Sylvia's Journal

This morning Lobster Cove feels like Dubai. The air is saturated with humidity and it is hot. Dog days. Only Chicha the dog is happy because she has teenage boys, 10 Greek painters and two Afghans throw the Frisbee for her, all day long.

The Greek painters noisily pushed their ladders up against our windows, a sound that I incorporated easily into my dreams. The dreams included my arm sling as a means of payment or reckoning, how that worked eludes me now but it made totally sense while I was dreaming and even a fraction of a second after I woke up.

We now have a house full of boys which is immediately noticeable because the molecules around us are moving faster. This nicely compensates for my low levels of energy, far below my usual levels and something that makes me feel a little out of sorts.

The new workweek started yesterday and I worked on a few reports which is all I could manage. I guess I have to accept that I am still on sick leave. People ask me if I am busy on handing over old jobs and orienting myself on my new job, but right now I do neither.

At lunch time MP, Said and Wafa arrived to have another look at the ocean. MP told me that Wafa had broken out in song upon seeing the wide ocean as they traversed the Portsmouth Bridge. Apparently it brought back good memories of being at the Iranian shores at some point in this former life of his we know nothing about.  Getting the right kind of food for them is still a little tricky; MP learned it cannot be hot and cold together and they prefer hot. So we bought them American Chop Suey at the local supermarket while we non-Afghans had French bread with ham.

Wafa and Said loved playing with Chicha. They are discovering that dogs, far from the despicable creature it is in the Muslim world is actually a wonderful companion and fun playmate. Seeing Wafa in his American clothes throwing a Frisbee filled me with joy. How badly we wanted to see this scene over the past months and how elusive it seemed even as little as 3 weeks ago. But now they are here, at Lobster Cove, imagine that!

At the end of the day we headed for Boston for a gift from Anne and Chuck: a seat at Fenway Park for the Red Sox- Detroit Tigers game. After the difficult theatre performance I had agonized over whether to go or not and was glad I decided to accept the offer. My last Red Sox game some years ago was rather boring, but this game was good: suspense, lots of home runs, seeing some good waves going around the stadium and sushi for dinner. Still the seats were hard and the sling uncomfortable in hot and humid Boston, and so we lasted only through the 7^th inning, just when the Tigers were threatening to win.

Together with Anne and Chuck we took a pedicab back to the parking garage on Clarendon, all 750 pounds of us. We did not think the young cyclist could handle the four of us together but he looked us over and said, just like our President, ‘Yes, I can!’ And he could.

We arrived home only minutes after my brother and his two sons, flown in from Amsterdam, one via Reykjavik and the other two via Paris – we all tumbled very tired into our beds, most of us way beyond our usual bedtime.

I am writing this morning amidst the paint fumes produced by the Greek painters. It’s better that I post soon before I start to write nonsense. Today they are giving our house its original color (red) back; this is happening just in time for the arrival of my brother Reinout and his two sons from Holland, later tonight.

I have been haunted by the collision between a helicopter and a small plane over the Hudson River, which happened exactly one week after we passed the same point. We did see the scenic ride helicopters like the one that hit, or was hit by, the small plane. It can be busy out there and I guess we were lucky it wasn’y busy a week earlier or everyone who was piloting at that time was paying very close attention. It is the one rule of tumb when you fly: never stop looking for traffic.

I have decided to expose my incised shoulder, stitches and all, since even people who know I had surgery continue to grab me by the shoulders for a hug. It looks a little ugly, four incisions which sutures sticking out, yellow and red from Iodine and blood. It has been one week now and according to the dismissal instructions I don’t have to cover the incisions any longer.

I can shower without the stool, dry myself and dress myself without help from nurse Axel. I am leaving my arm out of the sling for longer stretches at a time, a freedom from restraint that is wonderful. It allows me to keep my elbow moving, and maintain some strength in my lower arm.

Isabella my Reiki practitioner called on Saturday that she now has her foot in a contraption that comes from the same factory in Mexico as my sling. It turned out she broke her foot six weeks ago and didn’t know it. She asked us to stand in for her as greeters and Quaker meeting on Sunday morning, which we did.

The theme of Quaker meeting was about making room for the Spirit in our lives; that we are like waitresses and waiters, patiently waiting to find out how we can be of service. It reminded me of going out to dinner with Axel who always needs a lot of time to make his choice from the menu; the best restaurants have waiters who patiently wait for him to make up his mind. That’s what service is all about. On our way back home we discussed what this has to do with our move to Afghanistan.

As the clouds rolled in, and my plans to have a Lebanese dish in a Sierra Leone [I meant ‘Lebanese dejeuner sur l’herbe] were aborted, I tagged along with Tessa to the Vietnamese nail place in Beverly, to use up the last of the gift certificates we had received from Ellie after the crash. Tessa had all twenty of her nails done and I only ten, the ones on my feet. I am embarrassed to admit that I still bite my fingernails, and so any money spent on them is a waste. Our short ride to Beverly was really a trip to Southeast Asia; I tried to piece together the stories of our nail consultants, Lisa and Rachel, their adopted names because Americans cannot pronounce their real names that have too many consonants in a row. They left their native country some 16 years ago and you can tell from the thick accents they still live mostly in Vietnam.

With our shiny new nails we went for a walk in Ravenswood with Chicha, a first resemblance of exercise for Axel and myself, even though we had to cut our outing short because of the mosquitoes.

After dinner, meant to be outside but once again moved inside by the mosquitoes, Axel and I drove to Rockport to see the last performance of the Taming of the Shrew, put on by a local theater group with several friends in the cast. It was meant to be an outdoor performance but the forecasted rains drove us inside into a tiny hall where we sat cheek to jowl on hard folding chairs. Although it was a wonderful performance, sitting in these conditions for more than two and half hours was a little hard on our recovering bodies and we returned back home rather crippled.

It made us wonder whether I could handle the invitation to a Red Sox game tonight. I am told the chairs are not so hard and we will have a little more space but then again I remember Red Sox games going on long into the night. Now, with the optimism and freshness of early morning, I am more optimistic about my ability to make the trip in and out of Boston and enjoy the game.

The best alternative to being in disguise [in the skies, you dummy] over Maine is sitting at lobster Cove with a book. So that is what I did. I have lately been wandering around the house thinking about what I would like to take to Kabul. And so I discovered Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet. I found part one and part four [Justine and Clea]. A hand written and hand painted happy Mother’s Day card from Axel fell out indicating that I had started reading volume 1 a long time ago; I will finish it this time.

Despite the gorgeous weather and the paradisiacal surroundings I felt pretty punky, mostly because of the bad night. I tried several different chairs to get comfortable and ended up taking a long morning nap in the recliner. This is why I missed Diane who came by to deliver vichyssoise, just like two years ago. A cup of that delicious cold soup, after a good nap, brought me back into the world in better shape.

It was time to go to Gloucester to congratulate our cousin Britta with her graduation from high school. She too is in a transition, off to New York, at about the same time that we are off to Afghanistan. Some people think New York is just as scary. I remember some years ago when I was sitting in a hotel lobby in Amman, with a bunch of Iraqis and talking to Axel via Skype using my computer. When Axel inquired how scary it was to fly into Baghdad the Iraqis answered that it was probably not as scary as being in New York. For them New York was full of action figures gone berserk, sexual deviants and murderers. They all preferred Baghdad. We don’t think New York is scary and know that Britta will have a great time.

No one told me about the dangers of social gatherings for someone who has just had rotator cuff surgery. Because the arm is in a sling and not the shoulder people avoid the arm when giving hugs. I received many squeezes on my shoulder, encouraging little taps on the back of my shoulder and quickly began to dread meeting yet another huggable acquaintance. It’s better to go to a party of strangers where you can simply shake hands.

Next week we will go to a Magnuson family reunion — a high hug environment — and we have been wondering how we can make this a pleasant event for me. Axel has decided he will make a ‘don’t hug’ patch for my shoulder.

The social event, a barbecue, had both exhausted us and filled our bellies. We organized ourselves a dinner theater in our living room, pulling comfortable chairs up to our tiny [13 inch] TV screen, eating ice cream while watching Coraline in 3-D with the special glasses that came with the DVD.

We interrupted our show to say goodbye to Steve who should by now have arrived in Canada, for a brief visit to his mom and sister.

I removed the wedge from my bed and slept flat on my back in a nest of pillows. This too is a reminder of our sleeping arrangements two years ago. It was a good move; I only woke up once and had a very good night of sleep. In the morning I was able to take a shower and dress myself without assistance. Five more weeks to go.

It is Saturday morning and it is a beautiful day with blue skies and no wind. The world is fine [I did not say this, the Dragon software made this up]. Bill is flying to Bar Harbor today, a perfect day for a flight along the Maine coast. I am so sorry to miss this, but as a one armed pilot I would be pretty useless. I also would have been too tired for duty as a navigator and radio woman. I am exhausted.

Sleeping upright in my bed with the bulky sling and velcro contraption on my arm while keeping my shoulder fully demobilized [make that immobilized] is increasingly difficult. At about 3 AM last night I moved downstairs to finish my sleeping in the recliner chair, the only way I could be comfortable. I feel less than rested right now.

Yesterday morning the Greek painters arrived to power wash the house, Axel left for the Subaru dealership in New Hampshire to pump another thousand dollars into our aged car, and Steve and Tessa had already gone to work hours before. That left me alone in the recliner. I had a whole day to myself. The problem with whole days to yourself is that they are much more fun when you feel well, much less so when you are injured or recuperating.

Debbie and Leonard, our summer neighbors who live in de yellow carriage house down the driveway visited to say goodbye. Their short summer in lobster Cove is over and they are returning to their home in Illinois. This is the only time I saw them this summer. Their leaving is a bit like the first leaves turning yellow: it means fall is in sight.

I spent the rest of the day learning to read and write Dari from a neat website that uses flash cards. It is very basic stuff, such as colors, directions, and basic greetings. My many lessons years ago in Lebanon on learning how to write Arabic paid off, as everything came back and I worked myself easily through the flash cards. Dari script is more or less the same as Arabic script. I am still a long way off from being able to have a decent conversation but my confidence is increasing, and so is my vocabulary.

Late in the afternoon I received a phone call from Chris and Kairos who were inching their way from Cambridge to Manchester in the Friday afternoon exodus from Boston with a screaming three month old baby in the backseat. But they persevered and arrived just about the same time as the mosquitoes, when the sun begins to sink behind the Putman trees. Seeing new parents with a tiny infant brought back many memories from 28 years back.

Since we are in a life transition on the other end (and happy for it), you realize that most everyone appears to be in one transition or another. This is of course what makes life interesting.

By the way most of today’s post was dictated again and it seems that the software and I are getting used to each other.

 The following two paragraphs are dictated using  Dragon software. I clearly have to train this dragon a bit more.

Open microphone Yesterday Akso took me out for a ride only went to a support and had dinner on the water I had been this I had deans not deans beans beans not deans beans yes and I had call slow [cole slaw] and then I am a small I am not a small child and a we you in to buy sandals for Axel from DJ see you as happy to see us I was exhausted after that trip and at night I had a hard time going to sleep I to I took two aspirin sleepy Time tea and all so I your fake [Ayurvedic] sleep medicine and still I could not go to sleep sleeping went Axel this is a funny if a funny you I am not sure that this is really a great idea it is amazing what it can do but it’s still comes out a little funny and now it has? Is wondering what I’m going to say next and I wonder myself as well Axel is busy getting the house organized this is look at what I wrote okay save this does it save this not candidate must be

Sita and Tim I mean Gates Nell on and engaged Sita and Jim are going to give marriage now get married okay website so Sita and if I getting married not again Sita and Jim are getting married that’s correct well yesterday our house was send it stand that scribed obtained to remove yesterday and the Greek painters removes all the pain from our house today they are going to tire wash it they are going to power wash it and so we have to close all the windows Axel think I am getting there via I haven’t gotten to the. Set a you not.co I’m not sure it is going to work well for me this dictating business instead of writing. I do like to use my hands when writing. Although this is pretty good. So to get back to yesterday where were we?

Back to old fashioned fingers – this dictating software takes some getting used to, and it to me. At any rate the big news from yesterday is that Sita and Jim are getting married in September 2010. We are all so happy about is. We have been holding our breath for a long time, they have been a couple for 12 years already. We took the engagement picture Afghan style on our present to them, a rug from Qala-e-nao, and Sita with a bejewelled finger. The string cheese is their idea of getting engaged.

I spent most of yesterday slumped in my recliner, dosing off after reading some pages. Still, I managed to finish the superb book, the Photographer, that Sita gave us and that describes in a mixed comic book and photo style the sorties in and out of Afghanistan of an MSF team during the Russian occupation. I also finished Rory Stewart’s book about his walk from Herat to Kabul. I am still very excited to be moving to this country in the fall, although my enthusiasm is tempered by the many recent attacks across the country.

In between my short naps I am learning Dari verbs so that I can upgrade my very rudimentary conversation using only nouns to something slightly more sophisticated. I can now say that I don’t understand and that I am learning the language of Darius.

Axel was a busy nurse all of yesterday, running from one place to another. Much of this had less to do with nursing me than with self care, estate management and town work. Late in the afternoon he was finally ready to take my bandages off. He took a picture and compared my shoulder to a slab of pork shoulder, all marked up with blue pen. This was the signature of the surgeon to make sure he operated on the right body part.

We dragged our shower stool out from the basement where all the post crash equipment is stored, and I had my first shower, heavenly.

In the afternoon Reiki Master Isabella came by and gave me the full treatment; after that I was not good for anything other than a small meal and off to bed at 7 PM. I put in an 11 hour night and am entirely off pain meds now for over 24 hours. This morning I am doing well, even using my right fingers to type. Things are looking up.

the red thing is an exercise ball, handily velcroed to my sling

This morning I gave up sleeping upstairs at about 4 AM after witnessing all 60 of the minute changes from 3 to 4. Sleeping in a semi upright position is not very comfortable. I finished the night downstairs in the recliner that was for month my nest and cocoon, two years ago

It’s a bit of a déjà-vu for people walking into the house – Sita and Tessa with their men running the house, fussing over me, draped over de recliner. The big difference is that Axel is also fussing over me.

I stopped taking the painkillers after a day and a half. Even so I remain dopey and without any stamina. Typing one line of an email message exhausts me.  Each line requires a short snooze to replace the energy used. What was I thinking about being able to be doing work at home?

I could use some help from Said’s fighting and keyboard-pecking partridge. This is going to be a very slow entry this morning and the next entries to come. I have to slow down my thoughts. The style will be different.

Isabella Reiki-ed me in and out of surgery. She also brought along a CD of the Tallis Scholars, a quintet of singers of early church and Renaissance music. The intent of her presence was very appreciated by the staff of the surgical center. I knew this the moment they put me in paper johnnie with a vacuum hose attached through which warm air was blown in that enveloped my body. The nurse explained that patients who were kept warm in the ice cold OR had less chance of infections. Warmth, touch and music were brought together to counter the cutting and drilling.

This was a good thing as there was indeed much of that. The tear that dated back to the accident had left a ligament the consistency of tissue paper. The more recent tear from my fall on the ice was also big but easier to fix as there was still some elasticity in the ligament. Both were re-attached to the bone with anchors and wired back in place. The operation lasted 2 hours instead of the less-than-one predicted by the surgeon.

When I came too Isabella was there with her healing hands and music (playing all through the surgery, to my cells rather than my brain). My shoulder was wrapped in a supersize shoulder pad and my arm in a sling velcro-ed to a wide shelf to keep the arm from moving and thus the shoulder immobilized. The entire upper right side of my body had received a neural block so that neither sensory nor motor impulses could get through: no pain signals coming up, no willing of finger movement able to create action. It was as if I had a pair of lifelike but rubber Halloween fingers dangling out of the sling, hot to the touch, but alien. The block also affected my right lung and ribcage which made breathing heavy labor and rather cumbersome.

Joan and Morsi were our first and unexpected visitors. They were in the neighborhood. Their presence was healing in multiple ways as this surgery is still part of our collective recovery from the crash. We can now freely talk about it, something Morsi welcomed with an ‘Alhamdulillah.’

The new bedtime ritual was a trip down memory lane but with roles reversed: me with the wedge pillow to sleep upright, the Oxycodone and nurse axel in attendance – and once more the waking up every hour or following the clock in 10 minute increments.

The messages at Quaker meeting yesterday were about speaking truth to power. My boss several times removed gave me a book with that title some years ago about a priest speaking truth to the king in 16^th century Spain. I discovered there are several hundred of thousands of Google entries under that heading, books, plays, opinion pieces, blogs and editorials. Anybody ever in power has probably been addressed at least once under this exhortation.

But not all protest is about speaking truth to power. The power of this kind of truth-speaking comes from love. Isabella, our new neighbor and new Friend, not only spoke to that latter dimension but also sang to it in her beautiful voice. She is a voice teacher, Reiki Master and meditation coach. These last two of her gifts are showing up on my doorstep just when I need them – today is the day of my shoulder surgery.

Isabella offered to accompany me to the surgical center and, using Reiki and music, to get my body in exactly the right place before and after my shoulder repair. Cutting and drilling are things the body does not like and she knows how to soften the assault by softening the body. I understand that at a cellular level.

Still, despite this important offering, I did not sleep well, waking up just about every hour. I try to be cool about the surgery but my troubled sleep shows I am not.

The rest of Sunday I tried not to think about the surgery and wondered how best to use the day while still having two shoulders and arms that functioned pretty well. After having contemplated weeding, rowing, swimming I ended up doing those things that don’t require much shoulder and arm dexterity: Tessa and I went to visit DJ in Rockport (to show him my Ethiopian coat and check out his handbag and summer shoe collection), bought a few clothes that won’t be good for Kabul but very appropriate for hot places for our regional escapes, and filled bags with summer’s bounty at local farm stands.

Axel returned late and exhausted from his weekend in Maine where he celebrated Hala’s 50^th birthday on her family’s 900 acre working farm. The farm’s livestock is Black Angus and that’s what they had for dinner when not eating lobster. The farmhouse stands on a plateau and overlooks the presidential range, fields and a pond; from his description, the views, the rooms with curtains fluttering in a breeze, a fire downstairs in the hearth, I found myself transported into a painting (Andrew Wyeth, said Axel).

If we had had our act together on Saturday (if he’d known I’d be back around 2PM from my NYC trip), I could have gone with him. I have never been to the place while for Axel it was the second visit; his first visit never to be forgotten, on September 11, 2001. He first heard about the towers collapse on the car radio and then saw the haunting images on TV screens in rest stops along route 95N. That assault was not about speaking truth to power; it can’t be done with hate – it’s got to be done with love.