Monday, July 12, 2004
Bad pain day.
I remember when I was a kid, growing up in Southern California, this wacky weatherman named Dr. Arthur Fishbeck used to come on television on certain summer mornings. In his tweed jacket and bow tie, his wacky Groucho glasses, and his wild gesticulations, he was hard to take seriously. But still, he determined my fate for the day. Because on certain summer days, this hammy man came on television and said, “Today’s going to be a red flag smog alert day.” Groan. The sky was always grey in those days, in the Pomona Valley in the 1970s. I don’t remember it ever being blue, except on a few days of October. Even then, it was pale blue. But during the summer, the gunk in the air covered the mountains, which were only forty miles away. The air breathed brown. And on those red-flag smog alert days, Dr. Fishbeck said, “Don’t go outside, unless you absolutely have to.” And so, I was stuck in the house, trying not to breathe. I lay on the floor, reading books, or listening to the Beatles on the headphones, not moving, staying away from the windows. Only in the evening, after the sun had set, could I move into the backyard, and slip into the pool.
Luckily, the air in Seattle is infinitely more clear. Unfortunately, my body is not. And today, in my body, it’s a red-flag alert day. I’ve been feeling tender since I returned from Sitka. My back is still creaky, my shoulder still aches, and my left knee is kinked up from all the limping. Great. It’s like I’m back in March. But when the sun outside is limpid, and the air so warm that I want to be waterskiing on Lake Washington (not that I ever have, but you know. I could.), it’s harder to sit on the bed than it was in March. I moved slowly for the first week back, silent and happy. But in the last three days, I’ve been seeing people in droves. Dinner with Daniel and Jeff in the garden, pizza and beer in the twilight, hugs on the driveway at the end of the night. Vanessa for coffee, with lots of happy babbling on both sides. School people, whom I love. But the thought of school returning makes me feel a little ill. All that bustle and responsibility. All that noise. And the noise in Victrola today drove the headache up. Another headache. Welcome back.
And I’ve been doing Hydro-fit at the Magnolia pool or walking through Discovery Park or doing yoga in the living room every day, sometimes twice a day. Trying to make my muscles strong, so everything doesn’t feel so tenuous. But maybe it has been too much. And I spent most of the day cleaning, preparing for all my lovely visitors. But maybe it was too much. Because I’m done now.
Nobody wants to hear about the pain again. I don’t want to talk about it again.
Suffice it to say that I couldn’t work on the novel all evening, because my arms hurt too much again. I suppose that I’ve been writing too much. God, but after six months of not being able to eat a word, it’s hard not to gobble them up for hours. And here I go again.
But I know how to listen now. To turn off that insistent voice that says, “Go outside. Jump! Play! Leap and be free! Or at least take a walk around the neighorhood.” Instead, I’m on the bed, watching movies, trying to rest. Again.
And if I can't gobble up words.... Well, I bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia. Why not.
Just so you know--as beautiful as my life is right now, and as much as I appreciate the moments as they come; it’s not all sweetness and light around here.
This is hard work.
I remember when I was a kid, growing up in Southern California, this wacky weatherman named Dr. Arthur Fishbeck used to come on television on certain summer mornings. In his tweed jacket and bow tie, his wacky Groucho glasses, and his wild gesticulations, he was hard to take seriously. But still, he determined my fate for the day. Because on certain summer days, this hammy man came on television and said, “Today’s going to be a red flag smog alert day.” Groan. The sky was always grey in those days, in the Pomona Valley in the 1970s. I don’t remember it ever being blue, except on a few days of October. Even then, it was pale blue. But during the summer, the gunk in the air covered the mountains, which were only forty miles away. The air breathed brown. And on those red-flag smog alert days, Dr. Fishbeck said, “Don’t go outside, unless you absolutely have to.” And so, I was stuck in the house, trying not to breathe. I lay on the floor, reading books, or listening to the Beatles on the headphones, not moving, staying away from the windows. Only in the evening, after the sun had set, could I move into the backyard, and slip into the pool.
Luckily, the air in Seattle is infinitely more clear. Unfortunately, my body is not. And today, in my body, it’s a red-flag alert day. I’ve been feeling tender since I returned from Sitka. My back is still creaky, my shoulder still aches, and my left knee is kinked up from all the limping. Great. It’s like I’m back in March. But when the sun outside is limpid, and the air so warm that I want to be waterskiing on Lake Washington (not that I ever have, but you know. I could.), it’s harder to sit on the bed than it was in March. I moved slowly for the first week back, silent and happy. But in the last three days, I’ve been seeing people in droves. Dinner with Daniel and Jeff in the garden, pizza and beer in the twilight, hugs on the driveway at the end of the night. Vanessa for coffee, with lots of happy babbling on both sides. School people, whom I love. But the thought of school returning makes me feel a little ill. All that bustle and responsibility. All that noise. And the noise in Victrola today drove the headache up. Another headache. Welcome back.
And I’ve been doing Hydro-fit at the Magnolia pool or walking through Discovery Park or doing yoga in the living room every day, sometimes twice a day. Trying to make my muscles strong, so everything doesn’t feel so tenuous. But maybe it has been too much. And I spent most of the day cleaning, preparing for all my lovely visitors. But maybe it was too much. Because I’m done now.
Nobody wants to hear about the pain again. I don’t want to talk about it again.
Suffice it to say that I couldn’t work on the novel all evening, because my arms hurt too much again. I suppose that I’ve been writing too much. God, but after six months of not being able to eat a word, it’s hard not to gobble them up for hours. And here I go again.
But I know how to listen now. To turn off that insistent voice that says, “Go outside. Jump! Play! Leap and be free! Or at least take a walk around the neighorhood.” Instead, I’m on the bed, watching movies, trying to rest. Again.
And if I can't gobble up words.... Well, I bought a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia. Why not.
Just so you know--as beautiful as my life is right now, and as much as I appreciate the moments as they come; it’s not all sweetness and light around here.
This is hard work.
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