Note From The Parking Lot Last Week

Written a week ago while waiting for my daughter to finish swim practice.
Things have changed since then, for the better, as things often do.

My therapist asked today when I want to come back. I flipped a page in my weekly planner considering that I might need to come back in a week. No, I thought and flipped to the second page and offered three dates. She responded that she was gone for half of that week and so had nothing then. I turned another page and read off two more dates, one of which worked. There was an unusual tone in her voice throughout this exchange. It had been a heavy duty session. I was writing the appointment in my planner, head down, when she said, "if you need to see me sooner, you can call." It was the first time she has offered that option so far as I can remember. My memory may be failing me. I've had other times of trouble. She caught me a little flat-footed. Had I seemed that far gone? When she said it, I felt a weighted bar laid across my shoulders. Maybe it was there before and I was just now really feeling it. Whatever the case, I felt myself sinking under it.

At home, my younger daughter was phoneless after having dropped hers in soup this morning. A high school girl living without a phone feels strange and awful. Easy for me to imagine surviving without one. I grew up in another time and now have a phone in my pocket nearly always. I didn't say, this might be good for you, because it didn't feel good to her. She said, friendships hurt. Sometimes, I told her. She reminds me too much of myself, wanting love that seems unavailable from others and which she can't muster for herself. I wondered how to help when the air seemed to have gone out of the world. "Secure your own oxygen mask before attempting to help others." I gave her a hug and my phone to use for the next day.

My wife's stomach went into revolt and she hasn't slept in days. Her allergic eyes swelled one quarter shut and no one seems to know what to do about that. She has seen all the doctors but her maladies remain mysteries. She's also working a new job and that too feels like trying to get through each day without enough rest and too many things going wrong.

Then my older daughter feels unnoticed. As a child she didn't quite say "you don't love me enough" but we read between her silences. Telling her, holding her, doing what we can for her, these things are and aren't enough. Love is wondrous but too often we worry more about it running out, going down some drain. She swims laps in the pool to prepare for her next meet and I wonder does all that work strengthen the metaphorical heart too?

The odometer will tick over to 173,100 within the next mile. It may only be feet away from this parking spot or perhaps longer than I can go tonight. I'm just so tired.

---

The paycheck came and relieved some of the worries. I've begun to see possible ways of moving on from my current job. We have gone out with friends. My younger daughter understands that some things come from within. My older daughter knows that some things are coming to her from without. My wife got an eye cream and knows some of what happened with her stomach but still can't sleep.

The odometer is approaching 174,000. The car starts every morning. Even when I'm tired, it's nothing at all to drive the miles and a joy to take my girls and myself toward our destinations.

A week and a half from now I'll return to therapy and see what's next.

Good Days

The perfect day isn't perfect. It is instead good, very good perhaps. I too often overlook good in search of better and perfect. Good is good. It is contentment which ought to be my only goal because I can choose to feel content.

Since this is my blog, let's focus on me for a bit. Let me tell you about my perfectly good day.

It begins without the alarm but in the October dark. I get up from under a thick blanket and replace blanket with coffee, sleeping with living, dreaming with writing. I go downstairs, grind beans, and press a good cup of coffee. I take my pen and coffee to the basement to write three pages by hand. There's no way I would rather begin each day.

Morning Pages written, I make buttered toast with jam and eat on the couch while reading a book as the family wakes and comes down one by one to get ready for school and work. I offer to drive kids to school or walk the dog, whatever works for them and by eight o'clock the house is mine. I put on a record, boot the Chromebook, and get to work.

First I focus on developing things. Creating. Drafting. Typing. This is when a blog post likely comes to mind, goes to my fingers, appears on the screen, and eventually gets posted online. This is when I continue working on long essays, stories, and sections of a book. I work through a few records until about eleven or noon at which point I print some of that stuff and get out of the chair.

My body needs to move. I go for a walk or a run to work my mind in a different way. I may think about writing or maybe just move. A shower follows and maybe a load of laundry or some brief housework. I warm up leftovers or make somethings for lunch and eat while reading the web or my book.

Then maybe a nap. I set an alarm, read on the couch until I fall asleep and recharge. After that I probably go to the library, buy coffee beans, get cash, pick up something from the hardware store, or make a stop at the co-op. Much as I can, I run these errands on foot, preferably with the dog. Moving my body after the nap puts me back in the world.

The kids and my wife come home and I spend time with them, drive them where they need to go, attend to their needs. We cook dinner and eat together. After dinner we clean up.

The rest of the evening is unscheduled. We may catch the latest Doctor Who or Atypical together. I might would go out with a friend. Whatever the case, the day ends with Stephanie and me tucked into bed, the lights out, rain turning to light snow.

I drift into sleep thinking, I can't wait to do it again tomorrow.

That's a good day. Just about perfect, though I'm content with good. I could be content for years of days like that. Now I just have to make it happen.

Dialing Dad's Number

I just watched an old MASH episode in which Hawkeye is listed by the Army as dead. Hawkeye's dad tries to get through to B. J. Hunnicutt but the call fails. Hawkeye, once he figures out that he's dead and that his dad believes he's dead, is desperate to get in touch with his dad but the lines are down because Eisenhower is coming to Korea. Hawkeye can't get paid, can't get mail, and can't reach his dad, but in the end can't leave Korea and go home either.

The end of the episode has Hawkeye finally on the phone with his father, laughing and enjoying himself. Then he says, "Dad? Dad?" as if he's going to say something important, but it's the line gone dead again. Hawkeye tosses the handset and sits back satisfied that his dad knows he's alive but beyond sad to be so far away from his father, to be so disconnected.

On my phone I still have dad listed in my favorites. I always will. Every so often I place a call to him. It never goes through. I listen to the tones telling me the number is no longer active or valid or whatever the phone companies call it. The line is dead. There's no getting through. And I can't even blame it on Eisenhower.

Someday Dad's number will be assigned to someone else. I imagine that call. Me saying, hello? The other person asking, who is this? Do I tell that person this was my dad's number and that I miss him? If I do, I wonder how the other person will react. I know how I would answer that call from some stranger. I'd ask, how long has he been gone? I would say, tell me a story about him and you. Then I would listen.

Well, there was this one time. It was ordinary. Nothing special. He drove over to my house and parked his truck on the street. I went out to meet him. He asked, You ready? I said, I am. The night was cold and dry, clear all the way up to the heavens. We got in the car, me in the driver's seat, Dad lowering himself into the passenger's seat slowly, slamming the door.

I'd ask, Where were you going?

Up to the Carrier Dome. See, Dad and I had season tickets to the Syracuse Women's Basketball games. We sat in row G, mid court, and Dad talked with the ticket takers, the fans who sat nearby, and me. We cheeredas when the women won and even if they lost because it wasn't about the games. It was about Dad and me.

I'd say, that sounds good.

It was good. It really was.

Then we'd both listen to the sounds of memory, the silence of our dead fathers.

Maybe the person at the other end would ask if I was still there.

And I would say, yeah, I'm still here. We're both still here. It's okay. We're both still here.

Monday Morning, Cold Dryer

The dryer isn't working. It has been in trouble for weeks. We run a load while we sleep and sometimes wake to cold, wet clothes. The heating element isn't working, but each time I think it's shot, I send the laundry around for another tumble and it works. Last night though, things stayed cold right through.

I write three morning pages every day. They are practice, therapy, and the beginnings of ideas. This morning I wrote of things breaking down, holes in my life, and dreams that keep me from sleep. It was all connected.

My basement writing nook isn't far from the dryer. This morning I ran the dryer hoping for luck. Towels tumbled while I wrote page one but, but the machine stayed cold. Midway through page two I left a message for service, thinking, okay what now?

It wasn't a reasoned question so much as a cry, like there weren't any good choices and life is difficult. My life can be difficult but not very. I mean, big deal, the dryer is broken. I started page three thinking, I'll go to the laundromat. That's where I am now, typing this. The clothes are drying. The whole thing cost a couple of quarters. Real big deal.

Thursday a guy will look at the dryer. He'll fix it or tell me to buy a new one. My mother will come over to let the guy in since I'll be at work. By Thursday afternoon I'll know the shape of this problem. Right now, I only know the vague outline. The dryer doesn't work is all I know.

Well, no, I also understand that I've called for service, asked Mom for help, and I have survived worse things than a broken dryer. There are holes in my life and reasons why I have trouble sleeping, but the dryer is easy. I might as well savor this whole experience from problem through solution, and everything in between. As far as I can see, stuff like this, well, that's life.