People with a rubbery personality – you know who they are – drive me nuts. They bounce from mood to mood, stretch the truth, stretch their sense of morality…have no consistency of values or expectations (of themselves or of others).
“I once…” stretches to “I’ve always…” “You didn’t…” stretches to “You’ve never…” “He did… stretches to “He does…” “She went…” stretches to “She goes…”
Generalisation. Judgement. Gossip. Conversation. Letters (TXTs, emails). News stories. Tweets – and who’s the elastic truth Tweet-meister, hmm?
Elastic doesn’t only stretch – it rebounds; it shrinks.
Planning a marriage shrinks to Planning a wedding. Now that’s elastic right there, and contributes to over spending, and later, failed expectations, which in turn may stretch to unfaithfulness, betrayal, separation and divorce.
Team-work shrinks to a one-man workload. Group projects shrink to a one-woman contribution – and her workload stretches.
A good family cook can stretch a budget to put food on the family table. An unemployed parent has to shrink the family’s spending.
Elasticity is a necessary evil in some contexts – and a pain in the proverbial in others. It’s only consistently effective use is in clothing – and even that use diminishes with age and over-use of the drier!
They stood on the front porch, stymied and stupified. Dylon had no key to the front door, and Linda hadn’t brought her key. She’d assumed Dylan would have his with his car key. No.
The spare key lock-box was empty. That meant Adele had taken it, either into her room or – as her car was nowhere to be seen – out with her.
“Let’s call Adele,” said Linda.
Dylan wouldn’t hear of it. No way was his daughter going to learn he’d forgotten to take his key with him.
“We’ll go to the back.”
Linda stretched on tiptoe to reach over the gate to unlatch it.
“I can get a spare key from the garage,” Dylan said. He went through his pockets as he approached the garage door. “Shit. I haven’t got the garage key either.”
Linda checked the doors, just in case they’d left one unlocked. No such luck.
Dylan steamed, Linda fumed…who each was blaming, neither would ever say.
Dylan examined each door…the sliding doors to the lounge and the bedroom were tamper ptoof, as was the wooden door to the laundry.
But…the laundry window?
Dylan turned the screen locks and removed the screen, leaning it against the wall. He didn’t for a minute believe it would, but he tried lifting the sliding window…and it slipped up and out easily.
So, who was to go in through it? Dylan knew he was too large and, at 71 a little too limited.
“I can do it,” Linda said. “I just need something to step up on.”
Thank heavens for absent-minded handyman husbands – he’d left two saw horses outside. Dylan placed one under the window – sort of. One foot was higher than the other three, and as the wall planter for their herbs was right below the window there was quite a space between the saw horse and the sill. Which was at Linda’s bust height.
Now, Linda had her own structural problems, neither age-related, even though she was 65 years old. One hip joint had been replaced, botched, and replaced again, leaving her with the leg an inch shorter than its mate, and limited movement. She had had surgery on the other leg to excise melanoma from the groin, so big a mass and so entwined around the tendons and arteries the surgeon had needed to scrape the cancer from the tendon – leaving even less movement possible.
But, of the two, Linda was the only one who could fit through the window.
She needed a boost from Dylan, but made it to stand on the saw horse. Now, how to pass through the window, now looking much smaller.
“Go through on hands and knees,” Dylan suggested.
Linda couldn’t get a knee up to the sill. “No, I’ll do it this way.”
“Perhaps I’d better try.”
“No, I can do it'” She shuffled herself around on the saw horse, until she had her back to the wall. With her hands behind her on the sill, and one foot on the garden tap, she boosted herself up into the window frame. Not comfortable when it’s an aluminium frame, with a slot-and-groove track for a sliding window pane!
She lifted a cheek so the grooved track fitted more comfortably. Only, now she was facing sideways, but still with both legs hanging off the sill. The leg closest to the window was the least useful leg. Try as she did, the bloody leg would not bend close enough to let her foot pass the frame – even after Dylan pulled her sneaker off.
“Leave it,” Dylan said. “I’ll think of something else.”
“No way – this is fun.”
“Try going through backwards.”
That was going to be awkward – an acrobat Linda was not. She shifted around again. First one cheek, then the other, passed that darned track. Where next…this needed some thinking. If I put my left hand down on the hot tap, and my right hand on the front edge of the tub, I can start to let myself down onto the washing machine.
She set the plan in motion – and ended up flat on her back on top of the machine, her legs still up on the window frame.
She walked her feet along and down the wall as she turned herself to face the room, all the while laughing like a crazy woman at what she must look like (were anyone watching).
Once on her feet, she unlocked the laundry door for Dylan. He passed her and went to the door into the bathroom.
Shit, oh dear, he had locked the bathroom door from the inside before they’d gone out! Still no entry to their own house!
Dylan remembered he had tools in the boot of the car. Using a screwdriver he popped the bolts from the door hinges, then levered the door out of its frame, hoping the bolt bracket wouldn’t break the door. But no … success. They were in.
Tempting though it was to leave the door between bathroom and laundry, to let Adele see the open plan layout created by her key forgetfulness, Dylan set about replacing the bathroom doors’ locks with ones that could be opened from the “wrong” side, and setting another lock box out beside the lounge door.
The only real disappointment? No one had filmed her hilarious cat burglar impersonation!
I do hope 2017 sees me more productive, more effective, more efficient, more fortunate (both in terms of fortune, and luck), more healthy, more academic of thought, more politically aware, more active (physically and socially), more spiritual (actively, not alone), more gentile, more and more free-to-be-me than in years up to now.
But there are also things I feel hopeful should be less, not more. I’m hopeful I’ll have less cravings for cigarettes (off cigarettes themselves, but triggers still twitch), less jittery, less dependent, less doubt about myself, less worried about others’ opinions, less clumsy, less fearful, less weary, less garrulous, less judgemental of others, less stressed by small things.
I’m hopeful I’ll be able to walk the treetops suspended pathway in the Redwoods forest (here in Rotorua) – so I have work to do on my fear of heights. I’m hopeful I’ll be able to start learning to swim – started, but agoraphobia triggered by the broad expanse of the pool’s wide open space (its surface) brought on a melt-down. Both of these conditions hit me at about the time Stiff Persons’ Syndrome did.
I’m hopeful I’ll get lots (and lots, and lots) more work done on my memoir. And I’m hopeful I’ll get myself cracking on writing and submitting shorter works to…whoever wants them. But this is also where hope is not enough. One must have a stern resolution to achieve what one hopes for. Which means setting down the “How To …”, and the “When To…”; so, a schedule, a “To Do” list…all of which do actually become a delaying tactic, a side-track. Getting ready to work is not the same as actually Working, is it?
What’s the betting the daily prompt for the 1st January (US time) will be Resolutions?
(This was intended to suggest a post for the last day of 2016, but I’m in the GMT +13 (NZDT) time zone, so I’m writing this on Sunday 1st January.)
One night, near midnight, the telephone rang, waking us from sleep. The voice asked for verification that I was mother to Michael, and told me she was calling from Auckland Hospital’s Emergency department. I repeated what she said, so my husband would know what was happening. He immediately sprang from bed, and started hauling suitcases down from the cupboard above our wardrobe.
“Michael’s been in an accident?”
“He’s in a critical condition?”
“He may not survive the night?”
“It’s a nine-hour drive.”
“There are no planes to Auckland from here.”
“We’ll hit the road. If there’s any question of permission for any procedure, you have it. Just, please, keep him alive until we arrive.”
Our clothes jammed in the cases and we were on our way, stopping to collect the father of Michael’s girl-friend, who’d been in the same crash. We drove all night, only stopping for a coffee and snack when fatigue hit the driver. We arrived at the Emergency Department at about the same time as the business rush-hour was in full crawl.
“He’s not here,” the man said. I nearly collapsed, thinking he meant our boy had died. “He’s up in the Critical Care ward. I’ll walk with you to show you the way.”
We parted company from the girl’s father, as she was in a general surgical ward, and arrived on the CC floor. Sitting on a bench seat outside the ward was the driver, Richard, his head in his hands. Beside him, another of Michael’s friends. I went straight to Richard, sat beside him, and held him close.
“Richard, this is not your fault. We do not blame you. Please, don’t blame yourself. I’ll call you in as soon as they let Michael have visitors.”
We entered the CC ward, and were led to Michael’s cubicle; there he lay, his usually soft tan skin pallid, eyes closed as he drifted through the induced coma that rested his body. Both of us had tears in our eyes, but we fought them off. Our worry and misery were far outweighed by Michael’s condition.
He had taken nine points of impact and damage when the car had been T-boned at an intersection, and he in the passenger seat took the full impact:
A skull fracture, and concussion;
A fracture of the humerus, and tearing of the ulnar;
A hairline fracture of the C6 vertebra (with potential paralysis);
Two fractures of the pelvic cradle – one at the front, one at the back;
His spleen had been shattered and splattered throughout his abdominal and chest cavity;
Abdominal organs had been forced through his diaphragm (they found his stomach between a lung and his heart)!
They had already removed all traces of his spleen from the abdominal cavity, replaced all organs, and repaired the diaphragm. He wore a neck brace until the C6 hairline fracture showed signs of healing and it was safe to manage without it. They operated to repair the arm fracture.
In the meantime, over the days of visiting him, we all were able to stay in the hospital’s family hostel, with a community kitchen and quiet room. It was a steep walk up to the level of the hospital, and I was using a walker frame, being in recovery form my own health problem.
The girlfriend’s condition was far less concerning than my son’s. She whined about the possibility of a slight scar on her face. Her father had by then been joined by her mother and younger sister – lovely girl. The mother was my husband’s “boss”, and she told him he had to return home, to complete a routine end of the academic year task. So I remained in the family hostel on my own, but managed to get up to the CC ward everyday – just to sit as “wall paper” as Michael lay there, needing quiet, or companionship when he was up to talking.
They operated to pin his pelvic fractures, and advised me he’d be out of surgery and ready to see me at about four-thirty. I returned to the hostel, listening to the radio during the long surgery. When I walked into the CC ward the anaesthetist and surgeon were attending him still. They urgently waved me away, and said they’d fetch me when he was awake and ready. Something was wrong, I could feel their despair.
I waited for another hour and a half before they came out to fetch me. Oh, God. Their faces were the colour of a hospital sheet.
“He’s not coming out of the anaesthetic.” I didn’t wait to hear any more.
Around his bed, the anaesthetist stood at Michael’s head, the theatre nurse stood at Michael’s left side, monitoring his pulse with his hand – watching the wave lines on the monitor. I stood at his right, holding his hand, tears running down my cheeks. It seemed this would be his last hour on earth.
Then, I realised – even in a coma, some patients still hear what is spoken directly to them. Michaelbeing a musician (bass guitar, drums, and vocals in a small rock band) I began talking music to him.
“Michael? The boys in the band are waiting for you. They need you, Michael.”
“Michael, I’ve been listening to the radio all day – The Rock station – all your favourites.”
The medicos were murmuring to each other sotto voce, their tones tinged with concern. I didn’t want to hear their words. Then I remembered something The Rock’s announcer had said.
“Hey, Michael. You know what I heard on the radio? AC/DC are touring down under.”
“Jesus, he’s got a grip!’ cried out the theatre nurse.
“That’s a good response.” The anaesthetist glanced up at the sudden spike on the monitor. “He definitely heard that.
In between silent sobs as I tried to sound calm, I said “Michael, if you come up out of this… if you can wake up… I will get your to an AC/DC concert… even if we have to fly across the Tasman.”
His grip of both our hands was sharp, sudden, strong! Thank you, Lord Jesus.
I kept talking about our favourite band, naming their songs, which videos we both liked best… Heck, I even sang one! I gave time between talking for him to respond – and for the medicos to watch the ever increasing pulses of the monitors of his brain activity, his heart… then, at last…
“Wanna see AC/DC, Mum.” A soft, whispered mumble, but there he was, back from the depths of near death.
Gradually over the next hour as the theatre nurse and I quietly spoke to him about music, his friends… he brought – he fought – himself back to full consciousness. Only when he was stable, and awake but tired – a natural tiredness – could I leave him to sleep.
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Post Script: AC/DC announced they would extend their tour to New Zealand, to Auckland. At the time, I had relapsed (shortly after Michael’s surgeries were completed, and my body collapsed after bearing all the stress) and was again confined to my own hospital bed at home. But Michael, and his sister, did get to hear our favourite band perform live. I have to admit, I cried as I couldn’t be there with them.
When hospitalized with a neurological condition diagnosed as Stiff Person’s Syndrome, I would often go into a spasmic shut down. Often these would lead to me passing out completely, lying unconscious for – must ask hubby as I wasn’t timing myself, that’s for sure.
Quite a few times, I was told, I was “out” and so unresponsive nurses expected me to die. I was warned that without supervision at home I could die after passin unconscious.
I think it may have been during those near final “outages” that I saw these two “screens” – just like the old 8-bit computer screens of the early 80s, and the final dot of light when black-n-white teles were switched off.