vacuous and doomed to be stupid
James and I watched 60 Minutes tonight while eating dinner. We find it funny that segments on the arts (music, dance, theater, art, literature) always have to involve weirdness, such as stories about, say, child prodigies or elephants that make paintings with their trunks. During the commercial breaks, we endured the various pitches for medications with the rapid speaking list of contraindications--suicidal thoughts being a common thread. There was a promotional spot for a new series in the fall called God Friended Me. I am obliging James and his need to watch crappy, trash television. It is part of his recovery. I told him that I should probably write the blog and if he had any parting thoughts on the state of our culture. He said, "Vacuous and doomed to be stupid." Glad to hear he's back to his old self, albeit, he still wants to watch the horrible fodder.
James will have to endure a two hour assessment by New York State doctors in support of his application for federal disability payments this week. I thought it might be prudent to ask James if he could explain to me, in his own words, what has happened to him in the past four months. He was unable to state accurately his diagnosis, the procedures that he received, or an understanding of why the surgical procedures were elected to be done. I strived not to make him feel poorly about his inability to describe his medical condition. I worked with him on memory exercises to enable him to understand what has happened to him and to feel confident when faced with questions about his recovery. He still does not understand why he had a tracheostomy! His "trach" was a concept that haunted him throughout his time in rehabilitation. It is still not resolved in his mind.
James is a very interesting mix of clarity of insight regarding societal woes, the state of cultural arts, or politics in general, and a complete inability to understand basic concepts about his medical treatment or current state of being. I told him that I thought it was not much different from his premorbid self. We recalled that in order for him to retain information while an undergrad in art history at Cal, he would have to hole himself away in a cubicle at the library and take copious notes on everything he read. I studied in bed, reading everything the day before exams or spewing out papers in a three-day sprint to the due date. James was the opposite--he was completely unable to retain information unless he went into a cloister and copied out notes onto paper--the physical act of writing was a huge part of his learning process.
James and I are back in lock step with regard to memories and mind-meld. The other day, on the way to the pool, there was something about the atmosphere, the light in conjunction with our conversation, that triggered the same memory. I told him what I was thinking and he said, "Hey, me too!" Later, we both tried to recall what we both thought in that moment and we could not remember. I said, "Damn, your short term memory difficulties are catchy!" We laughed about it.
Today, after our lap swimming, I said to James, "hey, let's go float around in the pool." I held him in my arms and sang a song that we would croon to Imogen when she was a baby and floating in the bathtub. The words are simply, "Floaty, floaty--floaty, floaty--floaty, floaty--floaty float" ad infinitum. Then, we switched and James held me and sang the song. I closed my eyes and listened to him sing, then, opened my eyes and saw his blue eyes, smiling face, and wet hair framed by the bright sky. James feels strongest in water.
He has a swallow test tomorrow to confirm the status of his aspiration difficulties. We are hoping that he has shown enough progress to either step up to drinking actual liquids or at the very least, to the next level of viscosity which would be nectar thick. We also have to race to the courts after the test to prove that he is indeed living at a hearing concerning a financial aid application. It should make for an interesting day.
James's has a new nephew, brought into this world on Friday the 13th by his sister-in-law Karen and his brother Chris. George James Sheehan is a beauty! We are looking forward to meeting him during the winter holidays. In the meantime, we are devouring every photo of the adorable little guy and his too beautiful for words mother!
James and I have to ask each other what day of the week it is because each day feels the same--therapy, swimming, preparation of meals--if only this could last forever--not so much the recovery aspects of our time together but the seamless days that blend into the next.
We are grateful to James's dedicated students that provided us with mashed potatoes, roasted butternut squash and carrot muffins to store in the freezer. It makes my cooking life so much easier knowing that I have basic building blocks for meals ready to go, delicious and nutritious sustenance for James. I used the cardamon infused mashed potatoes tonight with my curry cauliflower and buttered carrots. YUM!
One of the things I love about James's brain right now is the lack of a filter for emotions and his immediate somatic responses. I cut a cold, white fleshed donut peach for him this morning to eat with breakfast and it was as if he was experiencing it for the first time. He said, "Wow, that's so good" and he meant it!
We made gingerbread waffles this morning together. He was always the waffle maker in the house and I did not know how to do it--beyond making the batter. James tutored me on the amount to pour into the iron and the aroma of gingerbread filled the kitchen. How delicious it was to share that breakfast together.
I am feeling slightly anxious about the coming months with a return to work for me and school for Imogen. James will not be ready to be on his own when I have to return to the office next month. I worry about his safety and progress in his recovery when I will no longer be with him during the day. I am taking everything a day at a time.
I recall when I was pregnant with Imogen and worried about how James and I would adjust to having a baby--how would we do it? It seemed insurmountable. Our friends with children reassured us that it all works out, somehow or another, everything will make sense and click into place. This feels similar. Each day that James and I spend together creates a foundation for him to be on his own. I have to keep the faith.
James slept through the rainstorms last night. I was awake, reading a book brought over by our friend Bob Seng, when the wind whipped up and the trees were shuddering outside. I walked to the front of our apartment and watched the deluge. It reminded me of a time when I was a teenager and visiting my grandmother in Japan. I was inside my grandmother's house in Tokyo, looking out the window during a downpour. The rain flowed down the opposite house that had intricate blue tiles on the roof. I felt a sort of abstractness in that moment--the alienation of being in a foreign country, the center of a large metropolis--and yet, it felt so natural and familiar too.
The timelessness of rain, life, and death. I went to bed and climbed under the sheets with a sleeping James.
James will have to endure a two hour assessment by New York State doctors in support of his application for federal disability payments this week. I thought it might be prudent to ask James if he could explain to me, in his own words, what has happened to him in the past four months. He was unable to state accurately his diagnosis, the procedures that he received, or an understanding of why the surgical procedures were elected to be done. I strived not to make him feel poorly about his inability to describe his medical condition. I worked with him on memory exercises to enable him to understand what has happened to him and to feel confident when faced with questions about his recovery. He still does not understand why he had a tracheostomy! His "trach" was a concept that haunted him throughout his time in rehabilitation. It is still not resolved in his mind.
James is a very interesting mix of clarity of insight regarding societal woes, the state of cultural arts, or politics in general, and a complete inability to understand basic concepts about his medical treatment or current state of being. I told him that I thought it was not much different from his premorbid self. We recalled that in order for him to retain information while an undergrad in art history at Cal, he would have to hole himself away in a cubicle at the library and take copious notes on everything he read. I studied in bed, reading everything the day before exams or spewing out papers in a three-day sprint to the due date. James was the opposite--he was completely unable to retain information unless he went into a cloister and copied out notes onto paper--the physical act of writing was a huge part of his learning process.
James and I are back in lock step with regard to memories and mind-meld. The other day, on the way to the pool, there was something about the atmosphere, the light in conjunction with our conversation, that triggered the same memory. I told him what I was thinking and he said, "Hey, me too!" Later, we both tried to recall what we both thought in that moment and we could not remember. I said, "Damn, your short term memory difficulties are catchy!" We laughed about it.
Today, after our lap swimming, I said to James, "hey, let's go float around in the pool." I held him in my arms and sang a song that we would croon to Imogen when she was a baby and floating in the bathtub. The words are simply, "Floaty, floaty--floaty, floaty--floaty, floaty--floaty float" ad infinitum. Then, we switched and James held me and sang the song. I closed my eyes and listened to him sing, then, opened my eyes and saw his blue eyes, smiling face, and wet hair framed by the bright sky. James feels strongest in water.
He has a swallow test tomorrow to confirm the status of his aspiration difficulties. We are hoping that he has shown enough progress to either step up to drinking actual liquids or at the very least, to the next level of viscosity which would be nectar thick. We also have to race to the courts after the test to prove that he is indeed living at a hearing concerning a financial aid application. It should make for an interesting day.
James's has a new nephew, brought into this world on Friday the 13th by his sister-in-law Karen and his brother Chris. George James Sheehan is a beauty! We are looking forward to meeting him during the winter holidays. In the meantime, we are devouring every photo of the adorable little guy and his too beautiful for words mother!
James and I have to ask each other what day of the week it is because each day feels the same--therapy, swimming, preparation of meals--if only this could last forever--not so much the recovery aspects of our time together but the seamless days that blend into the next.
We are grateful to James's dedicated students that provided us with mashed potatoes, roasted butternut squash and carrot muffins to store in the freezer. It makes my cooking life so much easier knowing that I have basic building blocks for meals ready to go, delicious and nutritious sustenance for James. I used the cardamon infused mashed potatoes tonight with my curry cauliflower and buttered carrots. YUM!
One of the things I love about James's brain right now is the lack of a filter for emotions and his immediate somatic responses. I cut a cold, white fleshed donut peach for him this morning to eat with breakfast and it was as if he was experiencing it for the first time. He said, "Wow, that's so good" and he meant it!
We made gingerbread waffles this morning together. He was always the waffle maker in the house and I did not know how to do it--beyond making the batter. James tutored me on the amount to pour into the iron and the aroma of gingerbread filled the kitchen. How delicious it was to share that breakfast together.
I am feeling slightly anxious about the coming months with a return to work for me and school for Imogen. James will not be ready to be on his own when I have to return to the office next month. I worry about his safety and progress in his recovery when I will no longer be with him during the day. I am taking everything a day at a time.
I recall when I was pregnant with Imogen and worried about how James and I would adjust to having a baby--how would we do it? It seemed insurmountable. Our friends with children reassured us that it all works out, somehow or another, everything will make sense and click into place. This feels similar. Each day that James and I spend together creates a foundation for him to be on his own. I have to keep the faith.
James slept through the rainstorms last night. I was awake, reading a book brought over by our friend Bob Seng, when the wind whipped up and the trees were shuddering outside. I walked to the front of our apartment and watched the deluge. It reminded me of a time when I was a teenager and visiting my grandmother in Japan. I was inside my grandmother's house in Tokyo, looking out the window during a downpour. The rain flowed down the opposite house that had intricate blue tiles on the roof. I felt a sort of abstractness in that moment--the alienation of being in a foreign country, the center of a large metropolis--and yet, it felt so natural and familiar too.
The timelessness of rain, life, and death. I went to bed and climbed under the sheets with a sleeping James.
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