Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Between Parallel Worlds
My first sensation is the smell of roasting turkey. Slowly I’m aware of having a cold head and shoulders. The quilt weighs on my chest. I snuggle down into the comfy warm spot and snooze a bit longer. But the diffuse grey light sneaks in through the slats of the blinds and I have an intense desire for a huge cup of coffee, so I get up. I deliberately look through the window to reset my pineal gland to morning. Out of the fog, a bright red cardinal appears to grace the lawn,
I’ve had 9 hours of sleep. Our trip home took 49 hours door to door. We had 22 hours of air time. On the endless Saturday, we saw two sunsets, had two short sleeps, two sunrises, a shower in Sydney, a spit-bath in L.A., and so many snacks and meals they all blur together. A two and a half hour delay in Sydney required rebooking all the U.S. fights. We rerouted through St. Louis, that Purgatory of airports, landing in Dayton at 10 PM. Still Saturday. We slurp down a bowl of stone soup and hit the sack.This morning we wake at my parents’ farmhouse in Troy, Ohio to fog and drizzle. I can barely see the cornstalk stubble beyond the window. We are in some misty limbo, between worlds, our internal clocks out of whack, wide awake at 2 AM, yawning at noon.
Vicki says we’ve fallen through the wormhole into another world. She is right. A few days ago I was in Ngallagunda. Now I am struck by the sudden appearance of Christmas decorations everywhere, the humming background cadences of the “Little Drummer Boy” in all the airports here. The toilets in St. Louis have automatic paper towel rolls that sense your wet hands and spit a sheet of paper on your palms.
My family has decorated, too. The living room is dominated by my folks’ traditional monster tree, grown at the end of the farm lane, and decorated with ornaments, some from my Dad’s childhood. There are poinsettias and greenery everywhere. Today is Sunday, and it’s my Mom’s tradition to have my brothers’ families for dinner when we visit. She put the turkey in at 6 AM and made stuffing, Czech dumplings and sauerkraut and gravy, sweet potatoes, green peas, seven-fruit salad, and cranberry jello. My sister-in-law brings pecan pie, and there is pumpkin as well. With whipped cream. It is Thanksgiving late, and Christmas early, and my family with all our foibles and peculiarities, faults and strengths gather at the table. It is a home to come home to. I know I am very lucky to have a place to land.Later we put on long pants, waterproof high-top boots, long-sleeved shirts, possum-knit gloves and coats and knit hats and walk around the frozen bean fields, our feet crunching through the snow and frozen slush. We talk about our trip. Riding the plane so long became a hypnotic, almost hallucinogenic experience. By the last hop, Vicki and I were giggling hysterically as we wiggled our numb bums into the narrow commuter jet seats. We talk about Michael Moore’s film “Sicko” which we both watched on the trans-Pacific flight. While I enjoyed the guerilla theatre of the film, what has stayed with me is not the indictment of the U.S. health insurance mess, but the point that a society is judged by how it cares for the weakest and poorest of its members. Vicki and I talk about the importance of being nutured. I have been nutured by my family, by the RCS, by DAHS, by so many mentors and organizations over the years, and in turn have tried to nuture my students and coworkers. The friends, students, and patients I have seen over the years with the most troubles have all suffered from lack of nuture and social support.
The plea at the end of the film goes round my brain: “Maybe we should all care a little bit less about ourselves, and a little more about each other.” Sounds like Christmas to me.
