consolationland

The Usual Disclaimer: This is absolutely not medical advice. It’s not a promotion for cataract surgery, driving in winter weather, writing on one’s arm in ink, or anything else. It is a promotion of Angelina, but in her own circle she was famous before she met me.

After Surgery 1, there was a followup exam one day later, then again one week later. Then one week after that, we had Surgery 2. For round 2, I knew more of what to expect; at least my hands didn’t start shaking a whole day in advance.

Another winter weather front was on the way. Angelina and I kept in touch with frequent weather updates about the advisability of driving. Angelina made the final executive decision on the day in the dark street while innocent ordinary rain fell softly on our heads. I threw my backup gear in her car in case we got stuck under some highway overpass for the night through my own fault. There was a knapsack and duffle with bottled water, bread and cheese, fruit and nuts, chocolate, blanket, raingear, two fluorescent vests, emergency whistle, torch flashlight, and my cell phone charger so we could charge our phones at the clinic in case the power went out that day.

We were off.

Angelina is a conversation artist. She will whip the life story out of you before you know it yourself. Now I understand that she probably did that to put me at ease. In any case, the rain only spit some sleet at us once, then settled back to rain again.

In the clinic a surgery team member approached to check my identity. As for the first surgery he handed me a whole roll of adhesive labels pre-printed with my name, patient number, and date of birth, so that I could verify the information. That might be the point when they attached the same label to a bracelet on my wrist. He asked Angelina “And will you be the Getaway Driver?” He asked her for her phone number, and I showed it to him written on my own forearm in heavy ink for good measure. (“You can write my number on your arm too,” I told Angelina. “Later we’ll get matching tattoos.”) 

In the prep/recovery room, the team greeted me and ran through the same solid checklist. “And which eye?” they asked at three different points, before the surgeon drew on a faint confirming arrow on my forehead. After answering three times I suggested “Let’s do the one with the cataract in it.” They asked me for the pre-printed labels, but this time I’d made the mistake of tucking them in to my waist pack, and placing that in my knapsack. “I’ll get them!” I offered. But no no, they kept me sitting still for my blood pressure check, and assured me that they’d flag down Angelina and get the labels back. Angelina as it happened had taken a stroll next door for a fortifying cup of coffee, so the team cheerfully printed a new label set. 

Finally the team waited at attention, poised to zip my wheeled chair into the OR across the hall. At that moment one of them noticed that outside the window, the heavens had opened with a thick fall of enormous snowflakes. (Fortunately the huge clumped flakes suggested that we had warm temperatures, and the snow might be short duration. I certainly hoped so.) Because I was already in place with heated blanket and electrodes, a nurse darted to the window with her cell phone. She made a little video of the dramatic snowfall, then darted in beaming to play the video so I could marvel at the snow too. Her thoughtful gesture was an extra cheering touch in those moments as they zipped me across the hall and into place.

In the OR a dear team member from the first surgery said “Why hello. Thank you for visiting. Fancy seeing you here.” I assured him that there was nowhere I’d rather be. “A nice place. I love what you’ve done with it.” Even our surgeon laughed. 

This time during very gentle slow deep breaths, it dawned on me lying there that I’d never felt so vulnerable or open or trusting to anyone as I was to this surgical team. That was a poignant thought, but at least the moment happened in good hands. It was a remarkable feeling. My body settled down into such deep relaxation that there seemed no need to breathe at all. I did keep breathing though, very softly and evenly, to maintain steady pressure in the eye and to keep from disrupting the monitors or the team. After 77 gentle breaths our surgeon said “We’re done.” I felt sorry to bid them all goodbye (“I guess we’re all out of cataracts now.”) but gave them a heartfelt thanks. 

The original team member walked me back to Angelina. Anxious about the weather, and anxious to not keep her waiting, I zeroed over and grabbed the straps of the knapsack and duffle. “Aaaaaaah No!” Both our nurse and Angelina (a nurse herself) grabbed the straps to keep from lifting them. “That stuff must weigh thirty pounds!” Angelina said. “I hauled it with me to get my coffee. YOU can’t lift anything heavy after your surgery!” I remembered that of course they were right. While I meekly and gratefully obeyed, she carried my gear to the car herself. At least this time I was clever enough to pay for our parking.  “Look at you, Girl.” She opened the car door for me. “You walked out of that surgery like it was NOTHING.”

The snow had tapered off, but the temperature was falling fast. Angelina drove home carefully, and she carried my things upstairs before I got into bed. Then the sleet set in, but thank God we made it home safely. 

Up next: Recovery round 2, and helping the mind adjust to a new visual world.

Disclaimer: There is no medical expertise or advice whatsoever in this story. It’s not meant to promote cataract surgery or anything else. Your surgical needs, precautions, pre-existing conditions, life experience, impressions, medications, and everything else may vary completely. Ask your doctor, not some language major.

Dedicated to Captain Wing (designated Grownup, surgery 1), and to Angelina (designated Grownup, surgery 2). 

__________________________

Before surgery, I followed a checklist.

List all pre-surgery, surgery, and followup appointments together copied to computer desktop, and printed out on the wall at home and the wall at work, with a copy for supervisor. Note them all as Away time in shared calendar, and payroll schedule. Print a binder for the office with FAQs that anyone might have. Set automatic replies to let everyone know I’d be off email for most of two weeks.

Print a “Cataract Adventure” binder with clear acetate page protectors to carry in to clinic. List date and type of surgery (and which eye to work on), Captain’s & Angelina’s contact information, parking garage and driving instructions, family contacts, primary care provider and other care team contacts, health history questionnaire sent to me by the clinic, insurance information, pharmacy information, religious affiliation, Do Not Resuscitate orders, and health summary (no, no medication allergies that I know of; no, no difficulty with anesthesia in the past; yes, neck has a full range of motion and can tip back; no, no chipped or broken teeth).

Clean house. Clear any fall hazards up off the floor. Clean off work surfaces. Take down pots and pans off their high shelf, to avoid pulling one down on my head.

Wash and iron all clothes.

Stock up all filtered water bottles.

Prepare a week of easy-heat low-inflammation fridge and freezer meals.  

Print out a schedule for eye drop prescriptions (two different medications on a staggered schedule for the two eyes for the next four weeks each.)

Print an envelope wrapper for my cell phone with my alternative contact information if found.

Dedicate a workspace just for medications, eye shield, tape, and pharmacy instructions.

Schedule LOTS of time to drive to the hospital. Text meeting place, time, and plan three times in advance to designated grownup. Email them driving and parking garage directions. Emphasize the option to cancel in bad weather, or if their families need them.

Leave behind office keys and office access card and any superfluous items in a special box on desk.

Pack information binder, and lots of large and small dollar bills and quarters for pharmacy and parking garage. 

Pack black glasses, orange tinted goggles to deflect blue light, and sun hat.

Day before:

Complete “e-CheckIn” function on clinic’s software.

Drink water. The team asked me to drink enough water the day before to be fully hydrated; they needed good hydration for easy access to a vein when they put in my IV.

Midnight, day of surgery: nothing by mouth; not a bite of food, and no beverages. The team emphasized NO milk, cheese, or other dairy products. (Captain Wing explained. In the OR when the team tips back the chair the patient can experience acid reflux, and dairy makes that a lot more uncomfortable.) 

Morning of:

Check the weather for winter warnings. Call and email clinic in case they need to close. (When I called, the clinic let me know that they never close.)

Spread out blanket roll and pillows all ready for immediate rest time upon return.

Bring water and snack.

Meet neighbor outside at the meeting place 15 minutes early. (Both Captain and Angelina made a point of being right there 15 minutes early too, with the cars running and all warmed up. Or maybe they were parked out there all night? Who knows?)

On the way to surgery, chill out and cash in some trust in the universe.

The night before both surgeries I woke up often to check how many hours ’til alarm time, and to read bulletins from the National Weather Service. Our winters are extremely mild, with only regular soft rainfall, so scheduling them for December seemed reasonable. But our city completely shuts down in wintry weather, and all night the forecasters couldn’t tell whether we would get black ice and sleet, or six to ten inches of snow, or nothing. That left hours of time to sift through various discouraging thoughts like these.

1. If I were a reasonably loveable person, I’d have a family of some kind by now. They could come with me. I wouldn’t have to ask for this huge favor from wonderful neighbors who have families of their own to care for and had to take time off for this.
2. What if the weather gets worse? We’ll have to cancel. Then the surgery team will say “Forget it. You disobeyed our instructions. Now we’ll have to kill you.” (I don’t really think that is how surgical teams view the matter, but that inner program concerning authority figures is pretty well entrenched.)
3. Or, the surgery team might say “Forget it. You cancelled on the day for a 9:00 am surgery, so we’ll cross you off our Good Standing patient list and will operate only on other people. Even if we ever do let you back, when we operate on you we will not be in a good mood.”) I don’t think that’s what hospitals say either, but the OR turnover for this rapid surgery is so precise that the team won’t like just standing there with a time gap.
4. Or, we might drive there and the car might get stuck in bad weather or in a fender bender and it’s all my fault.
5. Or, somebody might snatch my knapsack with my cell phone, ID, and keys, right out of the arms of my good neighbors in the waiting room!
6. Maybe after two weeks off, the office won’t want me back. (Spoiler: They did. It was fine.)

It was sobering too, to ponder how much Privilege is wrapped around this surgery. It takes proximity to a good eye surgery center, a job with insurance and sick leave, a safe place to sleep and recover, washing facilities for keeping everything clean and sanitary, neighbors to drive, text and email access for the many clinic alerts, and enough mindfulness to follow all the physical restrictions during recovery and to log two medications on two staggered schedules for two eyes. 

At last, it was morning for Surgery 1. We were breathtakingly lucky with the weather. The worst of it either held off for the next several days, or passed right by.

Captain Wing’s crack starship-level rush hour driving was a treat. The excellent car stereo played a fascinating mix of modern Chinese hits. All of them were strongly cheery, and lavishly orchestrated. Each note and beat sounded flawlessly produced. I even recognized a few words, such as Wo ai ni, or “I Love You.” 

Then, a completely new vocalist swept in. Her voice was not only perfectly recorded, but had a naturally stellar command and tone. “Say,” I cried out. “This Chinese vocalist is really fine!” Captain Wing was uncharacteristically silent for a moment before tactfully explaining “Because she’s Sarah Brightman.” (I hope I did not hurt his feelings. With a few buttons and dials he smoothly swapped out the mixed musical menu for an all-Sarah program of opera and lighter music.) 

The song was Sarah’s cover in Spanish (not Chinese) of “Tú” (Tú, sin más porqué, Tú que bésame…), by composer José María Cano. One of the striking moments of the song was Sarah hitting a clear pure high note and holding it, while the melody line fell in plaintive unusual intervals. The music is copyrighted, but here is just a morsel with the interesting key signature and that striking second measure with falling notes:

Where else had I heard falling notes in a pattern like that?? It was a real rest for an apprehensive mind, to just gaze out the window at the early morning sky and the soaring bridges and skyscrapers, and to let the memory tick back over many many songs, fitting and re-fitting that template for a good match. Finally the answer surfaced from the 1970s. It’s “Look at the Moon” by Gerry Rafferty, and those lush beautiful chords falling at the end (complete with recorded fox bark). Solved!

The cataract surgery team was absolutely wonderful. Despite all the stresses at a regional trauma center and the added workload of the pandemic, their morale was superb. After all, their OR handles only relatively fortunate patients, for elective advance-booked non-urgent surgery that is over and done in minutes, with low risk and high revenue and dramatically positive outcomes. Hopefully the financial gain to the hospital gives the team some well-deserved job appreciation. Clearly they all enjoyed working together, in synch and in touch as they maneuvered their own checklists. They completely supported their surgeon, and he in turn was clear about voicing his appreciation for them and giving them all their due credit. They caught on that I was open to good humor, and engaged in gentle delightful banter with me and each other.

“So how sedated will I be?” I asked the nurse anesthetist, as she installed my IV. The clinic had been non-committal about this question, since every patient is different.

“Not at all,” she cheerfully explained. “This IV has no needle, so you can flex your arm; we put it in only for emergencies or in case you decide that you do want sedation, and then I’ll administer it right away. I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

(Wait, what? Really? People just sit still with a scalpel coming at them?)

“You will have plenty of local anesthetic,” she assured me. “There will be pressure at one point, but you should not feel any pain.” (She was right. There was no pain at all.)

The team administered several kinds of eye drops. They applied adhesive electrodes, and tucked me in with a heated blanket. Then they wheeled me in to the OR, and clipped on an oxygen cannula. “You will have plenty of air to breathe under the drape,” they promised. They confirmed for the last of many times who I was and my birth date and which eye they would work on and why. Then they swabbed around my eyes and applied a large upper-body adhesive drape leaving only the eye uncovered. The surgeon greeted me and gently taped open my eyelashes, then fitted on an eyelid retractor to keep the eye open. (That had seemed a disturbing prospect, but fortunately a constant wash of cold silvery anesthetic took the place of tears and numbed the eye completely.) My hands were shaking from nerves, but really all one had to do was stare into a microscope lens and keep the gaze steady through a shifting wave of colors, shadows, and lights while the surgeon talked me through the procedure. The room was full of interesting tones: vital sign monitor, the sizzling whir of the machine pulverizing the cataract and aspirating it out. In one moment of pressure the new lens was fitted in. I breathed very slowly and steadily, counting each breath with full attention, sending thankfulness and appreciation to the surgical team. At deep breath number 166 the surgeon said “Done,” and peeled off the drape. They tipped forward the chair, and wheeled me back to the recovery room to remove the IV and electrodes, tape on an eye shield, and give me a team chat about medications and physical safety.

In the waiting room Captain Wing stood at attention, holding my knapsack out for me. He was ready to calibrate my balance as I minced along to the elevator, down to the very kind and overworked pharmacy staff. (With my Ofloxacin eye drop prescription, labeled “Patient speaks ENGLISH,” the staff included paper instructions. They were for Omeprazole, a GI tract medication. The instructions were in Spanish, perhaps as a tribute to composer José María Cano.) Then Captain stepped aside for a word with the main street reception desk. By the time I stood there ogling around with one eye and caught on that he was handing in his ticket from the parking garage, he was all paid up and escorting me to the garage elevator for the car. After I arrived home and got into bed, Mrs. Wing contacted me with an offer to bring me dinner. Fortunately I was able to assure her that the fridge was stocked up.

In the Tom Hanks film Sully: Miracle on the Hudson, when everybody braces for impact the flight crew chants “Get down, Stay down!” That made a pretty good motto for that day: Rest in dim light, get up only to tip down the eye shield and take the drops, re-tape the shield, write down the time, and back to bed. Stay off the internet, and phone screens. Rest both eyes in dim light for the first couple of days.

Through the eye shield there were very strange silvery flashes of a clear brave new world. But exploring that was an adventure for the following day.

Next up: Day 2.

In today’s downpour the bare trees seemed covered with budding new growth. But that’s the rich repertoire of lichens and mosses coating the branches, rocks, and fences all winter long.

Thread 1. 1999. At the food co-op for my 20% member discount I was bagging groceries and asking each shopper “Hello! Paper or Plastic?” as in “What kind of bag would you like for your purchases?” Shoppers would give me a startled look and say “Reg’lar. Just a reg’lar bag.” Many were too rushed to give the matter any deep thought. So as a compromise I would load the goods in a large square paper bag inside a smaller rounded plastic bag with handles. One Christmas Eve a couple was speaking what sounded like Brazilian Portuguese. The young woman cradled an infant and placed rice, milk, sugar, and eggs on the conveyor belt. The young man paid up, counting out exact change. He whipped open a plastic bag, and in a flash we dropped in their items. Then he smoothed out a dollar bill, and turning to me with a grave nod placed the bill in my hand. In all those years out of all those shoppers, he was the only one to offer me a tip. My conditioned reflex would be to duck away from the dollar with a self-deprecating little laugh. But I clasped it to my heart and bowed to them, and still think of that family every year.

Thread 2. 1995. At Winter Solstice my small bird died in my hands. She was a cockatiel, the liveliest most affectionate little pal, taking part in everything I did and all of my friendships and ventures. That was in a new studio room, in a new part of the city where I knew nobody. Four days later at Christmas there was no one to see and no businesses open. I left my room for a day’s walk exploring the neighborhoods, and ended up in a pocket pond urban sanctuary. In the clear cold and the stillness, an hour before sunset, I huddled up on a tree stump to listen to nature. It was startling to see the flash of an unfamiliar bird that called to mind my own cockatiel. The new species was a crested bird in soft gray tones. It turned out to be a Tufted Titmouse. Here is one, thanks to “All About Birds” at TheCornellLab:

https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Tufted_Titmouse/photo-gallery/302627281

The bird alighted close by with a piping two-tone call that drew in others just like him. Soon a whole flock gathered right around, peering at me with their bright calls. The weather was so cold and the day so short that all too soon it was time to head back to my room. But what a comfort it was for that hour, to be back in the company of birds again.

Thread 3. 2021. Neighbor Evie is a talented decorator and gardener. Her optimistic sociable active nature kept her engaged and cheerful even when her health began to keep her at home. Last fall, for weeks she and I looked forward to seeing her potted Amaryllis sprout up from its bulb. We even had a little ritual after suppertime where I’d walk down the hall and tap on her door with two cups of miso soup or cocoa, and would play Evie a “Song of the Day” on my phone internet. (Her absolute favorite was Wintergatan’s “Marble Machine” song by Martin Molin.) We’d examine and discuss the progress of that flower bulb and sip our cocoa while she told me interesting stories about her travels as an interior designer. The last time we met was last Christmas; she told me then that she would have to move away to be close to family. Luckily I had a chance to take this picture then, of the Amaryllis finally bursting into bloom.

Thread 4. 1990s. At the stately historic home base of Der Arbeter Ring (The Workers’ Circle) everyone came in from the freezing December night and gathered around for hot tea and our monthly singalong. We passed out the music books of favorite Yiddish hits, and were just making the difficult decision of choosing a warmup tune out of so many appealing selections. Then, the door flew open. Stepping in out of the flying snow there was a dapper gentleman in hat and overcoat and suit and walking stick. He called out greetings to all in Yiddish, adding “Hand me a songbook. I just had to get in outa those CHRISTMAS CAROLS.” He became my delightful seat neighbor for the evening. He sang along with gusto through our favorites — “Hof un Gloyb” (Hope and Believe), “Mayn Ruhe Platz” (My Resting Place), “Rozhinkes mit Mandlen” (Raisins and Almonds), and many more.

By the way, for a Yiddish music break I just found this film clip. Maybe you can search by this title too:

“Molly Picon Abi Gezunt ‘Mamele,’ 1938.”

Molly Picon was a reigning sweetheart of Yiddish theater. The song from “Mamele” is “Abi Gezunt” (If You’ve Got Your Health, You Can Be Happy). This scene of Molly’s wacky housekeeping makes a poignant glimpse of this rich cinema heritage of the 1930s.

At the Arbeter Ring, during a break with more hot tea and a table of pastries, my seat companion told wonderful stories about his lifetime appraising gemstones and jewelry all around the globe. “In every diamond district, with merchants from Thailand, with souvenir vendors at the Vatican — the only language I needed was Yiddish!” He beamed at us. “Yiddish — it’ll take you right around the world!”

Merry Christmas Night to you all!

The cold snap warmed up today. Instead of snow or sleet or frozen pavement, all day there was dark cloud cover and hard rain flooding the icy streets and yards.

In that steady deluge, there was not a soul or passing car on the streets. For once, the park was empty of sports events and joggers and dogs. From the road it’s a sharp slope down, much too slippery to navigate today, on a trail descending straight through tall conifers and oaks, to a broad field covered with snow. Under heavy rain the snow was melting fast, steaming up in a blanket of thick drifting mist. This scene could be a backdrop by Ivan Bilibin, awaiting knights in armor on horseback.

In my dreams during the cold snap, Angelina showed up in a cameo role to help me be a better Catholic. (Later I sent a text to thank her. She texted back “Oh my gosh that is hilarious. Since that’s the last thing I want you to be.”) Anyway, Dream Angelina knew that in our icy weather, it would be hard for me to get myself out to evening Mass. She told me “Mary. Don’t even try walking over to church in this weather. You stay home. I will drive there, stand in the Communion line, and bring you back a little wafer whatever it means to you. You’ve been to Confession first, right?” Well, no; I haven’t been to Confession in over a year, and had to confess that to her. “A year!” said Dream Angelina. “Then you certainly are not spiritually prepared to receive Communion if you have not been to Confession. Well, I’ll go stand in that line too. Here: write down all of your sins on this piece of paper. I’ll carry it into the voting booth with me and add it on to my sins to tell the priest. Father can absolve us both, like a two for one special.”

To reward her piety, her offer to present all of my sins as her own, and her faith that they would all fit on one sheet of paper, I stopped by her house tonight to share an annual splurge holiday confection: four ounces of organic milk chocolate drops with a crunchy colorful candy coating. They’re an imitation of a familiar childhood candy, but made with different ingredients (the pigments come from turmeric, radish, red cabbage, spirulina, and beets). Real-Life Angelina and I tucked in to the jar and started munching the chocolate drops. They were an ideal festive backdrop to chatting and watching “Angels We Have Heard on High” by the Piano Guys.

When I unscrewed the jar lid, Super Pup snapped to attention on her dog bed. She’d just had a relaxing walk topped off with delicious pup-healthy treats. But even after I tightly resealed the jar, she zeroed in on that unfamiliar substance under glass, a food which canines are not at all evolved to digest. “Chocolate is toxic for dogs,” I informed her. She was not deterred. She rested a tiny paw on my shoe. She whimpered in a plaintive manner. She crept on to my knee. She nudged the sealed jar, staring at vivid colors that a dog (they’re pretty well colorblind) couldn’t even see. I put the jar away out of sight in my duffle bag, thinking she would forget about it. Instead she crept closer to track and sniff my mouth and hands. She tried a protest yip. She even tried flashing her teeth. I nudged her away with a fingertap. Nothing daunted, she vaulted off the sofa to rummage among some toys. She vaulted right back at me with a little slice of bone. Cuddling right up, she nestled the bone slice in my palm, then tipped her head and gazed sweetly in my eyes. “That’s a trade,” Angelina explained. “Fork over that chocolate, and you can gnaw my favorite bone.” For the rest of the visit Super Pup plied me with ploys to get at that candy. Finally we leashed her and Bingo so Angelina could walk me home. Only then did the standoff end.

None of this even mentions Our Lord and Christmas. That story comes tomorrow. Silent Night!!

Autumn trailed away with some nice parting views.

This house had a dainty planter at the front gate, holding miniature succulents.

Here are some implausibly tall cottonwood trees (the picture can’t do justice to their towering height or the glorious sunshine), losing their leaves in a high ray of light from the setting sun.

Here below is a sturdy wooden fence with a genteel tempering of lichen. A random side glance through a space in the frame revealed this glimpse of the garden inside.

On a cold morning of intermittent freezing rain I was nested in perfect comfort on the bus to work, eyes closed, head bowed, arms folded, breath long and gentle. In that profoundly restorative interlude, thoughts of worry and regret drifted past and misted away, leaving only a clear inner mirror of calm and interested sensations: feet on ridged non-skid floor feeling the surfaces of the road, balance gently shifting as the bus changed directions and speeds, supportive plastic-leather seat, soft surrounding cell-phone chat in nearby seats, alternating heated and chilled drafts of air. Thoughts and impressions passed by that clear mirror in peace, leaving only good wishes and warmth for this group of strangers heading into their day.

“Would you LIKE A PAIR OF GLOVES?”

My head and spine snapped upright; the words seemed to be right inside my sweatshirt hood, but were in fact about six inches from my face. A genteel and sweet looking lady had bowed right in close and raised her voice a bit. She was holding out a pair of nice little gloves. “I have an extra pair at home. Please, it’s fine.”

I gave her a smile and showed her my hands. “Thank you so much! My joints are too bent for gloves. That is why they are folded into this kangaroo pocket, all snug. But that is very kind of you.”

“Is that rheumatoid arthritis? I am so sorry. Well all right then. See you next time!” We waved goodbye as she got off the bus.

It was very kind of her to just offer that way. It’s not too rare for people see me hiking around in freezing rain and assume that I’m very poor. But in fact for rheumatoid hand circulation, nothing beats a lined sweatshirt with hood and a kangaroo pocket for comfort and warmth. Nothing beats a jumbo rain tarp either, or clownie men’s shoes with cleats and a high toe box (the feet are rheumatoid too) or a fluorescent vest for safety, or a sturdy beat-up shoulder bag with broken zipper bought ten years ago for a dollar at the Lutheran church charity sale, the perfect size for my triple-filtered water green tea and the best organic produce money can buy cooked up fresh into neat glass jars and some Pimsleur language learning tapes and a library book and eye drops and tissues and a flashlight. This caring lovely lady wouldn’t know that I’d just invested $366 for the incredible luxury of a followup CT scan of last year’s gum abscess. (Rheumatism comes with gum disease. But it’s all fine; there is even new bone growth, which was wonderful news.) That’s putting my money where my mouth is, not wearing it on my sleeve.

That calls to mind our Greek Orthodox church, where the youth group assembled bags with bottled water and protein bars and hygiene toiletries and clean socks for distribution to community members experiencing homelessness. On bag assembly day I was standing in the purchase line at the church bookstore waiting my turn with other customers. A congregation member spotted me with the clown shoes and rain tarp slung over one arm and the Lutheran duffle with provisions for my post-Liturgy prayer hike. She hurried into the bookstore singling me out with a raised voice. At first glance, her eyes, tone, and assertive approach looked as if she thought I was shoplifting. It took a dim gaping moment to figure out what she meant by “You NEED a BAG?!” But in fact I was just lost in enchantment, surrounded by beautiful devotional items, eagerly waiting to purchase two books on monasticism and an icon and cross. I was also happy that day to be dressed not to tote file boxes at work, but for church in my nicest dusky-rose blouse and long rose dress with matching rose & silver Pashmina shawl. Well, that’s what humility is for, and it’s good to know that we have generous people afoot.

This week saw the start of a new winter season. Last night at bedtime there was soft steady rain. But before dawn, there was a wake-up surprise: at eye level right outside through the screen at the open balcony door, a foot away from the bedroll and pillow, there were inches of snow! It all melted with sunrise, and the day turned clear and brisk with an early moon (84.7% full, waxing gibbous). In the garden, here was some of my frozen flowering kale in the early sunshine.

And here is a new winter crop. On an afternoon of sleet and freezing rain with gusts of wind, the Wing Family harvested their bumper crop of sunchokes (the first three quarts of chokes are now in my fridge) and brought in fresh black topsoil and giant turnip plants. They planted a row of white turnips, and a row of Chinese Red turnips. The plants thrive in snow, and will grow all winter as a source of edible roots and leaves. Mrs. Wing explained that she will also use them as one ingredient to compound her herbal medicine cough syrup elixir. It does the heart good to see this hard-working family constantly tending every available bit of space and improving our quality of life and garden enjoyment.

Well, the sprouted chickpeas are all cooked up, and this week’s batch of kimchi is mixed and seasoned and in the weighted press. Time to go soak some rice and cook greens for tomorrow. Maybe we will have a thaw for that hike in the woods….

Just for the record: this plant is not stolen. Our building management said I could dig up a geranium from their planter and take it indoors out of the frost. Here is how it looks now.

That night I was last and late leaving work in the basement stock room. I locked up the office and stepped outside into six inches of water. The wind took my breath away and threw me back against the door. My rain slicker somersaulted up and off; I yanked it back on and pinned it down with one arm, shielding my head with the other from the horizontal rain.

The main street was empty; not a soul or car in sight.

A shopping cart raced over the curb and spun out in the road. Metal trash cans flipped end to end, spilling and splitting their bags of garbage. Some window behind me broke in a shower of glass. Up on a half-finished building, Tyvek wrap was all booming shreds. Streetlights jolted like hanging effigies with their lights spelling empty black.

Taking off my steamed and streaming glasses I peered through my fingers to slide along a drug store wall and cower in the doorway for the next hour, waiting for a bus that came an hour later. I’d always been afraid of bad weather, and ashamed for feeling that way. But even for me, all this blowing debris seemed extra scary. There were no pay phones in the area to call the house. Maybe I should go sleep in the stock room at work? But that would mean walking all the way back through those dark streets to the empty building. Some sense told me to just stand right there in my little nook at the drug store, and shelter in place.

Next I was hit in the chest by a potted plant. It was a hefty armful of leafy tree in a planter, bounding down the street. On some impulse I picked it up, and then saw the bus headlights. Wait, how would the driver see me in the dark? I ran out to the stop, hopping up and down and waving the tree. The driver swerved and pulled in. I fell breathless up the bus steps.

   “Gwan gwan move IN,” the driver ordered as I fumbled for the fare. “Get back.”

The bus was jammed with delayed commuters. I wedged in, holding the tree sideways out of their way. Potting mulch and rain streamed down me and on to the floor, already a trampled sludge of fallen leaves and newsprint. A young man in a good suit and London Fog coat gave me an indignant glare. “That is a stolen tree. That tree and planter were stolen right out of my house.”

Passengers turned and stared at me. I thought fast. “And now, here it is! I didn’t know where the tree came from. I was getting on the bus and it flew right at me. Here you are, Sir.”

He waved me away. “Whoa no. I don’t want it back. That was all my tenant’s idea. The plant was all dried out at the curb on trash day, and he dragged it home. He got it all blooming again. White flowers and little oranges.”

An orange tree! The passengers and I took a more appreciative look at the five gallon bronze colored planter with scalloped edges. The tree was about four feet tall, covered with jet black leathery leaves. “It’s frost-bit some is all,” I said. “I can re-pot it and care for it a while. Then your tenant can have it back as a surprise.”

   “No,” he said. “That is… no but thanks. He died last year.” The passengers turned and stared at him. “He named it Clara.”

   “Clara it is, then. She can stay with me, and be his memory tree. He must have cared about plants. Did he work in a plant nursery?”

   “He worked in two restaurants. But he moved here from Delaware to stage ‘The Nutcracker.’ That was his whole big dream. He rented my ground floor. Every spare minute he was building sets and models in his rooms downstairs, like a whole little stage world. Playing the music, learning the score, walking through choreography, drawing costumes and decorations, moving panels and curtains around. He was all excited over this dead plant. He always said if the tree makes it then he’ll make it too. Like, ‘It’s you and me, Clara. All the way. Together.’ And when the tree grew back, he was so happy.”

   “And ‘The Nutcracker’? Did anybody see his stage set?” I asked.

   “Couple of guys came over and looked at the plans and talked with him. Then he caught a cold and didn’t get better. In and out of the hospital. At home he lay in bed looking around at his stage and playing the music, making little Christmas ornaments to hang on the tree. When he died his parents came and picked up all his things.”

   “They took the stage set to Delaware?”

   “They took it to the dumpster in pieces. I found it there that night after they left.”

   “The tree too?”

   “They didn’t get the tree. After he died…” He stopped and cleared his throat, looking around. We all waited for him to go on. “I had this dream about a group of men. They were whispering this little song, like chanting. They joined hands and walked in a circle all around the tree. And I woke up and jumped out of bed thinking ‘My God, those men are inside the house!’ And I ran downstairs. But no, the place was all quiet and locked. Then I saw an orange blossom by the front door. I opened up his room. Everything there was right the way he left it, but the tree was gone.”

Passengers took a long collective breath. Then they stirred, looking around.

   “Where are we?” A couple sitting nearby wiped the steam off the windows and bobbed their heads to see past the rain. “We missed Washington Street. Six blocks ago.”

   “We missed Maple before that,” said another.

   “I just missed Rutherford,” said the young man.

The driver stopped the bus. “Jeez, you coulda rang the bell. Folks, this is bad out there. I’ll have to circle back to Maple, let ya’s all off at your stops. And you, Miss. Young lady with the tree. Where ya headed?”

   “Center Square, Sir. Last stop.”

   “Stay put while I loop around.”

The bus emptied out. At Rutherford the young man left the bus. “Good luck with that.”

Clara and I took a seat near the driver. I dropped my coins in the fare box. Center Square was the last stop. I stood up to leave.

   “How far you going, Miss?” The driver turned around. “Top of the hill? No, you can’t lug that thing. Sit down and point out the way I’ll drive you.” That night our residential neighborhood, all soaring sycamores and pines and three-story family houses built in 1900, had an off-duty Metro bus ease along the flooded street and right to my door. “Get in safe, Hon. Take care of yourself. And your little tree there.” I thanked him and waved goodbye, and rushed for the house.

The rain roared down on roofs and tall rocking trees. I groped my way over fallen sycamore limbs and up the porch steps. Unlocking the front door and sliding along the wall I eased sideways up to our apartment on the second floor. I carried the pot down the hall to the bathroom off the kitchen, and set it down in the bathtub along with my shoes and socks. Then I sat down on the edge of the tub and realized that I’d forgotten for a while to be scared of the storm, because now there was something important to care for, a tree with a story and a name. What if it really did start to grow again? It would look so pretty in my room, and make a nice story for our guests. Best of all, maybe that young man’s spirit would feel pleased that Clara was doing well and in good hands.

On the first floor, all the lights were out; our neighbors were away for the weekend. In our household upstairs the four other guys and gals were all at home, but not for long. The gal headed over to her boyfriend’s for the night. The guys were heading to the pub with their friend Trigg to shoot pool and play darts. The fellows urged me to join them. “It’s a gloomy evening for sitting home alone,” Jared pointed out, tuning his guitar on the sofa; “They’ve got a Trivia Night. Maybe the bonus topic will be Russian Grammar, and you’ll win.” But I was too wary of heading out again for a late night in rough weather. I wanted to tend to the orange tree, then warm up and get to sleep.

First I grabbed my rain tarp and rubber sandals, and ran down to the garden. I emptied an extra five-gallon clay pot, rinsing it well under the rain spout. Then I picked up and threw in a quart of rocks, and hauled it all back upstairs. I was cooking the rocks over the stove in my laundry-boiling pot when Trigg strolled in to the kitchen for a hello and a hug, and took a look in the pot. “Short ’til payday, Love?”

   “Hi, Trigg! I’m sterilizing these stones to transplant an orange tree. It flew along and hit me at the bus stop.”

   “Full-blown gale, trash flying all over hell. This one has to drag it into the house.”

   “Can you have a look and tell me what it needs? It’s right there in the bathroom.”

   “Sure… Wait, that sorry ragmop in the tub?”

   “What’s it mean when the leaves turn black?”

   “Means ‘plant death.’ Let it go, Dear. Could have mites or who knows what. I can walk it to the bin for you.”

   “Oh, it used to be dead to begin with. But a young man from Delaware was staging ‘The Nutcracker,’ and he nursed it back to health and named it Clara. I’m at least the third owner.”

   “You’re likely the last. You got all that from what, the note in the foundling basket?”

   “Owner’s landlord was on my very bus. Somebody stole the tree from his house, but he didn’t want it back. Let’s see if it perks up in a few days. I think these rocks are done.”

   “Why not give it up and come with us.” Trigg ruffled my hair. “I’ll have the van at the door in ten. And look, I’ve got a houseful of plants and trees, Pet. I’ll bring you something healthy with a fightin’ chance.”

Jared on the sofa left off practicing his guitar and put his boots on, and the men got ready to go. “I enjoy watching Mary do her life,” said Trigg to the fellows as he left to bring the van. “She’s all hero’s journey. Like a kitten fighting its way out of a sandwich bag.” The sound of their voices trailed off, and their bootsteps creaked through the ceiling as I grabbed the clay pot of rocks and headed down to the basement.

There was a van horn and the flash of Trigg’s headlights. “Is that the downstairs lights you’ve left on?” he yelled up to the house. “Aw Jaysus, no — that’s your girl down cellar coddling that roadkill in a planter. What’s wrong with you lot, letting her catch her death of damp and mold! She’ll be haunting the house next. Go get her out of that and into the van and I’ll buy her a pint.” After some calling back and forth and slamming doors, the men drove off.

The project took a chill drafty hour or more. There was a trip four flights up to the kitchen bin for newspapers to spread on the floor, a trowel, scissors to cut open some construction sand to spread over the hot rocks, then a wrestle with the large bag of potting soil, then another trip to the kitchen for an old platter to put underneath, then later another trip for a jug of distilled water and fertilizer liquid and paper towels. Finally the planting and sweeping and cleanup were done. I locked up the cellar, turned out all the lights, hoisted up the pot, and began to struggled up the four flights of back steps. The wet clay pot and rocks and watered earth and mulch were so heavy that halfway up I nearly fell, and had to half-drop it on the stairs.

And with that final jolt, all but one black leather leaf fell off the tree in a heap. I sank down to the steps, head in hands. Maybe this whole Saving Orange Clara fantasy was all about me wanting to reach out and connect and do something helpful and feel all special. Huddled on the steps I just felt crestfallen and chagrined. The emotion felt familiar. Where had that feeling come from before? Then, the memory came to mind:

It was a hospital room, with a young friend on a lot of monitors and machines sitting up in bed and me perched in the doorway being quiet, just to keep him company. He’d been there for weeks, and for some reason that day it felt important to go get on the bus and visit him. When I tapped on the door frame with a soft hello he didn’t look at or speak to me. But he seemed acutely sensitive and aware of everything around him. He knew exactly who I was; it’s just that now his energy was fixed on a smaller more focused circle of rapt attention. He was staring hard at the wall, working to keep his head upright while watching some vast epic that I couldn’t see, playing out all across the white painted surface. His vigilance was so tense that at one point I stood up with some murmur of reassurance, and slowly reached over to touch his hair. His head snapped back. He flashed his eyes at me like some captive bird of prey. Clearly my intervention had disrupted his epic, and possibly its entire outcome. I backed away on tiptoe to sit down again. Two nurses rushed in to the room and hurried me out. He died the next day.

   “Clara? I was wrong this time too.” I picked up a black leaf. “I rushed in and intervened in your epic. I wanted you to get well and to stay with me! But you just want to be an orange tree in heaven, don’t you? You just want to see your young man again.” I took a deep breath. “Here you go then, just like he said: ‘All the way, together.’ Goodbye.” I wrenched the tree roots out of the pot.

When I did that, an immense wave of grief and despair, something more than any wind or weather, swept from basement upwards, straight up and out of the house. I cowered down as the cloud passed over. Then, to my immense relief, loud men’s voices rang out loudly upstairs. The fellows! They must have turned back to spend the evening at home! I leaped up to call out to the four of them and join their good company. But then I realized that the voices were strange men, in our house. At first I froze. Was it the police with news of an accident? Were they people breaking in? Should I run upstairs two flights, and out the back door? What if there were more men outside?

It took a long moment of fear and a musical commercial break to tell me that the voices came from the television. Creeping up the stairs, I peered into the living room. Sure enough, the television showed a basketball game, with commentators hollering about the score. But why hadn’t I heard it, trudging up and down to the kitchen for the past hour? And why would the guys turn it on before going out? We housemates almost never watched TV at all. That black and white set was left from some long past generation of tenants. It was a large wooden console with sound panels of scratchy gold fabric, and an old-fashioned on/off button — push in hard to turn on, push in hard again to turn off. I pushed the button.

And at that, the set turned on.

It wasn’t basketball. It was white snow static and no reception at all. I crawled behind the console and yanked the plug out of the wall outlet, using both wrists because my hands were shaking so hard. Then for some reason that I can not explain, I ran down the back stairs and grabbed the clay pot, ran right up two flights, and put the orange tree right out of our home. The 1900 house had a closed pantry porch at the back. It led to a closed yard with a tall chain link fence. The porch floor boards were so warped and loose that we never used that door ourselves, so I settled the tree there. Then I slammed and bolted the porch door and house door, charged up the two flights to our back kitchen, and locked the stair door and the kitchen door. Still shaking hard I changed into dry clothes.

My bedroom was all windows, and the wind and rain were pounding on the house. So I settled on the living room sofa in a Jared-shaped space in the cushions, and fell asleep next to his guitar with my rosary. At least it was a comfort to think about the unexpected fellow-feeling on that city bus, and the kindness of that driver. By looping around and driving us home, he might have kept us safe from walking around with flying branches or downed wires. Here it seemed like I was out saving an orange tree, when maybe the tree saved us.

That was the weekend of All Saints/All Souls, 1991. Later on we found out that those wind gusts reached 75 miles an hour. The nameless hurricane that people in the city still call The Perfect Storm passed over us. Thirteen people lost their lives. The Andrea Gail sank off the coast.

In the morning I woke up and ran downstairs to place the tree in our compost. I searched the porch, the chain-link yard, the steps, the basement, and even asked my housemates whether they had moved it. But the tree had vanished, pot and all, leaving one black leaf by the door.

We were fortunate that night. Everyone got home safely. At 2:00 am Jared woke me up and marched me back to my room. I was mainly walking in my sleep, but happy to see him. “How was Trivia Night? Was it Russian Grammar?”

“That’s right. We all lost. What were you doing sleeping with my guitar, Mare? I think this rosary is yours, not mine.”

“Is the TV off?” I worried, getting into bed right in my street clothes and too sleepy to care.

“TV? What?” He just smiled, sitting down at the foot of my bed. “Sure it’s off. We weren’t watching it, and neither were you.” He tucked me in, then stopped in the doorway on his way out. “Mare? I won’t quote his exact words, but Trigg says your orange tree isn’t gonna make it. Tomorrow he’s bringing you a Peace Lily from his sun room. Sweet dreams.”

This week a friendly enthusiastic kind and caring young woman asked, “So do you have big plans for Thanksgiving?” I said “Well, Thanksgiving is for families at home, and I don’t have family at mine.”

She lit up with a radiant smile, and said “Then WE will be your Thanksgiving family!!” It was very dear of her to volunteer herself and all her associates on their behalf, so I thanked her. Here all I’d expected her to do was ring up my dental floss on the pharmacy cash register and then say “Next customer, hello.”

When people say that to me, and they do, what picture are they carrying in their dear heads? Are they really thinking “We’ll be closed for the holiday, so sure she can totally spend it here in the Dental Care aisle”? Somewhere over the years, did the term “family” wander off its little dictionary page and take a tumble right into the Sunday funny papers?

Or, maybe my view of kindred connection was wrong to begin with, some cotton-candy notion about coming home at the end of any ordinary day, and people there say “There’s chicken soup. It’s on the stove.” And they share the sofa, and the kitchen, and the real stories about their life. They stay around, maybe for years, maybe a lifetime, maybe generations, saying “Let’s pray about this,” or “Let’s move to the same town,” or “Let’s buy a house,” or “Let’s raise my kid / restore some land and grow potatoes / take a road trip through 10 endless states / start a band and play music on the street.”

Pondering all this on the commute home last night, I reached for my bus reading (Pema Chödrön, How We Live is How We Die), but the book had slipped under my groceries. To keep from rummaging and fussing I just sat back and worked with deep long breaths for the 40 minutes home. Soon on an out breath the thought occurred, “This breath now is the most at-home that you Mary can ever be. For you, that’s all there is.” There was really nowhere else than to be in this breath now, on this bus now, and my home group was this random assortment of phone-swiping strangers. It was not my favorite choice of possible thoughts. But I just kept floating down into it and kept breathing out and out in this one way to live and die.

In pleasant contrast, at church there is the most beautiful lovable couple, married for lots of years. They reflect a steady state of deft thoughtfulness and sweetness and uplift and understated humor, generated by their deft thoughtfulness toward one another. Well, this week out of the blue they had a distressing misfortune. But they teamed up and got right through it and for Wednesday mid-week service they even managed to bake and bring us pumpkin pie with whipped cream. Of course with a glorious dessert like that, the bananas that I brought for the refreshment table didn’t vanish, and there were plenty left after. So our dear Mrs. asked me “Mary, may I possibly take two of your bananas home?” She explained that dear Mr. is fond of a banana every morning with his breakfast, but with their circumstances this week, they’d had no time to go shop for produce. I said “Please take them all! And I have another bunch right here.” But oh no, just two was fine thank you very much. They offered me a ride home, and left the church hall marveling in pleased voices about my astounding generosity. “The Lord has provided,” dear Mr. proclaimed in wonder. “Through Mary,” dear Mrs. pointed out to him, with a thoughtfully procured banana in each hand. Their distressing mishap week was drawing to a close — and now he could look forward to his favorite breakfast tomorrow and the day after. But she sounded happier still, at the chance to serve it and then sit with him while he ate it. They kindly dropped me at my door. Then they headed home together.

There’s an ideal that I’ve been pondering for years about “holiday spirit” and all its associations.

This is all just an anthropologist on or from Mars talking, who has never set up a holiday for a houseful of people or put up a tree full of lights or cooked a turkey or plum pudding with brandied hard sauce. But here on the outside looking in, it appears that everyone could save a little stress if they spread out the festivities and socials over time, rather than herding it all into one day here and there to fit the Gregorian Calendar and the store sales.

That can work in a more interdependent society where people check in with one another more often. “Who has time for that?” Well, people who share their cares and chores in everyday ways.

On Sunday at our small church up the road, one of the women brought delicious chickpea hummus. She and I were swapping hummus recipes and methods, and she talked about her sourdough baking, which led to a talk about pickling and fermenting, and then she mentioned kimchi. Kimchi? I never would have bet the ranch that the demographic of this church would be chatting with me about shopping at H Mart for gochugaru versus gochujang. (Then again, those Baptist folks are so energetic and enterprising that they do get up and out and living around the world.) “Me too!” I hollered at her, flapping my hands and jumping up and down. “There’s always a weighted crock in progress on the counter.” Then we talked about our favorite kimchi styles. (Later on her spouse remarked “It’s interesting to sit across a room and observe the conversations, and to see which people in the room light up at the word ‘kimchi.'”)

Well, wouldn’t it be a better world if we routinely swapped the weekly sourdough or pickling or what have you? Then everybody would have more friendly bacteria and more leisure.

Sometimes people shoehorn a whole bunch of celebrating into just a day here and there because, they explain, cleaning a full size family house with kids and a dog is such an exhausting hat trick that they can only carry it off every so often. That’s absolutely understandable to me, someone living in one room with nothing to tend but a salvaged geranium in a pot. So I tell them “Let’s set a timer for 30 minutes, and I’ll walk across the street and help you declutter until the timer goes off. Then you come over and we’ll set a timer for another 30, and you keep me company while I file paperwork. If we do that every week for an hour we’ll get way ahead and have fun.” But so far that idea has fizzled the conversation pretty quickly. “I can’t do that,” people say. “I’m too ashamed.” (Ashamed of what? You’re a paramedic who works crazy hours rescuing people and also raising three kiddos! And standing in the way of our quality time is a dust bunny trying to stare us down?)

What I’d like in my stocking this year, along with my foot, is a life where people are engaged with each other more often, sharing more holiday spirit (= generosity, engagement, and appreciation for our blessings) all year round. This holiday season I’ll practice more of that in my interactions day by day, and talk up the idea on how we can carry that over right into January.

Ok, got to stir the kimchi. Added some Nappa cabbage last night, so the mix might need more anchovy sauce.