I have no medical reports or numbers to share today. Today was a "day off" from my job as outpatient reporting to the hospital for tests. Tomorrow I go see an allergist to determine if I really am allergic to sulpha drugs. If the allergy has disappeared or there is a work around, then "Wahoo!" I can take bactrim instead of the pentamidine via nebulizer. That first treatment left me with a constant dry and hacking cough, because it irritates the lungs.
What do we do on a day off?
First, Marian slept in until nearly 9:00 AM. We had a late breakfast. Marian did site care -- removing the old bandage covering the spot where my Hickman catheter enters my chest, cleaning it up thoroughly, and applying a new bandage. It is a sterile-field procedure and she does it well. Most of the rest of the day is taken up with small things -- personal stuff we have to put off because we need to be ready to jump to the hospital as daily results come in. I napped quite a bit today. As you could probably tell from last night's update, I was barely functional when I signed off.
Am I There?
Finishing last night's short report was nearly an out-of-body experience for me. As overwhelming fatigue crept over me, each word and each phrase took incredible amounts of effort to formulate and then to type. My fingers would not go where directed and I kept drifting away from the project. I think I understand why I am not allowed to drive...by the time I analyzed the full meaning of the red light, I would be dealing with the effects of running it. I am also not supposed to sign contracts or make important decisions. Today, I am still slow, but I am here...or at least, I was...
Time Travel
I had forgotten that Tuesday evenings at 6:00 PM, a group of young Mennonite women (who volunteer at the clinic, hospitals, and homes like ours) drop by to sing hymns A Capella as a special treat for the residents. I was just finishing my evening meal when they swept in, hummed to a tuning pipe, and launched into the first of their selections. What I did not expect was my own reaction to the music...
My mind jumped back 50 or more years in an instant. I was no longer seated at a table in the dining hall, but sprawled on the ground under the huge tree behind my Grandpa Archcie's house on Wayne Road, near Plymouth Road in Michigan (Wayne, MI). My face was sticky with the remains of the watermelon slice whose seeds lay in a semicircle in front of me. My Uncle Riley, seated in a wooden folding chair next to me, was tapping his hand on my shoulder in time with the music.
Every summer a fair number of my grandfather's many brothers, sisters, cousins, and even my Great Grandmother would come over for a reunion. Nearly all played instruments, mostly stringed, from guitars to mandolins to violins. Most could play the piano (which always got a work out) and they would play and sing mostly Canadian Blue Grass songs and old hymns. It seemed everyone could sing (except for me and my dad) and music was present from the first arrival until the last departure. Occasionally, an accordion would show up, and we would have some polkas and, of course, Lady of Spain. Music was always in that house and I can still feel it pulsing in my veins and calling to me across time.
I came back to my room tonight and wept for a time, for the beauty now only available in memory, for the magical music in my mind, and for more than five decades of trying to translate it.
I lamented long years that, although the music lived inside me, and struggled to get out, when I tried to use it -- the results usually, were laughter, mockery, and worse disappointment for me and for my family. You see, I can hear music in my head, thousands of melodies, harmonies, layers upon layers of musical constructions that feel like they could come to life, breathe, and dance awhile with me. But my hands were damaged as a child and I cannot play anything well. What about my voice? Well a (well known opera soprano) voice coach told me: "Well, you surely have a big ol' voice!" However there is a disconnect between the voice in my mind (move over Andre and Josh) and the instrument I was given.
Anyone who has directed me, singing solo on stage has known both great fear and uncertainty...
I think that is why I write poetry. It is an attempt to take the music in my mind, wed it to words that have personal meaning, and to create at best, a shadow portrait of the wonder I see, feel, hear, and touch when I close my eyes. Tonight, for example, it rained, so the car tires slap a different cadence on the payment outside my window, which is counterpoint to the faint splash of water on the road and other vehicles. The heartbeat of the building is softer tonight, maybe it's the weather again, or maybe just a bit of peace. The halls still echo with the sparkling young voices of the Mennonite girls singing of love for Jesus and peace and joy. Underlying it all is my own heart beat a bit sadder tonight at the long lost music I could never yet capture. Perhaps someday, the memory of those reunions, the full music, voices, food, instruments, songs, laughter (and anger) and happiness in each others company, will form a poem in my mind. Maybe. Not tonight.
Until then, I write about what I know best...what I see, what I feel, what I believe, and what I love. Those are the simplest songs and the easiest to paint for all to hear.
Kids with headsets tell me they are bored, bored, bored...
I fail to understand how anyone can be bored in their life. All you have to do is pull the iPod ear pieces out, close your eyes, open your mind and listen. Listen with your heart as well as your brain. Sort the rhythms and the flows, find what works together and place them just so, and your version of my current Second Street SW symphony has begun. If you are not so ambitious, lay awake (as I do so often) and just listen to your loved one(s) breathing in the dark...try to hear their heart beat(s) and work with your own.
Think a bit crazy (it is easier to get away with when you are older): Does early morning sunlight have sound? You bet it does. Is there a tempo to the evening twilight creeping by on its little feet? Oh yes! Is there a rhythm extravaganza in the clash and battle of cafeteria at school? Like Stomp on steroids. It's all there, every day, your chance to live the music.
And while you are at it, try singing your prayers...in your mind. I sign to God you know, and I believe He hears my mind's voice: The tearful salt in my pleas, the heat and passion in my arias about my own pain and others, the acid flavor of doubt and fear, and the warm caramel when blessing those I love.
All of me is here tonight and all of me wishes blessings upon all of you. A card unlooked-for arrived today and had me humming a mental tune.
Thanks for the cards, letters, phone calls, e-mails and prayers.
Sing your prayers to God tonight. He gets enough noise from down here. Let’s give Him the gift of music.
Bless you all and good night,
Mick