Wednesday, September 30, 2020

 

            I watched the end of The Good Place last night. (Spoiler Alert). I don't know if their version of the actual Good Place compares to the Christian version of heaven. I suspect not so much since it is a lot of fun and games, getting what you want materially.  

            The people who live there are bored to out of their minds, literally. Their minds turned to mush, and they were no longer happy. Michael, played by Ted Danson, revises the design. People can choose to leave this place. In leaving it, they go to eternal peace, but they also leave their loved ones. 

            When Eleanor realizes that Chidi wants to leave, she does what she can to remind him of all he had left to learn and enjoy. Chidi says he knows what she is doing and why. She asks him outright not to leave her. He agrees to stay for her sake.  Eleanor realizes that she is being selfish. If he is ready to go, she should let him go.

            It reminded me of the weeks before he died; I found myself preparing to be alone. In all truth, I have been doing some of that since I accepted him as my life partner.  

            My dad died when I was fifteen. Those of us with that experience spend the rest of our lives preparing to lose the ones we love. At least, that has been my experience as I run into others who lost their parents as children. We survived the first loss, even though we were unprepared. From then on it, we were never going to be unprepared again. 

            I certainly didn't want Mike to die.  I could be anything I wanted to be and do anything I wanted to do. I know, I know. Those of you who remember what I wrote last year remember that he did stifle me somewhat.  He found me a little too loud and raucous, a little too out there.  (It reminded him of his mother, who he did not like-with good cause may I add.)  I didn't mind the restraint. Even I felt that I needed to learn some, so I benefitted from his need for me to tone down. 

            I have been wondering why I am not more deeply affected by his loss. To a certain extent, it was just time for him to go.  As I write that, it makes me sad.  I don't feel overwhelmed by sadness a lot. There are just moments. 

            Missing Mike feels like missing the very air I breathe.  I didn't miss the air in Princeton when I moved to Ohio. I didn't miss the air in Ohio when I moved to Hawaii.  (However, I was fully aware of how happy I was to leave the air in Brooklyn for Princeton.) Each move required a change; the chemistry was different. In the case of Mike, the absence of his breath changed the air.  His biomass filled my world. It's gone. There has been all that adjustment to make to my new physical world.

            I have a tough time remembering what we did.  I just know it was easy and good.  I was always happy to see Mike. We had the differences that occur between any two human beings, but we were rarely in conflict.  I trusted him completely; I was completely comfortable with him.  I was joyous with him too. I loved his joy. We both were still excited about life and all the new experiences ahead of us, some we experienced alone, some we shared; all we reported to each other. 

            Clearing out the library is hard. It's the hardest. The library was so Mike. I tried to talk him out of bringing 3,000 books to Hawaii.  Mike would say, "There are only two things that have to go to Hawaii with me: you and the books." When he put it that way, I had no argument.  I knew how important I was to him. He often told me. 

            It looks like I may be facing a bout of grief. I will sit with it, allow it to permeate and pass. We'll see how long this one lasts. It will be what it will be.

            Losing Mike has caused some sadness. But it's nothing compared to the sadness I carried before he became part of my life. He helped me heal. When I look at the plus and minus columns, the amount of healing and joy he brought to my life so far outweighs the sorrow I feel now. Comparing the weight of grief I felt most of my life, the grief I feel now is nothing. The only grief Mike ever caused me was in his dying. How lucky am I!!

            Unbelievable. This evening my leg was pain-free, and I could power walk. Who expected that? 

____-____-_____

Musings:

            I learned something new about the definitions of sympathy versus empathy today.

            I was tutoring a fifth-grader reading a passage with a monologue by a gorilla. (Don't ask. Too complicated.)  The gorilla asks which is better, walking upright or knuckle-walking.  He proposes humans try knuckle-walking for an hour and see which is more fun. The answer he expects is implied.  Clearly, he prefers knuckle-walking and assumes if humans tried it, they would prefer it too.

            The girl suffered from the same problem the gorilla did. She assumed all animals, cats, dogs, and gorillas would prefer walking upright.  This student needed an explicit lesson in cognitive empathy. I had to point out that the animal bodies were structured differently than ours. It would be as uncomfortable for them to walk as we do as it would for us to walk as they do. She's a bright child. 

            She didn't judge the animals negatively. She just projected her feelings onto them. I could see what she was doing as asking, "How would I feel if ____________ happened to me?" It's a way of caring about someone else. (Do unto others as you want others to do unto you.)This child was genuinely expressing the idea that the animals would be better off being like her. Maybe you could even say it's sympathy. It's certainly one approach to relating to others, a strategy.  I reminded her that you always have to consider that the other person (animal) comes from different experiences.

            On that note: I messed up today with D.  I did not understand that his perspective was different from mine. There was a passage where a kitten was tossed into a mailbox (for its own protection).  The mailman came along a few minutes later and opened the metal mailbox, and released the kitten.  I had a devil of a time getting D. on the same page I was. I finally decided to draw it, but instead, he did.

            Oh!! His drawing was different from mine. He knew about the big blue boxes, but he had only seen one once or twice in his young life. His picture was of those mailboxes they put up in apartments or condo units. They are different structures. Picturing what happened would be very difficult with that image in mind. I never pursued clarity about his image until the end.  This was my failing. I was the adult and the teacher. It was my job to see the problem.  I apologized.        

Tuesday, September 29, 2020

 

            It was driveway yoga after completing 6,000 steps, walking up and down my street again and again.

            I worked on the updates and the blog entry that I neglected last night because I was so tired.  

            I tried to contact the NY Times because they sent me an email notification that my subscription needed to be renewed.  I finally got hold of them late in the day. That notification wasn't for me.  I have a Kindle subscription, not a doorstep delivery one. The latter costs a fortune here in Hawaii, not to mention that it comes in a day late. When I did get hold of Customer Service at Amazon, I learned my Kindle subscription is on automatic renewal. 

            I packed up more books. Once I had four boxes in the car, I was ready to head to the post office.  I carried in one package. I got a hand truck for the other three.  I needed help getting those three off the hand truck and onto the counter when I got to the window. People rushed to help me—quite a change from the other day. 

            I suspect most people were frozen in place the other day, not wanting to make those two dufuses look bad after they interpret my plea for help as just watching my packages for me. 

            I was going to stop at Kaiser to get a flu shot, but I was running late for a video demonstration on how to teach math run by the LA Step Up Program.  I was on zoom before the conference started. It looked like there were only three people signed in. The host said he was expecting eighty people. There was some technical glitch where people got hooked up with a different Zoom and had to be transferred over.

            There were some interesting points in the demonstration.  Moreover, it was good to be a member of an educational community.  I can't say professional because many of the tutors have no teaching experience. 

            While I learned some new points, I didn't feel the host/demonstrator was that sensitive to poorer students' problems.  I felt the lessons he presented were very good for teaching a classroom, excellent in fact.  I didn't feel he adequately addressed the needs of the kids I was familiar with.  

            I love working with students who have problems. (Not the seriously cognitively impaired ones, but those who don't have the necessary background to approach learning in a sophisticated way.)  When I understand why they don't get it, I see things I take for granted from a new perspective. Love it! Just love it!  

            Mike loved learning by studying the great thinkers and knowers. I love learning through discovery. And I love problem-solving and developing new ways of dealing with old issues. Dorothy says I always ask how? And why? That's true. It's fun.

            I would love it if I could help these tutors solve problems. I finally got on the Step Up Facebook page. Problems #1: I don't know how to sign on.  I read the problems people discussed: technical issues about the online options and difficulties getting hold of the classroom teachers to know what the kids are working on. No one asked an educational question. I would love to share what I have learned in my over fifty years of teaching. 

            Scott came up and scoped out where he could put a skylight in my guest bathroom. It's not so easy. It depends on the slope of the roof.  I had picked out a skylight from Home Depot that looked good. Scott saw that it opened the wrong way for my roof. Back to the drawing board.

            I saw on Facebook that a cousin of mine was married this weekend on Zoom. Whatever, everyone looked very happy.  He is a young man on the spectrum.  I can't begin to tell you how happy he looks with this woman.  I wish them both the best. I have their wedding announcement posted on my refrigerator door in case I need a pick-me-up.

Monday, September 28, 2020

            I woke up with an irritated throat. I did my walk and still didn't feel better. I worried that I might have Covid. I took my temperature. It was below normal. 

            I spoke to my niece Shivani while I walked. I had trouble getting hold of her. She assured me it was nothing personal; it's just that calling people takes too much effort.  I have heard that people in isolation are losing their social skills. That seems weird to me. Social skills are the last to be lost in an Alzheimer's patient. How can we lose our social skills after a few months of spending more time at home?  I can hear that we have become aware of how much effort it takes just to reach out and say hi. I suggested she speak to either a friend or family member, setting a 15-minute limit. Shivani has tons of good friends. I would be willing to set a timer so we could shut down after fifteen minutes. Shivani can get everyone she knows to do the same. 

            I had seven boxes of books loaded in the car when I headed to the post office. I was worried about how I was going to unload that many. When I turned down Palani and got in the left-hand lane to make the turn, Yvette was right in front of me. I honked my horn, but she didn't recognize my new car.  I fumbled for my phone, wanting to call her to ask for help. The light changed.

            I made the left into the shopping center, as did Yvette. Then she made the next left heading to the post office parking lot.  A car pulled out of space right in line with the post office door.  I expected her to take it, but no, she pulled ahead.  I grabbed the spot and then called her. I couldn't see where she went. It was as if she disappeared.  

            She had pulled into a parking space a little further down—She was out of sight. By the time she got to me, I had already asked a passing woman if she could help me.  I figured if she took a box or two, Yvette and I could handle the rest. The woman said, "Wait, I'll get the hand truck." Apparently, the post office makes them available to customers to help them get their packages inside. 

            Once she brought it out, Yvette and I loaded the hand truck. Then we had problems getting it upright because it was sitting on a hill. Yvette pulled it to the curb and then had trouble getting it up the step.  She abandoned it and just carried the packages inside.  

            She asked me if I was going to use self-service; she was. I didn't know it existed. After thinking about it, I still prefer waiting in line and having a clerk do the work for me.  It seems less stressful.

            The clerk at the far-left end was available. Wow! What a change! In the past, I have prayed that I wouldn't have to deal with her. She never smiled; her expression was disdain and contempt. She never went out of her way to be helpful. She wore her hair pulled back severely. She wore, still was wearing, false eyelashes that looked okay when you looked her straight in the eye, but she rarely made direct eye contact. With her lowered eyes, those lashes looked like spiders, large spiders.  It wasn't a good look.

            Today, she gave me a great smile, made direct eye contact, remembered that I was the lady mailing books and more books, and showed an interest when I showed her the pictures I had taken of the library that morning to show someone else how many books were left. While she still had those spiders on her eyes, now I had direct eye contact. She wore her long hair loose. What the hell happened? She either found God, or something very good came into her life. Whatever, I wish her well. 

            I was going to stop at Kaiser to get my flu shot but had forgotten to take a sweatshirt with me. They keep that place refrigerated. I went directly to Costco to pick up a few items.

            When I got home, Scott sent a message to come on down when I was through with my chores.  He was still mudding the ceiling before painting. I wondered if the sound problem had been resolved. Scott said no one has been up there. I remembered that Sandor, a big man, walked through when he set up my mesh system. Scott said Yvette and Josh wouldn't have been in their bedroom.  I said yes, it was late enough in the evening; they probably would have. 

            Scott had to point out to me that their bed was in the living room. No, they wouldn't have been in their bedroom that evening at any time. Yikes! This is the first major cognitive glitch I have seen. I have to wonder if this is a sign of things to come. True, I wasn't feeling well today. Age plus additional strain may be the explanation, but it is scary.  

            After dinner, I watched a fair amount of the final season of The Good Place.  I was too tired to watch the whole thing.  I went to be early, hoping I would be better tomorrow.

            When Sandor was here yesterday, I asked him about his position on socialism. It would be understandable if he was opposed to it, given his family lost everything when communism took over in Cuba, and his young years were spent with food insecurity. I practiced asking the question in a neutral tone.  Thank God I did. His answer surprised me.  You needed a society where people thought of the greater good for all. He didn't think Americans were capable of that. I think he's right. Here the emphasis is every man for himself. How sad. 

            The American story is of individualism; you are what you make of yourself. No one else can or should help you unless, of course, it's inherited wealth.  I met someone who doesn't believe in charity, no less equal opportunity laws. He says people are starving when their stomachs are distended. He didn't say he would help them then, only that was his definition of hunger. He was a good Christian too. I'm wondering if I should put those words in quotes.

            Some people are so afraid of socialism. I'm not quite sure what their fears are. As one friend pointed out, we have public education, the post office, and social security.  Socialism makes sure everyone gets survival amounts of material goods in the form of food and shelter, Medicare, and education.  I suppose it also puts a cap on how wealthy you can be.  It doesn't completely eliminate wealth disparity, only the degree of it.

            I met a woman who complained about the taxes she had to pay. She said she worked hard for her $5,000,000 salary she had earned that year. She shouldn't have to pay taxes.  What about the poor people who work three jobs to be able to cover rent and foo.? Is she saying that they don't work hard? I knew she could go to work when she wanted to. I knew she took trips went ever she wanted to. I know she had enough time to pursue a master's degree. Some people are happy to make it home alive after completing their three jobs and only have the energy to make it to their beds.  This woman was also a devoted Christian. Huh? Could someone please explain this to me?

            European countries and Canada right next door offer more government-supported services than our government does. Some people here site complain about medical services.  I hear complaints from my economic peers about the medical service in this country too.  In some cases, their complaints are different; in some cases, they are the same.

            There is a difference between a dictatorship that takes it upon itself to dictate where you can live and what job you can have, takes control over your whole life versus a democratic socialist state.  The inclusion of universal health care would still not bring us close to what some European countries offer and require taxes.  

            I think many people confuse socialism with dictatorship. Socialism is an economic system; a dictatorship is a political system. The countries that combine socialism and totalitarianism are in financial trouble. Those countries with democratic socialism have done a lot to benefit the poor and have a good GDP. Ours is suffering.  

            Dorothy told me that social mobility has increased in other countries and decreased in ours as the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. 

Sunday, September 27, 2020

             Busy until noon.  Elsa and I completed 5,000 steps.  I did some work on the updates and gardening. I walked that two-foot path between my plumbagos and my neighbor’s fence, spraying after I had sprayed stray weeds in my front yard.  I did more work on the updates. I weeded the yard outside my bedroom while Judy and I chatted.

            She was going to make an apple rhubarb pie for Paulette’s birthday. Instead, she was admitted to the hospital for a three-day stay in ICU and one additional day on the floor.  I was expecting her to make that pie the moment she got out. But no. Her leg hurt too much to stand that long. What?! 

            Paulette told me Judy complained of pain the night before she went to the hospital but refused to go despite Paulette’s pleas. The doctor told her it would take a month for that wound to resolve itself.  It is still hard and hot to the touch. 

            Judy also told me she had just made it to the hospital in time. For every hour you wait, your chances of surviving sepsis dip 10%.  Message to all that don’t already know: Sepsis is extremely dangerous. 

            After the garden work, I took a shower and a nap.  

Saturday, September 26, 2020

            I woke up before shortly before six.  Today was yoga day, I had to hurry up.  My leg had been great for several days.  I could push off on my left foot with ease. 

            This change had been in effect since Thursday evening.  I had twisted myself into a pretzel to get under a plant structured like a pineapple topped with 'leaves' one to two feet wide and six feet long and unmovable. I was looking for a 'shortcut' to get to the base of the two-foot path between my plumbagos and my neighbor's fence for Elijah to use.  As I struggled with the 'leaves,' I also had to struggle with the uneven ground. I was playing twister with a body no longer adapted for the game. I thought for a minute that I would have to start screaming for help.  Yvette would have heard me, and I would have been lifted out of there. But I managed to get through.

            As I did, I heard my hip crack -three times.  I haven't heard that for a while. Whatever is happening when it cracks, it never hurts; it feels good. I learned to identify them with a breakthrough. I think some people thought it was the sound of bone against bone.  I think it is a tight muscle moving over an obstacle into a different position.  For me, this has always been an improvement. My misaligned body is moving into the position it was designed for. Once the muscle is in the correct position, physics allows that muscle to be used to its full strength. That's what is going on for me now. I have much more strength in my left leg/hip, and I'm parlaying it.

            I had bad news about the child of a friend and was depressed.  I wanted to help him, but his problems felt overwhelming for me.  I meditated and prayed.  If I am to be of any help to him, I can't be overly invested. If I am, I will be more concerned about fixing the bad feeling I get because of his sadness and anxiety rather than his. 

            After meditating, I needed a nap. While yesterday, I was full of energy and got lots done, today I felt even a telephone conversation was too much.  I had a nightmare as I napped.  I was in the NYC subway system waiting on a platform for a train. I fell and wound up lying there with my left leg hanging over the edge of the platform.  If a train had come by, it would have sliced that leg right off.  

            Rather than anyone coming to help me, the official of that station barked orders over the PA system for me to move. I tried. I didn't have the strength. Worse yet, all my efforts ended with more of me hanging over the platform's edge rather than the other way around.  Finally, someone came to help me.

            I have no recall of ever having had a nightmare like that before in my life. Most of my 'nightmares' are uncomfortable social situations. Several of those nightmares are repeats, same location, same group of people, but not with anyone I know. 

            Dorothy had postponed our daily talk until later in the day. She had called as I sat down to meditate. I told her I would call back later. Then my nap came. I finally did call.

            I worked in the library while we talked.  I have been alphabetizing a whole bay at a time. Previously, I have only alphabetized each shelf. I am doing this with the shelves that have already been checked for books for St. Patrick's.  Eventually, I want all the remaining books in the whole library to be alphabetized.   I packed two boxes, readying them for shipment. 

            I called the distressed child of a family friend to see if I could do something. He's been down, seriously down. So many kids are suffering with the Covid shutdown.  For adolescents, it's almost like being in solitary confinement. Enough is going on in their heads without the reduced stimulation of the external environment. 

            I had told him previously that I was psychic. I don't know if I needed to. I once worked for over a year with a child before I made that statement.  I assumed he had figured it out for himself.  He said no, he thought I was just a good guesser. 

            I have no idea what psychic ability is or how it works.  I think it has to do with mirror neurons.  I suspect anyone who doesn't have some psychic ability is socially dysfunctional.  It’s just isn’t recognized as such.

            I had to be careful with this child.  I didn't want to freak him out.  First, I told him that my psychic ability didn't mean that I got to see everything about him. It's limited. It's limited by my intention.  My intentions are for his well-being; I'm also looking for anything that might require a response for my safety and that of others. 

            The other part of the boundary is established by the person I'm working on/with. They can simply state within themselves that they don't want me to see certain things. Think of arranging your Zoom image, so it doesn't reveal what you're wearing below your waist.  We all have control over what others see, likewise, with our inner thoughts. The only contradiction is that sometimes our unconscious mind wants to share information our conscious mind does not.  That can be tricky. However, I do teach people to be very direct with their unconscious minds and give specific instructions.

            I wanted to be very careful with this child and take if very slowly.  I wanted to do only a small amount of work, achieving a small amount of change rather than a horse's cure.  Too much work puts the person into shock and creates resistance for further change. 

            I started the session with the formal invocation. "It is my intention to be a channel of love and healing for you. I asked the dear Lord to use the strengths and weakness of my personality for the purpose of your healing and to heal and transform me in any way for your benefit. I also ask that the work be safe, comfortable, easy, fun, and effective." The person I'm working with has to help me monitor those last five criteria.  Having been a victim of therapists who believe they should be in charge, I work very hard to put the healee in charge.  Among other things, I find it more effective.

            I started drawing the physic lines I was taught in my Reiki class.  I asked him if he could feel it.  He said yes. I asked him if he was okay with it. He gave me a mixed answer. At this point, I made it clear that he had control over letting the energy in and over releasing any energy. 

            While he let the energy in and felt a small degree of relaxation, nothing happened when I asked him to release any bad feelings. That's something I perceive psychically.

            When people are reluctant to release, I use an image that helps them stay in control off themselves, making it safe to release.  I ask them to picture their bad feeling in a container: a bread box, a garage, a mountain.  His was huge. 

            The next step is to attach a spigot to the container, like a spigot on a beer keg.  This spigot is controlled digitally. The person punches in how much they are prepared to release. I told him to punch in a point, with nas many zeroes as he felt he needed, and then the number 1.  I didn't ask him how many zeroes, but I suspected that it was a goodly number.

            Next, I told him to push the start button.  I monitored the release.  This was a much better release.  Some of the bad feelings were coming out. Yes, he felt more relaxed.  At one point, I felt it was too much. It was time to stop. 

            When we had started, he told me that he didn't have time to do any work because he had to do schoolwork. I asked for fifteen minutes. I set my timer.  In fact, I called a halt just a minute before our fifteen minutes was up. I hoped this experience felt sufficiently safe, comfortable, easy, fun, and effective that he would be comfortable continuing our work.  

            Scott came up to be paid for the work he had done acoustically insulating Yvette's bedroom ceiling.  I did some work on his shoulder. It bothers him regularly, and it doesn't get much time to rest with all the work he does. I did some energy release, but mostly I showed him how to use his back muscles to raise his arm. Doing what he usually does differently will be a big learning curve. Most people are not used to incorporating new ways of doing things into their daily routine. They think it is something they should practice at a set time.

Friday, September 25, 2020

            I didn't sleep well last night, or at least not deeply. I felt agitated.  I don't think I was more worried than I had been yesterday despite Trump's announcement that he won't accept the results of any election that didn't declare him the winner. Even Mitch McConnel had to speak out against this. We'll see how McConnel behaves when the time comes. (I don't think Trump's behavior is in question.) It does seem that his only goal in life is power.  He doesn't have Trump's naivete. He is fully conscious of what he is doing and doesn't care. 

            Dorothy and I have developed a routine of walking together in the morning as we talk. Dorothy went to a nearby park today.  She is relying on our morning walks to get her moving.

            I called Acoustical Surfaces to make sure they got my return package.  All I got was a voicemail. I am a little worried, but I think I'm also overdoing it a little. I will feel better when this is resolved.

            The gable vent I ordered from Home Depot was supposed to arrive on the 23rd. It didn't, or at least it didn't arrive at the house. Fortunately, I remembered and looked up the order in my old emails. Sure enough, I was supposed to pick it up from Home Depot. They had emailed me, but it came at the same time as all the electronic emails from Scott's purchases, and I didn't check.  I printed out the receipt yesterday. Today I called Home Depot to check up on the procedure.  If I didn't order curbside delivery, I had to go into the store to the customer service desk and pick it up. As I expected, the package was light.

            I drove down to the post office. I had four boxes of books to ship out and my fingerprint card to send to California's Step Up Tutoring program.  I assumed the post office would be open by eight. Josh leaves for work at 7 every morning.  No. It didn't open until 9. I had time to bring in my boxes at my leisure.

            I placed the first box on a table in the anteroom and asked the folks standing there if they would do me a favor. I was going to ask them to help me carry the boxes in. Before I could utter my request, this man in his fifties and a young woman in her thirties told me, "No worries!" they would watch my packages for me. It seemed pretty brutal to say I wanted help, pointing out that they were not responding to the needs of an old woman. I just went back out to continue carrying in the packages.

            When I got to my car, a man came up after me and asked if I wanted help.  I sighed yes in appreciation. He understood that an eighty-year-old woman hauling good-sized boxes is probably asking for help.  He grabbed two of the remaining boxes and carried them in.

            The irony is I had chosen not to ask that man when he walked past me as I went into the post office the first time because I thought he was too old to ask.  He did just fine, lifting two boxes together without difficulty.

            On the way home, I called George, who sold me my car, to tell him of my experience on my drive to Hilo and back.  I told him this was not a car for a little old lady with the onset of dementia.  This car requires planning of a whole different order.  With a 'normal' car, all you have to worry about is the gas; you can assume all other systems are go.  With this car, you either have to plan and strategize. 

            I had driven the car in the hybrid mode from the moment I left my house until I got to the KTA, and their bathroom, in Hilo.  However, when I got back in the car and drove first to the police station and then to Reuben's for lunch, I didn't deliberately switch the car to hybrid mode.  I didn't know that the default mode for the car is electric.  Now, I do. 

            Because the car was in electric mode while driving around Hilo, I lost 17 of the twenty units I had when I left the KTA parking lot. I forgot that driving around Hilo involves taking on some pretty steep inclines. I never assumed that my driving a few miles a would deplete the storage. By the time I started on Saddle Road and my trip between the mountains, I only had three turquoise bars left.  

            The car has four white bars and 24 turquoise ones. The white bars are necessary for the car to drive at all.  The blue bars indicate how much electric energy you have available to drive the car all-electric without any gas.  Here I was starting on the steepest part of the ascent with only three blue bars.  When those were gone, I would be eating into the white bars. Once they were gone, the car would no longer operate.

            I kept a keen eye on how my bars were doing.  I continued until the white bars disappeared. Then I made a U-turn, got into the downhill shoulder, put on my emergency blinkers and the cruise control on the lowest mileage I could.  Going down the steep hill, I built up bars again.  I was just looking for the white ones so I could continue on my trip.

            When I had one bar, I made another U-turn and continued on my trip to Kona.  I never drove more than 45 mph on the upgrades to preserve energy, despite the speed limit being 60 mph. When I saw a car coming up behind me, I pulled over into the shoulder.  I have had experience coming up behind someone who is doing far below the speed limit; it's disorienting.  When the car had passed, I got back into the travel lane. 

            When I was on a decline, I pulled into the shoulder, turned on my emergency lights, put the car into cruise at the lowest speed possible, watched to see if I gained any bars.  I should explain: the mountains here are nothing like those in Europe on the mainland.  There up and up until the very top. 

            Those mountains were formed from flat plates pushed up. Our mountains are formed from flowing lava. Think of melting ice cream.  The roads are more like roller coasters but not as extreme. (For those who are old enough: not as extreme as the road to Montauk Point was when I was a kid.) Anyway, the up-down pattern gave me a chance to catch some energy along the way. On the way up, it's mostly up; on the way down, it's mostly down.

            Needless to say, this way of driving made the trip longer.  It usually feels like a long trip. However, yesterday, I came across the sign "Caution. Test your brakes. Steep high," and thought, "That's weird. I've only seen that sign on the final hill going down into the Kona side." It took me several minutes to realize that I was there. Vigilance made the minutes fly by.

            George, from the Kia dealership, reminded me that they have charging stations in Hilo. Maybe, but it takes an hour to fully charge the car.  This was way more fun, a challenge requiring some ingenuity.

            For some reason, I felt full of energy today.  I started washing the hallway floors.  I had a tutoring session at 11:30 with D. I was somewhat concerned about how he did after Wednesday's session when I dealt with the blocks that may have been developed in defense against grief.  I knew his dad had died but not how. Today I found out.

            He had gotten in a car with someone who "was not a good person." His dad insisted he knew the man, and he was good.  I didn't push, but I suspect the driver was drunk. Both men died that night in a car crash.  D. was still a baby. The man left his wife with four very young children. She held it together and did a great job. Even D. is a good person.

            Other than asking him how he felt now, "Good," and how he felt after the last session, "Sad and happy," I didn't discuss all the sadness that came up. 

            He chose to work on reading Socks.  We never cover a great deal of material. I believe in chewing the language thoroughly to get every bit of nutrition out of it. D.'s responses vary; sometimes, he shows great insight; at other times, he's completely off the mark.  I would say he is more frequently on the mark these days than off- even if I have to push sometimes to get what I want. 

            D. got stuck on a number issue. Socks got tossed into a mailbox. (Read the book if you want to know why.)  Debbie freaked out, realizing he was in danger. Her brother George said the mailman was coming at 11:23, and the store clock said it was 11:15 now. He was able to connect the numbers to the correct events. I set up a subtraction problem. 11:23-11:15= 8.  I wrote the answer. I asked him what the 8 represented. He had no idea.

            However, he was able to say, "15+5=20, and then there's three more." Good so far. Then he said 5+3= 9, 7, 6, ahh, 8.  Then he attributed the number 8 to something else, not the amount of time they would have to wait until the mailman came along.  It took forever to get that out of him.  Huh?   

            I take kids through a process over and over, slowly, in hopes of creating a pathway in their minds.  Fortunately, I find it interesting every time. Patience is not a problem for me.

            I had an appointment with M. at 2:30 pm.  We worked with a piece on the Colonial Times that I found online. Again, I took her through the process one sentence or one paragraph at a time. I think she did very, very well except at one point. 

            The text talked about boys doing a 7-year apprenticeship to learn a trade such as a tailor, shoemaker, blacksmith, Cooper, or a wheelwright.   When I asked her to infer the meaning of the word 'trade,' she said, exchanging property or money. I asked her if this made sense in this sentence. She really didn't have the background information she needed to make a correct inference. However, she couldn't just say, "I have no idea," either.  Once I gave her some background information, she was able to successfully come to the correct conclusion.

     I told her mother that she is doing very well and didn't expect to work with her much longer. Her mother was distressed.  She said she sees her daughter is not performing as well as the other students in her class. When the class wrote an opinion piece, M. didn't have as much to say as the other students in her class. I told mom, "They're Americans." She said her daughter was raised here. But I know as a first-generation American, it's not that simple. I told her how my mother wanted us to be thoroughly American and was appalled at what we were like. The mother laughed. She recognized herself.  She was giving her daughter mixed messages. 

            I napped after that busy day.  I did do some vacuuming of the hallway. I got some house cleaning done. 

 

______-______-______

 

Musings:

The difference between addiction and healing:

 

            We all want relief from our darkest moments, our darkest thoughts. If the criterion is immediate, complete relief, that's the pathway to addiction.  You get a few minutes of relief from the drug. If you can use this method repeatedly for a while, and then . . .  things get worse and worse and even worse.

            The criterion for healing is not how you feel during the process but how you feel afterward.  Do you feel slightly better?  Again, if you are looking for 100% relief, you are looking for immediate total healing; you're heading down the rabbit hole.

            Anything can be used as an addictive remedy.  Some are more immediately destructive than others. They usually guarantee the most immediate complete, although temporary, relief: drugs, alcohol, and gambling. 

            But anything can be used addictively, reading, meditation, a religious pursuit, work, parenting, loving someone, giving, worrying, yes, anything. When we use activities to get relief from our worst feelings, they are being used addictively.

            Healing requires facing our worst fears and accepting the slow process of recovery.

 

Thursday, September 24, 2020

            Called Kia to check on how to ensure a safe trip to Hilo. "Drive it in the hybrid mode from the start." I also called the Hilo Police before I left to check again if I could fill in the ORI number on their fingerprint forms. 

            The trip there went without a hitch. Although I found myself watching the bars on the electric meter drop.  I had 10 blue bars left at the point the descent into Hilo started. By the time I reached the KTA so I could visit their bathroom, I had twenty bars. I was good. I figured I'd use ten bars traveling around Hilo and then have plenty to make my way back home.

            To get to the police station, I had to backtrack up the hill. I had some trouble finding the correct room to get my fingerprints. I wandered around for a while, looking for directions. When I came back to the starting place, a police officer was sitting there to direct people. He must have been on a bathroom break. Well, I got more steps in. The fingerprinting procedure went off without a hitch. Their forms were blank. I could fill in the ORI number myself by hand. Yes, I could have left with the form in hand without the ORI number filled in. 

            I told the clerk that their policy was very different from that of the Kona Police department.  Kona and Hilo are under the same jurisdiction. The chief of police sits in Hilo, the capital of the country. Why should these two departments, under the same administration, have such different policies.  The clerk told me to write a letter to the chief of police. 

            I headed to Reuben's for a plate of nachos afterward.  The restaurant was up and functioning. My guess the cleanliness was questionable—the woman behind the bar who makes the drinks had a mask that kept slipping off her face.  I ordered my nachos to go, knowing that I would never finish a full serving.  The rest I took home for dinner. I did a pit stop before I left. 

            I checked the gas gauge.  I had a little less than a quarter of a tank. I had only used one bar traveling over from Kona. I would have had enough; I just wanted to make sure.  I didn't check the electric gauge. By the time I had climbed to the entrance of Saddle Road, I only had three bars left.  I was shocked.

            Sure enough, the car gave out along the way. But I knew what to do; I made a U-turn, got on the shoulder of the road, put on my emergency blinkers, put my cruise control on the lowest speed, and cruised down a steep hill until I had at least one bar. Then I turned around and climbed again.  

            I did no more than 45 mph on the ascending hills for the rest of the trip, pulling over if someone was coming up behind me at 60 mph or more. On the descending side of the hills, I pulled over onto the shoulder, put on my emergency lights, put the car into cruise at the lowest speed possible, and cruised down that hill picking up electric bars. I did that for fifty miles.  

            As you climb up the mountain here in Hawaii, there are stretches of ascent, moments of flat driving, and moments of descent.  These mountains were formed by lava flow. Think of melting ice cream. 

            As I was doing it, I thought, this is going to take forever. I'm sure it took longer. However, at one point, I looked up, and there was a sign, "Check brakes. Dangerous decline." Huh? I only remember seeing that sign for the final descent on Saddle Road going into Kona. I didn't remember there being another one. What do you know? It was the final descent. The time passed so quickly because I was engaged in navigating that car. When I got to Mamalahoa Highway, I had seven turquoise bars on the electric gauge. I was going to make it home with ease. 

            I decided to go into town to mail the four boxes I had in the back of the car for the seminary and the Step Up Program's fingerprint form. I arrived shortly before 4:30. Did you know the post office closed at 4 pm.?

            I asked Elijah to pull up the plumbago rooted in my two-foot pathway by my neighbor's fence when I got home.

            ______ -______-______

Musings:

            The immediate political situation is very confusing. So is the larger picture.

The democrats want to provide free services for all. The Republicans want capitalism to flourish and for each man to make his own good fortune. 

            The very rich and many of the poor support Trump. They don't want guaranteed goods and services. They want jobs.  They want a chance to compete in the free market.

            Guaranteed education and health care are provided in most advanced nations at this point.  Yet, Americans see it as a death knell. 

            The Republicans I know sincerely believe that everyone has an equal chance at any achievement. Really?  Women have the same chances as men? Do people of color have the same chances as white people?  The handicapped have the same chance at jobs they are equally qualified for as the able?  Are they sure? It's the American myth. It's our story: anyone can become President of the United States. 

            There is some truth to our social flexibility, but the myth outruns the truth.  In the meantime, we have poor schnooks who are willing to drink the cool-aid, hoping that the myth is true.  Meantime, the rich get much, much richer. 

            I feel that other advanced countries have managed a more balanced approach between capitalism and social services.

Wednesday, September 23, 2020

          

            I had an appointment with D. I have worked with this boy to improve his memory for over a year and made very little progress.  I can usually see a difference, at least some difference, in someone's mental functioning after one or two short BrainManagementSkills sessions.  I thought it was time to work on acceptance of the limits of his mind.

            I first asked him if he tried to cover, so people didn't know he had memory problems. He said yes. The feelings behind it were fear and sadness. I assured him that no one liked to be different from the people around them. I also told him that I thought he had to learn to be open with people and tell them he had memory problems.  Whatever problems he might have in school because of it, it would also be a problem when he was grown. He would be better off telling any boss outright that he had this problem, ask the boss to write his instructions down rather than just tell them to him. While his boss might fire him because he had this problem, he definitely would fire him for never following directions.   (I just thought of another solution that would work even better. Record the boss's instructions on his phone. )

            I got a message from Yvette asking me if I wanted to come down a see the exposed beams now that Scott had taken down sheetrock. He said he could see that the beams were nailed initially together rather than screwed.  The wood had dried out and shrunk, and the nails had rusted. This would have created space for movement and rubbing. Also, two boards were laid parallel to each other with no space between them.  They had not been screwed together. This meant that they, too, would rub against each other.  Yvette and I both felt good about this solving the high-pitched squeaking noise.

            I took a nap before my 2pm appointment with a high school student who also has memory problems. First thought it was stress and depression. There is a history of sadness combined with the stress of online schooling.  Then it occurred to me he was a visual learner and had an audio processing problem.   He confirmed that he learns better by doing and seeing than hearing. Online classes are a disaster for kids like that. 

            I spent some time working in Mike's library searching for more books to donate to seminaries.  Found over fifty.  Scott came up bearing a lamb chop Yvette had cooked. I was going to have a hot dog for dinner. Guess not! 

      I called Judy as I did my evening walk with Elsa. She was doing much better. Her white blood count is down to 11,000, the high end of the normal range, from a high of 35,000. Her sepsis was clearing.

            Judy told me that when she was got to the hospital, the doctor asked her if she wanted to be resuscitated if she had a heart attack.  She left it to Howard, but the question freaked her out.  She had no idea how sick she was. She told me the doctor was surprised at how cogent she was given how advanced her case was. 

            I told her about my adventure on my trip to Hilo, including how I had to go to the bathroom. She recommended I get a woman's urinal to take it with me.  She had one.  She thought Paulette did too.  I called Paulette to ask, she groaned. She had fallen again.  We made an exchange: my walker for her urinal. 

             

            ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬__________________

 

Musings:

            The other day I was complaining to Judy about some harsh judgment someone made against me. Judy said it was time to let it go. Hmm! Most of my work in therapy involves learning to tolerate harsh criticism and contempt. No matter who it comes from, it makes me feel shattered inside. 

            I addressed it again in my session with Shelly today.  I know the origin of this reaction. Those who follow my updates already know my mother had zero tolerance for any differences from her point of view. When I said something or did something other than she thought I should, she would attack.  My mother wasn't calm in her attacks. They were sharp and explosive.  She was acting out of fear.  My mom was not a well glued together woman in this regard. 

            I experienced her attacks as life-threatening.  While my mother would never have physically harmed me, the message she sent out in her attacks was that she wanted to kill me.  She didn't want to kill her daughter that she gave birth to, just the personality that manifested. Her response was so primitive that I think I would still find it hard to know the difference. 

            Since her attacks were not just intense, they were filled with accusations of my defectiveness; they left quite a wound.  This wound leaves me vulnerable to anything resembling a similar attack from others – literally anyone. 

            The depth of ridiculousness was on one visit to Hawaii before we moved here. We arrived after dark. There was some confusion between Mike and me about when I was supposed to bring the car around. I crossed the empty roadway without waiting for a signal from the crossing guard. I thought she was going to have me arrested. She was intense. I was shattered. Did I know this was more her problem than mine? Yes, of course. Did it do any good? Not a jot. My body reacted; I went into shock.

            We all know the difference between a response of mild annoyance and more profound anger. The end result of anger is always death.  Fortunately, it rarely goes to the end result.  I have never seen it go there in my lifetime.  My mother's vitriol is the closest I have come. However, I suffer from PTSD as a result, and the initiation of the impulse triggers fear in me much as a car backfiring triggers it in a military veteran.

            I saw an analogy to a car motor. There's the ignition stage. A common point of response in all of us. We may even say, "If you do that again, I'll kill you." Meaning absolutely no harm. It's just saying it is important to me, nothing more.  

            After the ignition stage, most times, the motor idles, the engine of anger sputters out, or we suppress it.  But then there are the gears.  Do we shift into first, second, third, or overdrive? At overdrive, we become actively physically dangerous. 

            I would say that my mother took her 'engine' into second gear as a norm. I became very sensitive to the sensation of that engine ignition system.  As everyone else with PSTD, I can't tell the difference at an autonomic level.  I can tell the difference on a cognitive level. I could do that even with her when I was a child.  But the autonomic system takes over, and I'm helpless.

            The solution for the day was to find a way to remain calm in the face of that danger. If I remained calm, I had to see how crazy my mom was.  I sat there and observed a distorted face, a crazed look. Who wants to see your own mother as crazy? How can you rely on someone like that? My life goal is to remain calm and loving in the face of that anger. 

             I believe that when any of us clutch too tightly to 'our way' of thinking about something or doing something, we become crazed.  As I've said many times before, I believe most differences between people are over questions of the 'right way to do something, even the right perception of what is right in front of both of us. 

            I think once the basic survival needs are addressed, all conflicts are over conceptual differences. Why are we so vulnerable? Maybe because reality is that elusive. We have to accept uncertainty. We have to accept our limits in perceiving the world around us. No one can know everything—reality by consensus = a culture.  Living with so much uncertainty is hard on the nerves. The more trauma we've had at some point in our lives, the harder it is.

Tuesday, September 22, 2020

            I had plans of finishing the hand weeding on the strip between the plumbago and the neighbor's fence. A patch of root plumbago was crowding the final stretch.  My leg hurt too much after the driveway yoga for me to feel comfortable taking on that chore. It threw my whole day off.                  

            I also had big plans to file my ad with Wyzant, an online tutoring advertisement service.   I find the whole process confusing. It listed me as available for in-person tutoring within a nine-mile radius. No, no, and no. I only want to tutor remotely via Zoom or Google Meet.  I had plans to call but went ahead and worked in the library pulling books for St. Patrick's Seminary. Doing that feels comforting. 

            I finished off several shelves and packed up three more boxes. I covered each box with paper because I am repurposing product boxes. Wrapping the boxes with paper reminds me of when I was a child between ages five and ten, and I helped my mother wrap packages for her parents still living in Berlin after the war.

            The project to get Yvette's ceiling soundproofed from the room above is in another phase. I had the Pergo floor pulled up, laid acoustical matting, and new carpeting.  That didn't work. I had Scott screw down the subflooring through the carpet. That didn't work.  Now, we're up to taking down Yvette's bedroom ceiling, securing anything that seems loose from that angle, stuffing fiberglass insulating in, and putting up 5/8" sheetrock instead of the usual 3/8" or ½."  Step One: Scott was off the Home Depot to buy the materials. 

            Later in the day, my leg felt good enough for me to take on that weeding job. I had to get on my hands and knees and pull out the plumbago roots that had spread into the two-foot cleared area. Nothing is better for my hip than the strain of doing that chore. I can feel my glutes strain, and the hip feels fine.

            I took a shower before I took Elsa for her before dinner walk. I finished up the fresh tuna steak B. had given me the other day. I ate half of it last night. I left the rest in the marinade until tonight. Tonight, I made sure the broiler was hot before I put the fish in. That worked better. Tomorrow I'll have a hot dog; Thursday, I will have nachos at Reuben's in Hilo when I go over to get my fingerprints. 

            Sandor called to ask how Judy was doing. I told him she sounded just fine. He said that was a good sign. People with septic shock often sound so out of it, the EMTs think they have had a stroke.  This gives me encouragement that she is not going to take a turn for the worse. 

            Adam looked up septic shock on the internet; only 50% of the people survive. As it was, Judy was in an ICU unit with a tube in her neck for pressers, low blood pressure medication. She came in with a reading of 80/40 and a high white cell blood count.  Jez Louise! 

______-_______-________

Musings:  

    We in the USA are big on a meritocracy, getting what you get through your personal effort alone.  Someone wrote a book on the topic of the downside of meritocracy recently. When I Googled looking for the name, I found there are many books written on this subject.

            There are two types of 'reward,' monetary and recognition. Hmm! How do I express this clearly? Financial: if you achieve economic success, it is all your own doing; Corollary: if you don't achieve monetary success, it is all your own doing.  People look down on you. 

            There is little willingness to see personal success as much a result of dumb luck as effort. I'm a teacher. Teachers put in incredible hours. We have jobs that require the kind of focus required of air traffic controllers.  We can't even take bathroom breaks without making sure someone is covering for us. We can't say no to someone who wants our attention unless we already gave it to another teacher-related chore. Nonetheless, no teacher ever becomes rich at this job.  One could say it is their fault that they chose to teach as a profession. That would be true, wouldn't it? Does that mean that we are less than someone who decided to pursue wealth?  Tricky, no?         

            So that leads us to another kind of merit. Valuing people for the work they do regardless of what it is.  Teacher, garbage man, ditch digger, coal miner.  

            Question: which type of merit is more critical: financial or social? Have we been seduced by Mammon?