It's fine

We have been cleaning out James's studio to open space for him to work.  I managed to consolidate years of Imogen's artwork and school papers that James had squirreled away in his studio and found an empty bit of closet to safe-keep them.  Imogen's electric drum kit was sold (once she took lessons on a real drum set, she explained that there was no point practicing on an electric machine).  We stripped James's bike of its basket and bell, leaving it on the street for gleaners. He had been complaining for years about his dislike of that bike so I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to rid ourselves of it. Of course, he grew sentimental at the last minute but I was determined to have it go. There was no reason to have it around since he cannot ride it. When he's ready to get back on a bike, we'll buy a new, used one!

James decided that we needed a bookcase in the living space for our oversized books.  I have a bad sense of spatial perception and have always entrusted James to build shelves and arrange the objects in the house.  He went to work on making a shelf in his studio.  I did not think a shelf was necessary--we could rearrange the books in a similar manner as organizing Imogen's school work--consolidate and deaccession.

Lately, though, when James has an idea in his head--he will work with blinders on until it is complete.  I think this new, specific type of focus is one result of the damage to his temporal lobe--a tendency toward obsessive behavior.  It is a funny combination with a lack of short-term memory--obsession in spurts.

I let him use his electric jigsaw and drill. He was busy all last night and this morning.  When he was finished, I helped him carry into the living room. It was a scrappy child indeed.  He did not measure the boards properly and screwed them together unevenly--there were spaces between the pieces of wood with the screws showing--the wood was split in places.  The entire bookcase was lopsided. It squatted in the room--a sad totem.

I felt like crying.  I did not want to make James feel poorly about his work but there was no way I could live with the little troll that now commandeered the room. He suggested ways to fix it but it was impossible.  Luckily, we came up with a solution which was to place it in studio. It made more sense--he would have his art books near him, easy to pull down and in his sight line.  We moved it back into the studio--shifted a few paintings on the wall and vacuumed up the sawdust--it looked good near the window.  I left James alone and he quickly filled the shelves with books and his artwork. Phew.

James's mantra these days is "It's fine."  As in, you should not take such a large bite of your food.  "It's fine."  Please, be careful while crossing the street. "It's fine."  I do not think that bookcase will fit into this room. "It's fine."  You will need someone to accompany you to out-patient therapy, you are not ready to venture out on your own. "I'm fine."  I do not think you should use power tools when I am not home. "It's fine."

I reminded James of the confrontation I had with my father while I was in college.  It was during the anti-apartheid movement.  I was taking a class at the time that focused on South African literature and I was horrified. My father and I had an argument over it and his final response to me was that I took everything too seriously.  His advice was "It's fine.  Just forget about it. There is nothing you can do."

I wanted a way to shake James out of his default response which is to believe that everything is fine. If I would stop infringing on his autonomy, I would realize that it's fine.

He is not fine.  It is not fine.

I remind myself that James is not in denial.  I truly believe that his brain thinks that he is fine.  In other words, his brain is not enabling James to recognize his disabilities and cognitive dysfunction.  How can he utilize his damaged brain to recognize the damage!

When I pointed out the problems with the bookcase, James could not fathom how he had made the misjudgments or that he did not slow down and look at the entire object before placing in the screws.  We talked about it and he seemed slightly disappointed. I think, though, that he truly thought it was fine.

It is an exasperating response because there is no way to rationalize against it.

I asked Jack, James's occupational therapist, to walk with him to the ferry landing and back.  I wanted a professional opinion if James was ready to travel on his own--if he could do his out-patient at Rusk in Manhattan and catch the ferry home. The Manhattan ferry landing is only a few blocks from Rusk.

Jack told James he was not ready and explained that when I tell him something--that he has to hear the voice of Jack, James's doctors, and the other therapists--behind my voice.  That it is not simply Jennie saying these things, with her funny opinion, but actually, it is the doctors and therapists that are trying to assist him in his recovery.  I am ever so grateful to Jack.  James still looked skeptical. He said, "I'm fine."

Damn, he's so stubborn.

James is doing very well in the pool. It is difficult for me to keep up with him.

He was assessed this past week for occupational therapy.  They suggested over two months of therapy.  I am hoping that the out-patient schedule will be a means for James to understand his recovery process better and that he will begin to accept the pace, of being not so fine.

James, Imogen and I took a walk to transmitter park to roller skate.  On the way, we told Imogen about our retirement plan which is basically a reverse bucket list.  We named all the things that we will not do. We will not become mahouts or maritime pirates.  Imogen thought we were selling ourselves short. She thought we should have personalized motorcycles--mine would be hot pink and James's neon yellow.  We would ride our motorbikes to India to become mahouts for a bit and then, hop back on the motorbikes to the boat launch so that we could cruise around sub-saharan Africa robbing cargo ships.  Ok, I guess so.  It will be fine.