Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate
The moment I stepped out of the elevators and reentered the space of my office at work, my experience of time was altered. I opened and sorted two months worth of mail, reviewed email correspondence, and began to think about how I would prioritize matters that had to be addressed when I glanced at the clock and it was still only about 11:30. Hmmm. At home, the clock would have read 6:00 and I would have to think about making dinner and preparing for the evening wind-down. Being alone in the office was somewhat a room of one's own--I suppose--albeit, without the most necessary component--the creative process.
James and I have been waking every morning at six to join lap swimming at the pool by seven. I slide out of bed, take his temperature (a morning routine ever since the aspiration pneumonia re-hospitalization in June--I want to know first thing if he is running a fever), give him his meds, get him dressed in his swim suit, find the swim bag (goggles, towels, water shoes, lock, after-swim snack, dry T-shirt for the walk home), and we are off to walk to the pool. He is now walking unassisted (except for me holding his hand). He jokes that he is my special needs husband--the SNH.
James tickled the backs of my feet while swimming in our lane on the second day. I told him, go ahead, swim first. I am not pushing myself to swim fast to catch him but I am not taking my time either! If he keeps advancing in his swimming, he may outgrown my pace in the slow lane and I will have to work a lot harder to keep up.
In prior years, I would make excuses in order not to arise early for lap swimming--complain that I was too exhausted. I cannot do that now because James needs his thirty minute swim for therapeutic reasons. Since our arrival coincides with the pool's opening, we have the little luxury of less crowded lanes and exiting the pool as most swimmers are arriving. It allows me enough time to make his breakfast and to leave on time for the commute to work. I am getting in shape.
I did feel pretty wiped out this week right around 2:30. I may need the crutch of a mid-day pot of tea to get me through the day.
James called me at work that first day back to let me know he was eating lunch. I have created a schedule for James and Imogen that breaks down the day for them. James needs to know exactly what he should be doing for each hour of the day or he loses his sense of time. I also wanted a means for him to be able to monitor what Imogen is up to since I do not want her languishing into ipad zombiehood. She has summer homework that requires her attention and I want them to spend time together in the studio.
I hired a tutor for Imogen since she faced difficulties with her math toward the end of the school year and scheduled a first meeting with the tutor at the end of the week. Imogen's problems with math were a direct result of the stressors dealing with James's illness. I asked Imogen to review her math notes, workbooks, and tests to create a list of strengths and weaknesses. I wanted Imogen to have an idea of what she should discuss with her tutor other than her standard response of "I don't know." I left a bag of last year's schoolwork which I did not have time to sort out--all subjects were mixed together--as well as her large math workbooks. While I was at work, Imogen complained to James that she did not understand what she was supposed to do. He called me asking for guidance. I explained the task to him which seemed fairly simple and straight-forward.
James called me a few minutes later completely at a loss. He did not understand what I wanted--there was too much information to sort through spread out upon the bed, Imogen was not listening to him--he did not want me to be angry. I could hear the hopelessness in his voice and that he had no idea how to proceed. I told him to forget about the entire thing--I would take care of it when I arrived home. It was emotionally draining to me. The frustration of it--once I had Imogen back on the telephone and explained to her that I would have to work with her when I arrived home--made me cry in my office. I had to close my office door. I could not believe it, really.
It took me less than ten minutes to sort through the material when I arrived home and about thirty minutes of sitting with Imogen, reviewing tests and worksheets, to figure out what she needed to focus on.
James seems so capable and at times, I feel as if he's completely recovered. It was important for me that I understand that he faces challenges with regard to sorting out information, prioritizing tasks, and exactly what it means to have a lack of short-term memory and other less obvious cognitive difficulties.
We were discussing his studio process this morning. The studio is a bit of a mess and he feels overwhelmed by it. His old working style was to have several projects open, simultaneously--everything out in various piles. That will not work now. If he pulls something out to work on it--he will forget that he did that and then, wonder why that is out or where he placed the other project he was working on. It creates a clutter that is not even nominally fixated by memory. I used to joke about his notion of having everything out so that he could "see" it, otherwise, he would forget it. How can you see anything buried by layers of other things? However, there was a working memory--it was a true and real method. It was not my method but I did not want to ever impinge upon his working process. His method cannot work with a true lack of memory.
I suggested that he make work stations in the studio and begin to label things. He was already sorting out his studio before he became ill so I feel as if it is possible if he allows me to help him. He has to re-think the working process now and be a bit more organized. Taking everything out at one time will not be manageable.
I was reading the London Review of Books on the train--a pleasure that has been put-off for months now. It was nice to delve back into things that interest me as opposed to research or obligations. I was finishing an article comparing Proust and Anthony Powell which was the most interesting review I have read of Powell's work when I glanced up to see two junkies discussing their mobile phones together. It was truly absurd. They were wobbly, not holding onto any poles--the younger man in his late 30s was trying to explain an app to the other in his early-60s. What sort of apps do junkies use? It is probably not politically correct to call addicts junkies--I blame it on William S. Burroughs. I recall reading Naked Lunch on the train when I was in my late twenties and a hapless business man glanced over and scanned a passage--to see what I was reading--and then looked back at me completely horrified.
I looked around the train and suddenly, I had this flash of insight--I am sitting in a void, a truly spiritual hell. I felt so entirely alienated and sad.
James and I have been cloistered in our therapeutic bubble. I have had my battles with the current state of civilization dealing with the processing of James's disability applications and the insurance industry but I have not really been traveling in the city within my own head. I have been preoccupied by the ever-present now of James's recovery. Out on my own, traveling in the subway after feeling exhausted by everything--I felt a weight of sadness wash over me.
It's not depression. It is the exact opposite. It is being fully awake. What the hell is going on in the world, friends and loved ones? How did we arrive here?
The other night, James and I were watching Werner Herzog's My Best Fiend about his relationship with Klaus Kinski. The film opens with Kinski on stage during a performance in which he lashes out to the audience as Jesus. There is a moment when someone from the audience takes the microphone from Klaus and states that Klaus is nothing like Christ because Jesus was tolerant and if someone contradicted Him, he would not tell them to shut-up. Klaus responds by grabbing back the microphone and shouting, "No, he didn't say shut up. He took a whip and smacked their ugly faces!"
I think I have a little Klaus inside me at times.
James has a swallow test this coming Wednesday and a physical therapy assessment on Friday. Let's hope he passes the test and begins his out-patient therapy soon!
James and I have been waking every morning at six to join lap swimming at the pool by seven. I slide out of bed, take his temperature (a morning routine ever since the aspiration pneumonia re-hospitalization in June--I want to know first thing if he is running a fever), give him his meds, get him dressed in his swim suit, find the swim bag (goggles, towels, water shoes, lock, after-swim snack, dry T-shirt for the walk home), and we are off to walk to the pool. He is now walking unassisted (except for me holding his hand). He jokes that he is my special needs husband--the SNH.
James tickled the backs of my feet while swimming in our lane on the second day. I told him, go ahead, swim first. I am not pushing myself to swim fast to catch him but I am not taking my time either! If he keeps advancing in his swimming, he may outgrown my pace in the slow lane and I will have to work a lot harder to keep up.
In prior years, I would make excuses in order not to arise early for lap swimming--complain that I was too exhausted. I cannot do that now because James needs his thirty minute swim for therapeutic reasons. Since our arrival coincides with the pool's opening, we have the little luxury of less crowded lanes and exiting the pool as most swimmers are arriving. It allows me enough time to make his breakfast and to leave on time for the commute to work. I am getting in shape.
I did feel pretty wiped out this week right around 2:30. I may need the crutch of a mid-day pot of tea to get me through the day.
James called me at work that first day back to let me know he was eating lunch. I have created a schedule for James and Imogen that breaks down the day for them. James needs to know exactly what he should be doing for each hour of the day or he loses his sense of time. I also wanted a means for him to be able to monitor what Imogen is up to since I do not want her languishing into ipad zombiehood. She has summer homework that requires her attention and I want them to spend time together in the studio.
I hired a tutor for Imogen since she faced difficulties with her math toward the end of the school year and scheduled a first meeting with the tutor at the end of the week. Imogen's problems with math were a direct result of the stressors dealing with James's illness. I asked Imogen to review her math notes, workbooks, and tests to create a list of strengths and weaknesses. I wanted Imogen to have an idea of what she should discuss with her tutor other than her standard response of "I don't know." I left a bag of last year's schoolwork which I did not have time to sort out--all subjects were mixed together--as well as her large math workbooks. While I was at work, Imogen complained to James that she did not understand what she was supposed to do. He called me asking for guidance. I explained the task to him which seemed fairly simple and straight-forward.
James called me a few minutes later completely at a loss. He did not understand what I wanted--there was too much information to sort through spread out upon the bed, Imogen was not listening to him--he did not want me to be angry. I could hear the hopelessness in his voice and that he had no idea how to proceed. I told him to forget about the entire thing--I would take care of it when I arrived home. It was emotionally draining to me. The frustration of it--once I had Imogen back on the telephone and explained to her that I would have to work with her when I arrived home--made me cry in my office. I had to close my office door. I could not believe it, really.
It took me less than ten minutes to sort through the material when I arrived home and about thirty minutes of sitting with Imogen, reviewing tests and worksheets, to figure out what she needed to focus on.
James seems so capable and at times, I feel as if he's completely recovered. It was important for me that I understand that he faces challenges with regard to sorting out information, prioritizing tasks, and exactly what it means to have a lack of short-term memory and other less obvious cognitive difficulties.
We were discussing his studio process this morning. The studio is a bit of a mess and he feels overwhelmed by it. His old working style was to have several projects open, simultaneously--everything out in various piles. That will not work now. If he pulls something out to work on it--he will forget that he did that and then, wonder why that is out or where he placed the other project he was working on. It creates a clutter that is not even nominally fixated by memory. I used to joke about his notion of having everything out so that he could "see" it, otherwise, he would forget it. How can you see anything buried by layers of other things? However, there was a working memory--it was a true and real method. It was not my method but I did not want to ever impinge upon his working process. His method cannot work with a true lack of memory.
I suggested that he make work stations in the studio and begin to label things. He was already sorting out his studio before he became ill so I feel as if it is possible if he allows me to help him. He has to re-think the working process now and be a bit more organized. Taking everything out at one time will not be manageable.
I was reading the London Review of Books on the train--a pleasure that has been put-off for months now. It was nice to delve back into things that interest me as opposed to research or obligations. I was finishing an article comparing Proust and Anthony Powell which was the most interesting review I have read of Powell's work when I glanced up to see two junkies discussing their mobile phones together. It was truly absurd. They were wobbly, not holding onto any poles--the younger man in his late 30s was trying to explain an app to the other in his early-60s. What sort of apps do junkies use? It is probably not politically correct to call addicts junkies--I blame it on William S. Burroughs. I recall reading Naked Lunch on the train when I was in my late twenties and a hapless business man glanced over and scanned a passage--to see what I was reading--and then looked back at me completely horrified.
I looked around the train and suddenly, I had this flash of insight--I am sitting in a void, a truly spiritual hell. I felt so entirely alienated and sad.
James and I have been cloistered in our therapeutic bubble. I have had my battles with the current state of civilization dealing with the processing of James's disability applications and the insurance industry but I have not really been traveling in the city within my own head. I have been preoccupied by the ever-present now of James's recovery. Out on my own, traveling in the subway after feeling exhausted by everything--I felt a weight of sadness wash over me.
It's not depression. It is the exact opposite. It is being fully awake. What the hell is going on in the world, friends and loved ones? How did we arrive here?
The other night, James and I were watching Werner Herzog's My Best Fiend about his relationship with Klaus Kinski. The film opens with Kinski on stage during a performance in which he lashes out to the audience as Jesus. There is a moment when someone from the audience takes the microphone from Klaus and states that Klaus is nothing like Christ because Jesus was tolerant and if someone contradicted Him, he would not tell them to shut-up. Klaus responds by grabbing back the microphone and shouting, "No, he didn't say shut up. He took a whip and smacked their ugly faces!"
I think I have a little Klaus inside me at times.
James has a swallow test this coming Wednesday and a physical therapy assessment on Friday. Let's hope he passes the test and begins his out-patient therapy soon!
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