Where the Wild Things Are

I spent some time in the ER this weekend. I went over to meet a friend so her partner could go home: he had to work early in the morning, and the ER was hopping, so there was a good chance it would be an extended visit. For the record, my friend is ok-- some follow up needed, but so far, so good. Luckily, her experience was not the memorable part of the story.

If you've been in an ER, you know that they do everything they can to protect privacy, but the curtained off patricians aren't sound proof. You learn a lot about the people around you-- even though you never see them, so you have no idea who they are. HIPPA in full effect.

Our first neighbor to the left was elderly and had fallen. He was there with his children/grandchildren, near as I could tell, and chances are he was dealing with some early onset dementia. Sadly, once you've lived through that plot line it gets easy to spot. To our right was a man detoxing from alcohol. From context, it seems he'd been brought in by ambulance and was ready to go home so he could get his buzz going again. 

When the doc went in to talk to Grandpa next door about his fall, the guy on the right hit the nausea faze of sobriety.  I could not have scripted this if I was a Hollywood producer: when Doc asked "Any nausea" on our left, the vomiting started to our right. I swear I am going to land in Hell, because at that moment, I broke. The movie was rolling, and I could see the jump cuts as well as the bloopers. The nurses got Rightie some Zofran and gave him some more time to settle in before reassessing his discharge timeline.

As I was losing my composure, Grandpa was discharged, and replaced by who I can only assume was a veteran who lost at least a leg and his bladder function. He had come in because he was out of flushing solution and had a blockage in his tubing. From his comfort explaining his circumstances, this wasn't the first time, and it likely won't be his last. He knew what he needed, and was patient enough while everything else was going on.

The nurses came back to check on R as the Vet got a phone call and began telling his story to his friend, including how crowded the ER was and how he knew he needed the visit when he felt his pants get wet while running errands. Simultaneously, other nurses were trying to get the attention of the man to our right; he was not responding to his name anymore, nor anything else. Next thing we know, nurses are descending on him, using a crash cart, starting compressions, and hollering for the help they-- and he-- needed. To our left, the phone call continued without a pause. Again... there I am in my hand basket watching this scene unfold. I'm sure the Vet has seen far worse in his life-- I mean, he's lost a leg and his bladder-- so someone crashing after a bender is likely not high on his personal Richter scale. His nurses came back, did the flush, changed his equipment, and sent him on his way. 

Rightie didn't come back before we were discharged, and we left before the next set of patients landed.

All weekend I've been plagued by random questions. Did R survive the seizure? Did he get discharged home-- and what did he do when he got there? Did Grandpa make back home without incident? And how come our Vet didn't have enough supplies to take care of his obvious need? And how did these doctors and nurses do processing all they would go onto see for the remainder of their shift? We never know the full story of anyone we encounter. All of these mini-dramas are intense for those living through them, but insignificant to anyone not involved.

Except I haven't stopped thinking about these 3 men, and their families, none of whom I have ever met. These ripples cross each other, changing wavelengths and direction after impact. I hope Grandpa has access to dementia supports and that all of our Vets have the supplies they need... and that R made it home, and his emergency contact came to check on him bringing heartfelt concern alongside a hot meal. And that it was still hot.

A Wrinkle in Time

As often happens when I am in the thick of things, it's been hard to write. Part of it is that I am respecting the privacy of others involved, and part of it is I struggle to identify words that match the experience. Somehow, "I helped stop a suicide" doesn't sound right, even though that is what happened. I worry that it sounds self-important, and that somehow I did something magical. But when I try to explain that further, I sound even weirder: "All I did was listen to The Universe." Like... ok, lady. Get over yourself.

I'm not overly religious anymore, but I do believe in Something. I guess what I mean is I'm not tied to calling Him God anymore; any religious name would do, but also it's bigger than that... like, well, The Universe. There is Something out there that sees the through-line, knows the story from before I was born and where it will go long after I've exited stage left. It's comforting to me, that Entity: I'm not responsible for the whole puzzle, just my pieces.  And when She (yes, I know I give God the male identity and the Universe the female-- these things don't make sense and I'm ok with that) tells me to do something, I trust her. Because she's the Universe.

When I was younger, I wanted psychic powers. My Dad tells of having a dream that his grandmother called for him in the middle of the night-- and when he went to her side, she was having a heart attack. I wanted to be able to do that for people I loved, but since it "skips a generation", I figured I was out of luck. It seemed pretty incredible, though, to know someone needed help without them needing to use words to ask.

This summer, I had some experiences that can only be described as Universe Magic. The most profound was when I told my friend that "the bridge is a portal" ...which turned out to be a very specific phrase she wrote in her suicide note to me, which I had not (consciously) known she had written that afternoon. I swear on everything good and holy, that phrase came to me in a flash. And it was enough to shock her back into her body, and agree to contract for survival. It was the second time that summer I had recognized her suicidality and helped her step away from the edge; sadly, it was not the last time I would play conduit for her. I am one, again, now.

Today is a day that has historical hurt for her. I am learning that these days are woven into her being; that even when she doesn't remember what the day is, her body does. And these days are hard--harder than anyone should have to cope with--and there are many such days. We visited her in the treatment program on one of these days, again unknowingly. It took her 3 days to recover from that memory: I hope this one is easier, but I fear it isn't.

I called her, as I've been doing, on the rough days as well as the good ones. "But how do I get over this?" she pleaded. "I don't have words to explain it, I replied.

...And then I remembered Meg and IT.

I loved A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L'Engle. Read it, and A Wind in the Door and A Swiftly Tilting Planet over and over. Something about these books called to me. I connected with Meg as the "dumb oldest sister" in a family of brilliance: her skills as an empath and intrapersonal communicator weren't valued, but were so essential to the family's survival. My guess is it took fictional Meg many years to learn to see her value, her own brilliance... because it took me until my 30s.  

That is how to fight back. Resist the rhythm the voice in her head provides about how useless she is and how she deserves this pain with Love. 'Rachel says I am worthy of love, of happiness, of lightness'. 'I am in a place that keeps me physically safe while I learn new patterns'. 'I can do this'.

And all of a sudden, I understood why I read that series so many times. I would need to be fluent in Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Who, and Aunt Beast and Charles Wallace and Father and IT. I needed to understand vicerally that Love is spoken in all languages, even ones that are not spoken here on Earth. That the Universe is real, no matter what you call it, and that Magic is all around you... even when you think it's not.

She is in the clutches of her memories, of all that has happened to her. She thinks she deserved it and still does: I am here to tell you she most certainly does not. She is kind and thoughtful, so generous with her love for others and so afraid to be loved herself. And she has been so deeply hurt that I understand why her younger self could only make sense of it by thinking she deserved this pain. I cry for her; I ache with her... and all I can do is love her, and hope she makes it through. 

Meg Murray got a storybook ending, and while I still associate so strongly with Meg, this is not a book written with the happy ending scripted out. I do hope, however, to find us in pig pile of love in my backyard, surrounded by cats and family and safety. Why else would the Universe have sent me to her after making sure I had this story woven into my soul? But this I know:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

-Martin Luther King, JR

 I will continue to send love and light to her for as long as I am able. 

I'm not going home...

Guster and the Mountain Goats were playing in Western Mass. We have seen Guster pretty much since they left Tufts, and we've wanted to see the Mountain Goats; plus, it's summer, so who cares it was a 5 hour drive to get there?

... sometimes you're already there... 

We met up with my high school friend and her husband for dinner. They live in NW Mass, and we hadn't seen them in forever... but it was like we'd just seen them last month. That alone was worth the drive over.

The concert was at Mass MoCA, outdoors between buildings. We didn't get there in time to view the museum, but we will need to go back to do so. The stage is set up on tar, so it's not as comfortable as Thompson's Point or the Shelburne Museum, but it also feels more intimate because you're surrounded by buildings. 

The Mountain Goats were awesome, and Guster is one of my favorites to see live. On The Ocean wasn't in the cards this year, but this will do quite nicely. We had a really great time dancing around an singing and just generally being free. I highly recommend communal enjoyment as a coping strategy.

As a nod to our age, we got a hotel room. 15 years ago we'd have gone over and back but... that was 15 years ago. Besides, I wanted to swing into the King Arthur Bakery on our way up 91. I have some real Vermont loves: Long Trail Brewing, King Arthur, Cabot cheese, and Ben and Jerry's. Some trip I'm going to combine all 4 stops and just live my best 802 life. This wasn't the day for it though-- I actually think we need to start in Burlington and head south to make the timing right, but that's another post for another day.

... sometimes you can't go home...

We headed out from Bennington (fun fact: the 1950s hotel we stayed at had an old HoJo's orange roofed building used as storage) towards King Arthur. VT has quite a few roads closed these days; 91S was shut down for an exit yesterday, and we got detoured on 5E today. We got to the bakery at 11:45 AM-- not a recommended time on a Sunday, as everyone else was also there-- and decided adding 4 hours of driving to get to Cabot and Ben and Jerry's wasn't a wise move at this juncture. But, we could head to Danville and have lunch at the Red Barn Brewery. And, Dave thinks, we might be able to follow the Bayley Hazen Road...

... And I look at you, I'm there... 

We've been driving across VT since 2015 when we took Ben to visit Clarkson, and then to attend... Ben also raced up and down the state, and we made it to as many of those races as we could. Driving in VT feels safe. It often means we're going to see him... or it means we're remembering those past trips. We have our standard stop at the bridge (VT side, because NE > NY), favorite convenience stores, and favorite restaurants. We watched The Red Barn get built... and open in early 2020 (IYKYK). The beer is good, the food made from fresh local ingredients and spent grains, and the vibe quiet and honest.  As Dave said today, it's our spot.

But this tale is also about finding the Old Road. If you don't know, I am fascinated by old roads. I watch houses to see if they're facing the "right" way, and look for old road beds and misplaced electric poles. This old road has major history to it. The Bayley-Hazen is a Military Rd built during the Revolutionary War as part of the plans to get into/out of Canada. Dave found it after researching Hazen's Notch that the GPS wanted us to take on that first trip over and the locals had told us "Your GPS is lying to you. Turn around" which, begrudgingly we did, and went over that way when there wasn't any snow on the ground. We found a section off of Rt 15, and have kept looking since.

... when I look at you, I'm there...

Today, we found it. Dave accurately surmised that if we got off 91 in Barnet and headed for Peacham we might find it. Myrtle kept nudging us back towards 91, and we kept making her reroute us... until we landed on the North Bayley Hazen, a dirt road that wound through the back woods and rolling hills, eventually putting us on Rt 2 at the light in Danville. We swung into Marty's for a Long Trail pack and some Cabot cheese, got some lunch at The Red Barn...

...and headed home.

Are you there, Universe? It's me, Rachel.

 I don't exactly know why I stopped writing. I'm sure I could blame it on being busy, but it's more than that. Somehow, I forgot that part of how I cope with all that is going on in the world is through words: finding the right words for the perfectly crafted sentence. It is through this process of typing, deleting, revising that helps me figure out how I fit into the current puzzle. When I don't write, I don't consciously miss it, but it means I lose access to the deepest parts of me that are there to help.

I didn't grow up using a journal or a diary. I mean, I went through some phases, but nothing really stuck until blogs came about... and then when the internet changed and blogs were less common, well, I wrote less. There is a magic in the publishing for me--knowing someone might read what I write gives it more of a purpose, I guess. Because it's never been about me figuring it out (whatever 'it' we're talking about) but about me figuring it out and then sharing that with someone else. As a Capitol E extrovert, I am energized by sharing my inner thoughts with others. Keeping a journal feels helpful...but sharing one feels right.

My body has also let me know that I'm not as 'ok' as I think. Some of it is due to aging, certainly, but I have developed some specific pain over the last 3 months that tells me my self care game needs more. It took me awhile to notice that I am having multiple ocular migraines per day because I don't get headaches and I've had floaters since I had a blood vessel burst in my left eye when I was 10. It also turns out that people don't see light halos quite as often as I do (who knew)? The neck pain was more immediately recognizable for what it was; the TMJ issue, however, drove the point home. Ok. Got it. Could you please stop screaming at me now?

It took a friend writing to remind me that this modality is helpful for me to process things and get them out of my body so I don't hold onto the stress anymore. And so, dear Universe, here I am, writing again. I don't know if you're still listening (Bueller? Anyone?) but I hope you are. I don't like living in pain, and I don't like feeling lost. So, back to the blog we go.

Wish you were here.

 There's something about nordic races. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you owe it to yourself to go.

When Ben fell in love with the activity in 5th grade, it was fun to ski around the backyard with him, watching him figure it out. When 3 other parents pushed admin to create a MS team (and Dave to coach them all), he was thrilled. His first race was a 1K loop in blustering winds that knocked an alpine ski lift of the rails and his little patootie back down the hill.... and he couldn't wait to race again. In for a penny.

The thing about nordic is you get to know the competitors. All of them, across the league. We transitioned from middle school races to high school. We watched them cut minutes off their times. We watched them grow up. 

USCSA races followed, requiring us to travel across NNE to continue snowbanking. There was the girl from Cornell, who asked me to hold her glasses when they kept fogging up. The boy from West Point who had never been on skis and gutted out 4 laps. Ben's teammates, who were continually surprised by us showing up as often as we did. And we showed up as often as we could, because we love to watch. We went to NH on Saturday to watch Clarkson race, knowing the coach and 2 skiers. Bonus--Army was there, too.

Last year, we got to watch him coach/wax for Estonia at the World University Games, and then again at NCAA Nationals. Since then, we've watched (remotely, of course) 4 of his kids ski in World Cup races. We may have only spent about 8 hours with each of these kids, but being there for their success is just as gratifying as it was watching our MVC skiers make gains.

Being a mom has changed my life, but being a nordic mom has enhanced it in ways I never envisioned (although having the Winter Olympics on during labor should have been a clue). That we came to love this sport as parents has infused it with all the memories of all the past events. The Maranacook course reminds me of when Cate gave it a try in 6th grade. Telsar Relays bring back memories of the Dirigo and Telstar teams in a line cheering Ben's friend Isaac as he came out of the woods. Titcomb is where we celebrated many of Ben's birthdays... and on one very cold day Cate confirmed this wasn't the sport for her. I can't think of a trip to Presque Isle without remembering the blizzards they skied in at States. Twice.

Today was MVC Day 2 and I got permission to leave school early to be there. All of Dave's skiers had personal best times on Day 1. This team is not in contention for winning in the traditional sense, nor was anyone looking at a top 10 finish. But when our last girl had not come across the line after all the boys had finished (girls race first this year) I was concerned. A senior and I found some of the boys, who confirmed she was upright, just side-stepping down the hills. I went back to the bridge to see her finish... and when she came down the hill, 2 of her teammates were behind her, coaching her towards the end. 

The announcer called out her determination and embodiment of the sport as she crossed the line. I don't think there was anyone left watching but us, but we might as well been with Chad Salmela screaming as Jessie crossed the line for the Gold medal. 

Because she did win, and so did this team.

And if we're being honest... so have I.

Guest Blogger

I'm a Guest blogger on Make Teaching Joyful. Check it out over on her site.

Rock n Roll Lifestyle?

 Last night, we went to a show. This is not unusual for us--our relationship is based on music and seeing bands live. This show was a relatively impulsive one: when dates were first announced, I thought we'd be in Alaska in July. Turns out, we weren't but the show was already sold out. Dave found some tix being sold by purchasers who couldn't attend (this is the only part of Ticketmaster I like-- no scalping, just a way to get reimbursed when life gets in the way) and off we headed to Thompson's Point in the hazy afternoon heat (an actual upgrade from the scheduled night's downpours and flooding that caused a rare reschedule.) I digress: we went to a show last night, having only decided to go about 4 days ago. For this planner, that's pretty darned impulsive.

Dave loves CAKE (the band, not the dessert-- he's more of an ice cream guy). He knows all the deep cuts. I like them-- they're quirky and unique, but sometimes a bit too extra for me. I know the hits, and some of the B sides. Either way, there we were, grovin' along and following their request to not take pics or videos of the show. (I like to use band photos as my ticket stub in these modern, digital times, but our selfie will have to do. It's their show and they get to choose.)

                                                  

As the sun set (and it was an incredible sunset because of the wildfire smoke headed our way) and it got darker, it became more obvious that the couple near us had used something stronger than alcohol or pot. As Dude collapsed to the ground, almost sliding down Dudette's torso, I was no longer just at at a show. About 10 minutes prior, another woman had offered us a Starburst: no Gen Xer in her right mind would take candy from a stranger, and at a concert no less? Thanks, but I'm good. She rushes over to the Dude and gets him to eat one and have her water; Dave hears something about K. And then, without intending to do so, Mom mode kicks in.

It's this inability to let Dude deal with the consequences of his actions to the detriment of my experience that ensured I'd grow up to be a helper of some sort. I kept my eye on him, watching for any movement, while also trying to (unsuccessfully) scope out a paramedic. He would move every so often, Dudette would circle back around (Dave heard her say something about being annoyed), and then, CAKE played the opening notes: "Reluctantly crouched on the starting line." Dude hears this, and as we get to "He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse" we watch him impersonating said horse--crawling on all fours through the standing water to get to the dance pit. Mom is no longer needed.

There have been a few events this year that highlight my Lawful Good personality. I don't like breaking the rules-- even when I know it is the objectively right thing to do, or at the very least not wrong. As a student, I used to find ways to avoid the whole class lectures, knowing it wasn't because of me but also knowing if I didn't disassociate a bit (ok, I didn't know that word, but I did know I needed to 'leave' the classroom to stay safe) I'd start crying. I have vague memories of being called to the principal's office in first grade because I had told my mom I didn't want to order school lunch because we'd been told if you didn't eat everything you'd be in trouble, and I didn't like canned veggies. So... yea. This streak runs deep.

How I taught alt ed for all those years even I don't really understand. I think it was an opposites attract situation: I knew there was a freedom in not caring about the rules, but that to survive in society you need to find a way to make peace with many of them. I could use a bit less rule following in my life--and to be honest, Sunshines did help me learn to let some things go--but I'm far from Neutral. 

I like being Lawful Good. I like knowing the outcome of the choices I make. I like knowing there's little chance I'll be falling down drunk on the way out of a concert--or miss the show because I've sailed off on a separate trip. I've made my peace with how boring the made for TV movie of my life will be--which is ok, because it probably won't even get picked up for production. And as much as it kicked me out of my experience, I'm glad we're both global citizens and make sure others are if not safe, at least not dying.