Housework

I was talking about life in the old days, living with a 105 pound Labrador and it was brought home to me that I used to be strong when I explained how, in the last month of her life, I had to carry Cheyenne up and down the 17 stairs at our stilt house as she could no longer manage. Greater love hath no man than this, to carry his dog everywhere as she prepares to die. Nowadays I watch young Rusty, all 55 pounds of him, leaping up the steps like a mountain goat as I glide up slowly and safely on my electric chair.

These days housework gets away from me compared to how active I used to be. By careful use of the chair I can balance the recycling bin or trash bag on my lap and when I come hoe with groceries I can hang on to the handles of my strong cloth bags as I slowly ascend the stairs while seated. But more complex operations still get away from me.

My wife wanted me to move a lightweight aluminum ladder but I couldn't figure out how to safely maneuver it through the obstacle course that is an occupied home. It's too easy for me to lose my footing and carrying a ladder, even a lightweight one is too likely to tip me over if one of my feet catches. It's frustrating.

I face these minor problems with a certain wry amusement once I get past the fact that I can't be as helpful as I'd like for my hardworking wife.  It was perhaps three months ago she had to learn to fold and lift my heavy wheelchair in and out of the turn of the car every time she drove me anywhere. I couldn't drive and I could barely walk. That's changed.

A few days ago I walked with Rusty across a couple of open fields and decided not to take my cane. I wanted to see if I could manage and I did without tripping or falling over.  One more step on the path to recovery and I have to keep looking over my shoulder to remind myself how far I have come.

I have also managed to sink to the ground and then raise myself back up off the ground by myself. It isn't  a move that comes naturally but it's a technique I can keep practicing. And it is also a reminder I am a long way from being able to lift and carry upstairs or down, a 105 pound dog.

Key West is such an odd pace to get around in when you notice the crappy sidewalks and odd curb cuts and tree roots and  badly parked cars and abandoned garbage cans. I greatly enjoy  not having to use wheelchair or walker anymore. I take my walker to gym class as it makes for a useful place to sit securely for seated exercises. The other day I had to drop of a check at Bank of America the least customer friendly bank in town. And suddenly I found another use for my walker as the line of zombie customers praying for service wound through the bank lobby and I lined up at the back of the centipede with my walker and sat down. 

The man in front of me turned around and eyed my portable seat.. "I want one of those," he said. I told him I was keeping it after I get to walking properly again. It has it's uses and waiting in line is one of those uses. I read my kindle and shuffled forward as we crawled toward the tellers.

I notice people walking a  lot more than I ever used to, and I suppose that is natural. I find myself amazed at how easily our articulated bodies work, all those bones and joints somehow miraculously keeping us upright  while at the same time letting us move. I'll get back to it before too long.

A Mind Transformed

I am supposed to have my final operation in a couple of weeks, a brief return to Jackson South Hospital in Miami for an out-patient slicing and dicing of my Inferior Vena Cava filter. I am told the removal of the filter in my groin which is designed to catch and stop blood clots in immobile patients, is a routine affair lasting a  couple of hours "unless there are complications" according to the surgical nurse. I had my pre-operation blood work done locally and when I mentioned to my general practitioner yesterday that I'm not really in the mood for another life or death medical moment he assured me the removal of the filter is easy. It is not going to put me on the brink of oblivion again. Jolly good I said, not keen to look into the abyss one more time. After all there will one day, come a trip to death's door when there will be no return, but I'd rather it weren't this month. The operation is simplicity itself: apparently the filter folds like an umbrella and they pull it out, folded, through an artery. It sounds horribly messy but when they put it in I felt nothing though I was pretty stoned at the time. All I can remember is being in an opiate haze and feeling nothing at all below the waist.

While all this medical excitement was taking place in my life, and I have to say my difficult veins gave up their blood easily to Dr Grider's extremely capable nurse, my friend Webb Chiles was cooling his heels in a rather... down-at-heel marina on the Pacific coast of Panama. His journey across the isthmus by truck took a great deal of money, thousands of dollars more than a conventional canal crossing in the water, and days of standing around waiting for something to happen. Webb was suffering from severe impatience and irritation at the loss of control in the gruesome heat and humidity that is Panama.  My wife and I transited the canal in the last months of US administration in 1999 and we too deeply disliked the loss of mastery of our fates. A feeling that came as a shock after months of traveling at our own pace making our own choices, unfettered, as we went. For one such as Webb used to sailing completely alone across vast swathes of ocean the fiddle faddle of  the canal crossing, combined with the general inefficiency of the truck crossing must have driven him mad. And yes he did admit on his own web page to getting upset by all the unnecessary delays and irritating problems. 

And then when he wrote to me about the mess, venting as it were, he pulled himself up short as though he should not permit himself such anger because his problems are so much less than my own limitations, as I learn to walk again and deal with pain in limbs and all the rest of it. However I made the point to Webb that my struggles aren't really related to daily living where we all of us, myself included, get frustrated and angry and annoyed by daily irritations.  And dealing with a different culture, at the mercy of people who don't even have to pretend to care about your problems or your schedule is frustrating beyond belief. There is no dishonor in getting annoyed by it all. Especially as total freedom (for Webb) lies just a few feet away in the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean next to the marina where his boat is still on land, mast down and helpless. As of Wednesday morning...it may be floating by the time you read this!

This correspondence with Webb set me to thinking, especially after a long conversation I had with my doctor when I was getting my blood drawn, about the changes I have undergone. The doctor was talking to me about my exercise and physical therapy regimen and he asked me if I thought I would be stronger than before the accident. I thought about that for a while and I said I wanted to first get back to where I was and then yes, get stronger physically. But I also told him I was stronger mentally than I had been. My head has changed, and I see that every day. He looked at me thoughtfully and told me he notices that all the time in his patients. Nearly everyone who has a near death experience gets profoundly changed he said. I said it's altered me and my wife notices the changes have been for the better. 

In trying to write honestly about this fiasco of an accident I have tried to explain what really happens when you suffer this sort of trauma. I hope that in continuing to describe the after effects I am being helpful inasmuch as I'd like to let people know this stuff, as difficult as it is, can be survived. I no longer fear the act of dying, I found it rather pleasant actually, and I don't even fear being disabled particularly. I am pretty sure I could make a life in a  wheelchair as others do. Loss of memory or nerve damage or the ability to breathe independently still gives me pause, very much so. But what I have also found is that while my mental outlook has gone through a  profound change, the outlook of those around me has not, not at all, and I have to consider that and make allowances every time I open my mouth. There is nothing quite so annoying as someone caught up in the drama of the moment and some asshole comes along and says, oh compared to nearly dying- why that's nothing! It's not helpful and the point I'm trying to make here is that it's not true either. Aggravation, inconvenience, frustration are all real emotions and deserve respect no matter what their cause or their severity. Hell, I still get pissed off behind slow pokes in cars, distracted drivers make me crazy and spilling tea on myself gives rise to a nice line in profanity. I nearly died, yes, but the part of me that lived did not attain sainthood!

I came out of the hospital and back into the real world with a lot of trepidation. I was afraid of  being the guy in the wheelchair, of being the cripple in the room, of people making allowances for me because I was less than whole. I liked being in the rehab hospital because I was among my people there. A room full of wheelchairs was normal. Struggling with the difficulties of daily living was normal. Conversations were open and talk flowed easily about doctors, medical problems, toilet talk and the dark humor of people working to rebuild broken bodies. Out here the ease with which I discuss these taboo subjects makes a lot of people squirm. Making light of these problems and having a laugh about them  makes the good burghers appalled at my callousness. 

Apart from all that I have learned patience and tolerance to a degree I did not suspect lay within me before the accident. It sounds like a good thing, right? The answer to that is yes and no. What if your friends don't have suddenly and miraculously the same access you do to a whole new point of view? I remember on Facebook a  conversation where a friend was offering me prayers in a dark moment and another Facebook acquaintance made a comment about how useless the prayer gesture is. Well, yes it can be when it involves strangers discussing a political situation and  strangers offer a callous throw away: "thoughtsandprayers" for a situation that deserves more consideration. But among friends the invocation to me carries a much more heartfelt attempt to convey concern and caring. In attempting to explain this distinction I got steam rollered and I still feel the confusion of trying to deal with that ridiculous online anger that social media generates. I don't post on Facebook very much and yet when I was in the hospital it was a lifeline to the outside world. On another occasion a  reader of this page took umbrage at an aside I made and instead of generating a  fruitful discussion (which is the point of this page ultimately) I got a snippy brush off and eternal silence. 

The other side of the coin is that I have much firmer convictions when it comes to such stupidity. I'd like to set it right but I am now motivated by a much more powerful sense of the fragility of time and the passage of time and energy that can be spent a whole lot better improving myself and enjoying joy. I have less time and tolerance for people who lack humor, and joy and  the ability to not take themselves too seriously. Sometimes you have to take everything very seriously, but those moments need to be counterbalanced by joy. I feel it really strongly these days. I don't have time to waste. The next time I am laid out on the ground unable to move while aware that my life is about to end I don't want a  repeat performance of last time. I don't want to feel my life slipping away to the accompaniment of a strong sense of regret that I have things to do and time is ending right now. That memory is uppermost and when I get the sense that talking to someone is a waste of time I now know acutely what a waste of time really means to me. I have no time to spare for situations that lead nowhere.

So while I appreciate Webb's acknowledgement that his frustrations are as nothing compared to mine, I also know he is dead wrong. One reason I am very fond of Webb is that he has always known the value of time most likely because he too has had his near death moments, more than one. Webb is my friend because he has shown me over the years that being forthright, not being afraid of your emotions and knowing always how best to use your time is the most valuable way to live. And yes, allowing yourself to get irritated is a valuable commodity in life. Among the people I value are the ones who don't allow mere irritation to derail connections to people who contribute to the quality of  our lives. Because when time eventually runs out for you and for me I promise you the notion that you spent your time wastefully will really piss you off on your death bed. I am living now with my second chance. Treat your time as though it too is your second chance and make it count. Rant Over.

Scooter Delivery

Eric called me from the road and said there was a problem. Oh dear I thought, the scooter has blown up. Never mind, I bought it pretty damned cheap with a credit card, no huge loss as I haven't even seen it yet! Eric had found it on Cycletrader offered by a  BMW dealer in Houston who clearly had no desire to hold on to this stupid scooter with only 400 miles on the clock... so Eric said he would fly from Virginia to Texas and ride it from Texas 1400 miles to my home...and now there was a problem on the road. "A man at a gas station pulled a knife on me," he said. 

That was a bit over the top dramatic for me. The day before Eric's biggest problem had been riding out of the dealership in a rainstorm that blew up minutes after he got the bike from the salesman (below, road pictures by Eric the Virginian). He got rained on along much of the trip to Florida but he did avoid the big freeze that hit a week later and dropped temperatures from 65 to 35  degrees. So there was that.

 And as he rode Eric sent me pictures of his various stops along the Interstate. His encounter with the would-be robber ended well as Eric, six feet tall and fully armored in his riding gear convinced the robber to back off and Eric rode away in one piece. That encounter could have gone much worse and its after effect was to give me anxiety about what else could have gone wrong that week. I don't think I will do this sort of third party thing again. If I can't ride it I won't buy it. I'm not risking someone else for my passion.

However there is no doubt Eric's enthusiasm for the purchase and his volunteering to use his own airline miles to make the round trip has been a huge morale boost for my crippled self and even if I can't ride for a few more weeks the Burgman 200 is here, under the house and ready to go. Just like the one that got wrecked last August.

The funny thing about this whole mad exercise is that I am now well known in scooter circles as the guy who likes the little appreciated Suzuki Burgman 200. In a country that reveres size over all things and Harley Davidsons are the stodgy mainstay of the riders who go with the fashionable pack, a modest little scooter seems an eccentric choice of ride. Indeed scooters are so under appreciated the community of riders across this country is only a  handful of enthusiasts compared to the legions of identically attired riders of "American Iron." So when Eric noticed this grossly undervalued Suzuki he knew who would in North America would appreciate it: Me! 

He made it of course after meeting up with some other scooterists in Central Florida, and finally finding sun and heat. After we had greeted each other, and it had been half a year since we last met up at his place in Spotsylvania, we talked about the little scooter that could. Eric too has been converted by riding the 200. He said it handled his size admirably and easily kept up with freeway traffic above 70 mph without having to go flat out. At speeds under 45 mph he was getting 90 miles to the gallon while the weather protection served him as well as it does me and I'm half a foot shorter than him. 

I was delighted to see my scooter at home now with just 2,000 miles on the clock and still brand new. Good job Eric!

With a weekend ahead of us, before his Monday flight home to Virginia, it was time to show Eric the Keys, a place not known to him. And luckily I was off work, so I had the time to be a guide. We sketched out a few plans lounging on the deck at my house.

As it was snowing in Virginia - ha ha!- we first went to the beach. For a while Eric tried to convince me I should enjoy seasons as he does each year. Chopping wood, sitting by the fireplace etc etc...But I know myself and I like summer heat and Virginia in summer is lovely for about three months. The Keys are lovely year round if you don't mind the heat and can afford air conditioning.

This picture below I took for him to send to those wishing it were summer: 

 Smathers Beach was looking perfect for a snow refugee:

"Yes," Eric muttered. "I could live here" and he probably could as his work is portable but I'm not at all sure the off beat aspects of life in the Keys quite struck home. I did try to explain to him how that works but he had a dreamy look in his eye and a beer in his hand. Who among us has not at some point dreamed of settling down in a place we went on vacation?

Hogfish I thought expressed the Keys state of mind nicely but Eric worried his shrimp might be frozen. I pointed over my shoulder at the shrimp boats in Safe Harbor fifty yards away but he was unconvinced until he finally tasted them and pronounced them the best shrimp he'd ever had. 

 They were very good of course:

I chose the hogfish (also not frozen of course!), a sandwich eccentrically served with melted cheese and mushrooms in some peculiar form of surf and turf lunch.

Naturally the reef Conch Cruiser was sitting outside all ready to blow Eric's brains and his camera lense. Clearly he was no longer in Kansas -  or rather Virginia.

Eric likes to use his Vespa 946 scooter to check out historic sites around his state which has plenty of such attractions. It seemed to me the Key West Cemetery might be of interest and I showed him the plot dedicated to the sailors blown up in the USS Maine. He spent a  fair bit of time checking it out:

Eric is a community oriented dude and has been working on plans in his hometown to build a scholarship program for needy youngsters so I knew exactly who he had to talk to. We arranged to meet at Cuban Coffee Queen downtown. 

Chuck manages a very successful scholarship program in Monroe County so the two of them got chatting away. Wayne and I caught up on the daily details of life...

 ...and I wielded my iPhone to record the moment when I was surrounded by men in red shirts.

At home Eric pondered life and his work load while I took a nap with my dog who never misses a walk even when I have guests. 

 I don't think Eric, as much as he missed his wife and dogs missed the  snow at that moment:

And the scooter really was secure downstairs, and not a figment of my imagination.  

Sammy Creek

Some sunrise pictures from the south shore of Sugarloaf Key. No words needed I think.