My Days

Reflections on the day-to-day work experiences of an occupational therapist.Essential details of all stories altered to protect privacy.

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MY DAYS 170 - LOCKE FAMILY GATHERING

Lucy and Will sitting full-body contact from knees to their shoulders, holding hands, and unraveling stories together in a conversational dance that would make Astaire and Rogers do a double-take:

Me: "Will you're doing very well for someone your age!"

Will (gesturing upwards) :"Thanks to the man upstairs"

Lucy, fists clenched: "To sheer stubbornness!"

And we three laugh at this perfect pearl of a moment

~

Gio's eyes light up and he asks for a knife and an apple. He has become possessed. 30 minutes later, a swan made of apple sits on the cutting board.

~

Eric holding court in an intermittent cloud of smoke on the deck, while we all wander in and out of his curious, loving gaze.

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A plate of garnished shrimp appears at the table with hot chili oil in the center and pieces of Meyer lemon. I stab a lemon with the toothpick and then the shrimp and dunk it into the oil. I will never forget this taste.

~ (Anna to me aside): "You know it's a special occasion--he never washes the lettuce that well at home!" Looking at Grandpa Jim as he carefully rolls the washed romaine leaves in a paper towel, to crisp for 30 minutes in the fridge.

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Brian and I, virtual strangers, sit in relaxed silence as he drives me to the airport

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MJ saying to--damn who was it?--it was the world. She was saying yet again to someone who underestimated her "You keep forgetting that I'm smart!" with a tone that was at once hopeful and pessimistic.

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Grace and the Ocean

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Alden, quietly absorbing a family conversation, and with exquisite timing, introducing a perspective that nobody has considered, that changes everything

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Chris and Brooke muddling the mint in a Caipirinha, not agreeing exactly, but knowing that no matter what--when you mix mint, lime, sugar, and tequila, it's just going to be good

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Starting to appreciate how much of a wild man Jim is when he explains how "Casa de Burns" came to be.

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Hearing Jim retell the story that he just learned about the mystery his mother took to the grave with her

~

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MY DAYS 169

The pain of others is somehow both more unbearable than my own pain and also infinitely strange. As he describes visiting the home where the machete attack that changed his life forever happened, his eyes widen, he starts to growl and sputter, like someone turning the gain up for an electric guitar solo. "My friend who was driving me said 'Well if this is how you react to seeing your old house, then I guess the ketamine isn't working.' HOW COULD HE SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?" he howls In these conversations, every question is rhetorical, because every answer is insufficient.

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MY DAYS 168

He hands me a credit-card with his name on it.

It's his business card

"I don't do anything half-assed" says the centaur

He's mad as hell about the state of the world but it comes out very specifically. He saves his deepest ire for people who take advantage of their elders. His hooves paw the ground angrily, and of course, he volunteers to go assess the plumbing at the man's home.

As I dance around my kitchen, trying to keep up with Stevie Wonder, I find myself taking an extra moment to scrub the sink with Comet and wipe the rim with a sponge.

"I don't do anything half-assed" I think as my tail swishes.

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MY DAYS 167

The last thing you gave me was a mason jar of your neighbor's homemade wild grape jam.

You told me in your frank way that you didn't really like it, but maybe I would. Turns out I love it. It has become one of my favorite desserts--with cheese, with yogurt, with fresh Persian flat bread. I'd like to think I've rescued joy from the sun

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MY DAYS 166

Today, with watering eyes, breathing through my mouth, I learned a new word: catio

a man is building the Versailles palace out of toothpicks in his living room

another is training his succulents up through the architecture of a tuba

another is steadily becoming the county champion in feral cat neutering

Hidden inside the worn-out, slump-shouldered, soiled-shirt-wearing, grief-stricken, embarrassed cat lady who is walking me around her filthy home is another Cat Lady who says

"I have rescued over 200 cats and spayed them all myself"

The cats in the catio are the remnants of her flock--the oldest and most infirm who would become food or sport in short order out on their own. I can't say whether they see her as a cat lady or as Cat Lady, but the county inspectors who are trying not to condemn her house are clear: she is a cat lady.

Best possible scenario (according to the county):

once the hazmat team strips the catio to its studs,

once the hoarding team is finished clearing out her yard,

once the hot water heater is repaired

her membership in the Responsible Home Owner's club will be restored.

But will she still be Cat Lady?

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MY DAYS 165

He played his tabletop marimba with unfocused eyes, keeping the two sticks one key apart and stumbling up and down the sidewalk of wooden keys. He can't tell me where middle C is and doesn't know how to tune his guitar, but that doesn't slow him down.

When he realized that I live in his old North Oakland neighborhood, his blue eyes lit up and a smile full of something--longing?--crept across his face. His ladyfriend, who just had a stroke, lives in my neighborhood. And once again, I see a life in full swing being knocked right off its arc. His ladyfriend and he were somewhat of a musical duo, he told me. He told me that ever since he was hit by a bus when he was a toddler, he's had a never-ending obstacle course of physical and emotional hurdles, but he has known for as long as he can remember that he was going to be a musician. Finally, in this cramped motor home, strumming one of three guitar chords that he can play, making up his own melody, he sings "My Cherie Amour" to me, and he has achieved his dream.

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MY DAYS 164

"'40 acres and a mule' they said. They took it back as quick as they gave it"

He is the grandchild of sharecroppers in Alabama, who were given a parcel of unresponsive soil, unconnected to the arteries of money, who then gave it back to the bank piece by piece

tonight on the science radio show: The scientists sing together "All trauma can be overcome--there IS hope!"

Eminent-domained twice in his own life. "Sorry son, we need a freeway here"

The scientists sing about how black and brown death rates actually fared way better than whites in COVID

"I was the sickly one. All my brothers worked out in the fields but I had to stay home." He HAD to stay home. And now he only leaves his room when I come to walk him around the block, wheezingly, haltingly.

He says he is embarrassed by the smell of his urine. He can't seem to get the condom catheter on. The nurse has been useless. Insurance requires that I discharge this man from my services.

Goddamnit again, America

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MY DAYS 163

They looked out at me through a thicket of fear.

Intelligent blue-green eyes like the calm surface behind the crest of a tidal wave. Generations peered from their eyes. Hiding in the woods was safe. They survived. They did not cry out in pain but for their anger at their lack of self-control.

Intelligent eyes navigating this thicket as a given.

"Yup. That's how it is. I didn't plant this fuckin shit. I just live in it."

They swear like a construction workers as they weave their story on the loom of this forest, and the wife smiles at their vigor. Even now. Even now. Even now.

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MY DAYS Periodic disclaimer

All of the identifying details have been altered to protect privacy of the people in these stories

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MY DAYS 162

you want to do something that will make your 62-year-old marriage feel new again? DO THE DISHES, MAN. MAKE IT YOUR EXERCISE.

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MY DAYS 161: two angles

Snapshot: 46 years old, he is strong, takes care of two children ages 3 and 9. The divorce is a messy one, but he is managing. He has the money to get a little bit of assistance around the house, he looks clean and well-fed. Snapshot: He will probably live only a few more years. He is in constant pain. He gets so dizzy when he stands up now that he can barely walk to the laundry room. He spends almost half of his waking hours resting on a couch.

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MY DAYS 160

She's outlived all her dancing partners, so here I am, applying for the job

She brings everything to the table: fuchsia scarf, polished gold dancing shoes, a little makeup

back in her family room, she walks me through the basics of the foxtrot on an orange shag carpet. A poster-size portrait of her in a miniskirt and white go-go boots, hands on hips under a redwood smiles at us from the corner as Frank Sinatra belts out "New York New York"

(did I mention she's 100 years old?)

In between songs, as she catches her breath, she reels out the names of all the old clubs around here: the Moose Lodge, the Ali Baba. She would go solo with her girlfriends and dance with whomever she chose. With those legs, that waist, and that perfect smile, I am sure she just slayed the men.

I may be her last dancing partner, and that hurts in a way to think about, but goddamn if she isn't making memories up until the last bit. I find myself hoping that I danced well enough for her to gossip about the cute young therapist that she's training up.

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MY DAYS 159

Maybe you have seen her place. Driving Up in the Orinda Hills you find yourself suddenly in a clearing. And in this strange declivity among multi-million dollar mansions squats her tiny white bungalow, decorated with constellations of deep sky-blue imaginary Egyptian hieroglyphics. She has turned her house into a canvas.

You would expect to see this in the middle of a forest, or at the edge of town on a corner of a farmer's property.

Southern Italians tan like no one else, and the contrast of her lime-white hair and bronze skin entrances me.

Her son has deep, dark, shining eyes and the vocal timbre of a 1960s radio actor.

After our interview is finished I say “this was fun!” And she agrees.

Sure, there were shadows: Her paranoid delusions, the fact of her fall, her isolation. But not every day.

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MY DAYS 158

“My life didn’t start to get better until I accepted that. I wasn’t going to get any better and decided to make the best of what I’ve got.”

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MY DAYS 157

The apartment is a perfect trash mandala. The outer layer along the walls decorated with dustballs, dirty napkins, worn-out shoes; the next layer in is food scraps, soiled laundry, discarded medical equipment; then comes the furniture--shit-stained, cigarette ashes, dusty tv; and in the center of it all a spotless and immaculately filigreed Fender Stratocaster guitar resting on a stand. 

He’s on his couch, naked from the waist down, but his belly hides everything from his navel to his knees. 

What’s the difference between a monk in solitude and a shut-in?

I’m not so sure I can say

He shows me pictures of a lithe 48-year old Swedish woman at his spiritual home, the Osho commune in Pune, India.  “I’m absolutely in love with her,” he tells me. 

When I remark that the guitar is the cleanest thing in the room, he looks surprised. “Yeah I guess it is”

He’s going to play that thing for me next time. When everything goes to hell, It’s the little things we look forward to. 

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MY DAYS 156

“I want you to be sore tomorrow!”

“Well, I’ll still be Eleanor tomorrow”