The Kindness of Strangers

Homeward bound.

I was traveling at the beginning of the new regime. On Inauguration Day, I witnessed the protests at a different statehouse, one that had defended slavery and bore the marks of a broken nation. On Saturday during the Women’s Marches, I walked the red clay trails of a state park, marching with all in spirit. On Sunday, we arrived in New Orleans for a much-needed vacation from the burdens of a country already spinning out of control, and found ourselves in an emergency room.

My husband became very ill with a bad infection on the 8-hour drive, and so we checked into our hotel and headed straight to the nearest emergency room. What followed were three days of uncertainty and fear in a strange city where we’d never been before and knew no one. Three days of an endless stream of nurses and doctors and housekeepers and aides who spoke in odd accents, from all walks of life and every corner of the globe, with compassion in their eyes and caring in their hearts. Three days of hearing and seeing the city’s poorest and sickest soothed and treated along the ER bays and hospital wards. Three days of witnessing what the world is like from outside my comfortable little box. Three days of relying on the kindness of strangers.

After spending our entire stay in The Big Easy living moment to moment, the drug-resistant infection finally turned a corner and we were cleared to go home on a beautiful spring-like morning that the natives thought unseasonably cold. Everyone on the staff shook our hands and told us how sorry they were that we never got a chance to see the real New Orleans, to taste her food, hear her music, savor her spirit. They told us to come back and give their fair city another chance.

And we will. But I feel like we’ve already experienced her soul without ever setting foot on Bourbon Street.

All Day in Bed

Well, you can guess what happened. Nothing decadent, sexy or even mildly provocative about catching that family head cold. Sadly, I was the final holdout felled, despite all my sacrifices in the kitchen to chicken soup gods. However, if you’re turned on by flannel, hot water bottles and VapoRub, then by all means read on.

Piles of crumpled tissues aside, this is a useful opportunity to get to know your nose better, and to realize how far sinus pain can travel. Why, that old wisdom tooth war wound just comes alive from the caress of packed nasal passages, not to mention renewed fantasies about lockjaw when one is unable to open the mouth wide enough to spoon in chicken soup originally meant for others.

Even in the privacy of the bedroom, appearance means everything. Bed head takes on a whole new meaning, particularly when you are unable to see anything in the mirror because of excessive eye watering. Lingerie must be chosen carefully, good coverage for the inevitable cold shoulder, but easily removed during blasted hot flashes that this particular virus is fond of triggering for me.

The unique opportunity to lounge would be enjoyable, if I could stop sneezing long enough to work on my perfect Hollywood pose. As for entertainment, since I don’t have the slightest idea how to sterilize my phone, laptop or TV (yes, that far across the room) when all this nasal precipitation is over, my only amusement is to blearily predict what the cat will do with empty kleenex boxes strewn about the room.

The rest of my family keeps their distance, even though they are the ones who gave me this plague. My allure these days is solely dependent on whether they need anything that only I can provide (e.g., passwords, location of checkbook, last will and testament, that sort of thing). And after everyone else falls asleep, I’m guaranteed an intimate evening alone with my stuffy thoughts by the light of all-night syndicated sitcoms, while my thumbs get a real workout playing revolving rounds of Candy Crush and Farm Heroes.

So you see, the 24-hour bed deal is not all that glamorous. And as for romance, believe me, the only thing steaming up around here is my vaporizer.

A Creative Carol

For me, true life change is always a cold dive from radical heights, never any soft slides into the lukewarm wading pool of transition. Struck over the head with absolute misery, I am forced to concede inside a prison of my own making, while angels of opportunity do their best to get my attention by waving the keys to my freedom.

What was it this time? Well, I was felled for a month by the worst illness of my life, a stunning combination of hideous head cold, a clutch of bronchitis and then the wicked flu. I never get the flu.

For weeks I wallowed on a rumpled sick bed, watching lives flash before my eyes in between horrendous bouts of coughing, fever and nose blowing. Family came and went, an entire season of holiday celebrations carried on without me, and then the world went back to work in 2013 while I still lingered on the fringes, transparent as Marley’s ghost.

During convalescence, I had plenty of time to review my sins. This kind of plague was clearly a message sent to knock some sense into me. And while 2012 would be considered a productive year, I had somehow run off course in a big way. Over the months, I took an easy path back to old roles, enjoying the quick hit of rescuer, and the heady attention of being needed.

Somehow, I always forget what this costs me.

I looked to others for fresh paths, and found only shoes that didn’t fit. I took a ride back to the past and saw the future. And I didn’t like it much.

If I’d been paying attention along the way, the spirits of tense would have shown me where my first salvation lies. It has been there all along, but I only reach for this life preserver when all other help is refused.

On my knees, with the specter of a life un-lived roughly sketched out in front of me, I’ve finally grasped that first key of opportunity. I admit to being stingy with creativity and a scrooge to my dreams. I confess to throwing myself at the status quo and camouflaging in a cloak of conformity. I let the fear of freedom win.

So, my word for 2013 is CREATE. My fevered walks with what could be have opened many doors to studio, desk, easel, lens, blank page, and the world.  And as I renew my vows to this life, I will practice it all without a mind to results, recognition or an ending.

Only the beginning.