Last year around this time my friend Maria came up to Maine to visit before I left for Portland. We sat on the beach. We took pictures with my dog, Macey. We compared our tans and drank a little too much wine. And at the end she gave me a hug. She laughed and said in her flat, sarcastic voice that our friendship would soon be over. Then she gave me a journal the face of a blonde woman, whose head was lined with birds and who had two sparkling tears running down her right cheek. And the binding read: “The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears.” She said it reminded her of me, because I tend to cry at the drop of a hat.
I’m sitting in my room now and almost everything is packed up. Emily’s bed is neatly made and her drawers are empty. It’s a Tuesday and I’m not at work. The sky is gray and the air is a little cold but I have a feeling that may burn off later. Tomorrow early in the morning I will leave and surprisingly, I’m not crying. I think I’m stuck in disbelief.
The last week of work went well. Not as much going on and I had some time to clean up my desk. Friday came along and everything felt surprisingly normal. I went around the hallways with Tom and knocked on doors. We made our granola bar and juice offerings. We asked how people slept. And then smiled, “see you later on then.” I drove David to his first doctor’s appointment and he told me that he was looking forward to getting his hair cut. He pulled down the passenger mirror and tugged at his beard. We went through the whole process—the parallel parking, the opening of the clinic door (him hopping on his one good foot, leaning on his walker), the standing in line, the five extra minutes while the receptionist made the new chart, the borrowing of the special elevator key, the ride up one floor, and finally, the walk to the waiting room. He said he’d call when he was finished and I told him to have a good appointment. I knew that he probably would, that he had a good doctor who would take good care of him and I would pick him up an hour later and he would feel satisfied with that. And I thought of all of the times I’ve said those words throughout the year. All of the times I’ve pulled up the red van to that sidewalk in 4:30 traffic. All of the names of the people I’ve stood in line with. And how there was one point in my year when I came home and cried and wrote in that journal with the crying woman and asked no one in particular if it was all worth it. And I guess now, that I’m sitting at this desk, and knowing that someone else is doing the driving, the opening of the door, the “call if you need anything,” I can say that it was.
Five o’clock came in a way that was not climactic that day. My supervisor came to the office with a box of new phones. I helped plug a battery in and ate an ice cream cone that my parking lot attendant bought me. I tried to delete unnecessary information of my computer. And then suddenly it was 4:30. Then 4:45. Then 4:53. And then I was giving back my keys and my agency cell phone and realizing that something I’ve been so emotionally distraught over and involved with for one year is no longer mine.
So that’s that. We are now half of our house. We are cleaning our refrigerator and buying food for the next volunteers. We are washing the dish towels that have been sitting in a pile for longer than necessary. We are crying and not crying, staying up late and getting up to early. We are realizing that everything else in the rest of the world is going along as it always has, and I guess we will too. We will move forward. It will be strange. But I guess in the end, that’s just what you do.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Breakfast Pictures
Today I read on a food blog that I’ve come to enjoy reading (despite my lack of interested in cooking) that if you are into making pancakes, to keep a constant supply of butter milk in your refrigerator. It was the middle of the day before lunch and I had two minutes to spare before going to some important place to complete some important task that I can’t remember at moment. So I looked at a picture of pancakes, and from the shot you could see the steam coming off of them. There was a large heap of blueberry syrup, and some thoughts on the meal organized in bullet points.
So now, the year is starting to come to an endpoint, which was made clearer to me when I answered “next Friday,” after someone asked me “when’s your last day.” Next. Friday. No need to refer to the date. No need for further labeling of, “two months,” or “a while.” No need to think: “how the hell am I going to do this for another______?” It’s almost here. I will fly away and our staff will still drive around the wheelchair van picking up patients, people will still line up at the Starbucks next to my work in the morning, and there will still be a gang of tenants and ex-tenants circled around the bridal shop on the other side.
Also, I decided to go to the doctors this week. It was a last minute appointment, one that I successfully squeezed to soak up the last of my health insurance. I’d gone a few months before, in January, in the later morning after completing the rounds to have one patient, practically sitting in his own poop, scream at me that he didn’t want a granola bar and he didn’t want to go to his appointment and he didn’t want me to open his door and say hello. But this time, I was in a better space. It felt nice after all of the visits I’d made to hospitals this year, to be able to go seek some care for myself—have my own dull patterned robe, my own bench to sit on, to sit in the silence of that room with the white tiled floor. To know my height, my weight, my blood pressure, and to have someone else record the numbers on a form to be referred to later. What a treat.
Also, the house has been a bit quieter with people tending to their new commitments, which allows for more spontaneous trips and less lengthy decision making. On Monday we went to Dairy Queen in Southeast Portland. It was warm, and we’d eaten dinner, and the whole thing felt right. Red picnic benches, blizzard specials, the beeping of the cash register. Afterwards we took a walk in Clinton Park, across the street, overlooking one of the area high schools. It was getting dark. So we walked and we looked at the field and the stadium surrounding it. We thought of the desks that must be in there, all of the bodies that have occupied those desks over the years, and the desks that our own bodies have occupied. That came to an ending once too. We moved on, remembered what was important, and have since turned out okay.
So now, the year is starting to come to an endpoint, which was made clearer to me when I answered “next Friday,” after someone asked me “when’s your last day.” Next. Friday. No need to refer to the date. No need for further labeling of, “two months,” or “a while.” No need to think: “how the hell am I going to do this for another______?” It’s almost here. I will fly away and our staff will still drive around the wheelchair van picking up patients, people will still line up at the Starbucks next to my work in the morning, and there will still be a gang of tenants and ex-tenants circled around the bridal shop on the other side.
Also, I decided to go to the doctors this week. It was a last minute appointment, one that I successfully squeezed to soak up the last of my health insurance. I’d gone a few months before, in January, in the later morning after completing the rounds to have one patient, practically sitting in his own poop, scream at me that he didn’t want a granola bar and he didn’t want to go to his appointment and he didn’t want me to open his door and say hello. But this time, I was in a better space. It felt nice after all of the visits I’d made to hospitals this year, to be able to go seek some care for myself—have my own dull patterned robe, my own bench to sit on, to sit in the silence of that room with the white tiled floor. To know my height, my weight, my blood pressure, and to have someone else record the numbers on a form to be referred to later. What a treat.
Also, the house has been a bit quieter with people tending to their new commitments, which allows for more spontaneous trips and less lengthy decision making. On Monday we went to Dairy Queen in Southeast Portland. It was warm, and we’d eaten dinner, and the whole thing felt right. Red picnic benches, blizzard specials, the beeping of the cash register. Afterwards we took a walk in Clinton Park, across the street, overlooking one of the area high schools. It was getting dark. So we walked and we looked at the field and the stadium surrounding it. We thought of the desks that must be in there, all of the bodies that have occupied those desks over the years, and the desks that our own bodies have occupied. That came to an ending once too. We moved on, remembered what was important, and have since turned out okay.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Summer
It is a Tuesday, and downstairs a few housemates of mine are laughing. They are brushing their teeth. Sneaking after dinner bowls of granola. Shutting doors and opening them again. I got home later tonight, ate quickly, and now I have a bit of a stomach ache, and decided to come sit on my bed.
The heat came to Portland this past week (finally) and I’ve changed my bike route to the Steel Bridge. Surprising things can make you feel liberated, and for me, the bridge change is one of them. I realized, after avoiding this route for the entire year due to not being entirely sure where to turn off after the Rose Quarter, that I’m not one to take small risks. For fear of different hills or being five minutes late. But it feels very good now that I’ve made the switch. Less traffic, the special pedestrian path on a lower level. It’s very nice to start your day close to the water. It makes me think of Maine, so I thought I would mention it.
Yesterday I drove one of the patients to his doctor’s appointment. He waited for me on the on the sidewalk as I finished paperwork in the office and grabbed the van keys. He dug his cane into the pavement, and nodded and those who passed by. He insisted that he didn’t need help getting in the front door or buckling his seatbelt. After setting his plastic bag of papers and medications on his lap he pulled out a book, and started to read. What a great feeling that is—to have a book good enough to hold in your hands during a 5 minute car ride, good enough to show the driver that you’ve hardly spoken two words too. It was a graphic novel, and I can’t remember the name. He said he’s gotten into them lately, and that they seem to bring him out of a world that he is not sure will ever get better.
In other news, I’ve purchased a plane ticket home, and on August 4th at 6:19 pm (if all goes well) I will land in Boston. When I was waiting for the bus today a former patient walked by. She was with a friend. They were smoking their cigarettes, and she smiled and called out from 10 feet away: “So, you going home then?”
“Yep,” I said, “Beginning of August.”
She laughed. “You’ll miss Portland.”
I nodded and we talked for a few more minutes. It was good to see her. I thought of our car rides, of her stories of her father, and how she couldn’t help but pick up that I had made a wrong turn on the way to her doctor’s appointment. I thought of how messy her room was, how she never seemed to want lunch when I brought it around. And when my supervisor and I picked her up at the hospital and went through her intake paperwork, she couldn’t stop from falling asleep. There is plenty of crap that has happened since then. Plenty of things I will never know or understand. But I guess that’s not what this whole thing is about. Hearing that laugh, knowing that it came from her heart and up through her throat, and letting that be a sign. A promise that the world will never go completely dark.
(written on 07/13/10)
The heat came to Portland this past week (finally) and I’ve changed my bike route to the Steel Bridge. Surprising things can make you feel liberated, and for me, the bridge change is one of them. I realized, after avoiding this route for the entire year due to not being entirely sure where to turn off after the Rose Quarter, that I’m not one to take small risks. For fear of different hills or being five minutes late. But it feels very good now that I’ve made the switch. Less traffic, the special pedestrian path on a lower level. It’s very nice to start your day close to the water. It makes me think of Maine, so I thought I would mention it.
Yesterday I drove one of the patients to his doctor’s appointment. He waited for me on the on the sidewalk as I finished paperwork in the office and grabbed the van keys. He dug his cane into the pavement, and nodded and those who passed by. He insisted that he didn’t need help getting in the front door or buckling his seatbelt. After setting his plastic bag of papers and medications on his lap he pulled out a book, and started to read. What a great feeling that is—to have a book good enough to hold in your hands during a 5 minute car ride, good enough to show the driver that you’ve hardly spoken two words too. It was a graphic novel, and I can’t remember the name. He said he’s gotten into them lately, and that they seem to bring him out of a world that he is not sure will ever get better.
In other news, I’ve purchased a plane ticket home, and on August 4th at 6:19 pm (if all goes well) I will land in Boston. When I was waiting for the bus today a former patient walked by. She was with a friend. They were smoking their cigarettes, and she smiled and called out from 10 feet away: “So, you going home then?”
“Yep,” I said, “Beginning of August.”
She laughed. “You’ll miss Portland.”
I nodded and we talked for a few more minutes. It was good to see her. I thought of our car rides, of her stories of her father, and how she couldn’t help but pick up that I had made a wrong turn on the way to her doctor’s appointment. I thought of how messy her room was, how she never seemed to want lunch when I brought it around. And when my supervisor and I picked her up at the hospital and went through her intake paperwork, she couldn’t stop from falling asleep. There is plenty of crap that has happened since then. Plenty of things I will never know or understand. But I guess that’s not what this whole thing is about. Hearing that laugh, knowing that it came from her heart and up through her throat, and letting that be a sign. A promise that the world will never go completely dark.
(written on 07/13/10)
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Solstice
It is a Monday, and the longest day of the year. I am writing this from a room that is not really mine. But it is small and green and has served me well this week, as I gave up my own bed for Emily’s sister who was visiting. The walls are a forest green, the shades are always drawn, and there is a branch hanging above the window.
I’ve gotten good use out of my raincoat this month, but today during my lunch break I didn’t need it. I left the office around 12:30 after faxing more paperwork to important places. It was a pleasant temperature today, and during that hour the clouds were thin enough to feel the sun. Pioneer square was bustling. The afternoon farmers market was set up, and people were meandering through, eating sample strawberries from Mt Hood and little chunks of goat cheese on toothpicks. I had a few bites and then went to my normal spot, the part of the staircase closest to Starbucks. I ate my sandwich and watched people do similar things. Reading, writing, chatting on their cell phones. Most people alone. They seemed like they were at peace with that. I thought of all of the lunches I ate growing up, and the white tile of the cafeteria, the enforced people-at-the-table limit, and felt thankful that I’d past that phase.
It was an emotionally draining day at work. Especially with the reconstruction of our office, and that my small space has turned a bit smaller while Business Enterprises prime and paint the walls, and install storage shelves and a sink. One of our patients made some decisions over the weekend that left her in the not-so-pretty state that we found her in during morning rounds. Sometimes I see things during my day that I may close my eyes for if I were watching a movie, and I guess today was one of those days. She cried and couldn’t articulate what happened. And I stood there in the crack of the door while the case manager did the talking, that we weren’t mad and she wasn’t in trouble but we just needed to know the truth. We needed to know what was in her body so we could find a way to make it better. And she cried more and looked at me and said “I’m so sorry Lizzie” and I echoed what my coworker told her, and then we had to go. I felt very angry about all of it, about the time I’ve spent with her, the conversations in the car, all of the things she asks me for throughout each day. I wish I wasn’t. I wish that I could just nod and be compassionate and mean it when say that everything will be alright. But I couldn’t. And by the way she looked at me—no matter how altered her mind or behavior was at the moment, or how hard I smiled—she knew this.
I’ve gotten good use out of my raincoat this month, but today during my lunch break I didn’t need it. I left the office around 12:30 after faxing more paperwork to important places. It was a pleasant temperature today, and during that hour the clouds were thin enough to feel the sun. Pioneer square was bustling. The afternoon farmers market was set up, and people were meandering through, eating sample strawberries from Mt Hood and little chunks of goat cheese on toothpicks. I had a few bites and then went to my normal spot, the part of the staircase closest to Starbucks. I ate my sandwich and watched people do similar things. Reading, writing, chatting on their cell phones. Most people alone. They seemed like they were at peace with that. I thought of all of the lunches I ate growing up, and the white tile of the cafeteria, the enforced people-at-the-table limit, and felt thankful that I’d past that phase.
It was an emotionally draining day at work. Especially with the reconstruction of our office, and that my small space has turned a bit smaller while Business Enterprises prime and paint the walls, and install storage shelves and a sink. One of our patients made some decisions over the weekend that left her in the not-so-pretty state that we found her in during morning rounds. Sometimes I see things during my day that I may close my eyes for if I were watching a movie, and I guess today was one of those days. She cried and couldn’t articulate what happened. And I stood there in the crack of the door while the case manager did the talking, that we weren’t mad and she wasn’t in trouble but we just needed to know the truth. We needed to know what was in her body so we could find a way to make it better. And she cried more and looked at me and said “I’m so sorry Lizzie” and I echoed what my coworker told her, and then we had to go. I felt very angry about all of it, about the time I’ve spent with her, the conversations in the car, all of the things she asks me for throughout each day. I wish I wasn’t. I wish that I could just nod and be compassionate and mean it when say that everything will be alright. But I couldn’t. And by the way she looked at me—no matter how altered her mind or behavior was at the moment, or how hard I smiled—she knew this.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
New Voices
(Written 5/26/10)
It is 9:00 and it is just getting dark out. If you stop for a moment when walking up our staircase and look out the window, you can see a perfect frame of the sky as everything is setting. Bright, pink streaks and sometimes a stripe of yellow. The dark blue paint of our neighbor’s house fading a bit, the trees turning black. There are almost always clouds.
One of my favorite things about Portland: even when it’s raining, the night comes at the same time.
I’m not one for doing “cool spontaneous things” after work. But thanks to the effortless motivation of a housemate and an easy MAX ride, I ate a falafel sandwich and headed to the reading of Write Around Portland’s spring anthology. (An agency that provides facilitated workshops to different communities throughout the city.) The event was held at a large Methodist Church in Southwest, and we wrongly entered through the front door and were led down long classroom hallways by peppy volunteers who claimed the directional signs to be misleading. They brought us to the auditorium, where cups of apple juice were being sold at a long fold out table toward the back. Dozens of people proceeded to read the poems and stories that they’d crafted throughout the workshop season. Thirteen year old girls covered their faces with the papers they read from, and seventy five year old women stood a bit too far away from the microphone. Susie told us about her talented teddy bear who could speak 18 languages and run a triathlon, and Wendy reminisced about the man she loved who never fulfilled his promise of returning to her. Bob confessed that nine years after his mother’s death, he still misses her. And throughout all of it, the tragic stories, awkward moments, memorable occurrences while riding the bus, I never felt sad. I don’t think anyone did. It proved to me what an important tool writing is. That no matter how painful life can be, it’s worth putting down on paper. To confront it, or to honor it. Or maybe a little bit of both.
It is 9:00 and it is just getting dark out. If you stop for a moment when walking up our staircase and look out the window, you can see a perfect frame of the sky as everything is setting. Bright, pink streaks and sometimes a stripe of yellow. The dark blue paint of our neighbor’s house fading a bit, the trees turning black. There are almost always clouds.
One of my favorite things about Portland: even when it’s raining, the night comes at the same time.
I’m not one for doing “cool spontaneous things” after work. But thanks to the effortless motivation of a housemate and an easy MAX ride, I ate a falafel sandwich and headed to the reading of Write Around Portland’s spring anthology. (An agency that provides facilitated workshops to different communities throughout the city.) The event was held at a large Methodist Church in Southwest, and we wrongly entered through the front door and were led down long classroom hallways by peppy volunteers who claimed the directional signs to be misleading. They brought us to the auditorium, where cups of apple juice were being sold at a long fold out table toward the back. Dozens of people proceeded to read the poems and stories that they’d crafted throughout the workshop season. Thirteen year old girls covered their faces with the papers they read from, and seventy five year old women stood a bit too far away from the microphone. Susie told us about her talented teddy bear who could speak 18 languages and run a triathlon, and Wendy reminisced about the man she loved who never fulfilled his promise of returning to her. Bob confessed that nine years after his mother’s death, he still misses her. And throughout all of it, the tragic stories, awkward moments, memorable occurrences while riding the bus, I never felt sad. I don’t think anyone did. It proved to me what an important tool writing is. That no matter how painful life can be, it’s worth putting down on paper. To confront it, or to honor it. Or maybe a little bit of both.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Before catching the bus.
It is Friday morning at 10:09 or so and I am not working. It is warm out today, and I think everyone in Portland is crossing their fingers that Spring will be here consistantly now, that there will be a need for sunglasses.
I took the day off because soon I will be going to Seattle to smooze at a JVC benefit dinner and wear a bright shirt to identify my purpose. I'm excited about this, for the long car ride, the hills of the city, the chance to hang out with people I don't see very often. Jeremy made me a fried egg when I woke up and we sat at the kitchen table talking about nothing inparticular. It was a good day for an adventure, he said, but he had a strong desire to do nothing at all.
Work has been fine lately. People are very sick and I still don't have any answer for them. I went to a training in the Admin building yesterday on professional boundaries and was pleasantly surprised to see candy at the middle of each table when I arrived. There I was, with most of the Henry front desk staff, a few of my coworkers, and people from other CCC agencies that I'd never seen. We all picked a photograph from the pile and talked about how the shot represented our role. We don't get to do things like that often--sit in a quiet basement, refill water glasses, talk about what it means to be in this profession and keep yourself and your clients safe. I enjoyed it.
I took the day off because soon I will be going to Seattle to smooze at a JVC benefit dinner and wear a bright shirt to identify my purpose. I'm excited about this, for the long car ride, the hills of the city, the chance to hang out with people I don't see very often. Jeremy made me a fried egg when I woke up and we sat at the kitchen table talking about nothing inparticular. It was a good day for an adventure, he said, but he had a strong desire to do nothing at all.
Work has been fine lately. People are very sick and I still don't have any answer for them. I went to a training in the Admin building yesterday on professional boundaries and was pleasantly surprised to see candy at the middle of each table when I arrived. There I was, with most of the Henry front desk staff, a few of my coworkers, and people from other CCC agencies that I'd never seen. We all picked a photograph from the pile and talked about how the shot represented our role. We don't get to do things like that often--sit in a quiet basement, refill water glasses, talk about what it means to be in this profession and keep yourself and your clients safe. I enjoyed it.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Adjustable
On the corner of Stanton and 11th, at the edge of someone’s garden, there is a wooden post sticking out of the ground with an 8 x 11 glass frame. And every week the frame holds a different poem. I always make a point to walk by when I’m in the area. Today I was. It was written by a woman who was mourning her sick cat. She knew his life would not go on much longer, so she thought about all of the times she sat on the couch when she was sad and wasn’t quite alone. When she brought him to be seen, the vet noticed how relaxed he seemed to be in her lap. This was probably something she’s always known, but at the moment, the thought surprised her.
It’s been beautiful all week. Hardly any clouds and the ones that do float in the sky carry some distinguishable shapes. Lauren noticed a chicken wing, Garrett and I decided upon a large man jumping off the diving board to belly flop into a pool. We sat on the porch as Garrett experimented on the guitar and Lauren read her book.
It’s been interesting merging my life now with my life before now. My parents came a few weeks ago. My mom could tell that it was a “greener” place after using the water efficient toilets in the airport bathroom, and my Dad planned a trip to coast (where we continually compared every small beach town we drove through to Drakes Island). We stayed at a golf resort, and he didn’t play golf. I ate meat again. Then Conor came two weeks later. I drank beer and didn’t feel bad about it. He joined in on our mock debate during spirituality night. We walked around North Portland without a particular destination. It was wonderful to have very important parts of my life come together. And now it’s over. So I’m trying my best to bounce back.
So now I will have to reclaim this all again as my own. I took a long walk this morning and tried not to think about work but did. The medication boxes that run out to early, the pen Erwin through on the ground the morning of his last radiation treatment, the drawings Jake tacked to the wall beside the window. I wonder if there is anyone that just forgets about their work the second they walk out of the office. If it’s possible to just push something that you focus 40 hours of your week on out of your mind.
I ended up at Grant Park, on 33rd and Knott by the end of this walk. There were a lot of people there, mostly small children, a girl with a red cape, “DAD MOM AVA ISREAL” written in twigs on the pavement. I sat on one of the benches next to three statues: a girl, a boy, and a dog. They were of Ramona, the protagonist of Beverly Cleary’s books. There was a stone in the ground next to the dog that read, “Ribsy is what you might call a well-adjusted dog.” A trait that should never be taken for granted.
It’s been beautiful all week. Hardly any clouds and the ones that do float in the sky carry some distinguishable shapes. Lauren noticed a chicken wing, Garrett and I decided upon a large man jumping off the diving board to belly flop into a pool. We sat on the porch as Garrett experimented on the guitar and Lauren read her book.
It’s been interesting merging my life now with my life before now. My parents came a few weeks ago. My mom could tell that it was a “greener” place after using the water efficient toilets in the airport bathroom, and my Dad planned a trip to coast (where we continually compared every small beach town we drove through to Drakes Island). We stayed at a golf resort, and he didn’t play golf. I ate meat again. Then Conor came two weeks later. I drank beer and didn’t feel bad about it. He joined in on our mock debate during spirituality night. We walked around North Portland without a particular destination. It was wonderful to have very important parts of my life come together. And now it’s over. So I’m trying my best to bounce back.
So now I will have to reclaim this all again as my own. I took a long walk this morning and tried not to think about work but did. The medication boxes that run out to early, the pen Erwin through on the ground the morning of his last radiation treatment, the drawings Jake tacked to the wall beside the window. I wonder if there is anyone that just forgets about their work the second they walk out of the office. If it’s possible to just push something that you focus 40 hours of your week on out of your mind.
I ended up at Grant Park, on 33rd and Knott by the end of this walk. There were a lot of people there, mostly small children, a girl with a red cape, “DAD MOM AVA ISREAL” written in twigs on the pavement. I sat on one of the benches next to three statues: a girl, a boy, and a dog. They were of Ramona, the protagonist of Beverly Cleary’s books. There was a stone in the ground next to the dog that read, “Ribsy is what you might call a well-adjusted dog.” A trait that should never be taken for granted.
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