Shelter From the Storm

I have been making progress on rehabbing my arm and hand although recovery has been going slower than I hoped. I dislocated my right shoulder over six weeks ago.

I can now open flip top cans and turn handles on most water faucets. I can use my right hand well enough to log into my work computer (simultaneously pressing CONTROL-ALT-DELETE with one hand is pretty much impossible).

I still can’t change my bed linens myself, drive, or use cutlery.

Most improvements have happened after I started doing occupational and physical therapy. I decided to go twice a week for a while.

I walk about 1 mile to a nearby Athletico where Nancy B. sees me. Sometimes, the exercises I do make me feel like I’m in kindergarten (I will pound Silly Putty or attempt to hold a fistful of rice or marbles to retrain my grip). 

One day last week, shortly after I began to walk home after an appointment, it started raining. I was several blocks from the Athletico already but not even halfway home. At first, I thought it was just a summer rain and I could splash through it. Then I realized it would be a significant downpour.

I gazed down the street where I was walking and tried to identify trees or roofs overhanging porches, spots where I could stand for a few minutes and not feel the bullets of rain which were now increasing in size and intensity.

I saw a brown brick three-story building where the main doorway was nestled between two columns of apartments stacked on each side. It had only a small overhang, but it was out of the wind.

As the rain began to come down harder, I ran there, stepping up one short step and plastered my body as close to the door as possible.

I don’t know what compelled me to try, but I put my left hand around the knob and turned it. To my surprise, it wasn’t locked.

Conscious that I was intruding, but amazed at my good fortune, I stepped into the small square of hallway and got out of the rain.

I noticed discarded flyers for local pizza joints on the black and white tiled floor and looked at  the broken brass colored mailboxes on one wall. I think I smelled reefer coming from somewhere in the building. Definitely not an upscale residence.

I stared out the glass windows of the wooden door and watched the street and sidewalk quickly fill up with water. OMG, was I lucky!

I thought about Hurricane Harvey and the rain that had been falling on Houston without stop for days, with the expectation that more rainfall and flooding was still to come.

While trying to be extra quiet so as not to call attention to my presence, I almost cried. I thought about Texas flood victims and, since I was walking home from physical therapy, I thought about my injury.

I considered my good fortune, to find this dry spot for waiting the storm out, and I marveled at my own mind; how I was able to move between focused-thinking to a more wide-screen view of things, between reacting and planning.

When I fell in my kitchen six weeks ago, the first thing I did when I stood up was turn off the stove (which I was running to when I tripped). Then I reached for my cell phone and thought about who I could call. Which friends could drive me to the ER? Days and weeks later, I had to deal with my situation as long-term. This required a different way of thinking.

The day after my accident, I made arrangements for a neighbor to take care of my dog for a week. I created a small pool of friends who could drive me for treatments or to the store. I asked for help from people who could take out my garbage or help me shower. A few weeks later, I did research and made arrangements for physical therapy.

I know that my personal rehabbing will take a long time and understand that there’s no comparison to the loss and suffering experienced by flood refugees. Still, as I hear news reports on Harvey victims and as Floridians brace for Irma, I hope residents can take some comfort from the thoughts that filled my mind as I stared out the window of the mystery apartment building hallway I found myself in. I was reminded to:

  • Trust God; my subconscious and my intuition. I don’t know why I identified this building and turned the doorknob, but following these impulses kept me dry.
  • Feel connected and think of others. It’s easy to feel challenges and suffering are things that must be faced alone, but reaching out to others, with my needs or with my ability to help, made a difficult event a valuable part of my human experience.
  • Be patient. Be grateful for my good mind and its ability to react to what’s needed in the moment and to engage in long-term planning.

Being able to both navigate a long road to recovery and find immediate shelter from a storm is no small thing.

Ahhhhh! Thanks

I’m not one to fuss about my appearance. I don’t spend a lot of money on clothes or haircuts.

I don’t read fashion magazines that feature List-icles, short articles with How-To instructions like 10 Ways to Arch Your Brow.

But the other week, I was taken over by some sort of summer fever. I knew I would be mostly wearing sandals for months and decided to indulge in a pedicure.

OMG. Where should I start? I asked myself. I hit YELP and other online resources for places in my neighborhood that didn’t require much advanced notice and didn’t cost too much. I looked at a couple reviews, too.

I decided on a place in Lincoln Square. I made an appointment in one hour (Like I said, it was a spur of the moment impulse). I found the place to be clean and BUSY, surprisingly busy for 11:00 on a weekday morning.

There was a drying station in the front of the salon, near the register (small blowers for hands and feet), and stacks of those magazines I referred to as being full of beauty list-icles. I also observed one of the nail techs, filling up Day-Glo, jelly-like baskets with flip-flops.

Like an over-enthusiastic hostess in a Tiki lounge, a petite woman of some flavor of Asian extraction greeted me; the manager, no doubt. She laughed when I confessed I had a pedicure only one other time in my life.

She introduced me to my tech who then led me to a wail of polish colors. Considering my lack of experience, I surprised myself that I seemed to know what I wanted.

“I want red. Not orangey red, or wine colored. Dark red…”

I was led over to an oversized massage chair with a small, floor-istalled basin at the front. She instructed me to make myself comfortable and showed me how to work the controls on the massage chair while I put my feet in the basin.

I ended up turning the power on the chair off. I just wanted to focus on my feet.

She opened a plastic bag sealed kit as she began to run water into my foot tub.

Ahhhhhhh.

One foot at a time…

I dipped one foot in the swirling water while she worked on my other foot. She removed the hard skin with a sort of pumice stone. She clipped my nails, laughing at how long they were. She put exfoliant and lotion on my lower legs and massaged my calves.

I tried not to stare at the man who was picking out polish colors and was led to the chair next to mine for his pedicure. Why shouldn’t a man enjoy this, too?

After my feet were clean and smooth, my chosen RED was applied and an odd rubber contraption was placed on my feet to create space between my toes.

A pair of flip-flops was slipped on to my feet, and I was led to the drying station.

I felt terrific!

The whole process took less than an hour, and I saw what a big difference it made in my mood and outlook.

Okay, I liked the thought of dressing my feet in summer sandals, but I found the whole experience to be consciousness-raising.

It’s so easy to take something – like your feet — for granted. We tend to give a part of our body attention when it hurts, but not when it feels good. Not often enough.

Pampering yourself seems to be a good way to train your consciousness to do those things that are good for you. It’s good to remember that a task is not completed until it is celebrated.

Whether it’s making time to do stretches in the morning or, periodically, to have a pedicure, I want to nurture good routines, including treating myself well. I’m glad I gave myself this brief retreat.

Jumping into a new habit — feet first — is no small thing.

 

Goose Island

On Sunday, I was running an errand in the Goose Island neighborhood. It’s a section of the city that was named after a small (maybe one square mile) patch of land that formed where two branches of the Chicago River met.

It probably got its name because it was a resting spot for migrating geese managing their seasonal trek. Now, the term refers to the original plot, accessible by bridge, and surrounding area, which is now a very hip, industrial area. It’s home to the Wrigley Gum’s research facility and a variety of businesses operating from restored lofts.

After I emerged from my shopping mission and headed toward my car, I caught sight of a band of geese at the corner of the parking lot.

On a small rectangle of grass, only feet away from the heavy traffic of Division Street, I saw two or three grown-up, long necked geese with iconic hunter green heads and maybe eight brownish goslings, adorable in their awkwardness.

It seemed that they didn’t belong in this scene; so close to delivery trucks and train tracks and discount store parking lots, only a couple miles from a great city’s business district.

Then I thought, Oh yes. They were here first (or, at least, their great, great, great grandparents were). After all, this is GOOSE ISLAND.

I watched them for a few minutes. I marveled at how at home they seemed to feel in this spot between stop signs and dandelions. They weren’t bothered by traffic. I looked on as they scoured the grass for discarded pieces of bread or potato chips, hoping to feast on what people threw away.

The simple beauty of this affected me on different levels.

It’s always great to see a slice of nature up close. Successfully hunting up things to eat, the geese were just being geese.

It was even more delightful to me that this bit of nature could be seen in an unnatural surrounding. It’s heartening to think that birds can find what they need on a small lawn near a busy street.

But I had to laugh at my own joke, my pronouncement. I considered that the sight shouldn’t surprise me being that I was in Goose Island.

It fit.

There’s a certain type of beauty when things FIT.

Mathematicians call proofs elegant when the logic seems to work. Crime detectives seem to think of perfect crimes only when they have figured out perfect solutions. Engineers may get effusive over gears that mesh or seals that are truly impenetrable.

I suppose, as a writer, I shouldn’t being surprised when a word or phrase really sums up the essence of something. It’s something to strive for. When a phrase is both truthful and ironic — it makes me happy.

So the family of geese was hanging out in what could be thought of as an ISLAND of grass, surrounding on all sides by concrete sidewalks and a blacktopped boulevard and parking lot. In GOOSE ISLAND.

To see beauty in things, even in words, simply because they FIT, is no small thing.

 

Summertime Pleasure: Some Assembly Required

Oooo Hooo – I got a tax refund this year. Not large enough to affect my retirement savings strategy, but big enough to underwrite some type of indulgence.

I decided to buy a gas grill for my back deck. I looked at different models online for ideas and asked friends, who are committed grillers, to weigh in on features and brands to check out.

I was tickled by the thought: a summertime of pleasure and a smoke-free kitchen. I also ‘fessed up to the personal attraction of warm weather dinners featuring a lime wedge topped gin and tonic and red meat.

I realized there was a nostalgic component to this yearning.

When I grew up, dinners usually consisted of some type of steak, a block of iceberg lettuce, and some flavor packet enhanced Birds Eye frozen vegetable medley. (That’s what Birds Eye called mixed vegetables.)

But Sunday dinners during the summer often saw my father drag our Weber charcoal kettle to a corner of our back yard that our family beagle hadn’t turned into his toilet. He used too much lighter fluid, but I looked forward to these meals.

Wearing Bermuda shorts and a Ban-Lon shirt (a synthetic knit which I think was invented to maximize the odor created by sweat), Buddha-bellied with surprisingly skinny legs, he seemed so happy wielding his barbecue tools; extra long spatula, two tined fork and tongs.

I visited the nearest Home Depot on Monday of last week and checked out the model that had been recommended to me. (Because it would be set up on a wooden deck instead of a cement patio, it had to be a gas grill).

But I couldn’t bring the grill home myself. Even if I contracted HD for delivery, they would only bring the box to the street level, front entrance of my building. I couldn’t navigate the huge box up the winding back stairs myself. I couldn’t imagine suffering through the assembly instructions solo.

Ah, a girl (of any age) needs a guy sometimes – to help lug the heavy things upstairs and to rotate the assembly diagram until the orientation pictured matches the way you’ve sprawled out the parts.

I fought the idea, but I asked my ex. I don’t want to depend on his help, and I don’t want him to feel taken advantage of.

But I asked and he agreed. We overcame the issue of the Spirit 210 box not fitting into my car (we took it apart in the Home Deport Parking lot and put the components and hardware in my backseat and trunk), a rubber washer cover rolling off the deck, and even the fact that the project took 30% longer than anticipated.

Nothing went extremely wrong, but not everything was easy. There were several moments when we could have started being less than kind to each other. But no blood was shed. No voices were raised.

By 4:00 in the afternoon, the grill was assembled and situated on the southeast corner of my second floor back deck. I heated up a frozen flatbread to snack on while he figured out how to use my limited set of screwdrivers to tighten all the screws and bolts that were provided. We listened to the ballgame on the radio.

The finished product delighted me. I was very appreciative of John’s help with the heavy lifting and assembly, and even for the short tutorial on turning on and off the gas.

I was also oddly happy with myself. It’s so easy when a relationship doesn’t turn out the way you expect or hope it would, to be disappointed, to rush to blame. But I figure that once you love someone, you love him – even if you can’t live together happily ever after.

When I decided to move out, it was important to me that we continued to be civil. I wanted both of us to feel okay about asking each other for help, or to feel free about swapping recommendations on new restaurants in the neighborhood.

We lead very separate lives, but I think both of us continue hold each other in regard.

Being able to grill a blue cheese burger only steps away from your dining table is great. Having a long-term perspective on relationships is no small thing.