Sylvia's Journal

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.

I have received my marching orders for the shoulder surgery on Monday and the green light from my healthcare providers for my posting to Afghanistan – a US government stipulation that required a repeat, for 255 dollars, of a physical examination done only a few months ago. Axel had to undergo the same and was also cleared.

Most people at the doctor’s office could not imagine moving to Afghanistan in their wildest dreams. You could see the incredulity in their faces. But once they realized we really wanted to do this, they gave us tender smiles of encouragement. I could see prayers on the edges of the smiles.

Having been out of the country for over a month I had missed the wettest weeks of June and July, but on this last day of July I was treated to a full rain show. It was like monsoons have come to eastern Massachusetts. Inside the house everything was damp; the papers on my desk curled and fresh printing smudged. White stuff is growing on the old family chest and the Mauritanian leather CD box, never entirely cured, has stuff growing in the grooves of the elaborate leather work.

Tessa and I, both working at home for the cause of international public health, finished Axel’s fancy birthday cake between the two of us, in stages, until there were only crumbs left. I never want another cake for a birthday. In between bouts of procrastination (not sure about Tessa, but certainly true for me) I prepared for my upcoming trip to Ghana and did yet another iteration of a job description of one of my new supervisees and his supervisee. It is stuff that others have always done and it takes some mental effort to get going. I hope that the next email from Kabul will say ‘Done!’

This morning I am preparing for the trip to New York, down Long Island, and back up the Hudson, that Bill and I have been fantasizing about for the last 6 months. It looks like the weather is cooperating. It will be an all day trip and possibly my last for a long while. Flying with one arm in a sling is not a good idea, even though one of my previous plane co-owners, by the name of Lefty, is a one-armed pilot and can do it.

While we are heading south, Axel will head north to Maine to help Hala celebrate her 50th birthday. Between the two of us we will cover a good chunk of America’s eastern seaboard

I drove in with Cary from Ipswich to reduce the number of cars that would congregate in Lowell at the end of the day for Axel’s birthday surprise: Joan Baez in concert at the Lowell music festival. Edith picked me up from work in the middle of the afternoon so we could stake out a piece of the grass for the other members of our party: Axel, the girls and their mates, and Anne and Chuck.

By the time we arrived, 3.5 hours before the start of the concert, the park’s lawn looked like a patchwork quilt made of multi-colored square and rectangle picnic blankets, and rows of empty beach chairs stitching the pieces together. There were very few unclaimed spaces, especially for a party of nine. We found one on the front row, right off center from the stage, at most 45 feet from the central mike.

Defending the space with just the two of us, as more and more people came in, was a little stressful. There is something very primordial and animal about defending one’s small plot of grass at a concert from intruders. It reminded me of our days at the beach in Holland, when I was a child. If the Germans had not already done so, we would dig a deep round trench and line it with towels. Such territory was easy to defend because of the wall around it. For us in Lowell it was a little more difficult as we could not dig. I felt a little guilty and selfish when staking our piece with purses, backpacks, coolers and beach chairs.

In the meantime Tessa was chauffeuring Axel to a, for him, unknown destination. First he thought they were going to Boston and he guessed a harbor cruise. Then, when they turned north he thought a river cruise on the Merrimack (what’s with the cruises?). Then he gave up. When he and Tessa arrived at the park he still did not understand – there was no sign indicating who would be performing. A party of women who had peeled a strip from our territory (but with whom became friendly while waiting) sang happy birthday to Axel and inquired when he had last seen Joan. He still didn’t get it (“Who’s Joan?”). After guessing a few wrong Joans (Joan Armatrading, Joni Mitchell) we dropped a hint (Bob Dylan) and he finally got it, breaking out in a big grin. We had been entirely successful in our surprise party.

Next came Anne and Chuck who arrived with hundreds of others (coming 3.5 hours early is indeed a good idea). We plucked them out of the long line and provided them with the coveted wristband that indicated you had paid and allowed you to bypass the line and wander freely in and out of the park. It was a prize possession since the concert was sold out. Then came Steve with the most expensive and most heavenly quiche and birthday cake I have ever tasted, from the upscale bakery (Flour) near Tessa’s work. Sita and Jim arrived last, after working their way through a series of traffic jams.

Before the concert started a crew from NBC’s Today Show scouted around for people of a certain age who might have interesting memories and stories about Joan Baez and Woodstock. They picked three from our party: Edith, Anne and Axel. We are not sure who will survive the editing process but I have a feeling Axel might, he had a good story to tell. If he did, he will appear on the Today Show on August the 15th.

Today Axel completes the 63rd year of his life and enters his 64th. I was too pooped, after a 19 hour day, to decorate his chair and set up anything that would mark today as extra-ordinary. Luckily Sita and Tessa did. Seeing their display this morning made me smile. Something becomes a family ritual if it happens without you. The transfer of this particular birthday ritual is completed. I imagine years from now, great-great-great grand children wondering, where did this come from?

Yesterday morning I thought I had gotten up at 4:30 AM, my usual time, but somehow the automatic clock that sends signals from someplace in Colorado to my alarm got confused by its Daylight Savings time settings (as had I). I was fully dressed and ready to start the day before 4 AM. The ride into work was the fastest ever and I was at my desk long before 6 AM; hence the very long day.

The students from the BU course presented their final class projects to members of the MSH staff and invited guests. Everyone was dressed to the nines and nervous. Since I had been on the phone in Kabul with the Afghanistan team, I was considered part of the family. All the presentations were polished, focused and engaging. I was blown away by their backgrounds, diversity and by the way they presented themselves. I was sorry, once again, that I had not been able to teach the class last week. I seem to be teaching this class every other year.

In the middle of the presentation MP showed up with her new Afghan family, now disguised as Americans. Wafa, in his khaki pants and summer shirt, had gone through quite a transformation. His English is about the same level as my Dari and the poor fellow must feel overwhelmed with the rapid fire English spoken all around him. Said was beaming and so was MP. I was so happy to see them.

Later we had lunch with one of the Afghan students, a female doctor from high up in the ministry of health who, according to rumors when I left Afghanistan, was planning to stay in the US. She assured me this was not true; in fact she was just reconfirming her return trip on Saturday. Such rumors, she told me, are quite common and are sometimes used as ways to discredit people, especially women. It was a good reminder of the complexity of living in Afghanistan as a foreigner. I have a tendency to always assume good motives and intentions behind actions and to take people’s statements at face value. First I believed the rumor and now I believe her. We’ll see where the truth lies in less than a week.

In the afternoon it was office clean up time. Both Jennifer and I are leaving; between the two of us that is nearly 30 years of accumluated office debris. I threw out paper that dated back to 1990 and realized that I haven’t used paper files and folder for a long time. The first folder took me nearly 30 minutes to clean out; each page was a trip down memory lane. At that pace I would have needed days to complete the job. But then I got better at it and threw everything out, quickly filling up a large container. Morsi, Jennifer and Ashley joined in the fun and we made good progress. Now I have to do the same with my computer files, probably a bigger job and one that can be endlessly postponed without negative consequences.

In the evening I had my first goodbye party, 6 weeks ahead of departure time, with old and current colleagues, consisting of the subgroup of women-of-a-certain-age. We had bonded over the years as we went through major life changes together: having children, raising them, seeing them leave the nest, marrying and having babies themselves in some cases.

We made an exception to the women-only rule for Said and Wafa who showed up briefly. They were probably rather puzzled by these older women having fun like small kids. MP carted them away to their beds when their eyes started to glaze over.

The potluck was hosted by Ann, my squash partner for many years; showing up at her house brought back many fond memories of our twice a week early morning squash games at the YMCA (until my knees gave out) our dress-ups for Halloween and many other goodbyes like this.

It was a reunion of sorts of people with whom I have shared many years of those last 22 at MSH. Some of them have gone on to other organizations in the meantime, but in some ways they have never left. We sat around a dining room table laden with great food. Without any difficulty we fell back into old grooves, telling old stories and poking fun at the same people we have poked fun at for years; remembering things that now seem funny and nice, even though they were not at the time. I think I like this part of growing older, everything repackaged and full of glitter and warm smiles.

Organizational dynamics is the bread and butter of my professional life but sometimes I get caught in them myself. I had a run-in with our accounting chief about something that can cost me close to a thousand dollars. An invocation of unbendable rules set me off on the wrong foot. I do remember something in the department’s mission and vision that is about serving their customers but I found little of that in her dismissive attitude. I still need to count to 10 each time I relive the scene. I am gearing up for battle and am looking for allies.

On the positive side I had a long talk with my fellow crash survivor about what happened then and in the two years in between, the dynamics between the two of us and the wish to reset the relationship. We compared scars, physical and emotional, we talked about our new relationship now that I am physically moving away and we talked about matters of money and debt. It was a conversation I had wanted to have for a long time. Over time I had come to accept that it would not happen, especially not before moving to Kabul. And there we were, sitting on a bench overlooking the Charles River, talking frankly about all that had gone wrong. Now we can each resume our life without dark clouds hanging over our heads: one of permanent injury (no longer true) and the other of a lawsuit (also not true).

I left for the airport in the hope I could welcome Maria Pia, Said and Wafa to Boston. Little did I know that while I was waiting at Logan our very own Department of Homeland Security was giving them a last scare and hassle in Atlanta. They missed several flights and were held for 5 hours insisting that critical pieces of paper were missing, more of this unbendable rules stuff. As it turned out they were wrong (rules can be wrongly applied!) and the exhausted and worried party was finally released to continue the journey to Boston. An exhausted but happy Maria Pia called me last night, returning all 50 of my messages. I was able to greet Said over the phone in my best Dari. The ‘getting out of Afghanistan and into the US’ part of the long saga is completed and a new phase of surgery and rehabilitation is about to start. The latter may be just as difficult and agonizing as the first, and probably even longer, but there is hope, and that matters a lot.

Axel and I started our day fasting for the lab test portion of our physical. We need to have a certificate of good health for our new post. This is a good idea when you move to Kabul. For serious healthcare, if you can afford it, you fly to Dubai or Bangkok; for lesser ailments you go to India or Pakistan. You try not to get care in Kabul.

The excitement of the day was having our septic system pumped out for the umpteenth time this year; now we can go to the bathroom, take showers, and wash our clothes again without guilt. The system fills up with water from higher up neighbors which flows down to us. The horrendous rains this spring and summer don’t help. No one could have imagined this situation when some hundred years ago the pipes were laid on this estate. As it got cut up and increasingly large septic systems were installed the drainage system was damaged. Everyone is doing his own thing and things don’t add up anymore.

All through the day I was calculating time differences to try to pinpoint Maria Pia, Said and Wafa on the world map as they are making their way to her old and their new home in Cambridge. I am trying to imagine what it must be like for Wafa and Said to fly further and further away from everything they have always known to this fantasy world that is called America. I picture diminutive Wafa sitting in the wide business class seat, being served food that he cannot recognize, offered wine and treated like royalty by sollicitous flight attendants. About Said I have no doubt that he has stolen everyone’s heart. A few of us have already fallen for his charms.

Andrew came by in the evening to catch up on our news and press us to find a small opening in our busy schedule to come to Small Point before we leave. There is another request from San Diego. I am not making any commitments until I know how the shoulder surgery next week will turn out and once I know the dates for my trip to Ghana that has to happen before the end of August.

We showed our captive audience (Andrew, Tessa and some of her friends) pictures Axel had taken from a moving car with dirty windows, showing, quite literally, glimpses of Kabul. Everyone was quite patient with us. In the middle of the show our new neighbors Stephen and Isabella showed up, out for a late evening stroll from the other side of Masconomo Street. We met them at Quaker meeting on Sunday – imagine that, two couples from Masconomo Street in our tiny meeting.

Between the five of us there were only 1 or 2 degrees of separation with several other people with whom they share one connection or another. They are musicians and artists who moved up from Washington. Isabella teaches meditation, chanting and also happens to be a Reiki Master. She offered to accompany me to surgery for a pre- and post Reiki session to help jumpstart my recovery. I think I will take her up on that.

The contrast between Kabul and Manchester-by-the-Sea could not be bigger. It’s lush, green, and wet here. The only thing the two places have in common is the heat on those few days it is actually hot in Manchester.

Sunday is no longer the first work day of the week and we took advantage of that: sleeping in till 6 AM (!), Quaker meeting (Being of Service), a macchiato for Ethiopia’s sake at the Atomic Café in Beverly, a visit to a local farm stand in Gloucester and a stop by Manchester’s lobster pond.

I transformed our purchases into a huge loaf of whole wheat bread (for the Dutch cheese), an enormous pot of gazpacho to last us for the week, homemade strawberry yogurt and a lobster-corn dinner with Steve, Tessa and their friend Kara.

I between these domestic chores I completed my expense forms, followed Rory Stewart further on his walk from Herat to Kabul to the Minaret of Jam, and helped myself to peapods and raspberries from the garden in exchange for pulling a few weeds.

Early this morning I received word that I am now officially approved in my new role as Technical Director for Management and Leadership in the Tech-Serve Project. The only thing that could stand in the way now of our settling into our new life is if the elections go awry.

And now, back to work. It’s Monday and there is much to do this week.