Category Archives: Project 52

Feb 23

Nothing (Project 52, Week 9)

Here I am with nothing to show for myself in way of a blog entry. I’m transitioning between jobs, writing a couple of stories for the newspaper, and getting ready to leave for vacation in a week and a half. It’s Tuesday, I haven’t been to the gym, I just got home from work an hour ago, I haven’t read any news from the day (except that the Toyota recall may do nothing at all), and I just ate a French bread pizza, which means I have to go to the gym now. Let me take a moment to promote the application Lose It. It’s for iPhones and iPod touches. It is so simple and fantastic and free. You enter your information into the program: weight/height/goal weight and tell it how many pounds you’d like to lose a week (0-2), and it tells you how many calories you should eat each day in order to lose that number of pounds a week (and it tells you how long it’ll take to get to your goal weight). I’ve lost 6.5 pounds since starting it a few weeks ago. It makes you very aware of your calorie intake. You don’t have to restrict your food selections (as I said, I just ate a French Bread pizza), but when you know you’ve gone over your allotted calories for the day (as I have by a couple hundred), then you can counter that with exercise (hence my need to go to the gym, regardless of how tired I am, or what else I could be doing.)

So my week 9 entry is just a lot of hot air. Week 10 may be similar because it looks like a busy week.

But life is good.

Feb 16

Project 52, Week 8

There are two days this week that retain great significance to me. February 13th 2006 was the day I took my father to a new doctor for a second opinion on his deteriorating condition. His skin was pretty yellow by this time, and I pushed him in a wheelchair, so his ability to get around easily was also diminishing. I remember the doctor did not say the situation was hopeless, though I knew it was. I was thankful that she didn’t. I had that ball of dread sitting in my stomach, waiting to hear her say “there’s nothing else we can do.” He’d heard those words once already and refused to accept them. Instead she gave him treatment options and made life sound possible again. We left there optimistic (even me), feeling like there was still time.

On the way home, he asked me to stop at Walmart to buy a Valentine’s Day gift for his girlfriend. They’d been together over 10 years, and she was his primary caregiver. He waited in the truck as I went in and perused the pink, purple, and white flowers, the endless rows of chocolate candies and stuffed animals. I chose a bouquet and a stuffed animal and returned to the truck. I’d used my debit card, so when I returned, he insisted on writing me a check for the amount I spent (I still have that un-cashed check–his signature a shaky replica of what I remember from my youth, when he’d signed permission slips or letters excusing my absence from school). As he was writing the check he said, “I should have told you to get yourself something, kid.”

We arrived home and went inside, leaving the gifts in the truck; we wanted to surprise her, so we didn’t want to carry the stuff in with us. His girlfriend helped him settle back in the house. He sat on the couch, reading the paper, and we waited for a moment when she was out of the room. When the moment was right, I ran to the truck, grabbed the presents, and rushed them to dad’s side. She eventually came back to the room (I think she was cleaning the house) and paused to look over at my dad. That’s when she saw the flowers and stuffed animal. She burst into tears, which made dad laugh. She mused over how he would think to buy her a Valentine’s gift with all that he was dealing with. It was one of the funniest, most endearing moments during that time. He would die 6 days later. February 19th, obviously, is the second significant day.

What I’m surprised by is how clearly the 13th stands out in my memory. Perhaps it’s because I have a holiday with which to connect it to, but when the 13th rolled around this year, I immediately thought of dad and his gift giving that day. Such emotional bookends for one week.

Feb 9

On Pain (Project 52, Week 7)

My headache was intolerable. It radiated to my spine, or perhaps the pain in my spine radiated to my head. There was a burning sensation in my neck, between my shoulders. I was visiting family in Juarez, Mexico and while there, I found myself often popping aspirin. Quite unusual for me. When I complained of the pain to my mom, she translated my complaint to my aunt who suggested we invite her friend to the house to crack my back. “No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. My head and back might be making me miserable, but the idea of a stranger from down the street coming in to manipulate my spine was utterly unappealing. “I’ll wait and go to a chiropractor when I get back to Florida,” I told mom.

I excused myself to go take a nap in hopes of relieving my headache. I woke up some time later to laughter and screaming from the living room. I didn’t know what they were doing–all the conversation was in Spanish–but the sounds were not enough to prompt me out of bed. A few minutes later I heard everyone enter my room. I was still half asleep, but I felt activity on my bed that caused me to crack open my eyes to see what the hell was happening. My aunt was lying prone at the end of the mattress and a woman I didn’t recognize was rubbing oil on her bare back. I closed my eyes and bitched to myself. They had invited the woman over after all. The one who cracks backs and lives right down the street. I was aggravated not only because I was woken from my nap still feeling like shit, but because now I had to figure out a polite way to repeatedly decline the opportunity to have some stranger from down the street manipulate my back. While I thought this to myself, my aunt let out a gasp as the woman pressed  down on her spine, sending out a series of snaps that sounded like someone popping gum.

I opened my eyes and lifted myself on to one arm; the women greeted me with enthusiasm, glad that I had finally joined them. I watched as my aunt adjusted her shirt and then sat in a chair that was brought to my bedroom from the kitchen. The neighbor woman massaged my aunt’s neck and toggled her head around until it moved loosely between her hands. Then she wrenched it to one side quickly and sharply, sending out snapping noises again and scaring the hell out of me. I thought her neck might break from the force. My aunt had a stunned look on her face, obviously caught off guard by the force of the twisting action. Then she burst into laughter as did the rest of us. She was able to relax enough for the woman to crack her neck again, this time in the opposite direction.

Soon they were calling for me to take my turn. I waved my hand in the air. “No, I’m okay,” I said. The neighbor lady moved on to someone else and my mom whispered to me that my family had invited her there because of me. They thought she could help me. They were paying her. She said the woman had worked on her foot and ankle when they were in the living room, and it had been incredibly painful–she was the one who had been screaming, and my cousins were the ones laughing. However, she said she felt great now. Her feet weren’t bothering her at all. “Really?” I asked. “You feel better?” My mom’s a bit of a skeptic, so for her to participate so willingly, and to recommend it so heartily, well, it helped to change my mind. And my neck and back and head were really hurting.

I agreed to have my back adjusted. When I took off my shirt and turned so that my back was facing the reflexologist (that’s what the woman had studied in school–reflexology), she made a big deal about one side of my body being lower than the other. Since she spoke only in Spanish, I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but she was pointing out various curves and knots in my back and at the base of my neck, and speaking with great emphasis. My family responded with mumbles that sounded concerned and surprised. She had me rest on the bed and proceeded to crack my back and work out a knot in my neck. I felt better afterward, but I emphatically declined having my neck cracked.

But dealing with the daily pain in Juarez helped me to come to this realization: I’m scared of chronic pain. Consciously scared of it.  As in, when I have a pain that lasts for a day, I immediately wonder if it’s going to last forever. This occurred to me this week when I started getting dull headaches and neck aches, and knew it was time to have my back adjusted again. I have the great and happy privilege to be pain free nearly every day, which is something I don’t take for granted. I think of my mom who has a pretty high level of pain in her legs every day thanks to all the chemo her body has been subjected to. I think of my dad who had incredible back pain toward the end of his life because his cancer was playing with the nerves of his lower back, creating a sensation so severe that he popped Percoset like candy and it had next to no effect on the pain. Hospice eventually created some Morphine/Oxycontin cocktail that finally  provided some relief. Knowing what they experience/experienced reminds me to be grateful. But the other thing about these two people, the two heroes of my life, is that they never showed their pain. I sat next to my father for weeks on end and he never said a word about the pain in his back. Never. Didn’t grimace, didn’t bitch, didn’t say a word about it. I run around with my mom whenever I can, and I have to remember to ask her how she’s feeling. Her legs could be blistering with pain, but she pushes through without complaint.

I’m also amazed when I read about what life was like for people prior to the invention of anesthesia and pain medication. For example, the harrowing description of the surgery Samuel Pepys went through to have bladder stones removed (bladder stones, themselves, being excruciatingly painful):

There were no anaesthetics, and alcohol was certainly not allowed to a patient undergoing surgery to the bladder. The surgeon got to work. First he inserted a thin silver instrument, the itinerarium, through the penis into the bladder to help position the stone. Then he made the incision, about three inches long and a finger’s breadth from the line running between scrotum and anus, and into the neck of the bladder, or just below it. The patient’s face was sponged as the incision was made. The stone was sought, found and grasped with pincers; the more speedily it could be got out the better. Once out, the wound was not stitched–it was thought best to let it drain and cicatrize itself–but simply washed and covered with a dressing, or even kept open at first with a small roll of soft cloth known as a tent, dipped in egg white. A plaster of egg yolk, rose vinegar and anointing oils was then applied.  —Samuel Pepys: The Unequaled Self by Claire Tomalin.

This description makes my hair stand on end. No anesthesia for this procedure; I can’t begin to fathom the pain, and I’m glad that we’ve progressed to the point we have today in our medical technologies.

I wonder if chronic pain is an inevitable way of life as the body ages. A woman came into the vet clinic last week and asked for help carrying in her cat’s carrier. She is a regular client of ours and had never had any problem carrying in the carrier before. I walked to the car with her and she explained that she was having some back and arm problems. She had had surgery once already and seemed to think she’d have to have it again. When her appointment was over, I wished her well and said I hoped things improved soon. She thanked me and said she was in pain pretty much all the time. “Getting old’s a bitch,” she said as she walked out the door. My dad used to say the same thing.

There is another client who comes in pretty regularly who wears a body brace to support her neck, arms, and legs. I think she has rheumatoid arthritis. Her movements are very slow and the brace looks like it would be quite cumbersome. I understand that rheumatoid arthritis is painful and I believe she’s had it for many years. Yet she is so friendly, patient, and pleasant–an upbeat spirit who seldom dwells on how she’s feeling.

And so I’m thankful for the privilege of living pain-free; I’m aware that this can change at any time, either due to changes in health or unforeseen accidents; I’m conscientious in how I treat my body in hopes of keeping it in the best shape I can for as long as I can; but, ultimately, should I find myself experiencing situations like those of the people noted in this post, I hope to find the same strength and grace. Because right now I’m spoiled, and if I have a headache/neck ache/backache that lasts longer than it should, everyone near me is going to hear me whine about it (ask my husband). And surely that’s no way to handle such things.

Feb 3

Is There Anybody Out There? (Project 52, Week 6)

Holophane had been in my life since I was 3-years-old. I was that age when mom accepted a job there. It was a factory that made high-end light fixtures and it paid well. She was happy to have it, despite the fact that my dad thought it was unnecessary for her to take it. “I provide 3 squares,” he’d said. But when he became explosive over my brother leaving on the bathroom light, and the significance that action could have on the electric bill, mom told him, “that’s why I’m taking the job.” She didn’t like that things were so financially tight that he would get angry over something as innocent as a little kid forgetting to turn off a light in the house.

She kept that job until the factory closed in early 2009–over 30 years. Toward the end, as the number of employees dwindled from week to week, it felt like watching a family member die. Every week there was cake to say goodbye to the most recent group of people who were being let go. My mom was among the last to leave since she had so much seniority.

One summer, when I was 18 or 19, I worked in the office at Holophane. While I was there, I met my first outspoken atheist. His name was Glen, and he was charismatic, sarcastic, and quick-witted. Even though Glen was older than my parents, I developed a bit of a crush on him (I’ve always had a thing for older guys). I would hang out with him and his girlfriend during lunch and we’d go on walks, or just hang out and talk. I don’t remember why we were talking about death and religion, except that I’ve always been rather interested in the subjects, but during our conversation he told me he didn’t believe in god. “What do you think happens when you die?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. I started crying. Not weeping or anything like that, but I was so flabbergasted and frightened by the idea of nothing that I couldn’t hardly keep my shit together. I excused myself and went back to my office. He felt bad and told my mom that he had upset me.  Twelve years later, when I had come to understand my own religious leanings better (or lack of religious leanings) I told my mom to tell him I get it now…that I’m not afraid of “nothing” anymore.

My first experience with sexual harassment happened at Holophane, too, when a young guy, about 12 years older than me, was standing in front of my desk at the office. He was having an informal meeting with a couple of other office workers and I was sorting through paperwork. When it was over, he leaned down to me and said “I know you were checking out my ass. I could feel your eyes,” or something equally absurd. My face flushed; I’ve always been rather naive and awkward and I was so mortified by such an accusation that I’m surprised I could respond at all. “Don’t flatter yourself,” was all I managed, and he smiled and walked away. What a creep.

(This reminds me of another situation when I first moved to Florida. I was assigned to take a portrait of this oh-so-important guy at this oh-so-fancy boat club. He was an older guy, in his early 70s I think, and carried himself with great sophistication and class. He spoke with beautiful precision and seemed like a gentleman. I moved him this way and that, and at one point I kneeled down to take some pictures from a lower angle. While I was in this position he said, “It’s been many years since I’ve had a young woman get on her knees in front of me.” WTF.)

One of the first memories I have of Holophane is calling to make sure I wasn’t the only person left on earth. I guess I was around 9 or so. Mom would wake me up to comb my hair, then she and dad would leave for work, and my brother’s junior high bus would pick him up. My elementary school bus came last. With everyone out of the house, it was just me and the trees that surrounded my house. It was quiet, and there was very little traffic where we lived. It would still be dark outside that early in the morning and I felt terribly alone. Maybe I was the only person left on earth? I thought to myself. Maybe everyone has been swallowed up by some unknown force and there’s no one left but me? The idea scared me and the only thing I could think to do was to call someone. Don’t ask me why I didn’t call my great-grandmother next door, or my grandmother down the street. Instead I called mom’s factory. “Holophane,” the guy said, his voice rough and catching me off guard. I quickly hung up the phone. Yep, there were still people out there.

So when Holophane closed it was painful. It was a constant in my life for 30 years. And it was weird having this definitive ending to a thing that had gone on for over 100 years. That it had entered my mom’s life in her late 20’s and ceased to exist when she turned 60. Here was this block of 34 years that she had spent working in one place. That place is gone, and so are those 34 years. How the time just goes and goes.

Jan 27

High Seas (Project 52, Week 5)

I put all my faith in the Dramamine patch. My photo editor suggested I get one from the doctor’s office, rather than buy the stuff you can get over-the-counter. I thought a prescribed Dramamine patch would be stronger, would form a protective bubble around me, keeping me bouncy and happy and nausea-free for the duration of the assignment.

We, the reporter (N) and myself, were going on a trip with some high school students who were studying marine biology (if I remember correctly). They were riding a pirate ship to some islands southeast of Florida–perhaps the Bahamas? Anyway, we had the good fortune of tagging along with them for a few days to document their experience. I was taking pictures, which is why I think so many details are foggy now; I was more concerned with the visual elements while the reporter was collecting details on what the students were studying and what they were going to do when they arrived at the final destination.

We met the crew at a harbor in Miami, and it was a balmy, beautiful night. The students laughed and chatted, as family members milled about, checking out the ship, and musing over the tightness of the quarters. The ship was beautiful, exactly what you would picture when you hear the term “pirate ship,” though I think  it’s more commonly called a “tall ship.” The captain was charismatic and handsome and introduced the crew to everyone. They took us on a tour of the ship and showed us our quarters. N and I would share a room in the hold of the boat, next to the galley. The students would be sleeping in a separate part of the ship’s hold. The sections were not connected; if we wanted to visit the students, or wanted to use the bathroom (which was located in the students’ section of the hold), we had to climb out of the galley area, walk across the ship’s deck and climb back down into the hold. Not a big deal at first glance, though this separation would become problematic as the trip continued.

The group socialized for a few hours, and it was late when family members said final goodbyes, so that the students could go to their quarters and prepare for sleep. The captain planned to leave harbor some time in the night, so we all retired to our beds. I had my handy Dramamine patch behind my ear; it had been there for a few hours. It left a weird taste in my mouth and left me feeling generally medicated. I didn’t care though, because it was going to keep me functioning out at sea. I think everyone there  laughed about taking Dramamine, and making sure they brought some with them.

N and I crawled into our beds. The ocean gently rocked us asleep. I recall waking at 3:00am and recognizing that we had left the harbor. The gentle rocking was now more pronounced, but still quite enjoyable, and I snuggled down into my bed, happy to be at sea.

In the morning, I woke up to the smell of breakfast, an unfortunate side-effect of sleeping next to the galley. It always smelled like bacon grease and dough, and the smell was very thick. N and I made our way to the deck. Students were on their knees, puking over the side. Others had found their sea legs and were helping the crew, and learning how to handle the sails. I started taking pictures. It was cool and drizzly. There was a chop to the water, but nothing that bothered me. I walked around, trying to find a tactful way to photograph seasick kids. The boat creaked and swayed below my feet, but I gave it no thought. Soon N decided she wasn’t feeling so well, and returned to our room by the galley. She had looked a little green.  I chatted with some of the kids, asked them how they were feeling, took pictures of the ones whose faces and body language betrayed their seasickness. And then I made the mistake of plopping down where the others were sitting and staring out at the horizon.

It started as only a twinge as I watched the horizon line move up and down. An uneasy fluttering in my belly. The water continued to chop at the boat, and I noticed the chop a little more. “But that’s not possible,” I thought to myself. “I’m using a Dramamine patch.” The longer I sat there, the stronger the fluttering became. I picked up my cameras and tried to keep working, but the feeling intensifed, and I was getting a little green myself.  I decided to return to my room as well and rest for a while.

I fell asleep and was woken by the physical movement of my body rolling back and forth in my bed. While I was asleep, the choppy waves had become tumultuous and ridiculous, and were battering the ship back and forth like a ping pong ball. I literally rolled from one side of my tiny bed to the other in accordance to the waves. It felt like the ship had become some sort of amusement park ride; dishes fell off the wall in the galley from the strength of the waves pushing us around. Sometimes it felt as if the ship caught air, and landed with a thud back on the water. My stomach was positively upended. Back and forth, back and forth, I rolled. There was no possibility of being still.

Then I realized I needed to use the bathroom.

The bathroom, of course, was on the other side of the ship. The action of sitting up was all my stomach needed to lose its contents. I had a plastic bag near my bed and used it as my receptacle. I felt a tad relieved and climbed the stairs to the deck of the ship.

It was raining something awful. The crew wore rain suits and were fussing with various things on the ship. The storm and the waves were severe enough that most of the workers were tethered to the ship by ropes, and, in hindsight, I’m surprised they didn’t reprimand me as I staggered my way across the deck. With as loopy and sick as I felt, and with the ship careening so radically, I’m surprised I didn’t topple over the side. And, at the time, I felt so ill that I don’t think I would have cared.

I climbed into the students’ quarters and found the ridiculously tiny bathroom. Judging from the smell, I wasn’t the only one sick on the ship. Once I finished, I staggered my way through the rain and back to my bed, climbed in, and vomited again. I flopped against the mattress and felt the ship rock to the left, to the right, and my body moved in response. I got sick again. I felt abject. Absolutely abject and desperate. “This is hell on earth,” I thought to myself.  “There’s nowhere to go. There’s no getting off this ship.” I decided from that point forward, should anyone ask me what I imagine hell to be like, this ship experience would be my answer. Eventually a more Buddhist-minded thought came to to me: Nothing Lasts Forever. This storm would subside, I would stop feeling sick, we would get to land.  And it helped to recognize this fact. But my answer to the question of hell still stands.

I think we figured out that we were bedridden by the ocean waves for 17 hours–a total time warp.  17 hours of rocking, vomiting, and occasionally staggering to the bathroom, then vomiting again on the return to bed. The waves weren’t so extreme for the entire 17 hours, but by the time we woke up and were able to get out of bed and not be sick, 17 hours had passed.

When we finally climbed to the deck, both of us sallow and peaked, the sun was shining. Most of the kids had been out and about for awhile, recovering much faster than I. At least one student had even helped during the storm. There was land in sight and I couldn’t have been happier. We were stopping at a different island than planned because of the rough sailing, and the captain wanted to give everyone a chance to collect themselves, and get some ground under their feet. He blamed the rough waters on the Gulf Stream.  But, finally, there was land in sight.