. I'm one of the only people I know that laughs at myself and jokes about stuff that is actually kind of serious."
He looked away. "I know, Ms. Hooks."
I continued, "I mean, I don't want you to start making fun of someone someday, expecting that they'll laugh like I do, because -
"I know, Ms. Hooks. My dad's in a wheelchair."
I tried not to register a look of surprise on my face, and continued the conversation, "Really? And is he in his wheelchair all the time?"
"Yeah, he got shot."
"And do you joke around with him like you do with me?"
"No. Definitely not."
"Well I guess I just want you to know that as ridiculous as I act all the time, I don't want to 'duck walk' around this classroom and push my wheelchair up the steps every morning, okay? You can still joke with me, just -
"I got it Ms. Hooks. I'm sorry."
And with that, Kevin grabbed his Nike backback and left. He still pops his head into my room during just about every period, and he is still the center of attention all the time, but at this point - at least to Kevin - the duck-walk is dead.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Height and Humor
It is my second year teaching high school in Baltimore, my third year teaching with a wheelchair, and my eighth year with Multiple Sclerosis. I don’t use my chair all the time, but my school is close to the size of the Pentagon, and my balance is slightly worse than that of a two-year-old child’s. Consequently, in order to avoid any MS-related humiliation and/or unnecessary fatigue, I use my wheelchair while I teach my 9th and 10th graders American Government and United States History. This also enables me to wildly gesticulate with my hands while I’m teaching without knocking myself off balance mid-lecture.
During the first two weeks of school, I used my wheelchair at all times. I like to set a precedent РI am a teacher with a wheelchair. And while I get my students used to the idea of a rolling teacher, I also try to convince them of my supernatural powers that compensate for my neurological disease. Namely I like them to believe that I have x-ray vision that enables me to see notes, candy and cell phones hidden inconspicuously beneath their desks, coupled with the unique ability to know when they're lying to me about incomplete homework or class work). Unfortunately for me, all 180 of my students saw through the supernatural power fa̤ade before October.
During the second week of school, I stood up during my last period class. I was apparently so excited about the foundations of American government that I could no longer sit still. Grasping the desk to my left, I locked my knees and continued talking. I then noticed that my 7th period class was unnaturally quiet. Not only were they quiet, they were staring at me, and off to the right, Ashley’s mouth appeared to be hanging open. Mid-sentence I started to worry that something was on my face, or that I had a bizarre chalk stain on my boobs. I paused to ask if everything was okay.
Jasmine was quick to respond, “You’re standing, Ms. Hooks!”
I briefly reiterated that I can stand; but I can’t walk very well, and continued with my lesson. Mid-sentence, another hand shot up, and Stephanie asked how long I could stand for. My lesson seemed to diverge from the daily objective. She raised her hand again as I attempted to get the class back on track.
“Wait, Ms. Hooks Kevin’s in the bathroom, right? Can you stand ‘til he gets back and see what he thinks when he walks in? Maybe he’ll think we cured you while he was out.”
While rationally I know that playing practical jokes with my students during the second week of school is not a highly recommended teaching strategy, I couldn’t resist. A few minutes later I heard the door open and Kevin shuffled in nonchalantly. The rest of the students were watching him, waiting for a reaction with bated breath as he sauntered around my empty wheelchair and back to his seat. When he was properly sitting I felt his eyes look down at my feet and move all the way up to my eyes. Then, without raising his hand he interrupted me –
“Ms. Hooks, you are so tall!”
During the first two weeks of school, I used my wheelchair at all times. I like to set a precedent РI am a teacher with a wheelchair. And while I get my students used to the idea of a rolling teacher, I also try to convince them of my supernatural powers that compensate for my neurological disease. Namely I like them to believe that I have x-ray vision that enables me to see notes, candy and cell phones hidden inconspicuously beneath their desks, coupled with the unique ability to know when they're lying to me about incomplete homework or class work). Unfortunately for me, all 180 of my students saw through the supernatural power fa̤ade before October.
During the second week of school, I stood up during my last period class. I was apparently so excited about the foundations of American government that I could no longer sit still. Grasping the desk to my left, I locked my knees and continued talking. I then noticed that my 7th period class was unnaturally quiet. Not only were they quiet, they were staring at me, and off to the right, Ashley’s mouth appeared to be hanging open. Mid-sentence I started to worry that something was on my face, or that I had a bizarre chalk stain on my boobs. I paused to ask if everything was okay.
Jasmine was quick to respond, “You’re standing, Ms. Hooks!”
I briefly reiterated that I can stand; but I can’t walk very well, and continued with my lesson. Mid-sentence, another hand shot up, and Stephanie asked how long I could stand for. My lesson seemed to diverge from the daily objective. She raised her hand again as I attempted to get the class back on track.
“Wait, Ms. Hooks Kevin’s in the bathroom, right? Can you stand ‘til he gets back and see what he thinks when he walks in? Maybe he’ll think we cured you while he was out.”
While rationally I know that playing practical jokes with my students during the second week of school is not a highly recommended teaching strategy, I couldn’t resist. A few minutes later I heard the door open and Kevin shuffled in nonchalantly. The rest of the students were watching him, waiting for a reaction with bated breath as he sauntered around my empty wheelchair and back to his seat. When he was properly sitting I felt his eyes look down at my feet and move all the way up to my eyes. Then, without raising his hand he interrupted me –
“Ms. Hooks, you are so tall!”
Top Ten Reasons why MS isn't that Bad
1. If you play your cards right, you could end up spoiled. Not only will family members lavish you with gifts, unconditional love and support, but society will spoil you as well. If you are disabled enough to qualify, you are privy to:
- Unlimited free parking in metered spots and preferable parking in general
- VIP-type seating at concerts, sporting events and other entertainment venues
- Preferred treatment on airplanes as well as discounts on Amtrak trains
2. Undisputable excuses to get out of anything you do not want to do. Examples include:
- Participation in costly, stressful and otherwise laborious weddings
- Attendance at potentially awkward family or coworker gatherings (this might also high school reunions)
- Barbeques or picnics during oppressively hot summer weather or otherwise unappealing conditions
3. A convenient scapegoat for pretty much everything you do wrong. MS no longer stands for Multiple Sclerosis, rather my scapegoat. It comes in handy if you are ever:
- Chronically late
- Occasionally forgetful
- Too lazy to finish something you start
- Too tired in the morning to realize that your socks don’t match
4. An occasional right to entitlement. This does not mean that you are entitled to life as a bitter, irritable human being, only that when things are not MS friendly, you are entitled to small temper tantrums or short-term pity parties. These, while never enjoyable at the moment, often develop into very entertaining stories. You are entitled to a fit if:
- People pity you
- You use a wheelchair and you live in a completely inaccessible city
- It is too hot to properly enjoy the summer without melting your myelin
- You can no longer do something that you really, really loved doing
5. Increased potential for heroism. After an MS diagnosis, you will likely live your life in much the same way you did before. You will exercise, work hard, raise your family, attend social gatherings and maintain your sense of humor. You will not, however, be able to accomplish ordinary goals without the risk of inspiring others. People will likely note your achievements with the added: and she has MS! This is, of course, demeaning and potentially maddening, but will doubtless bring you positive attention and occasional accolades. My advice? Enjoy them.
6. A marked increase in self-esteem. You will develop confidence in who you are, rather than what you do. (Unfortunately this often comes at a heavy price; there are days I was just fine defining myself as a runner.) Post-MS, you will come to know and appreciate who you are with or without the things you do.
7. A legitimate excuse to never wear high-heeled, platform, or pointy, stiff and unforgiving dress shoes. You will rejoice as you save hundreds of dollars on practical and comfortable shoes rather than expensive, trendy and bizarrely uncomfortable shoes.
8. An increased ability to relate to those around you. MS makes you more sensitive and compassionate. This is (unfortunately) a result of increased vulnerability and fear, but it nonetheless turns you into an empathetic person who friends will soon regard as selfless and wise.
9. A genuine appreciation for unconditional love. Eight years after my diagnosis, I am now positive that I have no casual, obligatory acquaintances. My close friends and family members are willing to help me with countless inane tasks – from grocery shopping to cleaning my bathroom. My best friend in college even attempted to run a lap around the track with me on her back, just so I wouldn’t “forget what it felt like to run”. Despite the fact that we both ended up in a heap on the track (I am 5'10"!), her effort was valiant.
10. A well developed sense of humor. Even if you weren’t able to laugh at yourself pre-MS, you will inevitably learn to take things much less seriously. You’ll have to. And when you do, you will find that all the drama and stress of day-to-day life seem a little lighter and a little easier to handle.
- Unlimited free parking in metered spots and preferable parking in general
- VIP-type seating at concerts, sporting events and other entertainment venues
- Preferred treatment on airplanes as well as discounts on Amtrak trains
2. Undisputable excuses to get out of anything you do not want to do. Examples include:
- Participation in costly, stressful and otherwise laborious weddings
- Attendance at potentially awkward family or coworker gatherings (this might also high school reunions)
- Barbeques or picnics during oppressively hot summer weather or otherwise unappealing conditions
3. A convenient scapegoat for pretty much everything you do wrong. MS no longer stands for Multiple Sclerosis, rather my scapegoat. It comes in handy if you are ever:
- Chronically late
- Occasionally forgetful
- Too lazy to finish something you start
- Too tired in the morning to realize that your socks don’t match
4. An occasional right to entitlement. This does not mean that you are entitled to life as a bitter, irritable human being, only that when things are not MS friendly, you are entitled to small temper tantrums or short-term pity parties. These, while never enjoyable at the moment, often develop into very entertaining stories. You are entitled to a fit if:
- People pity you
- You use a wheelchair and you live in a completely inaccessible city
- It is too hot to properly enjoy the summer without melting your myelin
- You can no longer do something that you really, really loved doing
5. Increased potential for heroism. After an MS diagnosis, you will likely live your life in much the same way you did before. You will exercise, work hard, raise your family, attend social gatherings and maintain your sense of humor. You will not, however, be able to accomplish ordinary goals without the risk of inspiring others. People will likely note your achievements with the added: and she has MS! This is, of course, demeaning and potentially maddening, but will doubtless bring you positive attention and occasional accolades. My advice? Enjoy them.
6. A marked increase in self-esteem. You will develop confidence in who you are, rather than what you do. (Unfortunately this often comes at a heavy price; there are days I was just fine defining myself as a runner.) Post-MS, you will come to know and appreciate who you are with or without the things you do.
7. A legitimate excuse to never wear high-heeled, platform, or pointy, stiff and unforgiving dress shoes. You will rejoice as you save hundreds of dollars on practical and comfortable shoes rather than expensive, trendy and bizarrely uncomfortable shoes.
8. An increased ability to relate to those around you. MS makes you more sensitive and compassionate. This is (unfortunately) a result of increased vulnerability and fear, but it nonetheless turns you into an empathetic person who friends will soon regard as selfless and wise.
9. A genuine appreciation for unconditional love. Eight years after my diagnosis, I am now positive that I have no casual, obligatory acquaintances. My close friends and family members are willing to help me with countless inane tasks – from grocery shopping to cleaning my bathroom. My best friend in college even attempted to run a lap around the track with me on her back, just so I wouldn’t “forget what it felt like to run”. Despite the fact that we both ended up in a heap on the track (I am 5'10"!), her effort was valiant.
10. A well developed sense of humor. Even if you weren’t able to laugh at yourself pre-MS, you will inevitably learn to take things much less seriously. You’ll have to. And when you do, you will find that all the drama and stress of day-to-day life seem a little lighter and a little easier to handle.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Inspiration (?)
I don't write often enough. This is a problem (albeit minor) caused by:
1. Not having enough time. This, I acknowledge, is a bullshit-type excuse. Sometimes on the weekends I find myself lying leisurely on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I'll roll to the side and my eye might catch my wooden memento box so I'll investigate old letters, poems, cut-outs from my college alumni bulletin etc. I usually find something entertaining or awkward and call my mom to share. While I'm on the phone I might notice the dust that has accumulated on my (old roommate's) TV, or my $35 IKEA desk, so then I clean. I tend to my plants. I vacuum. I do laundry. At the end of a perfectly "free" Saturday my most productive feat is generally some inane household task or a trip to the gym.
2. Feeling a perpetual need to do work. When I was writing my (yet unpublished, so secretly non-existant) book, writing was my "job" so I made it a priority. Now it's just a luxury that I afford myself after my lessons are written, my papers are graded and my students' parents are contacted. I put writing beneath several activities on my personal priority scale: the gym, clean clothes, bills, teacher work, etc. I've come to realize, though, that I will never do enough work to satisfy my job requirements (or my department head) - my lesson could always be a little better, a few more parents could definitely be contacted and the pile of papers really should diminish on a daily (weekly?) basis. That said, I should include writing into my personal job description/priority list. But I don't.
3. A general lack of inspiration. I do not like my job lately. All the beautiful things that happen on a daily basis (and yes, they really do happen!) are shrouded by other bigger and uglier things. Since this blog is not anonymous, I shouldn't elaborate, but since I'm sort of seething, here goes:
- My job, though definitely better than being dragged across hot coals face first, is no longer preferable to Chinese water torture. And while never formally enduring either, I doubt that statement contains much hyperbole. I no longer trust anyone I work for, and while I used to shrug of administrative incompetency and focus strictly on my students, the former is starting to greatly interfere with the latter. Let me elaborate:
1. Not having enough time. This, I acknowledge, is a bullshit-type excuse. Sometimes on the weekends I find myself lying leisurely on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I'll roll to the side and my eye might catch my wooden memento box so I'll investigate old letters, poems, cut-outs from my college alumni bulletin etc. I usually find something entertaining or awkward and call my mom to share. While I'm on the phone I might notice the dust that has accumulated on my (old roommate's) TV, or my $35 IKEA desk, so then I clean. I tend to my plants. I vacuum. I do laundry. At the end of a perfectly "free" Saturday my most productive feat is generally some inane household task or a trip to the gym.
2. Feeling a perpetual need to do work. When I was writing my (yet unpublished, so secretly non-existant) book, writing was my "job" so I made it a priority. Now it's just a luxury that I afford myself after my lessons are written, my papers are graded and my students' parents are contacted. I put writing beneath several activities on my personal priority scale: the gym, clean clothes, bills, teacher work, etc. I've come to realize, though, that I will never do enough work to satisfy my job requirements (or my department head) - my lesson could always be a little better, a few more parents could definitely be contacted and the pile of papers really should diminish on a daily (weekly?) basis. That said, I should include writing into my personal job description/priority list. But I don't.
3. A general lack of inspiration. I do not like my job lately. All the beautiful things that happen on a daily basis (and yes, they really do happen!) are shrouded by other bigger and uglier things. Since this blog is not anonymous, I shouldn't elaborate, but since I'm sort of seething, here goes:
- My job, though definitely better than being dragged across hot coals face first, is no longer preferable to Chinese water torture. And while never formally enduring either, I doubt that statement contains much hyperbole. I no longer trust anyone I work for, and while I used to shrug of administrative incompetency and focus strictly on my students, the former is starting to greatly interfere with the latter. Let me elaborate:
- I was placed on a Performance Improvement Plan because I taught my United States History students about the genocide occurring in Darfur, Sudan. This led to a highly awkward meeting between my department head, other administrators, my union representative and myself. I was forced to sign a paper acknowledging my own incompetence and inability to adhere with Maryland's "core learning goals." That my students kept pace with the other US History classes was ostensibly ignored. A lot of things were ignored, actually: their midterm grades, the quality of their Darfur essays (in many cases the ONLY writing assignment a few of my students have ever turned in), or their genuine motivation in an educational activity I still characterize as both authentic, relevant and important.
- During my scandalous teaching of the first genocide of the 21st century, my students produced posters geared to educate the school and the community. The posters were the greatest things I've ever seen in my 6 years as an educator - graphic and accurate yet hauntingly appealing to the eye. Other teachers came into my room praising my students. One teacher was even crying because what the posters represented is so gruesome and real, and our government is so paralyzed and incompetent and self-involved to do anything about it. Don't get me started. A week or so after I painstakingly hung the posters in the hall, I came into my classroom to find approximately 25 posters in a giant pile on my desk. It made me want to do something rash and loud and violent. It made me want to cry. It made me want to eat my shoes. My students were incensed - especially since the packing tape had stuck the posters to each other (and to the mouse poop on my desk) and their work was - for all intents and purposes - destroyed. I waited until my diaphragm allowed air to properly enter my lungs, and casually rolled myself into my vice principal's office. There, I used my sweetest, fakest voice to ask, "Who took my kids' posters down and why?" The answer? "Ms. Hooks, you are simply NOT allowed to tape things up in the hall. It removes paint... [blah, blah, blah]" I was still violent, but, as ridiculous as her reason sounded at the time, I believed her. I reassured my students that their posters could be rectified and that the tape was ruining the (lack of) aesthetics in the hall and tried my best to forget anything had ever happened.
- Which became increasingly difficult last week when a different (tenured) teacher in our school approached me about the genocide in Darfur and asked me help her launch a miniature Save Darfur campaign inside our International Baccalaureate school. As I volunteered to be the 1st floor's representative, this teacher had students hang posters outside of my classroom. (Right next to the Student Government Association's campaign posters and adjacent to the AP/IB testing schedule.) In case you were wondering, the posters are currently taped to the wall.
- I was written up for allowing a student to "race down the hall in my wheelchair during the instructional day." This is, I must point out, an egregious lie. Especially she is a self-proclaimed documentation specialist, and the date she cited was a day when I was sick. God bless my journal.
Time out. More soon...
Thursday, March 02, 2006
My Brother
I don't know if I'd characterize myself as a "good sister." My brother Patrick is three years younger than I and we have nothing in common. While I was dressing my stuffed animals and preparing them for make-believe photo shoots and dance recitals, he was playing outside, running around with the neighbors, catching frogs, or watching cartoons. I was bizarre and aloof and inexplicably indignant, and he was warm and acquiescent and eager to please. So eager to please, in fact, that I could occasionally coerce him into Saturday afternoon doll recitals, or even, when I was really lucky, a festive day filled with brother dress-up time. I turned him into a turkey with place mat wings on Thanksgiving, Santa with a stuffed gut and a red turtle neck on Christmas, and an old man with a felt-taped mustache during an interminably long car ride. As I grew up, my taunting games elevated to new levels. I invented the highly entertaining game of "shove and throw," where we'd disappear into the basement after dinner and smash into each other until one of us was unable to get up. I, a foot taller, never lost. He, still eager to please, was always willing to play. We played bloody knuckles on car rides or occasionally just hit each other as hard as possible in the back seat for fun until my dad would yell at us to stop. During all of these games I was the perennial winner, and he the perennial good natured participant. It was something I took entirely for granted - having my own personal punching bag with amazingly resilient human emotions.
When I reached middle school I stopped playing games and turned my chronic pre-teen angst against my brother. My best friend and I would make radio mix tapes in my room and talk about how much we hated our respective families or create master plans to find proper relationships, and my brother would knock on the door to see what we were doing. A typical response:
"Get out of my room, genius boy. Can't you see we're busy? Go get me some juice."
And he'd trot down the stairs only to come back a few minutes later with a glass full of juice. It wasn't until my best friend looked at me and asked, "Kate, why are you so intolerant of him? He'd do anything for you", that I realized she was right, so I changed.
Like any personal metamorphosis, though, it wasn't perfect. I found myself occasionally relapsing into evil big sister mode. For the most part, I tried to put down my anger and redirect it at an equally undeserving recipient, my mom.
I went to high school, got my license and started driving him around. I taught myself how to have civil sisterly conversation: about relationships and sports and our parents. It was my duty, once I was a mature teenager, to impart my wisdom upon my brother (presumably the only person alive who believed I was "wise.")
I went to college and left him alone to tend to our parents and to grow into his own person; a person I was too busy at college to worry much about. We saw each other on holidays and during my breaks from school. Occasionally I could still convince him to do things with me - go for runs or out for ice cream or to jump my car for me when the battery was dead. It was interesting, too - the person he grew into during my absence wasn't bad. I actually liked the guy. I started to think that maybe all of my pre-teen misdirected anger might have had something to do with jealousy. It was possible. My brother was, after all, popular and athletic and funny, and he didn't have pimples or ugly feet like I did. Plus, I used to think my parents liked him better. Yes, I think I was jealous.
The summer after my freshman year in college, I was diligently training for the upcoming cross country season, and asked him to go for a run with me. He said no, he had a lacrosse game later that afternoon and he didn't want to be tired etc. I, unwilling to take no for an answer, bribed him with a post-run swim in a nearby gorge. I told him I'd drive to Cascadilla Falls, we'd go on a short, slow run together, and then go swimming. Hesitantly, he agreed.
We ran our four miles together, and hiked from the road down the rocky, uneven steps to the swimming hole. He'd never been there before. I had. Once again feeling the need to impart my sisterly wisdom upon my impressionable brother, I boldly walked to the edge of the water's rocky edge, and attempted a swan dive into the murky water ahead. My effort at grace was thwarted by a sharp crack as my nose collided with another level of rock beneath the surface. The only thing I remember thinking was, 'get out of the water.' As I pulled my head out of the water, I awkwardly turned around and faced my brother. It was then that I knew something was about to change. The blood rushed out of his face, and, with an expression of sheer horror he mumbled,
"Kate, you are seriously messed up."
That's when I looked down at the pool of blood in the water, and asked him to hand me my white tank top at the water's edge. He did, and I jammed it against my lacerated nose while the two of us began an unsteady ascent to the nearby parking lot.
My brother and I reached my mom's car, and I noticed the blood had soaked through my wadded-up tank-top. I'm sure my brother was talking to me, but I remember nothing other than the pulsating of my entire face. The two of us drove home at approximately 60 miles per hour through winding small town streets, and we picked up my mom. She met us in the driveway, ice in hand, and the three of us drove to convenient care. To make an excruciatingly long story short, I waited a long time, never had my lacerated nose cleaned-out, and ended up with stitches, a broken nose, and a fairly hideous scar. Unfortunately, due to the lengthy wait and the aforementioned "murky" water, I also ended up with three serious bacterium that procreated beneath the stitching and caused a 10 day infection. The infection resulted in hospitalization, fevers, IV drugs etc., and that, in turn, led to Multiple Sclerosis. I guess my immune system went into overdrive - it didn't stop at the nose infection, it attacked my whole nervous system and began diligently eating away at the myelin that coated my nerves. Secretly, while a little misguided, my immune system kicks ass.
So that was my last run with my little brother. Actually, it was one of my last runs ever. I was diagnosed with MS a few months later and my days of "shove and throw" in the basement were definitively terminated (as was my running career).
Shortly after I was diagnosed, I pulled away. From my brother, from the rest of my family and even - to a certain extent - from my friends. I biked when I couldn't run, swam when I couldn't bike, and wrote in my journal when I couldn't do either. I stopped talking to my brother because he couldn't make me feel better, and directed my anger elsewhere. I studied until my eyes yearned for contacts, and then studied more. No longer a runner, I defined myself as "busy" or "stressed." I was too busy to talk to my parents, listen to my brother, extend myself socially, and most definitely too busy to confront the actual cause of my stress. All the while I developed a serious case of resentment. And while my resentment was effectively masked, it took a toll on my relationships. Especially with my brother.
Pat and I spoke occasionally after I got MS, but conversation seemed strained. We continued to have little in common and I was too impatient and angry for inane conversation. When he wouldn't ask about my health, I'd get mad. I defined him as superficial and self-involved in my mind and lumped him into the category of "Those who don't understand."
It wasn't until my 23rd birthday (four years after I was diagnosed), that I stepped outside of myself for long enough to let go of the anger. After years of complaining to my mom or my roommate about his apparent disinterest with my life or my health, I got a birthday card in the mail. It was one of the strangest cards I've ever received, with a giant picture of old people about to sky dive on the front, and the cheesy phrase, I just know something wonderful is out there waiting for you, on the inside. It wasn't the card itself, though, that made me abandon my internal resentment, it was the words he wrote. Scratched in manner of hieroglyphics was the following:
Dear Kate,
I got you this card for numerous reasons. First of all, how funny is the picture on the front? Second of all, is sky-diving with old weird people supposed to be considered something wonderful? Third of all, and truthfully, I do see many wonderful things in your future. Not only may you someday sky-dive with geriatric retards, but I think you may win the Pulitzer for your novel. Seriously, though, you are kind of like my hero, and I know that no matter what you end up doing, you will have a positive impact on a significant amount of people. Thanks for being a great sister and helping me grow up. I looked up to you my entire life, and I idolize you now more than ever. Happy birthday, Kate.
Love, Pat
I read the words, checked the return address, and read the words again. Yes, the card was definitely from my brother. It was from the same brother who I'd intentionally injured in my parent's basement and bossed around for over a decade. It was written by "Genius Boy" who obsequiously got me juice whenever I asked, allowed me to dress him up as a turkey, and begrudgingly accompanied me on runs before lacrosse games. It was from the same brother who seemed oblivious to my MS and who, to my knowledge, didn't even know I planned to write a book. He called me a "great sister"? The whole thing took me a while to digest.
Wisdom has nothing to do with age, I guess. Wisdom, I think, is the ability to do what you can with what you have and Pat might be able to do that better than anyone else in my life. He doesn't necessarily ask about my health, and he'll never properly "understand", but he's the only person alive with the ability to send me a card with "geriatric retards" on the front that can still make me cry.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Vegas
It amazes me how infrequently I follow through with things I say I'll do. I have written countless "manifestos" stating that I, Kate Hooks, will stop drinking, eating whole pints of ice cream, being late, swearing, gossiping etc. Inevitably, though, one or all of my proclamations ends up broken within a week, my manifesto ends up in the trash, and a new, modified version is written to enable the cycle to repeat itself.
Before I left for Vegas, I vowed I would give my gambling money - if I made a profit - to a good cause. Specifically, I decided I would donate half to the genocide intervention fund, and half to Ronic at the grocery store. Secretly I didn't want to give any surplus cash away; I wanted to buy a new pair of jeans to better compliment my recently burgeoning butt (thus the ice cream manifesto). On my way through the grocery line, though, I found myself telling Ronic that I was going to Vegas for a few days, and that if I won any money, I'd give her half. I sort of winced as the words came out of my mouth, because, like I said, I wanted a new pair of jeans.
In Vegas I met Brett and his friend, Keith, and spent the weekend learning why the City's nickname is "Sin City." We all met to watch a bunch of concerts, but managed to spend a sufficient amount of time at the blackjack tables as well. At least Brett and I did (we both have addictive personalities). So 48 hours after landing in Vegas, I managed to leave $280+ richer, with (what I imagined to be) a permanent headache, a perpetual ringing in my ears from the music, and a grand total of 20 minutes of sleep. When I entered my classroom on Tuesday morning, I noted how difficult it would be to keep what happens in Vegas in Vegas, when I looked like I'd been hit by a truck. Fortunately I must look like I've been hit by a truck on a semi-regular basis, because no one seemed to notice.
That Tuesday afternoon, after school, two things happened:
I bought $225 worth of "Save Darfur" bracelets for my students to sell at the school store.
I gave Ronic $100 at Giant.
So secretly, I managed to lose money. And I realize that the Bible emphasizes that you should give just to give, without sharing every "selfless" thing you do with the world. And of course I agree, but I need to emphasize a revelation - giving does amazing things to one's insides. It's like all the self-doubt and disappointment and guilt that riddles a person's inner-most thoughts is immediately superceded by pure hope and love and softness. My headache, gambling guilt, and beer gut-induced self-deprecation became insignificant when Ronic called my house to tell me she loves me. When I gave her the money on Tuesday afternoon, I was shaking, and she started to cry, held up the money and told everyone to "look at what her customer gave her." (Which was rather embarassing, actually). I cried though, too. Especially when she told me that she'd hit that part in her life where she thought she couldn't go on, and that God had sent her an angel from heaven in the form of, well, me. The customers behind me didn't seem impatient or angry that I'd caused a scene, and had forced the already backed-up line to extend a little further down the cereal aisle. The woman behind me asked where the money had come from, and I told her it came, ironically, from "Sin City." She laughed and assured me that "Jesus knows my heart," and doesn't mind if I gamble every once in a while.
My students think I'm crazy for spending $225 on rubber bracelets to fund the African Union, but I think it's good for them to see follow-through from me for a change (especially since I never return their papers on time).
So what is the point of writing this? It's honestly not to prove how virtuous I am or to suggest that I'm an "angel sent from heaven." I'm neither. I'm a mess, and the only reason I didn't leave Vegas with even more money, is because Brett and I were both physically incapable of leaving the blackjack tables while we were up more than $1800 - neither of us has much self-restraint. It is, however, to say that Brett is probably right: Mother Theresa might have been completely selfish in her selflessness. Because hearing Ronic tell me she loves me, and seeing my students wear their green Darfur bracelets religiously, feels much more gratifying than buying a pair of jeans.
Besides, now I have incentive to stick to my "no more consuming entire pints of ice cream in one sitting" manifesto. I need to fit into my current pairs of jeans.
Before I left for Vegas, I vowed I would give my gambling money - if I made a profit - to a good cause. Specifically, I decided I would donate half to the genocide intervention fund, and half to Ronic at the grocery store. Secretly I didn't want to give any surplus cash away; I wanted to buy a new pair of jeans to better compliment my recently burgeoning butt (thus the ice cream manifesto). On my way through the grocery line, though, I found myself telling Ronic that I was going to Vegas for a few days, and that if I won any money, I'd give her half. I sort of winced as the words came out of my mouth, because, like I said, I wanted a new pair of jeans.
In Vegas I met Brett and his friend, Keith, and spent the weekend learning why the City's nickname is "Sin City." We all met to watch a bunch of concerts, but managed to spend a sufficient amount of time at the blackjack tables as well. At least Brett and I did (we both have addictive personalities). So 48 hours after landing in Vegas, I managed to leave $280+ richer, with (what I imagined to be) a permanent headache, a perpetual ringing in my ears from the music, and a grand total of 20 minutes of sleep. When I entered my classroom on Tuesday morning, I noted how difficult it would be to keep what happens in Vegas in Vegas, when I looked like I'd been hit by a truck. Fortunately I must look like I've been hit by a truck on a semi-regular basis, because no one seemed to notice.
That Tuesday afternoon, after school, two things happened:
I bought $225 worth of "Save Darfur" bracelets for my students to sell at the school store.
I gave Ronic $100 at Giant.
So secretly, I managed to lose money. And I realize that the Bible emphasizes that you should give just to give, without sharing every "selfless" thing you do with the world. And of course I agree, but I need to emphasize a revelation - giving does amazing things to one's insides. It's like all the self-doubt and disappointment and guilt that riddles a person's inner-most thoughts is immediately superceded by pure hope and love and softness. My headache, gambling guilt, and beer gut-induced self-deprecation became insignificant when Ronic called my house to tell me she loves me. When I gave her the money on Tuesday afternoon, I was shaking, and she started to cry, held up the money and told everyone to "look at what her customer gave her." (Which was rather embarassing, actually). I cried though, too. Especially when she told me that she'd hit that part in her life where she thought she couldn't go on, and that God had sent her an angel from heaven in the form of, well, me. The customers behind me didn't seem impatient or angry that I'd caused a scene, and had forced the already backed-up line to extend a little further down the cereal aisle. The woman behind me asked where the money had come from, and I told her it came, ironically, from "Sin City." She laughed and assured me that "Jesus knows my heart," and doesn't mind if I gamble every once in a while.
My students think I'm crazy for spending $225 on rubber bracelets to fund the African Union, but I think it's good for them to see follow-through from me for a change (especially since I never return their papers on time).
So what is the point of writing this? It's honestly not to prove how virtuous I am or to suggest that I'm an "angel sent from heaven." I'm neither. I'm a mess, and the only reason I didn't leave Vegas with even more money, is because Brett and I were both physically incapable of leaving the blackjack tables while we were up more than $1800 - neither of us has much self-restraint. It is, however, to say that Brett is probably right: Mother Theresa might have been completely selfish in her selflessness. Because hearing Ronic tell me she loves me, and seeing my students wear their green Darfur bracelets religiously, feels much more gratifying than buying a pair of jeans.
Besides, now I have incentive to stick to my "no more consuming entire pints of ice cream in one sitting" manifesto. I need to fit into my current pairs of jeans.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Words
There are some things that people say that I never forget. Sometimes the words are formative, and sometimes they're destructive. Either way, people's indiscernible fragilities make me cognizant of how frequently I speak, and of how infrequently I think before doing so. Right now I teach 180 high school students - I think about the words that come out of my mouth sometimes when I'm frustrated, and when no one will sit down or agree with my contention that it really is possible for a 10th grader in Baltimore city to stop genocide in Sudan. I told Cortez that I wanted to run him over with my car - what if he becomes an ax murderer as a result of my irresponsible use of hyperbole? What if Cortez, or any of my other students, are like me: ostentatious and ridiculously self-assured yet secretly vulnerable and sensitive to the potentially destructive words of others? I should have studied bugs or worked in a lab training rats.
When I was 16, April, a friend on the track team, told me my stomach was too fat for such a skinny girl. I was 5'10" and weighed 135 pounds, but all of a sudden I was self-conscious about something other than the ferocious zit on my chin. I started doing sit-ups. 11 years later, I gave up because the washboard abs never materialized. I still don't like my stomach, though.
I also remember my high school friend, Selina asking me how I could be so stupid. We were at a friend's house doing math homework my senior year. Some type of trigonometry, I think. I was in 12th grade. I haven't taken a math class or balanced my checkbook since.
In ninth grade I remember Neil telling me I was pretty. He was a curly-haired senior on the cross country team, and I was a gawky long-legged freshman, covered with mud and sweat, topped off by frizzy post-running hair. Still wearing our respective ITHACA cross country mesh tank tops, we were crammed on a yellow school bus on our way from a mid-week meet. I don't remember Neil's last name, nor how I did in the race that day, but I do remember thinking it was some sort of miracle that someone found me pretty. Especially after a cross-country race. People must not have called me "pretty" very often.
Rather than list the innumerable things that I've selectively ingrained into my bizarre memory, I write this to encourage you, when you're breaking up with someone, to choose your words more carefully than one usually does. Sometimes things stick and, like your favorite jeans that you wash with a piece of gum in the pocket, there is no amount of peanut butter or patience that will ever return things to normal. Jeans, post-gum, are always a little bit jacked-up.
When Jim and I broke up, he left quickly. He had to. He was upset, I was upset, and I knew that if he stuck around for more than 8.5 seconds I'd start frothing at the mouth, beating him with my frying pan, or cleaning the toilet with his head. So he packed fast. I was still wearing my pajamas, sitting on the floor, clutching my knees to my chest. Everything around me started to look blurry and the back of the couch was scraping into my backbone and the carpet itched and I couldn't figure out what to do. So, while he packed, I did nothing. I couldn't even think or pray or remember that I was stressed-out about the school year that started in two days. I might have started rocking back and forth a little; that's what crazy people do, I think. I felt like I was going crazy.
A few days later I realized how much stuff he'd left at my apartment. In addition to the mess of what used to be me, he'd forgotten a lot of his crap. CDs. Pictures. Books. A few t-shirts that I'd worn to bed earlier in the summer. Looking for an excuse to call him and hear, "April fools, Kate! I'm coming home, I love you, I never cheated on you etc. etc.", I decided to call him. Since it was August, there was no "April fools!" rather a terse, emotionless conversation which went something like this:
Me: Hey, how are you.
Him: Not great, how are you?
Me: I'm sitting under my desk.
Him: Why?
Me: I just am. Listen, you left a lot of crap here. Do you want me to mail it somewhere, or do you want to come by and pick it up sometime I'm not here?
Him: Neither, don't worry about it.
Me: I'm not going to throw out all of your pictures and books and stuff. Where do you want me to mail it? You left an entire CD of vacation pics here...
Him: Listen Kate, if I left it there, I obviously didn't care that much about it anyway. If it's still in the apartment, sell it on eBay or throw it out - I don't want it back.
Rationally, I knew he was talking about his stuff. Rationally, I knew he probably wanted his books and CDs and pictures back, but felt guilty having me mail them all to his "new" mailing address. Still, the only thing that came out of my mouth was the word, "Clearly." I sucked in a breath of air that tasted like dirt, and the conversation ended shortly thereafter.
I since resolved to throw out most of his stuff. I finished the book that I'd borrowed from him, and gave it to a friend, turned a few of his T-shirts into gym t-shirts and tucked the shoes he'd bought me for my birthday, and the Ray Lewis jersey I'd bought him for his, to the back of my closet, and threw the rest down the garbage chute.
My advice, though, is this: if, while in the process of shredding someone's heart with a rake, you need to move out, please choose your words more wisely if you leave things behind. It's inevitable that you'll forget a few things; material things you can qualify much easier than the mess of a person you leave behind. Speaking from personal experience, though, it's hard enough to think you're dumb at math, or to spend a decade sucking in a non-flat stomach, but it's even harder to be relegated to the status of an over-listened-to CD or a paint-stained t-shirt. Personal resilience only goes so far.
When I was 16, April, a friend on the track team, told me my stomach was too fat for such a skinny girl. I was 5'10" and weighed 135 pounds, but all of a sudden I was self-conscious about something other than the ferocious zit on my chin. I started doing sit-ups. 11 years later, I gave up because the washboard abs never materialized. I still don't like my stomach, though.
I also remember my high school friend, Selina asking me how I could be so stupid. We were at a friend's house doing math homework my senior year. Some type of trigonometry, I think. I was in 12th grade. I haven't taken a math class or balanced my checkbook since.
In ninth grade I remember Neil telling me I was pretty. He was a curly-haired senior on the cross country team, and I was a gawky long-legged freshman, covered with mud and sweat, topped off by frizzy post-running hair. Still wearing our respective ITHACA cross country mesh tank tops, we were crammed on a yellow school bus on our way from a mid-week meet. I don't remember Neil's last name, nor how I did in the race that day, but I do remember thinking it was some sort of miracle that someone found me pretty. Especially after a cross-country race. People must not have called me "pretty" very often.
Rather than list the innumerable things that I've selectively ingrained into my bizarre memory, I write this to encourage you, when you're breaking up with someone, to choose your words more carefully than one usually does. Sometimes things stick and, like your favorite jeans that you wash with a piece of gum in the pocket, there is no amount of peanut butter or patience that will ever return things to normal. Jeans, post-gum, are always a little bit jacked-up.
When Jim and I broke up, he left quickly. He had to. He was upset, I was upset, and I knew that if he stuck around for more than 8.5 seconds I'd start frothing at the mouth, beating him with my frying pan, or cleaning the toilet with his head. So he packed fast. I was still wearing my pajamas, sitting on the floor, clutching my knees to my chest. Everything around me started to look blurry and the back of the couch was scraping into my backbone and the carpet itched and I couldn't figure out what to do. So, while he packed, I did nothing. I couldn't even think or pray or remember that I was stressed-out about the school year that started in two days. I might have started rocking back and forth a little; that's what crazy people do, I think. I felt like I was going crazy.
A few days later I realized how much stuff he'd left at my apartment. In addition to the mess of what used to be me, he'd forgotten a lot of his crap. CDs. Pictures. Books. A few t-shirts that I'd worn to bed earlier in the summer. Looking for an excuse to call him and hear, "April fools, Kate! I'm coming home, I love you, I never cheated on you etc. etc.", I decided to call him. Since it was August, there was no "April fools!" rather a terse, emotionless conversation which went something like this:
Me: Hey, how are you.
Him: Not great, how are you?
Me: I'm sitting under my desk.
Him: Why?
Me: I just am. Listen, you left a lot of crap here. Do you want me to mail it somewhere, or do you want to come by and pick it up sometime I'm not here?
Him: Neither, don't worry about it.
Me: I'm not going to throw out all of your pictures and books and stuff. Where do you want me to mail it? You left an entire CD of vacation pics here...
Him: Listen Kate, if I left it there, I obviously didn't care that much about it anyway. If it's still in the apartment, sell it on eBay or throw it out - I don't want it back.
Rationally, I knew he was talking about his stuff. Rationally, I knew he probably wanted his books and CDs and pictures back, but felt guilty having me mail them all to his "new" mailing address. Still, the only thing that came out of my mouth was the word, "Clearly." I sucked in a breath of air that tasted like dirt, and the conversation ended shortly thereafter.
I since resolved to throw out most of his stuff. I finished the book that I'd borrowed from him, and gave it to a friend, turned a few of his T-shirts into gym t-shirts and tucked the shoes he'd bought me for my birthday, and the Ray Lewis jersey I'd bought him for his, to the back of my closet, and threw the rest down the garbage chute.
My advice, though, is this: if, while in the process of shredding someone's heart with a rake, you need to move out, please choose your words more wisely if you leave things behind. It's inevitable that you'll forget a few things; material things you can qualify much easier than the mess of a person you leave behind. Speaking from personal experience, though, it's hard enough to think you're dumb at math, or to spend a decade sucking in a non-flat stomach, but it's even harder to be relegated to the status of an over-listened-to CD or a paint-stained t-shirt. Personal resilience only goes so far.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Funk
To be honest I've been in a funk lately. I guess I don't really know what that means, but if funk is gunky stuff that ruins something that is otherwise good, then that's where I've been. On Thursday I woke up at 5:45, and for the 14th straight day, the sun wasn't out - nor did it show any signs of emerging. The weather outside was wet and gray, my classroom was so cold that my students took the PSATs wearing gloves, and my somewhat frizzy hair was slowly starting to resemble Don King's. I was in a bad mood. I tried listening to festive music, but happy noises irritated me, I tried to pray and my prayers usually came out as lists of requests for myself and others. Meanwhile I was teaching my students about the genocide in Darfur, Sudan, and while the topic should have sparked at least a moderate amount of appreciation regarding my own life, it just depressed me. I decided the world was disgusting, and maybe the best case scenario was contracting the Avian Bird Flu. Our country is entrenched in moral depravity, we're fighting a war that we shouldn't be fighting, people all over are starving to death, the Janjaweed militia is roaming around on camels with M-16 assault rifles killing civilians at a rate of 500 people per day in Darfur, and the "love of my life" cheated on me. Rationally I knew that my own life was fine, but all I wanted to do was eat pint after pint of ice cream and then complain about getting fat. Yes. I was even starting to drive myself nuts.
On Thursday night, after decimating a pint and a half of ice cream and reading about Darfur, I felt heavier. Heavier even than 6 servings of ice cream should make me feel. I sat on the couch to watch TV, but I hate TV. I listened to music, but I'm sick of all my music. I wanted to talk to someone, but I didn't know what to say, and MS stuff is bugging both of my hands, so I didn't even want to write.
I scanned my email inbox and called Jenny - one of my runner friends from Colgate. She's ridiculous and stubborn and filled with magnetism and radiance. She cracks me up. So I called her. I told her I was in a funk and it was absurd and inexplicable and there was nothing wrong, but I needed someone to talk to. She talked. She suggested about 89 things that I know I need to do, but am too lazy to do. I must be insanely annoying to talk to sometimes. The conversation went something like this:
Me: I'm lonely. I live in this stupid apartment nowhere near my friends and it reminds me of my ex.
Jenny: Why don't you move?
Me: I like my couch. But there's still this cheeseburger stain and it reminds me of my ex too.
Jenny: You could sell the couch...
Me: It's really comfortable.
Jenny: Could you talk to someone, you know, just to get some of this out?
Me: I don't have time. My insurance won't pay for it. It won't help - I already know what's bugging me.
(At this point I could almost hear the wrinkles on Jenny's forehead start to form.)
It went on like this until I started hypothesizing that I could die in a car accident and no one would ever find out. Then Jenny, who presumably wanted to flush the phone down the toilet, insisted on coming to Baltimore for the weekend instead. We got off the phone and she said she'd meet me at the train station on Friday night. Begrudgingly I agreed. There is honestly no point in arguing with Jenny once she makes her mind up about something, and even though I'd have to vacuum, I think I needed something to take my mind off of, well, me.
In the meantime, I went to bed, woke up six hours later to another cloud-ridden day, spend my "moment of silence" in homeroom internally calling on God for help, and went about my job of educating the youth of America (I like to sound as important as possible).
Anyway, it was a normal day at City High School. Normal except my 9th and 10th graders passionately assured me that we have a chance to be on Oprah if we continue our endeavors to collectively heighten awareness about Darfur. It was normal until Octavia stayed after school to watch a multimedia presentation about Darfur by the NYT on my archaic laptop, and until perpetually pissy Patricia sent me a rough draft of an email she wrote to the local news station about the genocide in Darfur.
I left school on Friday feeling a little less funky.
Then I went to Giant, the grocery store down the street from my school. I bought an avocado and chips for the weekend, and placed the basket carefully on my lap while I waited in the interminably long line. While not moving, I asked the woman behind me if she knew of any nearby liquor stores where I could actually park and get in with a wheelchair. She didn't, but I could tell she gave my predicament serious thought (more thought than a six-pack of Corona deserves). Then Veronica, the best grocery checker in the Continental United States, poked her head out of a previously-closed line, and saw me. She pointed at me and said, "Hey! I knew I was here for a reason, get over here." I felt bad - I realized I visit the grocery store entirely too often, and I didn't want to cut the line. Before I could protest, though, the woman behind me pushed me, my wheelchair and my avocados forward.
Veronica rang me up. I told her how glad I was to see her, that I'd been in a ferocious mood, and that I loved how she arranged my groceries. Veronica is seriously the most thoughtful checker-outer one can conceive of. She hangs the grocery bags perfectly on the back of my wheelchair, so they never fall off or scrape on the wheels - this is a highly under-appreciated skill.
While she arranged my avocados and chips, she told me that I'd made her think. She told me that bagging groceries really wasn't her calling and she needed to teach or become a nurse. I told her I would find some information for her and that she'd make a fabulous teacher (which she really would). Then the lady behind me told Veronica that she worked at the hospital, and that she too could offer Veronica some career-type help. Veronica looked like she was about to pee her pants. Then, as if this Giant trip wasn't good enough, the nice lady behind me asked Veronica about a nearby wheelchair accessible liquor store. Veronica couldn't think of one either, so I said thanks, acknowledged that this was sign number 895,622 that people with MS shouldn't drink and rolled towards the exit.
Lovely lady behind me stopped me. She said, "I have nothing to do right now, why don't I follow you to the nearest store and I'll go in for you."
"Seriously - this isn't that big of a deal. Don't worry about it."
Suddenly, though, I had a fan base and they were all rallying for me to get beer. Veronica told me to take help when people offered, and that this wasn't a coincidence, and the nice lady behind me continued to insist, and even the older man who looked like he was stoned started waving his fist in the air yelling, "Yes, yes!" And honestly I felt like I was in a movie.
Minutes later, the woman I'd met in Giant followed me to a nearby liquor store where I realized I had no cash. Again, I told her to forget about it. Again, she insisted. So in the middle of a gloomy Friday afternoon, I was suddenly about to accept charity beer from a complete stranger. The woman, whose name was Barb, went into the store and came out with Corona (the perfect compliment to guacamole), and I found my checkbook in my backpack to write her a check. She argued with me about the check, but I gave it to her regardless, and the two of us started talking. I talked to her about my students, and our project on Darfur, and my friend Jenny who was coming in from NYC to rescue me from my self-acclaimed funk. She told me I reminded her of her daughter who'd just died of Cancer two weeks ago. I got out of my car and hugged her and she started to cry.
I still can't think of a solution to genocide or world starvation or the 30,000 people who died in the earthquake last week. I'm still hurt by my ex, I'm still sick of MS and I'm still a little bit lonely. Sometimes I think God is wearing earplugs, and I don't have the patience to wait for a mountain-top experience or a new boyfriend or a cure for my neurological disease, or peace in Africa, but this is what I know:
Veronica shouldn't be working at Giant, but I'm selfishly glad she is.
Barb probably shouldn't have bought me Corona because my liver isn't doing so well, but I really needed her hug and I think she needed mine too.
I had an entirely unfunky, relaxing and cathartic weekend with Jenny and she left in time for me to go to church today.
It's sunny out.
My students want to be on Oprah to save Darfur.
We do what we can with what we have, and sometimes what we have doesn't seem like quite enough. On Friday, though, it did.
On Thursday night, after decimating a pint and a half of ice cream and reading about Darfur, I felt heavier. Heavier even than 6 servings of ice cream should make me feel. I sat on the couch to watch TV, but I hate TV. I listened to music, but I'm sick of all my music. I wanted to talk to someone, but I didn't know what to say, and MS stuff is bugging both of my hands, so I didn't even want to write.
I scanned my email inbox and called Jenny - one of my runner friends from Colgate. She's ridiculous and stubborn and filled with magnetism and radiance. She cracks me up. So I called her. I told her I was in a funk and it was absurd and inexplicable and there was nothing wrong, but I needed someone to talk to. She talked. She suggested about 89 things that I know I need to do, but am too lazy to do. I must be insanely annoying to talk to sometimes. The conversation went something like this:
Me: I'm lonely. I live in this stupid apartment nowhere near my friends and it reminds me of my ex.
Jenny: Why don't you move?
Me: I like my couch. But there's still this cheeseburger stain and it reminds me of my ex too.
Jenny: You could sell the couch...
Me: It's really comfortable.
Jenny: Could you talk to someone, you know, just to get some of this out?
Me: I don't have time. My insurance won't pay for it. It won't help - I already know what's bugging me.
(At this point I could almost hear the wrinkles on Jenny's forehead start to form.)
It went on like this until I started hypothesizing that I could die in a car accident and no one would ever find out. Then Jenny, who presumably wanted to flush the phone down the toilet, insisted on coming to Baltimore for the weekend instead. We got off the phone and she said she'd meet me at the train station on Friday night. Begrudgingly I agreed. There is honestly no point in arguing with Jenny once she makes her mind up about something, and even though I'd have to vacuum, I think I needed something to take my mind off of, well, me.
In the meantime, I went to bed, woke up six hours later to another cloud-ridden day, spend my "moment of silence" in homeroom internally calling on God for help, and went about my job of educating the youth of America (I like to sound as important as possible).
Anyway, it was a normal day at City High School. Normal except my 9th and 10th graders passionately assured me that we have a chance to be on Oprah if we continue our endeavors to collectively heighten awareness about Darfur. It was normal until Octavia stayed after school to watch a multimedia presentation about Darfur by the NYT on my archaic laptop, and until perpetually pissy Patricia sent me a rough draft of an email she wrote to the local news station about the genocide in Darfur.
I left school on Friday feeling a little less funky.
Then I went to Giant, the grocery store down the street from my school. I bought an avocado and chips for the weekend, and placed the basket carefully on my lap while I waited in the interminably long line. While not moving, I asked the woman behind me if she knew of any nearby liquor stores where I could actually park and get in with a wheelchair. She didn't, but I could tell she gave my predicament serious thought (more thought than a six-pack of Corona deserves). Then Veronica, the best grocery checker in the Continental United States, poked her head out of a previously-closed line, and saw me. She pointed at me and said, "Hey! I knew I was here for a reason, get over here." I felt bad - I realized I visit the grocery store entirely too often, and I didn't want to cut the line. Before I could protest, though, the woman behind me pushed me, my wheelchair and my avocados forward.
Veronica rang me up. I told her how glad I was to see her, that I'd been in a ferocious mood, and that I loved how she arranged my groceries. Veronica is seriously the most thoughtful checker-outer one can conceive of. She hangs the grocery bags perfectly on the back of my wheelchair, so they never fall off or scrape on the wheels - this is a highly under-appreciated skill.
While she arranged my avocados and chips, she told me that I'd made her think. She told me that bagging groceries really wasn't her calling and she needed to teach or become a nurse. I told her I would find some information for her and that she'd make a fabulous teacher (which she really would). Then the lady behind me told Veronica that she worked at the hospital, and that she too could offer Veronica some career-type help. Veronica looked like she was about to pee her pants. Then, as if this Giant trip wasn't good enough, the nice lady behind me asked Veronica about a nearby wheelchair accessible liquor store. Veronica couldn't think of one either, so I said thanks, acknowledged that this was sign number 895,622 that people with MS shouldn't drink and rolled towards the exit.
Lovely lady behind me stopped me. She said, "I have nothing to do right now, why don't I follow you to the nearest store and I'll go in for you."
"Seriously - this isn't that big of a deal. Don't worry about it."
Suddenly, though, I had a fan base and they were all rallying for me to get beer. Veronica told me to take help when people offered, and that this wasn't a coincidence, and the nice lady behind me continued to insist, and even the older man who looked like he was stoned started waving his fist in the air yelling, "Yes, yes!" And honestly I felt like I was in a movie.
Minutes later, the woman I'd met in Giant followed me to a nearby liquor store where I realized I had no cash. Again, I told her to forget about it. Again, she insisted. So in the middle of a gloomy Friday afternoon, I was suddenly about to accept charity beer from a complete stranger. The woman, whose name was Barb, went into the store and came out with Corona (the perfect compliment to guacamole), and I found my checkbook in my backpack to write her a check. She argued with me about the check, but I gave it to her regardless, and the two of us started talking. I talked to her about my students, and our project on Darfur, and my friend Jenny who was coming in from NYC to rescue me from my self-acclaimed funk. She told me I reminded her of her daughter who'd just died of Cancer two weeks ago. I got out of my car and hugged her and she started to cry.
I still can't think of a solution to genocide or world starvation or the 30,000 people who died in the earthquake last week. I'm still hurt by my ex, I'm still sick of MS and I'm still a little bit lonely. Sometimes I think God is wearing earplugs, and I don't have the patience to wait for a mountain-top experience or a new boyfriend or a cure for my neurological disease, or peace in Africa, but this is what I know:
Veronica shouldn't be working at Giant, but I'm selfishly glad she is.
Barb probably shouldn't have bought me Corona because my liver isn't doing so well, but I really needed her hug and I think she needed mine too.
I had an entirely unfunky, relaxing and cathartic weekend with Jenny and she left in time for me to go to church today.
It's sunny out.
My students want to be on Oprah to save Darfur.
We do what we can with what we have, and sometimes what we have doesn't seem like quite enough. On Friday, though, it did.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Recovery
I like very much to make sense out of things. Particularly things that are messy. Ideally, I like to find a reasonable explanation for things before I go to bed. Which, I guess, is why I'm a habitual insomniac; some things never make sense.
For almost three months (which, in the grand scheme of things I realize is a short amount of time), I felt my "Jesusy" relationship with Jim fall apart. I felt this as definitively as whether or not I wear socks when my feet are cold in the winter, but I was too lazy to get up and find a pair. Especially since it was summer. I hated the feeling. Jim was, I thought, the one. He was it. So this whole need-for-socks feeling was very bad. Like I was sleeping next to an imposter, except I couldn't really sleep because my feet were cold and nothing made sense.
I can see now, why people stay in abusive relationships, and why drug addicts remain drug addicts until they overdose. At some point in life, we all make a decision that yields some type of euphoric sensation. For drug addicts, I suppose, it's the first high. For others it's the inexplicable intoxication of falling in love. I remember when it first happened with Jim. It was when I told him that I was broken and a complete mess, and he didn't run away with his hands over his head screaming. Brokenness can really only be attended to once it's acknowledged, and even then, it's really just shared and never quite fixed. Still, though, it felt nice to finally breathe properly; to share my insecurities and vulnerabilities - my internal mess - with someone else.
All at once (too quickly really), my inside broken bits were tenderly acknowledged and held and loved exactly as they were, and not how I wanted them to be. I felt like I was free-falling from 18,000 feet above ground, and Jim dropped out of nowhere, handed me a parachute and said, "Hey, this could be fun, can I come along?" To this day, I don't think there's anything as exhilirating or frightening as letting someone really know who you are - especially the messy parts. And this is why I forced myself to "work things out" when imposter-Jim started hanging around more often. I was completely incapable of reconciling the Jim that knew and loved me, with the Jim who moved in with me. I prayed, I wrote, I swam and I cornerned him into biweekly "are we okay"-type conversations. As his answer was an ostensible "yes", I started to think I was going nuts. At the very least I was delusional, and the whole thing scared me even more than my initial descent of 18,000 feet, because suddenly there was no one there with a parachute.
Imposter-Jim was much less sensitive than his long-distance counterpart who I'd started my relationship with; we'd visited monthly and talk on the phone for hours at a time. Once he moved here, though, he watched a lot of television, drank a lot of beer and wanted to go camping all the time. I stopped feeling delusional and reexamined my previously-acknowledged broken-bits. I decided to gather them up and build a wall between me and the Imposter. He didn't seem to notice, he was too busy reading espn.com. I thought maybe he was turning into a goat - something completely lacking in human characteristics, that likes to consume garbage and is incapable of conversation. He started to talk on the phone outside of the apartment, camp more often, and drink even more beer. He stopped making eye contact. Everything seemed forced, and when I'd mention this I was chronically assured that everything was fine. I decided to turn my wall into a fortress with the new broken pieces I accumulated, and started to assemble a few weapons of mass destruction (just in case). The thing is, even with my fortress and weapons, I was still convinced that diplomacy would work and the Imposter/goat would leave, and my fortress would be peacefully disassembled.
It was right around then that I got nuked.
Even before I found out he was cheating on me, my fortress, weapons and all, were systematically annihilated. Imposter-Jim imitated the way I walk.
It was just the two of us in the apartment. We didn't have a couch or anything, so he had the entire living room for his performance; I, his sole audience, was awestruck. It was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. It was like watching a Discovery Channel special on liposuction when I can't find the remote in time to change the channel. Even then, I usually turn away - not merely because the sight of someone else's fat in a tube grosses me out, but because my own judgment of someone else's vulnerability makes me feel like a nauseous version of Beezlebub. The bile in the back of my throat was more a function of my own judgment than someone else's disgusting fat in a tube, and this meant I was not a good person. At the very least I had a lot of work to do.
When I watched Jim walk across the room like me, there was no remote to change him with. Besides, he was imitating me, and no battery operated anything was en route to curing a neurological disease. So I watched, as the person I loved leaned too far forward, lifted his right leg too high, and grabbed onto my shaky Ikea desk for balance. It was so accurate and so disgusting. My boyfriend was much worse than a goat. I refused to show him how hurt I was. I refused to suggest that my own horrific judgment of liposuction patients was analogous to the fourteen steps he made across our apartment, but I was aghast. Aghast that he saw me like that. Aghast that my inside broken-bits were no longer tenderly held and loved, but regarded as ugly Discovery Channel-type entertainment. Aghast that he didn't realize any of this or feel a semblance of guilt.
I don't remember what I said to him afterwards. I doubt it matters anyway. I just remember the familiar taste of bile that rose to the back of my throat, and the definitive realization that this would take much more than a self-initiated talk to recover from. My vocal chords were too tangled to speak anyway.
Jim and I were not, and never will be "okay." That's a fact I've started to digest by now, but still doesn't make any sense. The bigger question is, will I?
For almost three months (which, in the grand scheme of things I realize is a short amount of time), I felt my "Jesusy" relationship with Jim fall apart. I felt this as definitively as whether or not I wear socks when my feet are cold in the winter, but I was too lazy to get up and find a pair. Especially since it was summer. I hated the feeling. Jim was, I thought, the one. He was it. So this whole need-for-socks feeling was very bad. Like I was sleeping next to an imposter, except I couldn't really sleep because my feet were cold and nothing made sense.
I can see now, why people stay in abusive relationships, and why drug addicts remain drug addicts until they overdose. At some point in life, we all make a decision that yields some type of euphoric sensation. For drug addicts, I suppose, it's the first high. For others it's the inexplicable intoxication of falling in love. I remember when it first happened with Jim. It was when I told him that I was broken and a complete mess, and he didn't run away with his hands over his head screaming. Brokenness can really only be attended to once it's acknowledged, and even then, it's really just shared and never quite fixed. Still, though, it felt nice to finally breathe properly; to share my insecurities and vulnerabilities - my internal mess - with someone else.
All at once (too quickly really), my inside broken bits were tenderly acknowledged and held and loved exactly as they were, and not how I wanted them to be. I felt like I was free-falling from 18,000 feet above ground, and Jim dropped out of nowhere, handed me a parachute and said, "Hey, this could be fun, can I come along?" To this day, I don't think there's anything as exhilirating or frightening as letting someone really know who you are - especially the messy parts. And this is why I forced myself to "work things out" when imposter-Jim started hanging around more often. I was completely incapable of reconciling the Jim that knew and loved me, with the Jim who moved in with me. I prayed, I wrote, I swam and I cornerned him into biweekly "are we okay"-type conversations. As his answer was an ostensible "yes", I started to think I was going nuts. At the very least I was delusional, and the whole thing scared me even more than my initial descent of 18,000 feet, because suddenly there was no one there with a parachute.
Imposter-Jim was much less sensitive than his long-distance counterpart who I'd started my relationship with; we'd visited monthly and talk on the phone for hours at a time. Once he moved here, though, he watched a lot of television, drank a lot of beer and wanted to go camping all the time. I stopped feeling delusional and reexamined my previously-acknowledged broken-bits. I decided to gather them up and build a wall between me and the Imposter. He didn't seem to notice, he was too busy reading espn.com. I thought maybe he was turning into a goat - something completely lacking in human characteristics, that likes to consume garbage and is incapable of conversation. He started to talk on the phone outside of the apartment, camp more often, and drink even more beer. He stopped making eye contact. Everything seemed forced, and when I'd mention this I was chronically assured that everything was fine. I decided to turn my wall into a fortress with the new broken pieces I accumulated, and started to assemble a few weapons of mass destruction (just in case). The thing is, even with my fortress and weapons, I was still convinced that diplomacy would work and the Imposter/goat would leave, and my fortress would be peacefully disassembled.
It was right around then that I got nuked.
Even before I found out he was cheating on me, my fortress, weapons and all, were systematically annihilated. Imposter-Jim imitated the way I walk.
It was just the two of us in the apartment. We didn't have a couch or anything, so he had the entire living room for his performance; I, his sole audience, was awestruck. It was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. It was like watching a Discovery Channel special on liposuction when I can't find the remote in time to change the channel. Even then, I usually turn away - not merely because the sight of someone else's fat in a tube grosses me out, but because my own judgment of someone else's vulnerability makes me feel like a nauseous version of Beezlebub. The bile in the back of my throat was more a function of my own judgment than someone else's disgusting fat in a tube, and this meant I was not a good person. At the very least I had a lot of work to do.
When I watched Jim walk across the room like me, there was no remote to change him with. Besides, he was imitating me, and no battery operated anything was en route to curing a neurological disease. So I watched, as the person I loved leaned too far forward, lifted his right leg too high, and grabbed onto my shaky Ikea desk for balance. It was so accurate and so disgusting. My boyfriend was much worse than a goat. I refused to show him how hurt I was. I refused to suggest that my own horrific judgment of liposuction patients was analogous to the fourteen steps he made across our apartment, but I was aghast. Aghast that he saw me like that. Aghast that my inside broken-bits were no longer tenderly held and loved, but regarded as ugly Discovery Channel-type entertainment. Aghast that he didn't realize any of this or feel a semblance of guilt.
I don't remember what I said to him afterwards. I doubt it matters anyway. I just remember the familiar taste of bile that rose to the back of my throat, and the definitive realization that this would take much more than a self-initiated talk to recover from. My vocal chords were too tangled to speak anyway.
Jim and I were not, and never will be "okay." That's a fact I've started to digest by now, but still doesn't make any sense. The bigger question is, will I?
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)