on outcomes and potential for change
I’ve been trying not to notice that I’m no longer reading or writing. I jot laconic observations of obscure icons of my time and culture: the anthropology neurons must still work; but in truth, I’ve nothing to say, or at least nothing I wish to say. I read knitting design books, endeavoring to acquire sufficient expertise at something to feel useful. I read my Bible every day, but theology is on hold. I skim the news to see whether Clinton and Obama have taken to bombing each other’s cities. Again, my interest is anthropological.
Little interests me, my affect is a bit deadpan, my voice rather flat. But, as we’re told is the case with the economy, I’m not depressed; I’m in a slowdown. I am knitting and presenting workshops on pattern recharting. Knitting is a very good thing, because somehow it enables women to be quiet while redirecting stress.
As April slithers onto my snow-drenched calendar, a headline becomes distinguishable: Six Months That Shook Her World. Let’s see, in the last six months there’s been my diagnosis with Addison’s disease, and its so-called management; a daily state of transition anxiety over whether we would move to Seattle or my husband would move his work to Tacoma–a daily state that remains unresolved and the life-devouring Commute goes on; my daughter threw an early mid-life crisis that apparently shattered everyone but herself…but these are minor perturbations. Turbulence happens without regard to the degree of tranquility I think I require. And April has not quite arrived.
My dear friend Laura is getting married today, and rays of joy penetrate the clouds.
But swirling too close as April closes in is the Ultimate, the Unspeakable…my friend, my friend of friends, punctuating the paroxysms of her pain with, “God is good!” as she describes the previous day’s convulsions; there is infection; she has been so long with immune collapse and organ breakdown …another doctor has abandoned her because her case is too complex…in my child tyrant’s mind, if my lack of respect could kill, it would take all the backhoes in Seattle to bury the doctors…who wants to know they have nothing for her? But crying is the only honest response I have, because it affirms my utter helplessness. My friend is the brave one. I beseech God for mercy…but all outcomes–trials and triumphs–come seeded with potential for change.