Write of Passage

Sometimes, when you move, you do your own packing.  Other times, if you are lucky, and an employer hires a service to do your packing, it seems far less of a chore.  However, I discovered years ago that it’s almost as much work as packing yourself.

Probably all of us have gone through a move at one time or another in our lives.  It’s  always hard to sift through your belongings and determine what is worth moving and what is not.  So we put out boxes and trash bags, some containers marked “toss,” others marked “Good Will,” and still others “keep.”  But going through those boxes can be an adventure, and if you have a packing company coming in, you don’t always have the time luxury of carefully sorting before they arrive.  From experience, I can tell you that it does not matter if you put huge signs on things that are or are not to be packed; if it’s it is in sight and is “legal” for the length of the move, you find at the unpacking end that you have far more items than you expected.

During our most recent move to the Caribbean, the selection process was much more difficult because it involved cutting down to “bare bones,” as our belonging were traveling over land first, and then my shipping crate on a cargo ship.  As such, we were limited not only to the number of boxes, but also to the total weight.  Because my husband fancies himself a “hard core” science fiction literary critic, his entire SF book collection was packed up, regardless of my pleadings to winnow the collection to his most important volumes.  Thus it came that his boxes outnumbered all other boxes combined, weighed three times more than everything else combined, and–worst of all–my own collections by favorite authors (mostly first print, first editions) were tossed, distributed to friends and the Good Will Bookstore, or shipped to by children for their children (the entire first edition collection of Harry Potter books, the first editions of the Hunger Games series, and assorted other books that my grandchildren could save and cash in on when the market was favorable).  Meanwhile, my husband’s idea of winnowing excluded winter clothes that he would never wear–or fit into, for that matter–and clothing he had since college (he was 64 when we moved, and if he ever dreamed of fitting into these ever again, he would have to go on a starvation diet for a year at least).

But I’m off the track.  When the boxes arrived on the island three weeks later than  promised, I had the “privilege” of unpacking all the items and re-boxing those things we could never use here.  In one of the boxes, I found pet items that belonged to a dog and a cat no longer with us, as well as Stan, Shadow, and Rincewind’s kitten/puppy collars, almost destroyed pet toys, and a variety of things that were meant for the trash, not a shipping box. Credit to the packers here.

As disgusted as I was with the packers, who clearly didn’t bother with my signs (although they may not have been able to read the two-inch letters on the signs that were packed with the items), it was actually fun to sort through the old toys and collars, and remember back to the enjoyment they gave to former and present pets.  It is amazing how one tiny kitten collar can being back memories of a bouncy, independent kitten; or a chewed up dog brush, the feisty mini-schnauzer mix Izzy hated so much that she tried to chew to pieces and hide in unusual places.  Rincewind’s first harness–a blue one with  puppy items all over it–was part of the mix, and it was so tiny that I could use it on one of the cats–as if my cats would ever condescend to be harnessed!

Among my own things were only the necessities–clothing and skin care products that should never have been packed, kitchen items that had corroded during the trip or that were not meant to be packed anyway.  Yet each of these, too, had brought back both happy and sad memories–the mandoline slicer that almost cost me a good portion of my thumb, the favorite “stainless steel” peeler that would never see daylight again.  Warm-weather clothes that fit perfectly when we left Los Angeles, but were so large that they would need to either be given away, cut into quilting pieces, or re-worked into a smaller size (that never happened).  There were business suits that found their way to local charities, of which there are so many on the island, because I am not good enough a seamstress to even think of altering them; woolen scarves and gloves that would be eaten by moths.  I hadn’t realized that I had lost so much weight between the time I started packing, and seven weeks later when the items arrived.  I had been stunned–although not unhappy–about being back to the size 8 I had worn before I married Joe, my loveable though “unathletic” husband–the man who would rather go to a movie than visit a local historical site, no matter where we lived.

And so, not only did I find old memories and a new energy level and clothing size, but I found a great reason to do something I love to do–shop for clothes!  It didn’t take long to go from an empty closet to a full one again, and a few trips off-island added to the growing wardrobe.  I wish I had known at the time what I discovered almost two years later–that the weight loss was due in large part to illness.  Specifically, depression.  The island is so small that it was impossible for me to find a job–especially since, at the time, retirement age here was 60 (they recently raised that to 65), too late for me to be employable even if I went through the hassle of obtaining work papers.

Thankfully, the movers did manage to pack certain items in which I found solace in terms of keeping busy–the examples to be used with the yet-to-be-written manuscript for a book on teaching adults to write; a few of my books on English language learning resources; a few books on special education–those I didn’t send to my daughter, who is a fairly new teacher of learning disabled and autistic children in inner-city Philadelphia.  But there was enough to keep me busy, if only I could get the energy to put the works together.

In other blogs, especially in one special one shared by our Writing 101 instructor, we read about the destructive powers of depression.  For me, medications have never worked; instead, they depressed me more and made my short-tempered and downright mean.  With help from the local mental health clinic, I managed to find my way back to humanity.  Some of those items that accidentally made it to the island helped.  Maybe the packers were attended by God or the spirits of happiness to come.  But, even after the deep depression into which I more recently sank (that I discussed in an earlier post), some of those old pet items–which are still tucked into a plastic container in the loft we use for storage–brought me back, as well as my friends both old and new, and pets old and new.

Today, I am taking this writing class (one of many that I’ve taken across twenty-five years of self-improvement), a recently discovered “talent” for drawing, friends who meet me for lunch when they have a few hours off, and–much to my own amazement–starting a new business.  All of these things have helped me become a hopefully better person, and are keeping me very busy.

Maybe life isn’t finished with me yet.

#writing101

PS: I don’t think I actually met the requirements for the Day Sixteen assignment, but it made me feel better to write about the changes I’ve undergone during the past two+ years since first coming to this island.  I will admit that I came here under duress–I did not want to leave Los Angeles which, for all its problems and earthquakes, I really love.  Life here is very different from what I have experienced in the past.  I am learning about a very different culture and set of mores that I never would have had the opportunity to learn about on a 2-week vacation. I would never have met the wonderful “locals” and the customs of not one but two worldviews–local customs that differ subtly yet uniquely on both the French and Dutch sides of this tiny island that would fit comfortably within the boundaries of Los Angeles, even with the lagoon that takes up at least one-quarter of the dot on the outskirts of the Caribbean Sea.

Dear Visual and Psychological Perceptions,

It has been a long time since I’ve addressed either of you. Visual Perception, I’d like to comment that I do not appreciate the distortions to my visual field during a migraine incident.  It is really difficult to drive during an attack, and you should have gone away years ago–or at least abated.  Additionally, perspective changes due to astigmatism in both eyes is really getting on my nerves.  It really is hard to draw when I have to question every single stroke of my pencil because you keep changing the focal point of my subject.

Psychological Perception, it would be really nice if you stopped making me question every word that is spoken to me in the wrong tone of voice, or if the words used by another cause me to question what was meant by those words.

Thank you very much for your cooperation in this matter.

Most sincerely,

Me

Dear Me,

I can do nothing about your migraine perceptions; you have what’s called an aura.  Just be grateful that you rarely get the accompanying brain-splitting headaches any more.

As for the astigmatism, start wearing those special contact lenses more often. Use more eye drops during the day. Get over losing your reading glasses every five minutes by buying or making one of those eyeglass holder chains people wear around their neck–the ones that attach to the arms of your glasses.

Suggestingly submitted,

Visual Perception

Dear Me,

Get over yourself. Unless you said something that was offensive to another person, stop worrying about what others say or think about you.  Chances are pretty good they just said what they mean the wrong way, which is how you took it. You know what it’s like to have the wrong words come out of your mouth; try assuming that’s what is happening to others. What do you care what other people think about you anyway? At age 65, you are who you are, and lots of people love you anyway.

Unerringly,

Psychological P.

Dear Visual Perception,

OK. You are right on about the contact lenses.  I’ll start putting them in more regularly tomorrow–especially if I’m concentrating on drawing with any hope of approximating accuracy.

But I really do think I’m too old to still have the migraine aura.  Is there nothing you can do?

Sincerely,

Me

Dear Me,

Glad you like the suggestion about the contact lenses. Don’t forget the reading glasses holder, though.

About the aura, most women stop seeing one–and stop having the headaches–after menopause. But some women continue with migraine symptoms for many years beyond. You’re probably one of the latter.  You react to almost all your drugs with paradoxical effects, so maybe your auras are also due to some paradoxical problem. If it’s really bothering you that much, talk to a neurosurgeon. Your husband is a mere neuroscientist. Although he probably knows the brain better than many neurosurgeons, he could still be wrong  about non-lesion or non-tumor brain malady. A nice MRI or CT scan of your head is probably long overdue anyway. You haven’t had one for at least 10 years–maybe longer.  Talk it over with your eye doctor. Be proactive, not reactive. You know the score.

Best wishes for a great eye exam and brain scan,

Visual

Dear Psych P.,

You’re right, of course–on all counts.  But do you think that my visual distortions are part of the same neuromechanisms that cause my visual perception problems? Were you copied on Visual’s emails to me? I’m not 25 any more. Might I benefit from a brain scan for you, too?

Worriedly,

Me.

Dear Me,

Visual is probably right that a brain scan wouldn’t hurt. Talk to your internist about both problems as well as your eye doctor and–if possible–a neurologist. See if they can come to a consensus.

Yours in thoughts,

Psych

Dear Visual and Psychological Perceptions,

Thanks for the advice. I almost feel as though you are reading my own thoughts. I’ll start setting up appointments with doctors before the end of the week. If necessary, I’ll take a trip back to the Mayo Clinic.

Besides the problems I asked you about, I’ve missed my kidney tumor scan two years in a row, and I’ve hit the five-year cancer follow-up mark. On top of all that, I think my upper discs and arthritic spurs are pinching a nerve or two, as I’m experiencing frequent numbing of my right arm and hand. The only reasons  why I know it’s not heart-related is because the numbness is on the wrong side, and my recent cardio exams were surprisingly good for an anemic old lady.  A trip to the mainland seems necessary after all. I’ll talk to my local internist about a referral, and have records from former surgeons sent to Mayo, too.

Both of you made some excellent suggestions and helped me think of other things that need checking so I can get them all out of the way in one trip. Once again, thanks for your advice. It would have taken me quite a while to come up with a plan on my own.

Love you both,

Me

#writing101

Losing a furry or feathered family member can be difficult, as mentioned in the Day Four assignment.  When a pet dies, we can feel a hole in our heart or soul that needs filling or closing.  While extremely sad about our loss, we each have our unique manner of replacement behavior.  Some of us never want to adopt another pet; ever.  Others want to have a period of mourning, but wish to begin thinking about a new adoption.  Still others have a need to fill the hole in our hearts immediately, because although our lost loved one can never be replaced, it is about filling that hole.  Many of us have tried all three ways of coping with the loss of a furry friend, especially as we age and our children have left the nest.  

Personally, I have never felt that I never want another pet again.  But my husband had sworn that we would never adopt another dog when our last one died of cancer at the age of seventeen.  And so. For the first time in many, many years, our home had no dog.  Izzy, a mini schnauzer mix, died about six years ago, and my husband would not even discuss adopting another dog.  We had a cat, Velvet, who was about four years younger than Izzy, and she would have to do.  For a year, Velvet reigned the household for the first time in her life.  She was becoming cranky.  Whether from aging or loneliness, we couldn’t tell.  We finally opted for loneliness and decided to adopt a kitten, as there was a “no dog” policy in effect.  But Joe was adamant that we look for a Russian Blue mix, and began an Internet search of local cat adoption groups.  We found Stanly, pictured in such a laid-back pose that he immediately caught Joe’s eye.  When we emailed about adopting him, we were told that he had just found a new home earlier in the day.  Joe was heartbroken, especially since this was the only young Russian Blue recently listed for adoption.  

All of our pets are shelter or rescue animals.  Our viewpoint for years has been that there are far too many lovely cats and dogs waiting for a forever home.  To us, spending a great deal of money on a pet from a private breeder was too much of a headache, as they seemed constantly to be kidnapped for ransom or simply stolen.  Certainly there are many good reasons to buy, especially if allergies or temperament is a key quality.  But joe and I also liked the element of surprise that comes with a pet whose ancestry is unknown.  It was one of the reasons that Joe was so disappointed that we were too late to adopt the Russian Blue mix.  

We decided to keep checking the Internet for another one that became available.  Two weeks of searching and calling or emailing made it clear that it would be a difficult search.  

During our weekly Saturday “long walk,” we passed the park near our home and noticed that there was a kitten adoption fair going on.  At the same time, we noticed a black kitten (we both love black cats; Velvet was a black cat) climbing the side of a large crate that displayed five or six kittens of various hues.  This one was clearly trying to get at a bird that was sitting on a tree branch about six inches from the crate.  No slouch, this one.  It wanted to play with that bird.  Instantly, we fell in love and decided to adopt this obviously un-Russian Blue kitten.  

About six weeks later, I received an email saying that Stanly, the kitten whose Internet photo Joe had loved, was not working out in his new home.  We’re we interested in meeting him?  We drove from our apartment in Beverly Hills to a veterinary office in Pasadena, and met a super friendly beautiful young male cat.  He had already been spayed, and we could take him home the same day, if we liked.  Joe was extatic, and, although I really didn’t want a third cat in the house, I couldn’t overrule him.  We changed the spelling to Stan Lee ( yes, Joe loves his comics), and brought him home.  Velvet was already disgusted that Shadow was in the house.  She was even more disgruntled when Stan Lee joined our family.  Shadow, after a few hours of hesitation, decided she really liked having a new playmate in the house–Velvet was far too standoffish and above the idea of idle play–and for almost a year the two younger cats were almost inseparable.  They didn’t grow apart until Stan reached full adulthood, and tried to assert himself against a very independent-minded Shadow.  But they remained besties despite their dominance issues.  

At about that time, I reasserted my need for a dog in the house.  I had recuperated from my third back surgery and needed more motivation to get out and walk.  To me, a dog was the perfect answer.  Joe fought me about this. He was too emotionally affected by Izzy’s loss, which was somehow linked to his childhood and his dog being taken away from him.  In his mind, Izzy had died only a few months earlier.  He hadn’t realized that he had been mourning for over two years.  So he relented, on the condition that I would be solely responsible for any dog that came into the household; he could not deal with the loss of yet another dog.  

And so, I began visiting the local animal shelter and checking out the possibilities.  I visited at least once a week for almost a month.  One puppy caught my eye and would be available for adoption in one week.  The deal was, you couldn’t reserve a puppy in advance of his availability.  And the pup would go to the first person to claim him.  I was first in line on the day he became available.  But he was clearly more interested in a competitor and I backed off, despite my first-come status.  Disappointed, I cruised the cages of puppies with little expectation of finding a new pet that day.  So it surprised me when this one pup, in a cage with much older and bigger dogs, kept yapping at me.  I asked to meet him.  Yes, this pup was trying to adopt me.  I asked about having him “tested” for getting along with cats, something this shelter did regularly for people who already had a different species at home.  He proved to be quite happy to play with cats, and didn’t try immediately to eat them; and he took no offense over an occasional set of claws gripping his snout (although I was a bit concerned about seeing this reaction from an older cat).  OK.  Clearly, this pup could live among cats, was sweet, wanted me as his person.  What could I do? I had to adopt him.  

Rincewind came into our home with a  one around his head the following day. The shelter policy is that no pet gets adopted until after he has been spayed or neutered.  Poor little thing.  A wretched collar, a new home, and three cats who wanted nothing more than to torment him, when they bothered to pay any attention to him at all.  Stan was the first of the cats to actually befriend Rincey, and even that took more than a week.  Thus, we “found” two kitties one year and found a dog the next.  

All was well until Joe “found” a new job on an island in the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of the Caribbean.  By then, we knew that Velvet–seventeen years old–was suffering from tumors that were riddling her internal organs.  We knew we would have to put her down because she was in a great deal of pain, but mostly because we were certain she could not survive the long trip to a new home.  

Sometimes, finding and losing come too close together.  Tearfully, we held Velvet at the veterinary clinic as she silently found a new path… 

Wow.  She waves to me while I check out. I am at a regular register toward the rear of the store; she is at the “special help” one, much nearer the exit.  My cart is right behind her at the door where the regular guard checks the receipt against the visible merchandise.  She seems to deliberately keep her back turned to me, either embarrassed by the amount of beer she has in her cart (and nothing else), or because she is afraid I will hold her up with  weather chat, or maybe some other reason…

Although she checked out at the closer register, her car is parked much further along the building than mine.  I don’t know her terribly well, but we belong to the same charitable organization on the island, and I either never paid much attention before, or I just assumed she would be the type of person who kept her eyes open and her senses aware when she walked.  I was certain I was being deliberately shunned, despite her enthusiastic waving inside the store.

My car unlocks at the click of the Unlock button on the key, and I work my cart to the hatch of my old island X-Trail to put away my purchases.  Normally, I don’t go to the CostULess by myself any more because I can’t handle heavier objects on my own. Unlike at the local grocery stores, there are no bag boys packing up my stuff  here and steering the cart toward my car, where they pack my purchases into the back.  The grocery is where I go when I’m shopping for heavy objects by myself; the CostULess is where I go for bulk light-weight items like paper towels and tissues.  Today, the only reasons I am here is that I need some quick heat-and-take appetizers for a birthday party we’re attending later in the day, and because I was expecting to see a friend who would be displaying wares from 11 a.m.  I succeed in my purchases mission, but fail to hook up with said friend.  (Later I find out she arrived right around the time I was pulling out of the parking lot. )

The oven is full of finger foods that cook at about the same temperature, and I am in the bedroom changing for the party.  For whatever reason, my thoughts keep returning to what I really think was deliberate ignoring.  Several things come to mind: I have trouble driving unfamiliar roads during the night. My night vision is getting better as I get stronger after months of illness weakened me so much that I almost completely stopped driving, even during the day, unless absolutely necessary.  I opted out of taking any part in the charity group’s only fundraiser because it is really a lot of work, and all I was doing was sleeping when the illness was in full swing.  During some of the worst days of my illness, I also lost my two 5-year-old cats that we’ve had since kittenhood.  The combination threw me into a depression I couldn’t get out of.

Another member of the organization inadvertently started pulling me out of this funk by asking me to edit an annual report for her.  I had done the same the year before, and took on the responsibility, fighting with myself (and an interim flu I caught during a meeting with the stakeholders) each day to tackle a bit more of the report.  By the time I was over the flu more than a week later, I was only half-way done, but I managed to finish it in just two days, including a few re-writes of passages that I lacked information to complete properly.  My fee was two tickets to the group’s fund raising event, which I had asked be set aside for me anyway.  Thus, I managed to attend the event with a friend and neighbor.  The second ticket had been intended for my husband, but he forgot to tell me until four days earlier that “we” were expected at a university event that he had signed us up for.  Just because I asked him for the date of the event a month earlier didn’t mean I was given it.  That’s just the way he operates–no calendar except for class schedules and meetings.  Everything else he forgets about until the last minute.  Thankfully, my friend knew the way and was willing to drive for a good time and a good meal.  Otherwise, I would not have been able to even attend a fun event because it took place on a part of the island I rarely drive to, and that I would never have been able to find on my own–with or without my husband.

So I begin to wonder if the CostULess problem had to do with the fact that I had attended the event without doing any of the work.  No, I think. That can’t be it.  But maybe I ought to take another look at that organization dinner invitation I received via email and responded with a “join” on Facebook.  I open the computer and re-read the invitation.  Hmm…  Maybe I misinterpreted it.  Looking at it again, I note that it specifies a “thank you” celebration for those who worked toward making the event a success.  I had attended, but didn’t do anything toward that evening’s preparations.  That was OK, because I had taken a leave of absence from the group until sometime during the summer, after I get myself back on my feet again.  So really, I don’t think the invitation was supposed to include me.

The next day, I shoot off an email to the group secretary asking if I had RSVP’d in error, and that I am about to change my response.  Apologetically, she responds that this event was, as I had already figured out, only for the persons who worked toward the gala.  So I immediately get into Facebook–which is excruciatingly slow for me here on the island with our poor connections to the internet–and after the forever wait before I can even post a status, I try to access the organization site only to find that I’m shut out altogether.  So I sit here writing this Dark Clouds assignment, and I am thinking, I  paid my dues for the year and am therefore a member in good standing until December when next year’s dues are in.  Is it possible that the leave-of-absence status removes me from the membership list? But we have no policy like that.  (Hell, we don’t even have by-laws or anything else in written form that discusses how the organization works.  Everything is word-of-mouth, passed down, etc.)  Or are there comments related to my RSVP that the secretary does not want me to see?  Now I’ll have to check back with her on whether she had inadvertently shut me out of the “private group” of which I am a fully paid-up member…

Bottom line: I know I should not have been included on the invitation, and that I had responded without reading it carefully.  Also, I know that Facebook can be really flaky to use at times–I even had trouble with it back in the States.  Sometimes I can’t even access my own account here!  So my shut-out may have been inadvertent.  Or was it?  Should I be upset?

#writing101

#educ_dr

A house!  My parents were buying a house, and we could move out of this apartment over a hardware store. Hooray!

It was time to buy a house, my parents decided, because my sister had been born recently, and the layout of our apartment made it hard to keep a baby in a quiet place when company came.  I think my bedroom used to be a pantry.  The place was so small that it didn’t allow my Mom any privacy to rest for an hour or two while I watched my sister.  So it was time to find a larger home.

After looking at what seemed to me like a hundred houses, my parents bought an old converted Victorian on the street behind the apartment, providing them some income from rentals, and keeping us in the same old neighborhood.  That was good because I didn’t have to leave my friends behind.  The bedroom I eventually shared with my sister felt like a ballroom.  Even better, the train tracks were one house over!

Now, when you’re twelve, the idea of living close enough to passing trains is pretty exciting: I would go out on the front porch and wave to the conductors as the train  passed, and count cars on a freight train.  Sometimes, an engineer would be on the platform of the caboose.  I’d get a real treat then: three short whoops of the whistle.  Other times, I would just read the container crs for the names of the companies shipping goods.  Best of all were the car haulers.  I got one of the first peeks at the new models each year.  The passenger cars added entertainment, too.  Often, I would watch the people in the window seats and try to guess what they did for a living, why they were on the train, where they were headed…

Unfortunately, trains can be a bit of a nuisance, too–like when you’re watching your favorite mystery show and, just when the detective is telling everyone who did it, the train would go by, rattling all the windows with the whoosh created by its speed.  In those days, there were no ear phones to plug into the TV set; there were no recording devices or cable companies that allowed you to back up and listen again. If you missed it, you missed it.  And the whole house really shook.  Although my mother never made them, I can guarantee the house was not in a location that allowed baking a perfect souffle.  Amazingly, it was easy to get used to the passage of trains during the night.  Within a week, they stopped waking me.   And yes, it’s true: I would wake up when a very regular train was running very late.  Silence woke me.

Years later, when I lived in California, my husband would marvel at me because I slept through earthquakes.  I’m convinced that the experience of living so near to train tracks in my youth was responsible for this.  Anything short of 5.5 on the Richter scale was only a passing train…

#writing101