Running on empty

Wrote a pop quiz and forgot to take it to class and then wondered why our discussion ended with ten minutes to spare.

Showed up at a meeting an hour early and couldn't figure out why no one else was there.

Approved a bunch of minigrants but neglected to notify the recipients that their proposals had been approved.

So yeah, I realize that my brain isn't operating on all cylinders. I know I've gotten forgetful. I can clearly see the impact of dividing my attention between everything going on at work and everything else going on at home. 

And I appreciate every single person who has offered to help.

But I'm not sure anyone can do anything about my slo-mo thinking skills. 

What I really need is a good night's sleep, an absence of worry, and a week that doesn't require massive amounts of city driving. 

I'll add those things to my Christmas list. If there's another solution, I've already forgotten it.

Friday poetry challenge: Unexpected adventures--or, when the chickens come home to roost

A new chicken coop arrived on Wednesday, pulled across the meadow and placed on the waiting slab. The chickens gathered at the edge of the fence to peer at their luxurious new digs, the fowl equivalent of a Hyatt. It's sturdy and functional, custom-built from a design inspired by the chicken coop where my husband kept a flock of hundreds in his youth. We don't have a flock of hundreds but goodness our chicken population will be happy when they move to their new coop. Just a few more tweaks and they'll be coming home to roost.

Meanwhile, I'm at home in an actual Hyatt, just blocks from the hospital where our son has been languishing for three weeks. He was released today, a week earlier than expected, an excellent indication of how well he's been responding to the bone marrow transplant. He has to remain close to the hospital for at least a couple of months, but the Air B&B he rented won't be available until next week, so we're hunkering down at the Hyatt in the interim. It's a decent room with a well-equipped kitchenette, though I was too exhausted to cook anything but canned chicken soup for supper tonight.

Yes, I'm here too. He needs a trained caregiver available at all times, so my husband and I went through required training and are now considered equipped to keep him healthy between regular visits to the hospital. But we can't both be here all the time, so we'll being doing the tag-team parenting thing again: Through the week my husband will be in Columbus while I'm at home to finish up the semester, and on weekends we'll switch places. I think the next time we'll all be together in the same house will be over Thanksgiving break.

But who will take care of the chickens through the week while the resident chicken fancier is in Columbus?

That would be me.

I don't mind gathering the eggs or tossing down some scratch grains, but I mind the old chicken run, which always makes me feel as if I'm about to fall on my face or impale my eyeball on the sharp edge of a pole. What I really mind, though, is getting down the steep hill to the coop. Walking uphill doesn't hurt (much), but downhill can be a nightmare.

Someone suggested installing a zipline. Why not? Zip on down the hill to tend to the chickens, trudge back up with eggs in hand.

Frankly, given the amount of driving I've been doing this week to complete caregiver training and then retrieve my son from the hospital, I'm looking for the day when every household comes equipped with a transporter. I would even install one in the chicken coop. Beam me up, Scotty--but make it over easy. 

O give me a home says the song, but I roam
over highways, through city-snarled traffic,
to live in the Hyatt--no more country quiet--
as a dutiful health apparatchik.

Then when Sunday night comes I'll go driving back home
to a house empty of all companions--
except for the chickens, for whose needs I will quicken
my steps down the hill to their mansion.

In one home I'll be tending the chickens: unending
the need to retrieve fresh eggs daily.
In a home in Columbus I'll tend to my son, but
the stakes are quite high if I fail. We

would never have planned for a life so expand-
ed, with chickens, coops, houses, and Hyatts.
but necessity called so we promptly enrolled
in the caregiving life. (You should try it.)

Maybe not--but feel free to tell me about your unexpected adventures in living.

The old chicken run in the background, downhill from the new coop

The house in the background, uphill from the new coop

 

Piled higher and deeper

When a new magazine arrives I want to read it right now, but sometimes I have to let them pile up for later. In grad school I would ruefully watch a tower of New Yorker magazines growing ever taller while I dutifully focused on comprehensive exams and dissertation revision and oral defense, and then when it was all over, what a reward! Months of my favorite magazines awaiting my perusal. Where to start?

Now I find myself with different kinds of piles of stuff awaiting me, things I've had to postpone attending to while dealing with surgery and recovery and my son's health and my big lecture. But now that's all over and the delights I've been postponing can no longer be deferred.

Magazines aplenty, plus some books I'd like to read (for fun, not work) and some interesting puzzles. But I also have 15 boxes of my campus books downstairs, all needing to be sorted and stashed in the waiting bookshelves. 

I'm unlikely to tackle that project until I finish clearing out my campus office, a job I've whittled down to the tough stuff. On Friday I found yet another mold infestation--an old computer cord pouch that was growing its own ecosystem. I tossed the pouch in the trash and saved the cord, even though I don't know which computer it belongs to. Last week I persuaded the IT guys to come over and take away a monitor, keyboard, mouse, portal, and a nest of miscellaneous cords, but this pouch was stashed deep within the cabinet in my office, a space where I didn't expect to find mold. 

So I cleaned out that whole cabinet and found one other water-damaged item: a signed framed photograph of Don Knotts as Barney Fife, so damp it's become swollen and wavy. Only two more items remain in that cabinet: a cloth tote bag full of clean gym clothes that I'm afraid to touch in case it's covered in mold, and a row of old DVDs and videotapes about four feet long.

I don't know what to do with the DVDs and videos. I could box 'em up in five minutes flat, but then what? Many of them were for classroom use, but our classrooms are no longer equipped with VCRs and now many of them don't even have DVD players either. Because of the changing technological landscape, I own versions of A River Runs Through It on videotape, DVD, and streaming--all paid for, of course, by my own hard-earned cash.

I want to take a few of the DVDs home but most will be added to the giveaway pile, just in case someone wants to transform them into festive holiday decorations or something. I'm planning to hold Open Office days when anyone can take whatever they want: books I don't need at home, a whole shelf of old Norton anthologies, excess coffee mugs, toys, and tchotchkes, and now DVDs and videos. I'm even leaving behind some of the bird photos that have hung on the walls of my various offices for 26 years. I have duplicates at home, so maybe my birds can brighten up someone else's office.

One last big office task: the moldy chair holds a pile of moldy books that I will need to photograph and catalog so I can submit a request for replacements. Maybe a dozen books, which doesn't include the moldy paperbacks I've already thrown in the trash. These are hardbacks, some of them quite expensive, a couple of them out of print. I don't even like to look at that moldy tower of tomes, but I'll have to get my hands dirty if I want replacements. 

I'm much rather tackle the tower of magazines piled up next to the sofa at home. Here's last month's Atlantic! Time to get caught up on everything I've been missing.

 

I mean, who has room for all this stuff?

The giveaway pile. All of it.

 

Basking in the moment before getting back to the trenches

I'll admit it: I enjoyed the standing ovation. It doesn't happen often in the life of an academic, and the huge respect I bear for the people out there doing the applauding made it even more special. But it was just one high point in a day full of joyful moments.

Like when my department chair said such nice things about me during his introduction that he nearly made me cry, which was a problem because for a half hour before my talk I'd been up in my office practicing the last section over and over again, trying to find a way to get through some lines from Li-Young Lee's "Persimmons" without crying. If I'd dissolved into a sloppy puddle of tears from the very start, I would never have made it to the end.  

Or when I asked the audience questions about the opening paragraph from Raymond Carver's "Cathedral," which I'd projected on the screen, and they played along, coming up with charming and intelligent responses even though most of them had never read the story.  

Or afterward, when a former student told me I think of you literally every time I teach--and meant it.

Or when some dude who graduated 45 years ago came up after my talk and told me You've got it, and I knew what it meant.

Or much later, after I arrived home exhausted and started rooting through gift bags and discovered two of Percival Everett's books signed by the author. Yes: a wonderful colleague had taken a bunch of our students to Ohio University last week to hear a talk by Percival Everett--a talk I couldn't attend because I was recovering from surgery--and had made sure to get the author to sign two books for me. By that point I didn't bother trying not to cry. It was inevitable.

Or much much later, when a colleague from upstairs sent me a sketch he'd made of me speaking with the words from a Robinson Jeffers poem in the background: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained hearts found / The honey of peace in old poems. No livestream, no video, no official photos, but I welcome my colleague's sketch, especially since I'd been talking about our shared passion for leaving a mark on the world.

I think I did. If the crowd that showed up to hear my Best Lecture yesterday can be believed, I may have spent the past 26 years doing something worth celebrating. And now I'm getting ready to do something completely different--but first I have to get through the rest of the semester, powered by that round of applause.

Afternoons with Chester and Beverlry

Meet Chester. 

Chester is a chest. Kind of puny and unisex and hollow as a chocolate bunny.

Chester's primary quality is the ability to take all kinds of manhandling without squirming. He's not ticklish, and if you happen to sneeze straight into the void where his face ought to be, he doesn't flinch. 

This makes him a great test subject for people learning how to replace the dressing on a central line. If, for instance, you were planning to serve as the primary caregiver for a flesh-and-blood human being with no functioning immune system, you would want to practice your dressing-changing skills on someone impervious to damage. Like Chester!

Now that my husband and I both know how to change the dressing on a central line, our next lesson will be learning to flush the line daily, all in preparation for the next stage of craziness we will encounter when he finally gets released from the hospital. Our son, that is--not Chester. Chester seems perfectly happy where he is.

Also in Columbus today a receipt at a fast-food joint provided a novel spelling for my name: Beverlry. Sounds like a portmanteau of Beverly's Revelry.

We'll enjoy some Beverlry when I present Bev's Best Lecture at my retirement event tomorrow afternoon. It's Homecoming weekend so who knows who might show up? I've been waking up at 3 a.m. running through lines from my talk, which has not increased my confidence level one bit. Will I get nervous? Maybe so, but I now have a sure-fire solution: I'll just picture an audience full of Chesters. Chester can't applaud, but neither can he complain. If the Best Lecture bombs, Chester will silently sit on his hands. Except he hasn't got any hands. 

Maybe I need to forget about Chester and get some sleep, including, ideally, sleeping right through that highly active 3 a.m. hour. Pretty soon tomorrow will be here and then--let the Beverlry begin!

A lag in the system? What system?

We seem to have a lag in the system, said the librarian, and I said Me too. 

We'd been standing by the copier talking about my difficulty completing a print job. I'd sent about 30 pages to the printer earlier but only the first page printed; I sent it again, scanned in my ID, and watched the printer spit out two pages and then quit. So I complained to the nearest reference librarian, who probably didn't earn a Masters in Library Science just so he could wrangle recalcitrant printers, but his desk is right there and who else was going to help me? He launched into a long explanation of recent problems with the printers and while he was talking the printer spat out three more pages of my print job, paused, printed two more pages, paused, and went on that way until the entire job was done.

And this pretty much describes how I've been living my life lately: a bit of activity, a little rest; a little more activity, another rest. My usual frantic multitasking is impossible, so I'm focusing on putting one foot in front of another and sometimes simply standing still until I feel like moving again.

Lag in the system indeed. What system? Whoever is responsible for fair distribution of pain and suffering seems to have spilled a decade's worth on my family's heads in the past few months, so even when I'm physically present on campus, I'm mentally in Columbus with my son, who's struggling through the aftereffects of the bone marrow transplant. I ought to be spending my final semester teaching things I love and raking in the congratulations before retirement, but instead I'm struggling to pack up books in a moldy office and wondering if I'll have the strength to stand up long enough to give a talk to alumni and friends this Friday.

On the one hand, having specific goals helps keep me going, so I relish the chance to focus on introducing my students to James Baldwin or Annie Dillard. On the other hand, my brain's not functioning well enough to come up with the rest of the sentence. 

Step. Pause. Step again. Pause again. 

Step. Pause. Step.

Pause.  

Please join me in a weak and wimpy hurrah

Monday again, one week after surgery, and I'm back to the real world: get up at a civilized hour, eat breakfast, shower, wrestle into that horrible post-surgical bra that makes professional teaching clothes bunch up awkwardly, drive to town, prep, teach, grade, prep, teach, force myself to walk over to the library even though I'm so exhausted I'd really like to lie down and sleep on the cold hard floor, post grades, post attendance, send three print jobs downstairs, walk to the printer to discover one print job done and the other two missing, send them again, cross one item after another off my to-do list when I would really really really like to lie down on that comfy sofa and not get up again for a week, but then suddenly in the middle of all that effort to pretend that everything is normal and I feel fine and there's absolutely nothing wrong I get a text that tells me the pathology report has been posted to my online chart, so of course I go to my chart right away and open the report and even though I'm not a doctor and can't decode all the medical terminology I note the word negative in all the right places--no cancer in the margins of the tumor, no cancer in the lymph nodes--and I don't have the energy to jump up and down for joy but maybe I can write a single sentence, just one, and then drive home and celebrate with a nice cozy nap, if only I can stay awake long enough to drive myself home.