Genius Humor
James and I like to watch ficitional films about artists, particularly painters, to critique and laugh about the portrayal of artists--the romanticism of it and the ridiculousness of what is essentially someone spending a great deal of time working alone in a room. We enjoy them, no matter how silly: Kirk Douglas as Vincent Van Gogh in Lust for Life, Ed Harris as Jackson Pollock, David Bowie as Andy Warhol in Basquiat, Mike Leigh's Turner, and the ultimate film about an artist, Andrei Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev. Despite our poking fun at really bad biopics, we do feel that each film usually has a moment that captures what it is to be an artist. I was thinking about this because Grand Central Station is splattered with an ad campaign for a television series in which Antonio Banderas plays Picasso--the posters are Antonio's face covered in paint with the word GENIUS printed across the top. I know this poster would make James laugh and he would want to see the series, no matter how bad and absurd it turned out to be.
James and I have been together all these years because of our shared sense of humor. We used to drive Imogen crazy at night because we were all supposed to be sleeping but James would whisper something in my ear and crack me up--I would be unable to stop laughing until I was gasping for breath and in tears. Imogen would say, "What are you guys laughing about?" and inevitably, it would either be impossible to explain or if I did manage to tell her, she would say, "That's not funny, you guys are weird. Go to sleep."
James had an unhappy day at rehab. This morning, the speech therapist scheduled a diagnostic swallow test. James was given a green dye to drink and then, a small tube camera was snaked through his nose, down his throat, and the therapists viewed the pathway of the dye, to confirm that James was swallowing properly and that the liquid was not sliding down into his lungs. James has a very sensitive gag reflex and a tendency to experience nausea if he is uncomfortable, claustrophobic or over-heated. The dietician also changed the type of his tube feeding to receive a "bolus" of food three times a day, more like a regular meal schedule, so of course, they did not take that into consideration when giving him the dye test. They performed this test shortly after he received a giant dose of nutrition!
When I arrived, James was green! Literally! The psychologist was unaware of the earlier test and was quietly speaking to James, trying to figure out what was the matter with him. He was lying in bed which indicated something was amiss because normally, he has to remain in his chair all day. I took one look at him and said, "He's going to vomit, get him a pan!" and sure enough, out it flowed. This is far too much sharing, I know. The speech therapist and nurses were called and that was how I learned about the earlier testing. I guessed as much since the color of his vomit was shamrock green! The therapist wanted to make me feel better and said, "The good news is James is swallowing great!"
Poor James, he reminded me of children when they are sick on a Saturday and the weather is beautiful out. At one point, a tear rolled out his eye and he looked terribly sad. I kept cold compresses on his head and the nausea passed. The nurses changed his clothes, cleaned him up, and I did a load of laundry. Once we were settled back into bed, all clean and feeling more stable, I massaged his feet and James slipped in and out of sleep.
Upon waking from a nap, I asked him if he wanted to listen to classical music. He nodded. The late afternoon light filtered into his room and he was finally comfortable. The nurse came in and asked if he was ready for his dinner. After the earlier episode of the day, she wanted to confirm if he was up to it and he nodded yes. As she prepared what I like to think of as his latte-colored milkshake, James and I looked at one another from across the bed. I was sitting in a chair by the foot of the bed and he was laying straight out, feet in front of him, eyes on me. The nurse said, "Dinner time," and opened his stomach tube to pour the liquid into it using a device that looked similar to a giant turkey baster. Jim had this ironic half-smile on his face and both of us were feeling the utter insanity of the moment--how did we get here? The music swelled on the speaker and I could not suppress a laugh. The nurse thought it odd so I apologized saying that I found the moment, well, rather humorous. She stopped what she was doing for a half-beat and said, "What, the stomach tube?" Her asking the question made it funnier. The nurse was tired and doing her job--there was no entry way into sharing our humor in the absurdity of the moment. It was the equivalent of Imogen's, "You guys are weird!"
Once it was just the two of us alone in the room again, James asked for pen and paper. He wrote to me, in his now micro-script handwriting, "So many stories to tell you." I said, "Really? I hope you remember them, you will forget!" He wrote, "I won't forget." I said, "You might," and he responded, "I promise," and then, James drew this sweet little self-portrait with two foreheads and two sets of eyes.
James is my genius painter, green tongue and all.
James and I have been together all these years because of our shared sense of humor. We used to drive Imogen crazy at night because we were all supposed to be sleeping but James would whisper something in my ear and crack me up--I would be unable to stop laughing until I was gasping for breath and in tears. Imogen would say, "What are you guys laughing about?" and inevitably, it would either be impossible to explain or if I did manage to tell her, she would say, "That's not funny, you guys are weird. Go to sleep."
James had an unhappy day at rehab. This morning, the speech therapist scheduled a diagnostic swallow test. James was given a green dye to drink and then, a small tube camera was snaked through his nose, down his throat, and the therapists viewed the pathway of the dye, to confirm that James was swallowing properly and that the liquid was not sliding down into his lungs. James has a very sensitive gag reflex and a tendency to experience nausea if he is uncomfortable, claustrophobic or over-heated. The dietician also changed the type of his tube feeding to receive a "bolus" of food three times a day, more like a regular meal schedule, so of course, they did not take that into consideration when giving him the dye test. They performed this test shortly after he received a giant dose of nutrition!
When I arrived, James was green! Literally! The psychologist was unaware of the earlier test and was quietly speaking to James, trying to figure out what was the matter with him. He was lying in bed which indicated something was amiss because normally, he has to remain in his chair all day. I took one look at him and said, "He's going to vomit, get him a pan!" and sure enough, out it flowed. This is far too much sharing, I know. The speech therapist and nurses were called and that was how I learned about the earlier testing. I guessed as much since the color of his vomit was shamrock green! The therapist wanted to make me feel better and said, "The good news is James is swallowing great!"
Poor James, he reminded me of children when they are sick on a Saturday and the weather is beautiful out. At one point, a tear rolled out his eye and he looked terribly sad. I kept cold compresses on his head and the nausea passed. The nurses changed his clothes, cleaned him up, and I did a load of laundry. Once we were settled back into bed, all clean and feeling more stable, I massaged his feet and James slipped in and out of sleep.
Upon waking from a nap, I asked him if he wanted to listen to classical music. He nodded. The late afternoon light filtered into his room and he was finally comfortable. The nurse came in and asked if he was ready for his dinner. After the earlier episode of the day, she wanted to confirm if he was up to it and he nodded yes. As she prepared what I like to think of as his latte-colored milkshake, James and I looked at one another from across the bed. I was sitting in a chair by the foot of the bed and he was laying straight out, feet in front of him, eyes on me. The nurse said, "Dinner time," and opened his stomach tube to pour the liquid into it using a device that looked similar to a giant turkey baster. Jim had this ironic half-smile on his face and both of us were feeling the utter insanity of the moment--how did we get here? The music swelled on the speaker and I could not suppress a laugh. The nurse thought it odd so I apologized saying that I found the moment, well, rather humorous. She stopped what she was doing for a half-beat and said, "What, the stomach tube?" Her asking the question made it funnier. The nurse was tired and doing her job--there was no entry way into sharing our humor in the absurdity of the moment. It was the equivalent of Imogen's, "You guys are weird!"
Once it was just the two of us alone in the room again, James asked for pen and paper. He wrote to me, in his now micro-script handwriting, "So many stories to tell you." I said, "Really? I hope you remember them, you will forget!" He wrote, "I won't forget." I said, "You might," and he responded, "I promise," and then, James drew this sweet little self-portrait with two foreheads and two sets of eyes.
James is my genius painter, green tongue and all.
You reminded me of a long forgotten episode when Jim and I rode a Ferris Wheel immediately after he ate popcorn and rootbeer!
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