Words, Power, Emotion and Life

First, a few definitions from Merriam Webster's Online Dictionary.

 Words
a. a unit of language,  that functions as a principal carrier of meaning. 

b.  speech or talk: to express one's emotion in words;

c.contentious or angry speech; a quarrel: 

 

Emotion

2  a : the affective aspect of consciousness : feeling

b : a state of feeling  

c : a conscious mental reaction (as anger or fear) subjectively experienced as strong feeling usually directed toward a specific object and typically accompanied by physiological and behavioral changes in the body

Passion

a (1) : emotion <his ruling passion is greed> (2) plural : the emotions as distinguished from reason
b : intense, driving, or overmastering feeling or conviction  

c : an outbreak of anger

5  a : ardent affection : love

b : a strong liking or desire for or devotion to some activity, object, or concept  

c : sexual desire  

d : an object of desire or deep interest

Emote

to give expression to emotion  

Life

1  a : the quality that distinguishes a vital and functional being from a dead body

b : a principle or force that is considered to underlie the distinctive quality of animate beings

c : an organismic state characterized by capacity for metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction

2  a : the sequence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual

b : one or more aspects of the process of living 

4: spiritual existence transcending physical death

5 a : the period from birth to death

b : a specific phase of earthly existence 

6 : a way or manner of living 

Sometimes life is slow, but sometimes so much is packed into a week, it leaves me reeling.  I have spent much of the last 10 years that I have been unable to work, sequestered in my home, unable to leave or engage in life due to my pain and fatigue.  When I am in pain, I can be very irritable, despite my best efforts to be otherwise.  On these days I make sure that I don't pick up the phone and engage in conversation with family or people close to me who inevitably trigger strong emotions.  Even talking on the phone period, regardless of the person to whom I'm speaking is so arduous at times, as to be compared to attempting to manually pushing my van around the block.

I am engaged in conversation with someone very dear to me.  Without a doubt we love each other.  But life has dealt us so many challenges throughout our connection, that sometimes our relationship has been extremely contentious.  I have to carefully guard and examine my words so as to prevent unintentional emotional injury.  Likewise, I have to force myself from knee jerk reactions to words which seem to trigger an historical emotional response.  I must admit, though I try, and am achieving intermittent success, this is a huge challenge for me.  On top of these historical emotions, our perceptions seem to be diverse enough that participation in a simultaneous experience elicits completely different tellings of the story.  It is as if we exist in separate, non-intersecting universes.

On this day, I am asking her what she thinks of my blog.  Yes, she's read it.  "You seem to be very emotionally attached."  she says.  "I feel sorry for the guy you call a pathological liar."  Gut kick, anger, push down, breathe...."Would you like to know more about the history of this relationship?"  I ask.  I cannot remember whether she agreed, unheeding, I go on.  "In 20 years of marriage, this man has so verbally abused his wife, that her self-esteem was completely destroyed.  She had no concept of her own worth, and until recently thought that everything that was wrong in her marriage was her fault.  Not to mention the incredible damage that he continues to deal out to his youngest son, with never-ending punishments, restrictions and endless words of shame."  "Everybody has a different perception of the same events," she notes (this is an ongoing conversation for us.)

I attempt to steer us clear of the verbal detritus.  "It's so cool!" I say  "I have had page views in Russia, Venezuela, the UK, France, Germany, South Korea!  My words travel around the world and I never leave my chair!"  "Well, Europeans like people who emote," she says, or at least this is my interpretation of her words.  I stagger.  I don't think this is a compliment.  We change the conversation to positives.  We end the conversation and hang up on words of love.

I am flattened with emotion.  Out of 46 posts, she chooses this one to comment on.  I vaguely wonder what has triggered her responses.  There is definitely some sort of sensitivity there.  Though during this conversation she stated that I am a good writer, this is not what I carry away from this conversation.  Because of my love and connection to her, her words cut deep.  As in all our conversations which disturb or hurt me, I have to ruminate and process until I work the pain out of the words, and leave only the information.  I push the pain out to float downstream, to leave my heart and soul, to derive strength instead of weakness from this interaction.

A week earlier I am working in my front yard.  I hear the unmistakable diesel rumble of a large semi-tractor trailer rig.  This is not usual as we are a residential street, though a state highway does connect with the one way street that is the eastern border of our block.  I look up and see a red pick-up truck with a topper pulling alongside the rig, essentially blocking our street.  A handsome young, black man with a Jamaican accent jumps out of the cab.  He has a headset on, which I assume is his connection to his dispatcher.  He is shouting, "Why are you in such a hurry?  Where is it that you have to get to?  You hit my truck 2 times trying to pass me!"  I look.  The driver of the pickup, a gentleman with gray hair and stubble, in his late 50's or early 60's is approaching.  His words aren't entirely comprehensible, and his step seems unsteady.  He is saying something.  It sounds like, "Well, I have damage too.  My lawnmower slammed into my cab when I jammed on the brakes."  This doesn't necessarily seem relevant, if he was the one attempting to pass on a narrow residential street.  Tensions are high, both men are shouting.  I stand up dusting dirt off my knees.  I decide to approach the two men and stand there as witness, in the hopes that my physical presence will deter any type of physical confrontation between the two men.  The semi driver is understandably incensed because he has to call it in to dispatch and it will go on his record.  I'm not exactly sure what the pick-up driver is saying.  He appears impaired, whether it is a developmental delay, a speech defect, post-stroke or intoxication, I cannot say.  It is not just his speech that is affected however.  The semi driver engages me, trying to explain the situation.  I listen to both sides.  I try to calm them.  I offer them water.  When I deliver the water, they accept, but seem too distracted to give much notice.  The semi driver, Gerard, asks me if I called the police.  I am startled.  Because, he was talking on his head set as he left his cab, I had assumed that the police had been notified.  I say that I will call.  As I am walking towards my house, I hear the pick-up driver saying, "Miss, please don't call the police."  I ignore him and continue towards my phone.  I tell the dispatcher the address.  "Tensions are high," I say.  "Please tell them to hurry because one of the drivers is impaired, possibly intoxicated and I'm afraid it might get physical."  She assures me that she will notify the officers.  I return to my witness station where Gerard is still shouting, leaving when two cop cars drive up, one of whom is in a flak jacket.  I shiver.  I hover until it is clear my presence is no longer needed.  Meanwhile, the street has been completely blocked, necessitating that quite a few drivers have had to turn around.  The whole party is moved down a block to where parking for all vehicles is available.

I finish my gardening and am readying myself to go to the Mini Store to purchase miniatures for my Fairy Garden.  I look up and see Gerard and the pick-up driver 'Art', walking from the next block towards me.  They are walking together and talking like old friends, but as they get closer they both look like recalcitrant schoolboys walking to the teacher for their punishment.  Heads hang, feet drag, but there are smiles on both faces.  I stifle an inner laugh.  They both walk up on the porch.  "We came to thank you", they say. Gerard says that he likes Montana because if this had happened on the East coast, people would have run into their houses to get away from the disturbance.  Art explains he has heart problems and over the last year he has noticed he has problems with judgement and perception.  He thinks he has a partially blocked Carotid Artery and has a doctor's appointment to get it checked.    They both thank me again, this time for the water.  The first thanks, I assume was for involving myself in such a way as to defuse a potentially fraught situation.

I have given myself a mandate.  To become an active participant in life.  If I see trouble, I will walk toward it, not away.  If I can help, even if it is only to be a silent witness, I will.  My mandate seems to have been accepted by the powers that be.  People drop on the ground before me.  Strangers give me exotic clothing.  Children hug me.  Teachers dispel me.  I am a passionate person and a fierce friend.  I love fiercely and strongly.  If you will have me, I won't be the one to let go.  I am a Valkyrie.  Yes, I am emotional.  I'm proud of it.  This blog is not about dispassionate observation.  It is about life, in all its joy and wonder.  It's messy emotions and loud words.  It's strong embraces and soft promises.  It is strong opinions and sometimes harsh words.  If I see and watch, I will FEEL, I will EMOTE.  You have in me a loud, fierce, passionate human being.  I am not going to apologize.  I will live, I AM LIVING.  I am here!  I am!

L'chaim! (Jewish salutation meaning "To Life!")

Kismet

Copyright May 2013

 

....And a Window Opens

I am giddy with life!  I am driving in pursuit of a locomotive pulling seemingly thousands of railroad cars loaded with enormous wind mill blades.  My companion in the van and I saw them as we drove on the railroad overpass.  As one, we looked at each other and said, "Let's follow it!"  And we're off, headed toward the nearest railroad crossing.  Up close, they're even more enormous.  You then have the additional impact of the length of the trucks it takes to hold those blades.  The low bass of the far-off locomotives rumbles in your chest.  The whining, clickety-clack of the train wheels beats their rhythmic tattoo over the seams of the rails.  A whiff of creosote, a touch of diesel.  Ah...life!

Just that morning, I had taken cookies and plants to the elementary school to give a gracious ending to my volunteering there.  Before I left on that journey, I had dropped in on my neighbor with a proposition.  "Look!"  I said, "Fairy gardens!"  I showed her the pictures that I had found on Facebook of flower pots with part of the side taken off, the entire height of the pot.  These pot pieces were then broken into shards which became the terraces to hold small plants and succulents, miniature bird houses, mushrooms and other magical things.  She was as entranced as I and nodded enthusiastically.  We spoke of their allure and decided that the fascination of Fairy Gardens was that they instilled a sense of wonder.  We lose our sense of wonder as we get older and yearn for it.  This reminded me of a study that I heard of years ago.  Someone had decided to ask toddlers about God.  I'm not sure how they inquired of this deity.  But the toddlers remembered God.  However,  the older they got, the less they remembered.  By the time they were adolescents, they had forgotten God altogether.  Is the loss of our sense of wonder connected to our difficulty believing in God?  Do both take the same kind of faith?   I would like to think that the belief in God would instill the same sense of wonder and joy that our fascination with Fairy gardens does. 

We have been to numerous nurseries, home improvement centers and craft and hobby stores.  We have purchased delicate ferns, vines with precious tiny flowers in different colors, succulents of all types and flavors.  We even found a tiny plant that looks like a minuscule rose tree. Everywhere we went, I told people what we were making.  Eyes brightened, mouths smiled.  People really got into it with suggestions and requests for pictures.  I felt like the Johnny Appleseed of Fairy Dust, spreading magic and joy every place we went.  We had begun to despair of either succulents or the proper sized pots until the home improvement store.  We arrived just as they were unloading several trucks.  "Do you have any succulents?"  I ask a worker with a vest.  She looks a little confused, and leads us to a flat of Phlox.  "Are these succulents?"  she asks hopefully.  I try not to laugh, while simultaneously trying to describe that most interesting of plant types, not really a cactus, not really an ordinary plant.  She asks another employee who directs us to the back of their outside "outdoors" department.  On they way, we spy the perfect sized terra cotta pots.  Two 13" pots were at the very back of their 6 foot industrial sized shelves.  "How will we get them?" I asked my partner in crime, Jane.  "You ask the short guy!" pipes a jovial voice, I look down with not a little skepticism on a jovial young man, wondering idly how somebody shorter than me was going to reach those pots.  "Does this short guy have a name?"  I ask laughing.  "Gabe - Gabriel," is the young man's reply.  For half an hour we have an engaging and mirthful guide through the bowels of the home improvement store.  "I didn't know what succulents were."  he admits as we watch as succulents were still being unloaded from the trucks.  At some point during a quest for potting soil, Gabe has wound up steering our shopping cart, "Whoa!" he says, "I don't drive carts with purses in them."  I roll my eyes, laughing while I rescue our erstwhile feminist.

We are driving along, giggling like school girls, two 50 plus women transported to another dimension where wishes are granted and we all have green thumbs.  We are laughing, joyful and happy when we spy the windmill blades, and we're off on another adventure.  After the train has crossed the river, we decide to follow it and see if it will stop at the railway yard.  We turn off onto that road I've only travelled on once, but alas our windmills have moved further on into their journey.  We decide that we will follow this new road to the end.  Jane keeps repeating, "I've lived here 20 some years and never even knew this road was here!"  We discover a huge snow plow blade that is affixed to the front of the trains.  Somebody has whimsically painted a gigantic face on the blade; googly eyes, large choppers with a shiny gold tooth, and inexplicably, a megaphone...    I take a picture, and decide the gravel of the track bed will work perfectly for the bottom of the pots.  My partner in crime agrees and struggles up the gravelly hill to assist me.

The whole week continues in wonderful delight.  We find a place by word of mouth that sells everything you ever wanted (and some you didn''t) for doll houses.  Just like model railroads, doll house paraphanalia comes in all scales.  Horrors!  What scale do we want?  We decide that because we are the 'creators' that it is permissible to mix scales.  We leave with Adirondack chairs, baskets, fishing poles, buckets, gardening tools, minute pumpkins, bird baths, what did we NOT leave with.  Oh joy!

I buy Sculpey, a polymer clay that hardens in  a low oven.  I have always loved to make small figures, and have taken a couple of ceramics classes that have allowed me to do this, but have not "modeled" in years.  I go Sculpey crazy!  I make tiny frogs, turtles, a skunk, a bluebird (of happiness?), a firebird, and 3 crazy tree frogs with long legs and droopy toes.  My fairy queen, 6 hours of effort (I followed a 37 step tutorial on making a doll face) is unanimously deemed  to be too large and will go to Jane's granddaughter.

The day dawns for the assembly.  Materials are gathered together.  Oh my God!  I don't know how to start.  I surmise that it will take a structural engineer, and quickly beckon my husband, who has watched our insanity from a distance.  It is much harder to make terraces than we thought.  But, once we get started, it gets easier.  Jane's husband has graciously cut our pots for us using a side grinder.  We have to totally release control when we shatter the sides of the pots for braces for our terraces.  We quickly find that these shards won't be enough.  Stones collected by my family from years of treks to Oregon Beaches become part of our fairy gardens.  When we start gluing our tiny bugs, and millipedes, we find these stones the perfect surfaces.

Our gardens have become objects of wonder for ourselves, grandchildren and random neighbors.  Joy has been found in discovering and creating, returning to lost skills and pastimes.  The best, is the Joy and Wonder that has followed in our wake.  And so, where a door has been closed, a window has been opened.  My soul still breathes  and expands with the rhythm of Life.  


In Joy and Wonder,

Kismet

Copyright May 2013

Small Heroes

We live in a hundred year old house in the older part of town.  If I am in a hurry, my "go to" grocery store is a small,  locally owned franchise just adjacent to the business section of downtown as well as to older low end apartment buildings.  This a fascinating store to shop at, not because of the store itself, but because of the people.  Drunks, hardworking families without cars, the occasional druggie, mingle with people from the gentrified neighborhoods extending out from downtown.  You can literally see people from all walks of life here.  The clerks are friendly  and on a first name basis with many of their customers.

Today, I am stopping for those all important limes for our Coronas while on my way to my favorite nursery to pick up potting soil.  As I leave the store, I note one of the younger clerks on break, smoking her cigarette and talking on her cell phone.  A young man in pajama bottoms, and T-shirt,  the ubiquitous gimme cap and bedroom slippers is approaching the entrance.  He stops, looks up at the sky as if entranced by the rain drops starting to fall.  He turns in a circle while staring at the sky.  His eyes roll back in his head, and he seemingly purposely throws himself to the ground with bruising force.  I think, "What in the world?"...then he starts seizing.

I run towards him at the same time the clerk says, "He's seizuring!", and an older middle-aged man also runs toward him crying, "What do we do?'  

"Don't restrain him."  I respond,  "just keep him from harming himself."  The rain is pelting down. I quickly hand the man  my purse and purchases, "Please put these by the ice machine." (It's under the entryway roof and protected from the rain.)   The young man (I find out later that his name is Chris) is seizuring hard, head and limbs banging with great force.  I place my hands under his head to keep him from banging it on the asphalt.  Chris's gimme cap is off, and his slippers quickly surrender to the movement of his feet and fall off.  His heels are banging hard on the rough asphalt.  "Put his slippers UNDER his feet."  I direct my rescue partner.  He tries futilely to put the slippers back ON Chris' feet.  I repeat, "Put them UNDER  his feet."  "I can't put them on!" my cohort replies. 

"Here. " I say beeping my van open.  "Get a bag out of the back of my van."  I  point to my Odyssey.  (I remember later that I had a blanket there also.)  "Call 911." I say to the young clerk.  "They're already on the way." she replies. The backs of my hands are getting a beating every time Chris bangs his head against them.  My cohort has the bag and is inexplicably trying to put Chris' feet IN the bag.  Feet are tangling in the straps.  "Just put it under the feet."  I try to say calmly.  Chris is drooling.  The thrashing continues for an infinite amount of time...may be 3 to 5 minutes...who knows.  We are all in a time warp.  Chris finally stops.  "We need something for his head to lie on" I say.  A woman pausing on her way into the store says, "I've got blankets in my car."  Light bulb.  "So do I." I belatedly respond, "Mine are closer."  She says.  I smile and nod my head gratefully.  

The blanket lady hands me two blankets.  I put one under Chris' head and the other under my scraped up knees.  I try to roll Chris to the right into the recovery position.  He resists each attempt, trying to sit up.  More people are gathering.  "We need to roll him to his side."  A male voice says.  I respond,  "I'm trying, but he keeps resisting me."  I ponder.  "Grab his hip and help me roll him.,"  I say to the hands attached to the male voice.  Working together, me at Chris' head, the male hands at his hip, and my cohort all manage to work through Chris' resistance and get him rolled to the right.

"You've had a seizure."  I say to Chris.  "You just rest, the ambulance is on it's way.  They'll take you to the hospital and get you checked over."   More clerks pour out of the grocery store.  "Look, he banged is head,"  one of the clerks  says pointing to a bloody spot on Chris' head.  "He fell hard."  I respond pointing to his bloodied knuckles.

A young woman runs up.  "Oh my God, Oh my God!  What happened."  "He's had a seizure."  I say, "The ambulance is on its way."  as I hear sirens getting closer.  The young woman is in shock, standing there in tears,  repeating, "Oh my God, Oh my God!"  We have a small crowd by now, all standing around looking.  The friend is stuck in panic mode,  and keeps repeating, "Oh my God, Oh my God!"  "Can you get her something to drink?" I ask the closest clerk, in hopes that it will calm Chris' friend and stop her escalating panic.  The first responders arrive.  I start giving them information."
"Does anyone have a cell phone?"  Chris' friend asks, "I've got to call his Mom"  I  direct her to my purse."  Apparently, I'm yelling because one of the firemen says, "You don't have to shout."  I feel like sticking my tongue out at him.  One of the clerks says, "I have one."  Holding it out as the friend drops my grocery bag with a clank of the sparkling cider bottle onto the pavement.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" she says, "I don't know her number."  She is frantic.   The clerk steps over and assists her.

I repeat to Chris that he has had a seizure, and the ambulance will take him to the hospital, as I gently wipe the spit off his face.  I hand Chris' friend his debit card which had fallen with him to the ground.  I ask her, "What's his name?"  "Chris," she responds. The ambulance arrives.  The first responders share information with the EMT's as do I.  Chris is alternating between sitting up and lying down.  The sun is in his eyes when he lies down, answering the EMT's questions.  I go to my van and grab another bag which I hold up for shade for Chris while he lies down.  Somewhere during his seizure, the sun came out.

Information exchange finished, the crew of rescuers assist Chris to his feet, as I remove the blankets so Chris doesn't trip on the way to the gurney.  I look for someone to hand them to.  The clerk with the cellphone takes them saying, "I know whose they are.  I'll give them to her."  I sigh with relief.  We both look over as we see the gurney start to collapse as the EMT's move the gurney into the ambulance.  They catch it before Chris falls off.  "A comedy of errors." I uselessly respond.  By now, the crowd has dispersed.  I am jangled and thirsty.  I decide I need something to drink.  I purchase iced tea.  I am right behind the blanket lady at the check-out. I thank both her and the clerk for their help.  We review the event, needing to talk the excess energy out.

I walk toward my van.  I think about all the people who helped.  Hands and cell phones and blankets.  I think about the only name that was given was the name of the victim.  I think about heroes.  People will go home and share this incident with friends or loved ones.  THEY will know.  But the greater community will be completely ignorant of this event.  So many hands, attached to unknown people.  There were no TV crews, there will be no newspaper article.  But WE know.  WE were there.  We all responded as we could, all heroes in their own small way.  Are YOU a small hero?

Peace.
Kismet 
Copyright May 12, 20013

A Door Shuts

I am ready.  I have decided that I am going to write the ending of my volunteering at the elementary school.  I have on my bright blue East Indian silk tunic, bright orange sandals, and...make-up even!  My arms are full.  I have three plants, 25 cookies for the kids in Mrs. D's classroom, and 45 for Teaching Staff since it is Educator Appreciation Week.  I have already stopped at the bookstore and ordered 25 hardback copies of One Fish, Two Fish.

First stop, the secretary.  She chooses the Purple Passion plant.  I find out where the staff lounge and deposit my selection of giant oatmeal, ginger snap, and chocolate chip cookies from Great Harvest.  If you're gonna indulge, I say do it all the way and with style.  I have left a card with my name on it.  

Next stop, Mrs. D's room.  She greets me with a smile.  I give her the plants (one for her and one for the student teacher), and the cookies for the kids.

"You didn't have to do that."  she says.

"I don't HAVE to do anything, but I WANTED to."  I counter  "I'm sorry things ended up this way."

"M's mom was just so upset that you were telling her things about her daughter unsolicited, when it should have been my place to tell her." sighs Mrs. D.


"She asked how Marisol was doing," I respond.

Her eyes widen a bit, "She didn't tell me that."  She responds back.  "But she was very upset."

"Was she mad at you?" I ask, curious.

"No, hunh uh."  

"Well better mad at me then at you.  What did she tell the principal?" I query.

"No, she didn't, she just talked to me."

Thud!  My heart.  The scales are falling from my eyes.  I had thought that she was caught between the principal wanting to keep control of things due to liability and confidentiality issues, and her wanting me in the classroom.  But I see now, it's an intimidation and territoriality thing.  I don't understand these kinds of games.  I sigh.  I work so hard to be approachable and NOT infringe.  But this has happened to me before, and I've tried to learn from it and change.  I'll have to re-examine myself.

"I've ordered One Fish Two Fish books and would like to come back and give them to the kids."  She nods, but I'm not sure she's comprehending what I'm asking.  She mentions that I might want to tutor.  I make some non-committal comment.

We hug, and I wend my way back to the office and the principal, Mr.H.  He is there and cheerful.  He greets me and we go into his "office/conference room".  We chat.  I apologize.  He says, "After 20 years in the classroom, I'm not sure I could volunteer in the classroom and keep my mouth shut."

"Yeah," I respond.  I've decided if I volunteer again, it will have to be with the understanding that I am going to share my expertise."

He nods.  "You might want to tutor," He says.  Did these guys totally miss that I'm an Occupational Therapist?  If I'm going to do anything (which I don't have the health to do), it is going to be doing what I'm trained to do, and what is my passion.  Sigh.  "So I guess this an AFGO."  I say to him, "Do you know what that is?"  Mr. H shakes his head in the negative.  We edge closer into his office.  "Another Fucking Growth Opportunity."  He laughs, delighted.

"I love that," he says. " I can't use it here, but it's so applicable." We talk, kind of skirting around the impact of the whole thing.  "Yeah,"  he says.  "The principal at Longfellow (the other low income, predominantly Native American school in town) says it like this:  The parents here feel like 'I can't buy you this.  I can't buy you that, I can't buy you much, but I sure as hell can kick somebody's ass for you!'"  I take that in to think about later.

We shake hands as I thank him again. As I'm leaving the office, I spy Mauricio sitting on the floor in the outer office.  "Mr. H!"  he pipes up.  "I'm in the office and not in trouble!"  Smiles everywhere!  We all clap and cheer.  My hands are empty, but my heart is not, as I walk out those heavy doors.  They shut behind me as I walk into a glorious sunny Montana spring day.    

May your hearts be full.

Peace.

Kismet

Copyright May 9, 2013

Heartbreak Hotel

It's a cloudy spring day in Montana.  I keep the windshield washers on Intermittent, spreading little sprinkles of water across the windshield, where they quickly dry.  I detect the slightest tinges of green along the bare tree limbs as I drive to the Elementary School where I volunteer.

I tug on the heavy front doors of the old 1940's building.  They are very heavy.  I idly wonder how little arms and little muscles get these big old doors open.  Lunch , sweaty children, paper smells crowd my nostrils as I sign the volunteer book in the front office.  It has been almost a month since I last helped in the classroom.  I was away on vacation, the teacher was out, and then last week I slept through the day; all plans superseded by my body's need to heal.

I have brought my small Handwriting Without Tears chalk boards with chalk and small squares of sponges.  Mrs. D had said that she wanted me to pull out kids and work on handwriting with them.  All my talents as an Occupational Therapist specializing in Behavior distilled down to that one note song of OT as hand writing instructor.  But, I will choose my materials and do it my way.

The kids are in transition from lunch.  Mrs. D greets me with a smile and a "Long time no see!"  I grimace, words of apology coming from my mouth.  Mrs. D picks up a paper clipped stack of papers.  The top paper has names and numerals beside them.  "I'm going to have you work on numbers with the kids. "  I pull out my chalk boards. "Is it okay if I use these?"  I ask.  Eyes wide, she nods the affirmative.  "Whatever works."

Rolando and I move to the desk and chairs in the hallway. Rolando was one of the first three kids I met in this classroom.  I recall that he does not know his letters and is very distractible.  Rolando is boneless.  He swans into the chair.  He loves the chalk and chalk board and responds very well to my verbal directions, however he seems unable to resist gravity.  Rolando is left-handed and does not hold onto the chalk board with his right hand.  He sits on it, I think in an attempt to keep himself in his chair.  Three times I have to help Rolando retrieve himself from the floor and return to sitting in the chair.  And no...the chair still does not fit this micro-mini child.  He responds with giggles and smiles when I grab his right hand and mock yell at it to "Help us!  Help us!  Hold onto the chalk boardddddddd!."

Next is bright eyed Marisol.  Marisol has Pippi Longstocking braids.She makes a variety of interesting faces as if she can't quite figure out the world.  I ask Marisol if she is right or left-handed.  This way I can sit so she can see the numbers I demonstrate.  Marisol responds with a jumble of words that I can't seem to make sense of.  I think I hear the words "color" and "paint".  I ask Marisol to pick what color chalk she wants.  She does so and plonks her hand, palm down in the middle of her chalk board like she is going to trace it.  "No."  I say.  "We're going to write numbers today."  

The way Handwriting Without Tears works is 3-part.  1.  Write the number with chalk, always starting at the top, utilizing the wooden boundaries of the boards to help form the numbers and letters as appropriate.  2.  Erase the number by tracing over the chalk, starting and ending exactly like you formed the original chalk number.  3.  Dry, tracing again, using a small piece of paper towel.  

Marisol is confused.  I am confused.  First she holds the chalk like she's holding a cigarette.  When I try to help her correct her grasp, she stacks her first two fingers on top of each other, opposite the thumb.  We finally get her grasp corrected.  I find that I have to break down my directions even further.  "Stop.  Put down the chalk.  Pick up the sponge...no, pick it up with the same hand.  No, you have to put down the sponge before you can pick up the towel."  I'm not sure where Marisol's body is, but she seems to have been caught in some land between dimensions where things don't fit together.  She does not seem terribly distressed by her difficulties and actually comments on how much she likes "writing with chalk."  We struggle through.   Mrs.  D asks me "How did it go?"  when I come in with Marisol.  I pause.  Breathe.  "Interesting."  I say.  "I'll e-mail you about it."  

I work with one more child on numbers in the hallway, before I return to the classroom in preparation for leaving for the day.  Mrs. D is instructing the class on word endings using the dry erase board in the front of the class.  There are flowers with the endings "ig", "ip" and "id" in the center.  Each petal is meant to hold words beginning with different consonants, but with the same ending, i.e. pig, jig, fig, etc.  I look.  Rolando's paper is on the floor.  Rolando is very carefully making a crayon train on the  table while Mrs. D and his classmates fill petals with ig, ip and id words.  I sit down beside Rolando.  We work together for a while before I realize that there is too much noise, movement and distraction for Rolando.  Rolando's eyes and attention buzz around the room like a hive of bees in search of nectar.  I interrupt Mrs. D to ask if Rolando and I can work in the hallway on his errant flowers.  She agrees.  I notice that there is a woman talking to Marisol.   This woman asks Mrs. D how Marisol did today.  I look back and say, "She had a really hard time following directions today."  On the way out of the classroom, I hear Marisol's mother tell her, "If you don't understand the directions, you have to ask for help."  My heart goes into my throat for Marisol.  I think to myself that direction repetition may not be enough to help Marisol find her way.

 I send Rolando into giggles when I tell him he can "P" all over the paper  Rolando is actually able to finish a whole flower before he is sent to recess by Mrs.  D.  While Rolando and I are in the hallway, we spy Mr. L, the Mental Health Aide and Mauricio (he that hideth under the table).  Mauricio turns to run away.  Mr. L grabs his arm.  Stark terror lands on Mauricio's face and he starts struggling and kicking Mr. L.  Mr. L scoops Mauricio up and bodily carries him to the office.  I cannot tell which hurts more, my stomach or my heart.

 I return to the classroom  to retrieve my coat for my trek back home.  Marisol is standing at the table.  She has a pencil in one hand and a lost look on her face.  Her mother is sitting in a child's chair at the table with Marisol's paper and a look of desperation.  As I'm putting on my coat I hear the heated words "Look at the BOARD!".   I look up, and see Marisol's mother grab Marisol's head in both hands and turn it forcefully so she is looking at the board.  My gut knots up.  I count to ten.  

"May I make a suggestion?"  I quietly ask Marisol's mother. She nods.  I continue, "It's so noisy and distracting in here, it might be easier for both of you if you finished the paper out in the hall."
"She is going to have to learn to deal with distractions."  Marisol's mother responds with force.


Big pause.  I inhale slowly, thinking as I sit down beside M's mother.  "Yes.  I understand that, but you don't put a baby who is just learning to walk, on a tread mill."
Instant anger and defensiveness radiates from Marisol's mother.   "Who are you?"  M's Mom explodes.   "You have no idea what we've been doing and what you're coming into the middle  of!  Marisol has Attention Deficit Disorder and I've been asking for help all year!"


Instant regret.  I glance down to see if indeed my foot is in my mouth, or is it in a can of worms.  "I'm so sorry."  I pause.  "I did not introduce myself."  "No, you didn't"  She says.  Big breath.  "I'm Kismet, a volunteer, but I'm a trained Special Education Teacher, as well as a Pediatric Occupational Therapist.  I've worked a lot with kids with Attention Deficit Disorder and their families.  I know how  frustrating it is when your children are struggling and it feels like you can't get any answers.  I've treated kids, worked with parents and am also a parent of a child with learning disorders so I have many different perspectives."  I grab a piece of paper and start scribbling frantically,  "Here are my numbers.  If you have any questions about how kids learn and the different choices you have to help your daughter, I would be glad to act as a resource if you're interested."
M's Mom takes the paper with the numbers on it.  "She has Attention Deficit Disorder, " she repeats.  " I understand," I say.  "I think something else might be going on too, because she was really struggling today."  I stand up.  "Good luck."  I say with my mouth and wish with my heart as I exit the room.

I have worked with so many parents.  Sometimes there is no pain greater than loving your child and watching them struggle.   Understanding and then accepting if/when your child has a developmental disability or learning disorder can stir up a myriad of feelings; denial and anger included.  Most parents, though, realize when things are not right, and are usually relieved when there are explanations and resources made available.  The hardest is when you struggle without relief.

I was completely unprepared for the e-mail which I received from Mrs. D.  It was sent Friday after school, but I did not open it until after breakfast on Saturday morning.  


E-Mail from Mrs. D to me: "Hi!  I just wanted to say that I've appreciated your help with the children, the times that you have been here.  Although, your one-on-one assistance with the children was very helpful, there are other concerns.  Unfortunately, after today we will not be able to have you back.  You shared some things with one of the parents that she did not ask for.  She was very upset about this and asked me if you were an official school employee.  I think the boundaries were crossed and you're giving unsolicited advice, which comes across the wrong way.  I realize that you are trying to be helpful, however, addressing parents is my responsibility and is a confidentiality issue.  I hope you are able to find a place that can use your passion and knowledge!  Thanks again!  :D"

I scan it once.  I read it again.  As I read it the second time, understanding dawns.  A pit begins to yawn in my stomach.  I understand.  I mourn.  I rationalize.  I question.  I call a friend.

I have made a promise to myself that I will listen to my heart.  If I see someone in trouble, I will help them.  Mrs. D was busy, so I made a choice to involve myself to defuse an escalating situation.  My friend said it sounds like the parent went to the principal.  Looking at the wording on the e-mail and remembering my discussion with the principal, I agree.  I review my actions.  If I would do anything different, I think it would be to introduce myself and my position (or lack thereof) in the classroom.  Otherwise, my heart tells me I would have said the same things.

So.  An official "AFGO."  (Another Fucking Growth Opportunity.)  Perhaps I know too much to be a mere classroom volunteer.  I doubt I will be welcome elsewhere in this same School District.  It is small and word gets around.  I will miss the kids.  The giggles, the hugs, the requests to be tickled.  Most of all, I'll miss myself when I'm with the kids.

In Peace and Hope, always learning, even when it's painful,

Kismet

Conversation with a Pathological Liar

I am agog, agoggle, flusterclucked, amazed and furious. I just got off the phone with the husband of my friend who is in the process of divorcing him.  I was attempting to impress on him that she does not have the money that he is asking for to reimburse him for her car insurance.  I have never spoken with somebody that every word out of their mouth is a lie.  I am almost wordless.  I don't even know how to explain this.  But my head is full of this story, and cannot embrace new words until this story is told.

This man brings home 3-4 times the money that his wife does.  Granted, he is paying his apartment rent and their mortgage payment, both.  At the beginning of this divorce, my friend met with a financial planner supplied by the military, from which her husband was preparing to retire. The financial planner told her that their combined incomes could not support two households, and agreed to meet with her husband.  At the meeting, which she she did not attend, the financial planner presented the husband with the numbers.  Her husband presented his own version of numbers which excluded important things like groceries and gas for each of them.  The financial planner predicted that he would be facing bankruptcy by October or November.  The husband rejected this information.  So now, he is talking to me on the phone, telling me he doesn't have the money.  Color me surprised!  I have agreed to talk to him only because she is at wits end and in tears every time she tries to pay bills with money she does not have.  The paperwork that he sent in to file for a short sale says that he has a surplus of $1000/mo.  The husband, we'll call him Dick, because I think that it's appropriate, says that he is only bringing home $6000,00/mo.  That was on his old salary.  His pay stub supplied by his JAG says that his new salary is $95,000.00/yr.  I asked him if he lied on the short sale paperwork.  He paused.  "I don't have that paperwork in front of me."

"She refuses to give up her car.  I had a buyer for it, and was even willing to pay $1,000.00."  He says.  
"Why should she give up the car?  It's the only decent thing she's getting out of the whole marriage."  I respond.  "Besides.  What's she supposed to drive?"  I ask.  
"The van."  he says. 
 "But your son drives the van."  
"That doesn't matter."  He responds.  
"Even if she gave up the Mustang, she would still be short $400.00/ mo.  And the van (a full-sized conversion van) is a gas guzzler and in need of repairs." I say.
 "What else is she paying for?"  he asks.
  I list, "Discover Card, $100.00, Capitol One $202.00, Utilities $300.00, Private Detective $50.00, Cable Bill $273.00. cell phones $250.  Gas and groceries alone are $900.00/month." 
  "How's that?"  He interrupts.  "I pay $400.00/month for gas and I commute, and I only pay $400.00 for groceries, she's mismanaging."  
I calmly reply "That's fucking bullshit!  I spend at least $600/mo. and there's only the two of us."  
"I shop at the commissary." He says.
" Well, she doesn't have the money you are asking for." 
 "What am I asking for?"  he says. 
 "Car Insurance." I say.
 "Well, I don't have it."  
"Well neither does she, you'll have to let it lapse."  This elicits a whole tirade about the bank not covering the loan if the car isn't insured.  I have no response.  Discussion of the cable bill elicits accusations.  She wanted to disconnect.  He says that she could have had the same deal he has, but she refused and said she was going to handle it.  This was when he took her to the bank to the joint savings account which held money from the sale of the jointly owned trailer, and would only sign out for the money if she wrote out the checks for the bills in front of him.  He continues to refuse her access to the balance, even for bills.  When I spoke with her, his cable deal was only available to his apartment complex.  I vaguely remembering this from discussing it all with her when it was happening.  

I say, "It's very hard..."  He interrupts me with, "You're biased."  I say, "Please, don't finish my sentences for me.  I was going to say that it is very hard to talk finances when neither party has money."
He doesn't respond to this, instead  trying to bring up the car again, and I repeat that she still wouldn't have money to cover the utilities, cable and insurance even if she wasn't paying for the car.  
He replies. "And it's her own damn fault she's paying for a private eye."  
I'm done.  "You were fucking around on her!"I shout.  He argues.  "She has DVD footage of you in an embrace with another woman at the airport, and kissing her intimately. That same private detective witnessed you and that woman at a hotel with her and her suitcase on that same weekend."  A pause..."Well, what am I supposed to think?" he replies.  I am nonplussed, not to mention, confused.  "What is SHE supposed to think?"  I yell!
And then he says, "And she's paying $300/month for a lawyer when we agreed we were going to deal with the divorce without going to a lawyer."
"I TOLD her to get a lawyer, because you cannot be trusted."  I say.  
He pauses.  "We could have each had our own Judge Advocate General, and they could have represented each of us."  he says.
"She went to the JAG."  I say, "And he told her that he could not represent her and that she would have to get civilian representation."
"Are you saying that my JAG is lying?"  he asks.
"I am saying that her facts are incorrect"  I say.  "And besides, I'M paying for her lawyer."

"I'm done!"  he shouts.  "You're biased!  I'm tired of being painted the bad guy in this and with Drew (his 16 y.o. with ADHD)..  I'm finished!  I'm hanging up now."  (This is his classic response when in conversation with his wife and she refuses to be intimidated , and comes up with something he can't lie his way out of.

"You can't keep running away by hanging up." I say.  "You're going to have to accept the fact that this is the best that she can do and she just doesn't have the money."  I hear a click.

I send him a text.  "Kelly can't give you what she doesn't have and hanging up on me won't change that.  Crunch the numbers."

To which he texts back, "She also didn't include what she makes from painting.   She made and continues to make choices she does and can't recognize it.  (I guess he's blaming her for not making as much money as he does.  She quit college to marry him and bear and raise his children and supported him through his 20 year military career). I am done speaking with you about this because you don't have an unbiased opinion about it."

My last text to him is, "Numbers don't lie.  She doesn't have $ to give you!  End of story."

I am breathless.  I call my friend up and tell her not to discuss finances with him any more.  He is a pathological liar and was lying the whole time he was talking to me.  (I believe I may have also mentioned that he is psychotic,  not diagnosing...just saying.)

I don't know how she does it.  I don't know how she will do it.  He is going behind her back on a number of things, including enrolling their son in college, arranging meetings and college trips without telling her.  I told her to just give it up.  Her son a senior in High School, lives with him now, and she no longer has the physical advantage of that son in her home, nor does that son deal with her appropriately  He tells her that it's her own fault she can't make enough money now because she failed college.  He calls demanding supper when he knows she's on her way home from work, then doesn't show up for supper, call or answer phone calls.  He demands money for gas.  

They are trying to schedule this same son's shoulder surgery, and her husband is sabotaging the appointments, etc.  I tell her that she might as well make the break now, to stop trying to facilitate, and make up for her husband's failure to follow through.  Her son willingly left her home to live with his Dad.  They are not even TRYING to work with her.  She should just let them fail on their own, because she is going to have to let go of it sooner or later, as the son is no longer physically with her.  Best to totally let go when she chooses, rather than try and stay in the game to fix things and be blamed for it when things inevitably go wrong.

So, in the bigger picture... I am so glad that my husband is not manipulative and a pathological liar.  I am glad that my friend Kelly has a budding romance with someone who knows how to love unconditionally.  This is the only time I have agreed to try to speak with her husband since he initiated the divorce.  I will not speak to him again.  I encourage her to speak with him as little as possible, and to refuse to argue about things, because he changes facts, refuses to accept them, only wants to win and is not interested in the truth or what is best for his children.  It's all about control.  We are fully aware that there are unacknowledged disabilities that he (the husband) has that interfere with his interactions, but he refuses to acknowledge his weaknesses and ask for or accept help.  The safest thing for her at this time is to interact with him as little as possible, protect herself, and protect the child that is still living with her.

We cannot change that which will not be changed.  We can only refuse to be used and hurt and stand in our own truths.  God grant this child the strength to remain standing in her truth.  


In Hope and Truth,
Kismet

Copyright May 2, 2013