The Journey For Us

Yesterday I witnessed a dysfunctional family in their full glory. We have a neighbor who is both deaf and mentally challenged. I do not know how I would handle the rearing of such a child, and I am not passing judgment. I will say that she was never taught sign language nor was she schooled in observing the social boundaries that so many people with her disabilities find difficult to comprehend.

As a result, she is an extremely unpleasant person to be around. She’s in her early 40s, and her parents do everything for her. She should not be attempting to live alone. This arrangement only came about when she threw a temper tantrum in the wake of her parents buying a home for her sister as a wedding gift.

At any rate, she is so spoiled, that when something does not go her way, she throws a fit until her father gets her what she wants. He has just been diagnosed with colon cancer. Her mother survived breast cancer last year. The fragile support structure that buoys up her questionable independence will not be able to hold much longer.

My phone rang about 7:30. It was the father, demanding to know what I had done to knock out his daughter’s cable. We are having a significant issue with the property’s backyard lighting, and I had shown a workman where key wires were buried. Apparently in the process, her cable line was nicked. But here’s the statement that drew me up short.

“You have to do something about this so she’ll stop calling over here and driving me crazy.”

There are so many things wrong with that, I don’t even begin to know where to start. Essentially, he and his wife created a monster and now, as their health is declining, they are dealing with the consequences of that creation.

Throughout the remainder of the day this man, less than two weeks after major surgery, was over here at least half a dozen times, at one point attempting to find the cut line himself. He apparently paid the cable company for an “emergency” repair, which he supervised at 7 o’clock last night by spotlight.

And, he could not resist the pleasure of calling the president of the homeowner’s association to report my guilt in the whole matter. As I’ve said in other venues, my hands never touched that shovel. I saw the wire come out of the ground, and I still find it difficult to believe it was damaged in the process.

For once, the HOA president was completely on my side and pointed out a pattern on the part of this whole family of shifting the blame for any and everything off their own shoulders and on to those of the nearest convenient recipient. They also expect everyone to coddle their daughter and dance to her tune as they have done for lo these many years.

At the end of the day, a sick man exhausted himself, the cable company made a tidy profit, blame was rightfully or wrongly dispensed, and the daughter learned nothing. In fact, her inappropriate behavior was only reinforced. When I looked her straight in the eye mid-afternoon and told her I did not have time to listen to her ravings, the expression on her face was one of complete incomprehension.

Clearly she is accustomed to taking center stage with her fits and having people jump to make her world right again. When something does happen to one or both of her folks, her world will come crashing down with an impact even greater than that experienced by any of us who have lost a parent.

It was ironic that this was the same day the world listened to Tiger Woods explain his all-to-late realization that the rules do still apply for him. He represents the other end of the spectrum. Neither great gifts nor deficits rewrite the basic rules of human interaction. The mechanics of life may differ, but decency and good manners remain the same.

I won’t lie. My own emotions throughout the day ran the gamut from annoyed to purely angry. But as the day closed, the most overwhelming reaction I had for the entire family was frankly one of pity. Some genies cannot be put back in the bottle and some spirits, for want of a restraining hand, cannot be repaired.

People who are constantly optimistic make me suspicious. Do they not own a television? Do they print money in their basement and get away with it? Do they just not want to admit the dark nights of the soul when they’re curled up under the stairs washing down M&Ms with vodka?

I’m not an optimistic person by nature, and after several years of not just waiting for our ship to come in, but of standing on the dock pulling on the mooring ropes of the Titanic, I wonder how much of the effort has amounted to cursing the ocean.

For as much as I make a conscious effort to learn something or to find one positive image or idea in each day, sometimes they’re just not there. My more religious friends counsel patience and faith. I like to tell them about how Martin Luther wrote theology.

Sitting on the can.

No, I’m not making that up. It was his favorite place to write his sermons and essays, and he was known, in more fervent (or blocked) moments, to hurl . . . available material . . . at the devil, whom he believed visited him frequently in the john.

It’s historically disconcerting to ponder the fact that a good dose of Metamucil could have replaced the Reformation with a completely different kind of movement.

My point, however, is that Luther wasn’t the sort to just placidly take what heaven or hell was throwing his way. He threw . . . stuff . . . back.

I often have the urge to hurl back in sheer, unadulterated, fed-up frustration and anger. At least Luther had images tangible to his own belief structure to serve as targets. I, like most people, deal with more inchoate, shifting demons.

My anger does, however, serve as my barometer. At least if I can still work up a head of steam, I care. I’m engaged. It’s the days when I can’t even get hacked off that give me pause to worry.

I’d like to be optimistic. I’d like to be patient and to have consistent faith, but apparently I was not designed that way.

This afternoon I upgraded the version of WordPress powering TheJourneyFor.us and decided to go for a new theme. I really haven’t decided the look and personality that suits this site best, so until I do, we’re going minimalist. I’ll also try to keep structural disruption to a minimum until I find what I’m after. Thanks for your patience!

Update: I think we’ll try this on for size. I’m in a notebook frame of mind these days.

Yesterday I used 30 minutes of my errand time listening to a sweet little old man in the hardware store tell me how to replace a toilet flapper. I did not need this instruction, but he needed to tell me.

I have a talent for collecting little old guys who have a crush on me. This fellow, all of four-feet tall and roughly 135-years-old, pushes his colleagues out of the way to get to wait on me at the hardware store.

He’s a very brand-specific kind of a guy and fairly beamed with approval when I knew that the convenience in question was made by Kohler. He wanted to make sure, however, that I had properly diagnosed the problem.

“Are you sure it’s not the little black rubber gasket inside the filler valve?”

“Yes sir, I replaced that. It’s the flapper.”

“What did it do after you replaced the gasket?”

“The tank fills, but you can hear running water and when the level drops sufficiently, the water comes on again and refills the tank.”

“You’re sure the float is rising and not getting stuck?”

“Yes sir, I watched it three times.”

Finally satisfied that I had indeed performed a proper diagnosis, we took up the next 10 minutes discussing the merits of brands of replacement flappers. Well, he discussed this topic with himself and I occasionally made an encouraging noise in the back of my throat.

When he ultimately picked out what he determined was the best flapper for the job, he then opened the package and demonstrated how to install it before carrying the item to the register for me.

Of course, this was what he was waiting for. When I said thank you, I gave him a hug and his chest fairly swelled out with manly pride. I assured him I would come back and specifically ask for him if I had any problems.

And then I went home and replaced the flapper in about 3 minutes flat.

The moral of this story? Sometimes patience and the least little bit of attention are the greatest gifts of kindness we have to offer one another.

As much as I hate to admit it, I am a woman obsessed. The screen of my 13″ MacBook has been flickering since October. If you could see my browser history, you would be able to follow my virtual footprints as I’ve read everything I can find about this maddening problem.

The machine is out of warranty. I don’t have (nor am I going to pay for) AppleCare. I replaced the battery when I discovered it was bulging, but I’m reluctant to put any more money into a laptop that will celebrate its fourth birthday in November.

I didn’t realize, however, how absolutely preoccupied I was with this problem until I was walking down the hall yesterday from having replaced a toilet gasket and realized I was thinking about the screen flicker.

This is a signal to me that I need to start working on refocusing my concentration. I believe you can make things worse by being preoccupied with them. I’m not saying the power of my mind will affect the laptop one way or another — I wish — but haven’t you ever concentrated on an ache or a pain until it becomes unbearable?

If this mechanical problem is as intermittent and mysterious as it would appear to be, I’m not going to change it. If the screen fails, I will have to deal with it. Any repair or replacement involving money is stressful for me, but again, the power of my mind isn’t going to make money materialize. I’ve been working on that one for years. Heck, I can’t even bend a spoon, much less turn out a C note.

Finding the correct balance between intelligent forethought and obsessive worry presents a huge challenge for me. I have to be extremely careful not to have a conscious thought when I get up in the night to go to the bathroom or my mind will be off and running. Particularly during times when my business is slow, I can and do torture myself with a running procession of negative numbers.

As I approach my 800th consecutive exercise day, I have proven I possess physical discipline. Mental discipline? Not so much, but at least I’ve reached the point of awareness.

Last night I had a difficult conversation with my housemate that left us both disgruntled and upset. She asked to go to bed about 7:30 and after she was settled watching the winter Olympics, I signed on to Facebook.

There’s a new exes group from my old hometown specifically for sharing pre-1970 photos. You’d think I’d have little to discuss with people who graduated 20 years before me, but that is not the case.

Cross-generational friendships are a fact of life in our small, close-knit ranching community, so that I consider people my mother dated in the 1930s to be friends of mine even though I know their children and grandchildren.

It all makes for a special set of connections, and I’m having a lot of nostalgic fun with the group. Last night, there were several of us online at one time and I spent a happy hour reminiscing and laughing over photos.

This led my housemate to launch into one of her favorite rambles about how I’m planning to move back and she’s going to sell everything she owns and buy a little house in East Texas.

I don’t know what is more absurd: the idea that she has either the financial resources or the ability to live alone or that I have a time machine that will take me back to my hometown circa 1968.

That’s the thing about nostalgia. Those of us who are joining together online are living in a virtual representation of where we grew up, a place where time periods shift and blend together and people who have long been resting in their graves come back to life through shared memories.

It give me enormous pleasure and comfort, but I am all too well aware that the place I miss so deeply no longer exists. My housemate, who never lived in one locale longer than a couple of years, has absolutely no ability to comprehend a town like the one in which I was raised.

I realize that her overly facile assumptions and explanations are a product of that nomadic upbringing and her brain damage, but I cannot help that she sets my teeth on edge. Her over-simplifications and frankly condescending characterizations are like salt in a wound for me.

If I could go back in time and resurrect long-dead friends and regain the security and simplicity of days gone by, I would. The fact that I cannot, if dwelled upon in the wrong light, is painful.

I also resent my housemate’s opining on things she does not understand and that are not her memories to discuss. It’s invasive and a little insulting.

We said good night badly and I don’t know what today will hold. In the light of day, I know I over-reacted, but we all have things that are ours and ours alone, memories that are deeply personal and not subject to reinterpretation by outsiders.

I don’t intend to mention participating in this Facebook group to her again, which is a shame, because there are so few things I can share with her about my life online. I thought this was one, but her almost overwhelming need to be superior and all-knowing prevents that from happening.

The incident has made me even more aware of something I’ve known for a long time. Memory, by it’s very nature, is not meant to be perfect. Don’t seek to alter another’s internal landscape. It’s not yours to touch or to correct.

For several months now I’ve been slowly accepting that we’ve shifted to a new level of my housemate’s post-stroke behavior. I am consciously trying to avoid using the word “worse” because that creates a poor mindset for me.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon researching monomania. My dictionary defines the word as, exaggerated or obsessive enthusiasm for, or preoccupation with one thing. What I was calling a fixation, is actually a form of paranoia.

Eight years ago R. gave away some items. She now believes she was coerced into doing so, which is not true. She is so obsessed with these items, however, that she often makes lists at night with titles like “Wish List for Returns.” Disturbingly, the lists grow every time she compiles them.

She exhibited similar behavior about two and a half years ago with another matter. Eighteen months passed before she dropped it. This obsession, however, shows no sign of going away, and has been an ongoing problem for at least as many months. Seeing that, I have no choice but to learn about the psychology at work here.

With R.’s obsession comes real anger, and the conviction that she has been betrayed. All the sources I read encouraged me, as a caregiver, not to argue and not to reason. One site added the footnote that feeding the delusion is not required, “I don’t hear someone outside your bedroom window, but you’re obviously upset, so let me check.”

I’m refining my variation on that. Currently I’m saying, “I’m sorry you’re upset, but you gave those items away eight years ago. There’s nothing I can do about it.” I follow that with some attempt at distraction, with varying degrees of success.

At the same time, I’m processing that R. can no longer reason beyond a certain level of steps. If she walks herself to the bathroom at three in the morning, she says she can’t go back to sleep, so she calls me to help her. The fact that I need my sleep because I bear the full responsibility for the household and earning our income means nothing to her.

I’ve been getting really angry about these night time or early morning calls because I know she has the physical ability to walk herself to and from the bathroom. Understanding the deterioration of her reasoning powers doesn’t make it any easier for me to be awakened or interrupted at whatever time occurs to her, but it does lessen my anger.

It’s not reasonable on my part to be angry at someone who lacks the ability to do a thing through no fault of their own. Intellectually, I’ve understood that for some time, but until yesterday I had not, in any organized way, looked up the terms, read the definitions and examples, and absorbed the information.

To a large extent, right now, I’m fighting my own gut-level reactions and preconceived notions much more than R.’s actual behavior. She often puts me in an emotional place that makes me feel the need to defend or to protect myself. In truth, there is no need for me to do either. The place I really need to be is non-reaction — difficult given my personality — but a definable goal all the same.

Starting around midnight on Wednesday and continuing through midnight last night, North Texas experienced steady snow fall, resulting in the greatest accumulation I’ve seen in the 20 years I’ve lived here. When I went out for errands around noon, I drove around a bit with my camera, just enjoying the surrealist changes in my well-known surroundings.

For some unfathomable reason, most of the schools opened on schedule, only to close again by noon-ish. Consequently, when I was out, the majority of the people I saw playing in the snow were grown-ups.

Equipped with my rubber-soled, waterproof, Justin work boots, I, too, ventured outside the warmth of the car to slog around the botanic gardens. I didn’t stay out long, because I really don’t own outer gear appropriate for that kind of weather, but I simply couldn’t resist getting out in the stuff a little.

Growing up in West Texas, I remember fairly frequent, deep snow events up until the age of 10 or so. For several years we employed an illegal alien as a maid. She lived in the "mother-in-law" apartment behind the house and had the unenviable task of overseeing me while my parents worked.

The first year she lived with us, we had a deep snow. Chole was absolutely enchanted. We built a snowman together and hurled snowballs until our fingers were frozen. She was in her early 20s, and had never seen snow, growing up deep in Mexico at San Miguel de Allende.

I remember that particular winter storm best because of her reaction to it. Even at that young age, I was able to understand that for her, it was a magic transformation of a world that was normally hot and dry.

This morning, when I awakened to a pristine white landscape, I realized that the other transforming effect of a new snow is the silence. Our normally busy street was deserted and the only sounds that disturbed the quiet was the occasional thump when a clump broke free from the branches of the pine tree that overhangs my bedroom roof.

The meteorologists say we’re having an El Nino winter. The climate debaters say this is a harbinger of unusual weather events signaling the growing severity of global warming. I say this was an event that made adults play, returned pleasant childhood memories to my thoughts, and brought peaceful silence to the city.

Right now, at this minute? I’m totally good with that.

Yesterday our local paper carried the story of a paralyzed young man, Kevin Curnutt, now in his 40s, who was shot in the head at age 13. He and his friend did nothing but ride their dirt bikes too close to the remote home of a reclusive nut job. The man waited on the trail, took careful aim, and blasted both boys off their bikes with a shotgun. One boy died. Curnutt suffered a traumatic brain injury that left him paralyzed. The shooter committed suicide by cop.

For 14 years, Curnutt put himself through grueling physical therapy before finally accepting he would spend the rest of his life largely unable to move. Thanks to technology, he has some small degree of control over his environment, and can work as a computer programmer and sometimes stock trader. He can’t, however, do something as simple as eat a sandwich on his own.

Curnutt’s spiritual journey to reach a level of understanding and inner peace with his condition is more than a worthy read, and one I commend to you. Interestingly, the third installment of the series of articles about his life appeared in the paper during one of my housemate’s self-pity episodes.

I watched her as she went through the morning paper, knowing she couldn’t miss the heavily illustrated article on the front page of the Life section. She scanned the story for a couple of seconds, and then threw that portion of the paper to the floor.

Over the past year I’ve noticed that she increasingly ignores any kind of material about people who have transcended difficulty. I, on the the other hand, took the time to the 24-minute video accompanying the story on the newspaper’s website.

The narrative emphasized that while we cannot control events, we can control our reactions to them. Curnutt wasn’t always successful in that regard. He had to work hard on himself to get to that point and now speaks to youth groups in an effort to share his insights.

Essentially, he has found a purpose in an existence many jaded souls would see as purposeless. I looked at this young man, who can only move his head, and thought about my housemate who can walk with a cane and who has total control of her right hand.

With that much ability, Curnutt would be given a fresh lease on life. He could realize dreams and regain independence he lost 30 years ago. She, on the other hand, thinks her life is over.

I don’t even pretend to know what to do with a self perception that skewed and ungrateful. For the rest of us. Click over and meet Kevin Curnutt. I suspect as a result, you’ll make it through at least one day without complaining about a blessed thing.

My first serious clash with math occurred in fourth grade when the insanity represented by fractions was introduced to me by a teacher I liked quite a lot. Mrs. Martin did her best to illustrate to me that calculations can be made with partial numbers, but my brain rebelled. Multiplication and long division did not rock my world. Fractions and then the lunacy of negative numbers? Please.

High school was only marginally better. I got on well enough with quadratic equations and geography, but calculus was just the demon spawn of hell. Had I been forced to take math in college, I’d still be there at 47 trying desperately to earn a BA. Instead, I found a loophole in the catalog that let me take two extra sciences rather than a single math, which explains why Astronomy, Ornithology, and Field Biology are on my transcript.

Now, my life is dictated by math. I get up thinking about numbers. I work with an eye toward running monthly totals. I awaken in the middle of the night worried about numbers that will have to be met a year from now in the form of taxes. My belief that math is evil has become my reality. My purgatory is populated with numbers.

While I was at the auto shop, I read a blog post about regarding money as nothing but a tool that allowed you to achieve certain goals. My mind instantly flashed to me, lying on my back under the sink, trying to install two little pop-out bins R. wanted to hold such necessities of life as twisty ties and rubber bands. The handle of my screw driver was too long for the space between the sink and the cabinet face. In the end, I had to go to the hardware store and buy a different tool.

Money may be a tool, but it’s never one that’s too long. It is perennially too short. And there is no handy money store where you can get an amount that is a better fit for your current situation. This morning in the New York Times I read an editorial pointing out that for those in our country who were already poor, unemployment now exceeds 30%, well above the 25% made famous by the Great Depression.

In my income bracket, it stands at 19%, making me truly grateful for the work I have, but pointing out graphically that social class status in America is shifting dramatically. I may be part of the middle class in my mind, but numerically that’s really iffy.

What the politicians, sitting in their comfortable offices, collecting their comfortable salaries, drawing on their comfortable benefits seem to be missing is a growing tide of bitterness in this country.

There is a passage in Gone with the Wind, my Tao of struggling womanhood, that I’ve long remembered:

Throughout the South for fifty years there would be bitter-eyed women who looked backward, to dead times, to dead men, evoking memories that hurt and were futile, bearing poverty with bitter pride because they had those memories.

I feel myself in danger of becoming a bitter-eyed woman. We are beset by our own generation of carpetbaggers and scalawags. My personal landscape has been razed by a hostile march to the sea. The things I believed about the world are indeed gone with the cold wind of reality.

I take little comfort in knowing there will be a generation of us for whom the bubble of security burst in what our pundits do not even have the courage to name, the second Great Depression.