I talked with my mom today. A Tuesday.
In the din of rush hour traffic, I stood with a cellphone pressed to my ear... my free hand pressed to the other ear. Staring at my shoes, I spun slow circles next to my bus stop, and talked to mom.
It had been about a month since I'd heard her voice. A month... and not for want of trying. At least once a week I spoke with my dad, but each time I called, mom was asleep, or too tired, or too preoccupied to get on the phone. I understood... she's been working some stuff out internally. But we didn't talk about any of that today.
Mom had been on my mind all day yesterday, maybe more so than any other day. I'd tried her on the phone once. No one answered, and I didn't leave a voicemail. I didn't have to. She called me today. She knew.
...
I'm still processing, internalizing, reflecting... but for me, I think I'll always remember yesterday as one of those days (the amazing few) when my life changed forever... the world became a different place.
I witnessed the birth of a child. A new life.
Two of my best friends, Bill & Kari, invited me (allowed me, privileged me) to join them for the birth of their child. A beautiful boy. A frickin' huge baby boy.
They gave me a gift... one so sacred, so beautiful... I don't know if they have any idea how they changed my life... perhaps they do. But I'm certain of at least one thing, I still don't fully understand the personal significance of the miracle I witnessed. I'm processing.
I watched Kari bear her first son and was utterly humbled. Touched. Awed. Without a doubt, it was the most beautiful, powerful, emotional human experience I've ever been in the presence of.
To see your friend, someone you love, in such pain... but through that pain, demonstrate such clarity, and strength (of body and heart), and such blinding love. I've never seen anyone do anything more amazing. In those hours, Kari was perfect... shining with the miraculousness of being alive, of humanity.
It was also witnessing Bill and Kari together in those moments. Bill giving himself to Kari in every way he could... laughing and smiling through uncontrollable tears. Holding. Encouraging. Supporting. Loving. Bill, who normally gets squeamish at the sight of Hailey throwing up... never once leaving Kari's side.
The room was charged. Saturated with emotion... love, anxiety, hope, pain, pride, awe. I was only a witness to the event, a loving friend with a camera, but I couldn't escape the intensity of experience. I didn't want to. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my cheeks... my eyes and ears just absorbing. I felt like my chest would burst at any moment. What I was privileged to experience was just so... perfect. So miraculous.
...
Baby was born at 9lbs 12oz (that's big folks) after over four hours of labor with no drugs. What Kari did is beyond my comprehension... the most incredible display of love and strength I've ever witnessed.
Kari's father said to me, minutes after his new grandson came into the world, "Tim, there are two things in this world that convince me there is a greater spiritual power. One is the death of a loved one. The other, is seeing a newborn come into the world."
In that moment, I had to agree with him. But I might also say... "There are two things in this world that best teach us of our humanity, of the miracle that is the life we have and the value of the gift that it is. One is the death of a loved one. The other, is seeing a newborn come into the world. The former can happen with tragic ease. The later happens with immeasurable effort and love."
All day yesterday I kept thinking, "How is it that I've lived almost 28 years of my life without experiencing such a miracle. Mom... why didn't you ever tell me?"
And somehow, nearly a 1,000 miles away, my mom who birthed me... who I hadn't spoken to in a month... knew to call her son.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Gary
Two weeks ago I began volunteering at a local hospice that specializes in care for HIV/AIDS patients. A hospice, for readers who might be unfamiliar, is a health-care facility for the terminally ill, emphasizing pain control and emotional support for patients and family. While this hospice's primary mission is to care for the HIV/AIDS community, its doors are open to all end-of-life patients.
I sought this opportunity with a duel purpose: first and foremost, I'd hoped to assist those in need with whatever empathetic care and comfort that were within my abilities... not yet certain of how my 'abilities' would manifest themselves. Secondly, I'd hoped that I would gain - in some capacity - insight, empathy, inspiration, and direction for my personal and professional life.
I've been battling more than a little apprehension about writing of my experiences at the hospice. The human connections there are very real, and accelerated by the emotionally saturated nature of the environment. As a volunteer, I basically offer companionship and the genuine connection of one human being to another. That sounds a little high-brow... what I essentially do is listen, converse, engage, and joke with the residents at the hospice. I try to do so with complete honesty, leaving myself open (vulnerable?) to be affected by what we share. If I didn't do so, I'd be devaluing the energy, emotion, and time (so valuable and limited for many of the patients) that the residents are sharing with me.
In sharing my personal experiences at the hospice (on this post and in the future) I will maintain patient confidentiality and trust by altering specific details of each individual: their name, physical appearance, race, age, place of home, former occupation, etc. While taking such liberties, I will do my best to hold on to the essence and poignancy of each person and encounter. This may end up a complete disaster. I'm sure my writing abilities won't do justice, and if I ever feel as though I'm getting anywhere near compromising confidentiality... I'll stop this exercise.
...
Gary and I have been sitting by the second floor window for maybe an hour. It's his favorite spot in the activities room... sitting under the "Egyptian Painting" (hieroglyphs), Gary can watch the cars and buses lurch down the congested street below. He can admire the tree tops poking out from the sea of rooftops... little islands of greenery under temperamental Seattle skies. Today it's sunny. Gary loves it when it's sunny.
Seated, Gary's head is about six inches above mine... he sits in a very complicated looking wheel chair. Whenever we speak, he looks down to me with kind eyes that radiate patience, dignity, and always a sparkle of knowing. I have to sit to Gary's right because he can only see and hear from that side... the result of his relapse with brain cancer. Gary's a handsome guy... satiny chocolate skin with a well kept salt-and-pepper beard. The beard and his receded hairline give him a very intellectual dignity. I liked him immediately. Gary is dying from inoperable brain cancer near his brain stem.
Gary had explained that over ten years ago, he'd had a golf-ball sized tumor removed from his brain. After, chemo, radiation, and intensive rehabilitation, he'd regained all his cognitive and motor function, all except his vision and hearing from the left-side. Just over a year ago, however, he suddenly collapsed and doctors later discovered a new larger tumor that was pressing on his brain stem. The doctors could do nothing. The pressure on Gary's brain stem has caused him to lose most of his motor function. His hands have terrible tremors, his swallowing reflexes are severely impaired (he has to be fed pureed meals), and his limbs often defy his command. The left side of his face is slightly swollen and sags a bit; his left eye has the cloudy appearance of cataracts.
Gary speaks very slowly and deliberately... speaking out of the right-side of his mouth. His voice sounds distinctly like Winnie the Pooh's... which is perfect given the remarkable light-heartedness with which he speaks. We talk about travel (Gary's been all over Europe), music, favorite coffee shops around Seattle, our parents, home-towns... he gets the charge-nurse laughing with a self-deprecating blurb about how much grief he causes the nursing staff here. Everyone's in love with Gary.
At one point we're talking about good books we've read, and I ask Gary what he's reading right now... immediately regretting asking such a stupid question. So stupid. Gary can't hold a book. I apologize, and Gary responds:
"No, no... don't need to apologize," he pauses for a long breath, "good question," pause, "I'm reading Pride and Prejudice."
"Pride and Prejudice?" I blurt out.
"Book on tape," Gary winks at me.
"Of course," I chuckle, "but Pride and Prejudice? Really?"
"Yeah," pause, "Pride and Prejudice," pause for breath, "the selection," breathe, "is a bit limited," pause, "you know?"
I'm just beaming smiles at him, "How is it? I've never read it."
"Oh, it's wooonderful," breathe, "but that Darcy is a real asshole." And with that, Gary's shoulders bounce up and down as he cracks himself up. "It's tough though," pause, "I didn't know," pause, breathe, "how much I enjoyed turning the pages," pause, "of a book."
"I've never thought of that," I reply. I hadn't.
"It's frustrating," breathe, "sometimes, you know?" Pause for breath. "I can't do most of," pause, "what I used to."
"I can't begin to imagine," I interject clumsily, "but you still have a great mind, Gary."
"Yes." pause. "Thank God for that." breathe. "I have a good life, Tim." pause. "I have a lot," breathe, "to be thankful for."
I'm silent. Too affected. Gary continues, "this place is good." pause. "good people." breathe. "good care." breathe. "good food." pause. "well, the food sucks." laugh-breathe-laugh-breathe-breathe. Gary's totally beside himself.
I can only laugh along... drunk on Gary.
I sought this opportunity with a duel purpose: first and foremost, I'd hoped to assist those in need with whatever empathetic care and comfort that were within my abilities... not yet certain of how my 'abilities' would manifest themselves. Secondly, I'd hoped that I would gain - in some capacity - insight, empathy, inspiration, and direction for my personal and professional life.
I've been battling more than a little apprehension about writing of my experiences at the hospice. The human connections there are very real, and accelerated by the emotionally saturated nature of the environment. As a volunteer, I basically offer companionship and the genuine connection of one human being to another. That sounds a little high-brow... what I essentially do is listen, converse, engage, and joke with the residents at the hospice. I try to do so with complete honesty, leaving myself open (vulnerable?) to be affected by what we share. If I didn't do so, I'd be devaluing the energy, emotion, and time (so valuable and limited for many of the patients) that the residents are sharing with me.
In sharing my personal experiences at the hospice (on this post and in the future) I will maintain patient confidentiality and trust by altering specific details of each individual: their name, physical appearance, race, age, place of home, former occupation, etc. While taking such liberties, I will do my best to hold on to the essence and poignancy of each person and encounter. This may end up a complete disaster. I'm sure my writing abilities won't do justice, and if I ever feel as though I'm getting anywhere near compromising confidentiality... I'll stop this exercise.
...
Gary and I have been sitting by the second floor window for maybe an hour. It's his favorite spot in the activities room... sitting under the "Egyptian Painting" (hieroglyphs), Gary can watch the cars and buses lurch down the congested street below. He can admire the tree tops poking out from the sea of rooftops... little islands of greenery under temperamental Seattle skies. Today it's sunny. Gary loves it when it's sunny.
Seated, Gary's head is about six inches above mine... he sits in a very complicated looking wheel chair. Whenever we speak, he looks down to me with kind eyes that radiate patience, dignity, and always a sparkle of knowing. I have to sit to Gary's right because he can only see and hear from that side... the result of his relapse with brain cancer. Gary's a handsome guy... satiny chocolate skin with a well kept salt-and-pepper beard. The beard and his receded hairline give him a very intellectual dignity. I liked him immediately. Gary is dying from inoperable brain cancer near his brain stem.
Gary had explained that over ten years ago, he'd had a golf-ball sized tumor removed from his brain. After, chemo, radiation, and intensive rehabilitation, he'd regained all his cognitive and motor function, all except his vision and hearing from the left-side. Just over a year ago, however, he suddenly collapsed and doctors later discovered a new larger tumor that was pressing on his brain stem. The doctors could do nothing. The pressure on Gary's brain stem has caused him to lose most of his motor function. His hands have terrible tremors, his swallowing reflexes are severely impaired (he has to be fed pureed meals), and his limbs often defy his command. The left side of his face is slightly swollen and sags a bit; his left eye has the cloudy appearance of cataracts.
Gary speaks very slowly and deliberately... speaking out of the right-side of his mouth. His voice sounds distinctly like Winnie the Pooh's... which is perfect given the remarkable light-heartedness with which he speaks. We talk about travel (Gary's been all over Europe), music, favorite coffee shops around Seattle, our parents, home-towns... he gets the charge-nurse laughing with a self-deprecating blurb about how much grief he causes the nursing staff here. Everyone's in love with Gary.
At one point we're talking about good books we've read, and I ask Gary what he's reading right now... immediately regretting asking such a stupid question. So stupid. Gary can't hold a book. I apologize, and Gary responds:
"No, no... don't need to apologize," he pauses for a long breath, "good question," pause, "I'm reading Pride and Prejudice."
"Pride and Prejudice?" I blurt out.
"Book on tape," Gary winks at me.
"Of course," I chuckle, "but Pride and Prejudice? Really?"
"Yeah," pause, "Pride and Prejudice," pause for breath, "the selection," breathe, "is a bit limited," pause, "you know?"
I'm just beaming smiles at him, "How is it? I've never read it."
"Oh, it's wooonderful," breathe, "but that Darcy is a real asshole." And with that, Gary's shoulders bounce up and down as he cracks himself up. "It's tough though," pause, "I didn't know," pause, breathe, "how much I enjoyed turning the pages," pause, "of a book."
"I've never thought of that," I reply. I hadn't.
"It's frustrating," breathe, "sometimes, you know?" Pause for breath. "I can't do most of," pause, "what I used to."
"I can't begin to imagine," I interject clumsily, "but you still have a great mind, Gary."
"Yes." pause. "Thank God for that." breathe. "I have a good life, Tim." pause. "I have a lot," breathe, "to be thankful for."
I'm silent. Too affected. Gary continues, "this place is good." pause. "good people." breathe. "good care." breathe. "good food." pause. "well, the food sucks." laugh-breathe-laugh-breathe-breathe. Gary's totally beside himself.
I can only laugh along... drunk on Gary.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
nontrad drag
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
non⋅trad drag, verb, (abbr: nontraditional drag)
where in a nontraditional undergraduate student - typically older - shows an unconventional zeal for academics, as evidenced by their habit of carrying and reading books that Aren't Even On The Required Reading List!
i.e. extra books = burdensome drag (for nontrad); extra zeal = buzzkill-annoying-as-hell drag (for trads)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So this summer I started back at my alma mater for a post-baccalaureate year of undergrad classes. I know, scary right? And this past week I found myself sitting in my first "quiz section" in something like seven years. It was just as I remembered. The walls: institutional white. The students: half asleep (8:30 class). The TA: Venky - impatient, discontent, very familiar. The chairs: those same desk/chair combo things with the obnoxiously small and useless wedge of desk surface welded to one side of the chair. Remember?
TA: "So I assume you've all completed 142 & 152." (prereq's to Chem-162, my course).
Class: "..."
TA: "Has anyone not taken Chem-142 & Chem-152?"
Class: "..."
TA: "Alright, so you're all familiar with using WebAssign to submit your homework?"
Class: "..."
me: "Hey Venky... I'm not really familiar with WebAssign."
TA: "You said you took 142 & 152, right?"
me: "Yeah, well..."
TA: "It's the online system for homework and prelabs... WebAssign?"
me: "Yeah... well, it's been awhile since I took 142 & 152."
TA: "A while?"
me: "nine years."
Dude sitting behind me: "ph'whoa..."
me: "They didn't use WebAssign when I was an undergrad."
TA: "Okay, okay... talk to me after class."
So, yeah... I'm that guy. I kind of like it.
non⋅trad drag, verb, (abbr: nontraditional drag)
where in a nontraditional undergraduate student - typically older - shows an unconventional zeal for academics, as evidenced by their habit of carrying and reading books that Aren't Even On The Required Reading List!
i.e. extra books = burdensome drag (for nontrad); extra zeal = buzzkill-annoying-as-hell drag (for trads)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So this summer I started back at my alma mater for a post-baccalaureate year of undergrad classes. I know, scary right? And this past week I found myself sitting in my first "quiz section" in something like seven years. It was just as I remembered. The walls: institutional white. The students: half asleep (8:30 class). The TA: Venky - impatient, discontent, very familiar. The chairs: those same desk/chair combo things with the obnoxiously small and useless wedge of desk surface welded to one side of the chair. Remember?
TA: "So I assume you've all completed 142 & 152." (prereq's to Chem-162, my course).
Class: "..."
TA: "Has anyone not taken Chem-142 & Chem-152?"
Class: "..."
TA: "Alright, so you're all familiar with using WebAssign to submit your homework?"
Class: "..."
me: "Hey Venky... I'm not really familiar with WebAssign."
TA: "You said you took 142 & 152, right?"
me: "Yeah, well..."
TA: "It's the online system for homework and prelabs... WebAssign?"
me: "Yeah... well, it's been awhile since I took 142 & 152."
TA: "A while?"
me: "nine years."
Dude sitting behind me: "ph'whoa..."
me: "They didn't use WebAssign when I was an undergrad."
TA: "Okay, okay... talk to me after class."
So, yeah... I'm that guy. I kind of like it.
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