Thursday, February 19, 2004
Yesterday morning, I was miserable. Slumped against a bank of lockers, the heating pad warming my back, I felt near tears. Evaluations were due. All around me, faculty members sorted piles of paper fanned out at their feet. Everyone babbled happily, even while complaining about the arduous process, the rigors of teaching that meant we never have a full break. They were done. Finished. Finally on vacation. But me? I just bent forward slowly to grab another one of my advisees' thick white forms, and grimaced.
I hadn't finished on time.
Now of course, this isn't the world's biggest problem. And even in my small world, this was about 32 on the list of bummers of the last month. Everyone I know has commented on my good nature, my optimism, my endless wells of smiles in the midst of lousy pain. Of course. This is me. I'm hard-wired to see the best in situations. Not that it's a duty or a facade. I truly am happy in the midst of this pain. Most of the time. But not yesterday.
Once again, my hobbled back and addled head prevented me from feeling fully part of it all. Writing evaluations is hard under the best of circumstances. There are all those papers to read--"The Stranger is the story of a taciturn young man..."--all those Cold War tests to grade--"While the USSR did do some bad acts, the US was not justified in the Cold War because of McCarthyism and deposing leaders."--all those student short stories to read. Well, you see the picture. Normally, I love those students and their well-meaning scribbles. But when it hurts my head to read for longer than twenty minutes (and that's reading the best literature in the world, or at least silly magazines), you can imagine why I staved off reading for as long as I could. And then, all weekend, there's the little nagging, "Yes, but you should be grading."
Finally, I did grade. And then I was exhausted. Because then, I was faced with all those little paragraphs. Five times a year, it's my job to judge my students, to come up with concise capsule reviews of what they have done, and what they might want to do next. Given that it's me, this also means a brief psychological insight, searing and true. Oh, just thinking about it exhausts me again. Can't I just put a grade in a box and send it home?
So all day Monday, I struggled with it. But normally, the writing is the fastest part for me. I'm a writer. Right? Except that I'm still, every moment, hampered by the accident. If I look at the computer screen for longer than fifteen minutes, my headache flares to the top of my head, surges around my ears, and pulses along every point. Along with this, the tendonitis in my left wrist, which was reawakened after the accident, bulges and clicks and flings itself into electric pain with the typing. After ten or fifteen minutes, it literally siezes up, and I have to ice it, and coax it, into moving again.
And some of my friends wonder why I haven't been working on my novel?
You try writing evaluations under this circumstance. You try remaining cheerful.
So I showed up to school with only a third of them done, a sad heart that I would be spending the rest of my vacation bulging and siezing and writing these buggers instead of my own work, and a whopping headache. Luckily, everyone understood. No one yelled at me. I have today to finish them.
So of course, I'm writing this instead, right now.
It occurred to me, a couple of days ago, that reading this blog, you might think I'm a saint. In the face of a near-death experience and continuous searing pain, I remain above it all. Firmly grounded in it, yet above it. Well you know what? I'm not. Right now, this just sucks.
I want my life back. I want to want work on my novel, and not just scribble in my idea book or plan it in my sore head. I want a clear head without a headache taking it hostage. For five minutes. That's all I ask. Five minutes. I want to be able to take a yoga class or walk down Queen Anne Avenue. I want a day without sitting on a heating pad. I want to jump in puddles. I want a full night's sleep. I want someone else to be able to understand this, and not just say, "Oh, you're still in that much pain? I didn't know." Or, "My god, your optimism in this always inspires me."
I want to not feel so alone in this.
And I really want my evaluations done.
I hadn't finished on time.
Now of course, this isn't the world's biggest problem. And even in my small world, this was about 32 on the list of bummers of the last month. Everyone I know has commented on my good nature, my optimism, my endless wells of smiles in the midst of lousy pain. Of course. This is me. I'm hard-wired to see the best in situations. Not that it's a duty or a facade. I truly am happy in the midst of this pain. Most of the time. But not yesterday.
Once again, my hobbled back and addled head prevented me from feeling fully part of it all. Writing evaluations is hard under the best of circumstances. There are all those papers to read--"The Stranger is the story of a taciturn young man..."--all those Cold War tests to grade--"While the USSR did do some bad acts, the US was not justified in the Cold War because of McCarthyism and deposing leaders."--all those student short stories to read. Well, you see the picture. Normally, I love those students and their well-meaning scribbles. But when it hurts my head to read for longer than twenty minutes (and that's reading the best literature in the world, or at least silly magazines), you can imagine why I staved off reading for as long as I could. And then, all weekend, there's the little nagging, "Yes, but you should be grading."
Finally, I did grade. And then I was exhausted. Because then, I was faced with all those little paragraphs. Five times a year, it's my job to judge my students, to come up with concise capsule reviews of what they have done, and what they might want to do next. Given that it's me, this also means a brief psychological insight, searing and true. Oh, just thinking about it exhausts me again. Can't I just put a grade in a box and send it home?
So all day Monday, I struggled with it. But normally, the writing is the fastest part for me. I'm a writer. Right? Except that I'm still, every moment, hampered by the accident. If I look at the computer screen for longer than fifteen minutes, my headache flares to the top of my head, surges around my ears, and pulses along every point. Along with this, the tendonitis in my left wrist, which was reawakened after the accident, bulges and clicks and flings itself into electric pain with the typing. After ten or fifteen minutes, it literally siezes up, and I have to ice it, and coax it, into moving again.
And some of my friends wonder why I haven't been working on my novel?
You try writing evaluations under this circumstance. You try remaining cheerful.
So I showed up to school with only a third of them done, a sad heart that I would be spending the rest of my vacation bulging and siezing and writing these buggers instead of my own work, and a whopping headache. Luckily, everyone understood. No one yelled at me. I have today to finish them.
So of course, I'm writing this instead, right now.
It occurred to me, a couple of days ago, that reading this blog, you might think I'm a saint. In the face of a near-death experience and continuous searing pain, I remain above it all. Firmly grounded in it, yet above it. Well you know what? I'm not. Right now, this just sucks.
I want my life back. I want to want work on my novel, and not just scribble in my idea book or plan it in my sore head. I want a clear head without a headache taking it hostage. For five minutes. That's all I ask. Five minutes. I want to be able to take a yoga class or walk down Queen Anne Avenue. I want a day without sitting on a heating pad. I want to jump in puddles. I want a full night's sleep. I want someone else to be able to understand this, and not just say, "Oh, you're still in that much pain? I didn't know." Or, "My god, your optimism in this always inspires me."
I want to not feel so alone in this.
And I really want my evaluations done.
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