Impossible?

In the Artist Way, Julia Cameron suggests each participant sit down to write three uninterrupted pages of whatever spills out every morning.  These are my morning pages for January 18.  No editing to begin with.  I many go back and add a few periods and correct some  misspelling but the real purpose of these pages is open the unconscious or whatever and give it a place to light on the paper for this time.  Today feel better slept thru the night.  Slight head ache. Red wine often does that to me. I did pass over my two glass limit by one.  Still had a wonderful time at the Warren’s tree party.  Once a year they take all the furniture out of their living room and throw a big dance party.  It is a celebration of life.  During hurricane Elvis a tree crushed the back of their house, fell on their bedroom.  They could have been killed  i think they were out of the country.  i might be wrong.  Point is, they are alive and we danced.  Great dj.  Fun.  lots of people.  I mean lots, maybe 300.

Today is Saturday.  Another day to live life fully.  So grateful l to feel better.  just a hint of a sore throat intuition is to take it easy. Our dog, Kali, has been vomiting all over the house since yesterday.  I am just noticing that it smells like vomit in here.  Not good   Will have to revisit places on the carpet where she got sick and re-clean them.  Poor baby. I don’t know what she ate.

Book is going well.  I think  I am so grateful to Dani Shaprio.  Seems every time I get stuck, have doubt, i read something from her book Still Writing, that inspires me to go on.  Yesterday she wrote about courage.  The courage to spend it all every day.  Not to hold back.  To go for the win, dig deep, don’t hold anything back. Do you know how hard that is to do.?  John O’Donohue says there is a voice inside of each one of us, inside me that even I have not heard.  I want to hear it every day. to listen to find the connection to my soul.  No I want more than that. I want to write the great American novel.  Me.  I want to be a true novelist. I want to create real characters, the ones that move you to laughter and tears. that tear at your heart-strings, that compel you to live more nobly with more compassion, with a greater zest for life.  I want to inspire, to intrigue, to upset and to disturb, to heal, to undo, to invoke, to enlighten, to do what.  I do not know.  I know I am called to do this.  It is sometimes so lonely and can feel so futile.  Not like working retail and at the end of the day running the tape to see how much you sold.  Not like cleaning the house and seeing the difference.  Not like teaching a yoga class that has a beginning and an end.  Not like going to school to get a degree and then have important looking letters to put after your name.  There are no guarantees.  Only dreams, hours spent pouring out my heart and soul.  This is a choiceless choice.  Now that I have started, I cannot go back.  funny how that works.  No turning back.  Sometimes I think how great it would be to get a job at Starbucks or even at the glitzy new Whole Foods Store they just built here.  But when would I write.  I am so lucky to be a yoga teacher and to have students who want what I have to offer.

…..Divine mother please use me as a vehicle for your creative energy.  Help me to listen so deeply that I hear you move through me so that I can put on paper more than words.  Spill it, use it, give it all every time you write.  Do not hold back.  Spend it all.  Every day.  When do you hear that?   We are always told to save.  Save for a rainy day.  Save for the unexpected.  Sock it away.  Be careful.  Be a saver.  Do not be extravagant.  That sounds good.  I want to be an extravagant writer.  Not wordy.  I do not want to ramble on and on about nothing but I want to splurge when I write.  I do not want to worry about whether I will have anything left.  I believe that creativity is limitless. I want to go the limit every day.  Every time I sit down to write.  Spend it all.  Go for broke.  Empty my wallet.  Put all my bills on the table, every idea,  I want to vomit them all up.  Spill them out and not clean up afterwards.  Let the words, the sentences, the phrases find their way, their order, their reason for being on the page.  No control.  No idea of the shape, the beginning or the end.  Just do it.  Whew.  Sounds a little extreme,  but what have i got to lose?  Nothing and everything to win.  Work as if this is the most important thing I have ever done and let go of the results.  Surrender the fruits of my labor.  Words of wisdom from the Bhagavad Gita. 

In the Rodgers and Hammerstein version of Cinderella, the one with Brandy and Whitney Houston, Whitney sings the song Impossible

(Godmother)
Impossible, for a plain yellow pumpkin to become a golden carriage.
Impossible, for a plain country bumpkin and a prince to join in
Marriage,
And four white mice will never be four white horses!
Such fol-der-ol and fid-dle-dy dee of course, is— Impossible!
But the world is full of zanies and fools
Who don’t believe in sensible rules
And won’t believe what sensible people say.
And because these daft and dewey-eyed dopes keep building up impossible
Hopes,
Impossible things are happening every day.

My grand daughter Amelia loves this movie.  We watch every Monday when she comes to stay with us.  The words of the song dance at the edges of my mind through out the week.  Impossible things are happening every day. Jordan is alive and well.  He died and returned to us fully intact.  I am no longer a victim of my childhood abuse.  I do not suffer from depression. I am writing every day.   I have a good marriage, a loving, supportive partner whom I still find sexy after 14 years together.  Love that.  After two failed marriages who would have thought I could do it well.  I started and operated a successful business, one that I was able to sell.  Wow. I have friends whom I love and who love and care about me.  My life is an adventure today more than ever.  Who knows where I will be this time next year.  Krishnamacharia as quoted by his son Desikachar, in Yoga and the Living Tradition of Krishnamacharya, says “something that is impossible at this moment becomes possible through yoga.” We reach a point we have never reached before.  “Today I sit on the floor and can barely stretch my legs in front of me.  After several weeks of practice, I may be able not only to sit erect, but to stretch and bend forward easily, with knees straight, reaching toward my toes.  In stages the impossible becomes possible.”

So I practice writing every day.  I have no idea where it will lead me, but I go willingly.  Divine Mother, I trust in your love and guidance as you create through me for the greatest good of all.  May I follow you blindly and without question.  They will be done.

January 3- Anniversary of Jordan’s Rebirth

I was going through some of my archived writings today and found something I had written about  “Jordan’s event” as we now like to call it.  This memory came from a photo of Jordan in the ICU at Methodist Hospital Central.

Frozen in a sepia photograph, Jordan and I sit side by side, he in his hospital bed and I in a chair pushed to his side.  He is talking now, but little of what he says resembles conversation.  I see his eyes dart from wall to wall.  “Mom, where did you find this place?  On line?  This is a dump.  Were you trying to save money or something?  Why am I here?  Did I do something wrong?  Is that why you are punishing me?”

I laugh until I realize he is serious.  The doctors warned us that his withdrawal symptoms from the morphine-like drug he was taking could include confusion and even delusions.  I try to reason with him.  “Jordan, we are in the hospital.  I know you don’t remember, but your heart stopped, and we have to stay here until you recover.  Do you remember anything?”

“What are you talking about?  I am ready to go home.  Why are you keeping me here?  Let’s go right now.”

The night nurse notices the commotion and comes to check on us.  “Hey, Jordan.  How are you going tonight?”

“Good.  I am ready to go now.  Where are my clothes.  Mom, I want my clothes.”

He does not have any clothes at the hospital.  Everything he was wearing was cut off and thrown away in the emergency room.  We only have his coat and the contents of his pockets, wallet, keys and a few receipts.

Jordan pushes himself higher up in an attempt to get out of bed.  The nurse puts his hands on Jordan shoulders.  “Whoa, there buddy.  You are not going anywhere.”

“Yes I am.  I have to go to the bathroom.”

“No problem.  Just do it.  You have a catheter tube inserted into your bladder so you can go right here.”

“Mom, what is he talking about?  I am not going to pee here.  You know I cannot do that.  Let me up.  Why are you doing this to me. I have to go to the bathroom.  I am not going to pee in the bed.  I would never do that.”

The nurse looks at me and warns Jordan.  “If you do not calm down, I will have to restrain  you.”

This is killing me.  I don’t know what to do.  Jordan does not understand what is happening to him.  I come closer and whisper in his ear.  “Honey, I love you.  I would never hurt you.  You cannot get out of bed because you still have tubes attached to you.  Please just relax.  It is okay to pee right where you are.  Look here, “I say lifting the catheter bag for him to see.  “It will go right in here.”

“You are worse than the mom in Gray Gardens,” he screams.  “I hate you.  I hate you.” More determined than ever, he starts to throw his legs over the bed.

The nurse comes back with an attendant and two belts.  The attendant holds Jordan down while the night nurse straps him in….one over his chest and the other over his legs.  Jordan screams, flailing his arms and crying.  His contempt seers my heart.  Needle in hand, Nurse Mike says, “Now, Jordan, I am going to give you a little something to calm you down.”   His nod assures me that everything will be alright.  I remain by the bed watching as Jordan finally drifts off to sleep.

Awaking the next morning, I find Jordan sitting up, smiling and talking to the day nurse, the perfect one.  She does not have one strand of her platinum blond hair out-of-place. It is 6 am and she is in full make up wearing a color coördinated, tight-fitting nurse Jackie outfit.  Jordan calls her a wax doll.  He’s obviously not upset by the events of last night.  Probably does not even remember what happened.   He laughs and tells the nurse, “I am here because I have a bad cold.  I want the really good drugs.”

She smiles,   “Don’t worry, Honey, you are in the hospital where we always have the best drugs.”  We both laugh.

Next thing we know, someone comes in and removes Jordan’s catheter.  I guess last night made a big impression.  Then the nurse’s aid asks Jordan what he wants for lunch.  Our regular nurse suggest tomato soup and crackers.

Things are now progressing at lightening speed.  A tall-red headed man from physical therapy gets Jordan out of bed and puts him in a walker.  “Okay, Jordan, what is your name?”  Seeing that I am confused by the question, the therapist explains that his job is not only to help Jordan walk but also to trigger his memory.

Jordan snickers.  ” My name is Jordan.”

“Good, what year is it?”

“2003”

“That must have been a good year.  Let’s try again.”  Jordan never gets the right year, which is 2010.

“No worries, we will keep working on it.  Look, lunch is here.”

By now, Katie and Leah have joined us.  Everyone is excited to see Jordan up.  We put him in the big arm-chair and place his tray within reach.

“This is so exciting.  Jordan, you are eating.  You are really eating something.”  I am beside myself.

Jordan gives me that look….a look so incredulous that I know he is coming back to himself.  It is a real Jordan look.   One I have seen so many times in the past.  Leah, Katie and I all make knowing eye contact.  Then, in classic Jordan style, he says, “Mom, it’s just tomato soup and crackers.  It’s not sea bass from Tsunami.” Light hearted conversation fills the room.  We talk about the theater, about yoga, about the weather and other wonderfully mundane subjects.  

Suddenly Jordan looks intently at the three of us.  “What am I doing here?  You are all way more fucked up than I am.  You’re the crazy ones, so why am I the one in here?”  We laughed until we cried.   He still does not know exactly why he is here but his mind has begun the long journey back.  I welcome his humor and his cynicism.

Here is a picture of Jordan and I just a few months later at the opening night party of Hairspray at Playhouse on the Square.  Jordan played Link.  Courtney Oliver was Tracy.

More about Jordan’s recovery: where there is humor there is hope

Frozen in a sepia photograph, Jordan and I sit side by side, he in his hospital bed and I in a chair pushed to his side.  He is talking now, but little of what he says resembles conversation.  I see his eyes dart from wall to wall.  “Mom, where did you find this place?  On line?  This is a dump.  Were you trying to save money or something?  Why am I here?  Did I do something wrong?  Is that why you are punishing me?”

I laugh until I realize he is serious.  The doctors warned us that his withdrawal symptoms from the morphine-like drug he was taking could include confusion and even delusions.  I try to reason with him.  “Jordan, we are in the hospital.  I know you don’t remember, but your heart stopped, and we have to stay here until you recover.  Do you remember anything?”

“What are you talking about?  I am ready to go home.  Why are you keeping me here?  Let’s go right now.”

The night nurse notices the commotion and comes to check on us.  “Hey, Jordan.  How are you going tonight?”

“Good.  I am ready to go now.  Where are my clothes.  Mom, I want my clothes.”

He does not have any clothes at the hospital.  Everything he was wearing was cut off and thrown away in the emergency room.  We only have his coat and the contents of his pockets, wallet, keys and a few receipts.

Jordan pushes himself higher up in an attempt to get out of bed.  The nurse puts his hands on Jordan shoulders.  “Whoa, there buddy.  You are not going anywhere.”

“Yes I am.  I have to go to the bathroom.”

“No problem.  Just do it.  You have a catheter tube inserted into your bladder so you can go right here.”

“Mom, what is he talking about?  I am not going to pee here.  You know I cannot do that.  Let me up.  Why are you doing this to me. I have to go to the bathroom.  I am not going to pee in the bed.  I would never do that.”

The nurse looks at me and warns Jordan.  “If you do not calm down, I will have to restrain  you.”

This is killing me.  I don’t know what to do.  Jordan does not understand what is happening to him.  I come closer and whisper in his ear.  “Honey, I love you.  I would never hurt you.  You cannot get out of bed because you still have tubes attached to you.  Please just relax.  It is okay to pee right where you are.  Look here, “I say lifting the catheter bag for him to see.  “It will go right in here.”

“You are worse than the mom in Gray Gardens,” he screams.  “I hate you.  I hate you.” More determined than ever, he starts to throw his legs over the bed.

The nurse comes back with an attendant and two belts.  The attendant holds Jordan down while the night nurse straps him in….one over his chest and the other over his legs.  Jordan screams, flailing his arms and crying.  His contempt seers my heart.  Needle in hand, Nurse Mike says, “Now, Jordan, I am going to give you a little something to calm you down.”   His nod assures me that everything will be alright.  I remain by the bed watching as Jordan finally drifts off to sleep.

Awaking the next morning, I find Jordan sitting up, smiling and talking to the day nurse.  All the nurses love Jordan, but this one is a little too perfect. Not one strand of her platinum blond hair is out-of-place. It is 6 am and she is in full make up wearing a color coordinated, tight-fitting nurse Jackie outfit.  Jordan calls her a wax doll.  He obviously not upset by the events of last night.  Probably does not even remember what happened.   He laughs and tells the nurse, “I am here because I have a bad cold.  I want the really good drugs.”

She smiles,   “Don’t worry, Honey, you are in the hospital where we always have the best drugs.”  We both laugh.

Next thing we know, someone comes in and removes Jordan’s catheter.  I guess last night made a big impression.  Then the nurse’s aid asks Jordan what he wants for lunch.  Our regular nurse suggest tomato soup and crackers.

Things are now progressing at lightening speed.  A tall-red headed man from physical therapy gets Jordan out of bed and puts him in a walker.  “Okay, Jordan, what is your name?”  Seeing that I am confused by the question, the therapist explains that his job is not only to help Jordan walk but also to trigger his memory.

Jordan snickers.  ” My name is Jordan.”

“Good, what year is it?”

“2003”

“That must have been a good year.  Let’s try again.”  Jordan never gets the right year, which is 2010.

“No worries, we will keep working on it.  Look, lunch is here.”

By now, Katie and Leah have joined us.  Everyone is excited to see Jordan up.  We put him in the big arm chair and place his tray within reach.

“This is so exciting.  Jordan, you are eating.  You are really eating something.”  I am beside myself.

Jordan gives me that look….a look so incredulous that I know he is coming back to himself.  It is a real Jordan look.   One I have seen so many times in the past.  Leah, Katie and I all make knowing eye contact.  Then, in classic Jordan style, he says, “Mom, it is just tomato soup and crackers.  It’s not like it is sea bass from Tsunami.”

Conversation fills the room with light heartedness.  We talk about the theatre, about yoga, about, the weather and other wonderful mundane subjects.  Then Jordan looks intently at the three of us.  “What am I doing here?  You are all way more fucked up than I am.  You’re the crazy ones, so why am I the one in here?”  We laughed until we cried.   He still does not know exactly why he is where he is but his mind is beginning to process.  His cynicism stands in stark relief to out tepid environment.

The story Continues. Climbing Jordan’a ladder to recovery.

Blinking.  That is a good sign, right?  Sitting as close as I can to Jordan’s bed, I watch his eyes.  I am looking for signs for life.  When he does manage to drag his eyelids away from his cheeks, and I get a glimpse of what lies beneath, I wonder, “Is he there?  Is Jordan, the Jordan I know and love there?”

Our entire family and all of our friends are on hand.  It reminds me of an unveiling…..we are waiting for the veil to lift, the curtain to rise, the plane to land, and the words to come.  Will he speak?  What will he say?  Will he remember what happened, and will he know where he is?  I am reminded of the lyrics to the Carly Simon song,

Anticipation:

We can never know about the days to come
But we think about them anyway.
And I wonder if I’m really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.

Anticipation. Anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting.

And tomorrow we might not be together.
I’m no prophet; I don’t know nature’s ways.
So I’ll try and see into your eyes right now.
And stay right here, ’cause these are the good old days.

The plastic surgeons come to tell us they will operate in the morning.  They want to do it while he is still intubated because it will facilitate the anesthesia, and they are concerned if they wait any longer the edema in his hand will cause permanent nerve damage.  While the two of them examine Jordan, my daughter, Katie and I, speculate as to whether or not  either one or both of them could be gay.  We must have looked and sounded like two old yentas.  “The one with the curly hair and the skull cap must be gay.  Look how well he is dressed.  Do you think Jordan would be attracted to him?  We need to keep them around for eye candy.  Jordan would love to wake up and see these two next to his bed.”  and so on.  It feels good to laugh.

Each of us, in our own way, dreads this surgery.  Will his heart stop again?  When they put him under, will he wake up?  Each step up the ladder of Jordan’s recovery reveals yet another risk.  Every day, we face down death.  We hold tight to one another and to our joint hope that Jordan will soon be back.

The surgery takes much longer than expected.  What does that mean?  Has something gone wrong?  Finally the doctor comes and explains, “It is good we went ahead and did the surgery.  The edema was, in fact, impinging on some of the major nerves in his hand. That’s why it took so long.  We had to suction out all the fluid and we wanted to be sure we got it all.  He has five incisions, some of which may leave scarring, but we can address that once he has full recovered.  All in all it went well.  The surgery nurse will bring him up shortly. He will be out for sometime so we will check back later.”  Deep sighs of relief.  Hugs all around.  Shoulders fall away from ears and hearts lift.  Together we are climbing Jordan’s ladder.

Two days later.  The real work begins.  Jordan is now fully conscious but unclear about where he is.  His confusion alarms us, but we remain hopeful.  Rebelliously he pulls the monitor attachment off his finger triggering the alarms.  Over and over again, one of us replaces it.  Squirmy.  That is the word I would use to describe the stage we are now in.  Jordan is irritated by all the tubes, the tape, and the restraints.  He pulls on the plastic tubing that carries oxygen into his nose.  His lips move in an effort to spit out the tube that runs like a snake across his tongue and down his throat.  It is as if he wants to speak…to tell us something.  His eyes plead with me, “Mom, do something.  Please help me.”

The nurse comes in to check his temperature and I ask, “When are they going to remove the tube?  I think he wants to talk to us but he cannot because his throat is obstructed, and he keeps pulling on the tape around his mouth.”

“Let me call the attending physician.  Jordan certainly is more active.  That is a good sign.”

Jackie, Jordan’s father, and I agree we both want to be there when the tube comes out.  Playing the waiting game, we reminisce, telling stories of Jordan, at four, dressing up in Katie’s yellow dress and the blond wig Jackie brought home from the theatre.  He created a runway in the back hall of our house and reenacted, lyrics and all, Dr. Frank-N-Furter performing “Sweet Transvestite” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  At the time, I asked Jackie, “Do you think it is a good Idea for a 4-year old to go every night to see such a risqué show?”

“Oh sure.  Jordan knows the difference between  fantasy and reality.”

Not quite as confident as Jackie in Jordan’s capacity to discern difference between theatre and real life,  I told Jordan, “Listen Honey.  You can be Dr. Frank-N-Furter here at home but when you go to Kindergarten, he has to stay here.  No Rocky Horror Show at school.  Do you understand?  The teacher may not know about this show and would think it was strange for a 4-year-old to be imitating such a strange character.” He nodded.  It was never a problem.

When the doctor did come, Jackie and I held hands, watched and waited.  If you have never seen one of these tubes being removed it is quite a scene.  The doctor literally grabs hold of the plastic tubing and yanks it out.  It was so long.  He pulled and pulled and it just kept coming.  Gross, really gross. The nurse swabbed Jordan’s mouth and applied a lubricant to red, irritated lips.  I do not remember what happened directly after the tube was removed.  I only know that we all felt another step closer to having the real Jordan back with us.