A few days ago, my first-graders learned the word "brave" (via a story about firefighters, naturally). I asked some of them, individually, whether or not they are brave--just curious about their answers.
Teacher Elly: Sam, are you brave?
Sam: (stretching and yawning) Um, no.
Teacher Elly: Why don't you feel brave?
Sam: (just shrugs, not at all concerned with the issue of being brave)
I'm puzzled. I have not been a teacher in America or done surveys of Yankee schoolchildren, but from what I know of American kids, being brave is an essential bragging point--whether or not you are actually brave. I ask a few more kids. No luck, no one is brave.
Then I ask Brian. He's a little older and smarter than most of the kids in the class and the other children look up to him. Another recent development in Brian's life is that he has a girlfriend who is also in my class--Sadie. They are 8 years old. And not ashamed--they sit by each other and get all sparkly and smiley when other kids tease them about liking each other. So I thought, maybe Brian would want to come off as brave in front of his sweetie.
Teacher Elly: So Brian, you're brave, right?
Brian: (takes a deep breath and shakes his head vehemently NO!)
Teacher Elly: When do you feel afraid?
At this point, Brian is blushing pink and his eyes are twinkling. He just turns and points at Sadie, affectionately accusing her. He says (nearly hyperventilating) "When I see her....!"
At this point, he loses the ability to communicate in English so he keeps pointing at Sadie, then thumps his hand over his chest quickly, then makes a swooping up and down movement with his hand. (My) translation: When I see Sadie, I get scared, my heart starts beating out of my chest and I feel like I am flying and falling in love.
I (biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn't burst out laughing) told Brian I thought it was actually quite brave of him to tell the whole classroom how he felt.
There are different kinds of people in this world. There are different kinds of brave.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
that darn cat
A few weeks ago, I took Olive to get spayed. It was not a happy event for either of us. I wrote this email to my family five days after her surgery. My emails to my family are usually given the subject line "coffee chat" with the date, but this one was named after another drink...
To: Mom and Dad, Grant, Maria, Brittany, and Josef
Date: Friday, September 10, 10:12 AM
Subject: martini-chat
Forget coffee. I need a martini to go with my Olive. Sheesh, what a day.
So after her spay-day (Monday), she came home wearing a blue plastic Elizabethan collar to prevent her from getting at the stitches. And for a day, it was fine... she was too knocked out and drugged up to attempt anything. But clearly, neither I nor the vet had taken into account the fact that Olive can channel Houdini at her will, and that she is more flexible than a Chinese acrobat...
Tuesday night I got home from work and found her, SANS (that means WITHOUT in French, folks!) E-collar, sprawled out on the couch and LICKING away like her belly was an ice cream cone! I squealed, horrified that upon closer inspection I would come face to face with her intestines. She looked up and said, "Really, did you think I was going to wear that fashion disaster on my neck all day? Ha!" Thankfully, everything seemed to have held together and I put the collar back on--she was cursing me the whole time.
Monday and Tuesday night, I slept on the couch with her, because the bed is too high for her to safely jump down from and I wanted to make sure I could help her get water or go to the bathroom. It was like having a newborn, I'd assume, as I was up 3 or 4 times both nights and felt miserable during the days.
Last night, around 9:30, as I was barely conscious after an extremely crazy baby-yoga class (that's a different story, one that I might need coffee before telling!), I noticed that her stitches did not look good. It almost looked like they had been pulled out by tiny, nimble claws! AAAHHH! I scrambled to bundle her up in her carrying bag and run down to the vet clinic (which, conveniently, is located in the strip mall on the first floor of my building) before they closed at ten.
Sho'nuff, she had an infection. The vet said she'd have to stay there overnight so he could re-suture the wound. My heart sank. She hates it in there, and of course hates the vet, and also hates the mongrel-cat they keep as a pet. It's one of those smush-faced cats, nearly the size of a Bengal tiger and shaved like a lion. I'd be terrified of him if I were even a head shorter.
At least I slept well last night, in my own bed and not worrying about her too much.
This morning I went down to pick her up at 10:30, but the nurse said the vet wasn't in until 11:30. I guess I misunderstood... "ten" is shih and "eleven" is shih-i. Silly me!
When I returned at the correct time, the vet went upstairs to get her. The mongrel/tiger/wolverine followed him. For the next 5 minutes, I could hear my baby screeeeaming and crying from upstairs. I had to fight back the tears and the urge to run upstairs and rescue her from the vet and/or his Frankenfeline. What could he be doing?! Re-stitching her last minute without numbing the area first? AAAAH!
He finally brought her down... she was still hollering and her fur was practically snowing down from her terrified body. He explained that he was taking off the bandage. Wow. He told me that she had to leave these stitches in for ten days more (we were supposed to get the old ones out this Monday) and that she may have some "EEE-dem-uh" (how he pronounced "edema") from the procedure. She also got a bigger E-collar, this time in hot orange, so she resembles a wobbly, upturned construction cone.
As soon as we got home, she started trying to get to the stitches. She has a way of sitting, human-like, with her legs out and her body upright, spine curved forward and she can easily reach the stitches both with her paws, and by using the edge of her e-collar to scratch at them. I pet her and played with her string to distract her, but as soon as I stopped, she would attack her wound again. I started to panic, because on Fridays I have to work from 1:30 to 9:00. I envisioned myself coming home to find her ripped apart at her own paws! No!
She calmed down a bit and was resting on the couch when I left, but an hour after work started I was still really worried so I told my boss, who said I should go home immediately to check on her and bring her back with me.
I had twenty minutes between my first two classes. I biked home, first stopping in the vet clinic to pick up a package of pet-diaper-pads (I know... ridiculous) so she could stay in her carrying bag (I know... ridiculous) all day at work where I could keep an eye on her (I know... ridiculous). As I opened the vet's door, a little sausage-pup SHOT out of the door and ran towards the street! Great! I did NOT have time to be at fault for letting someone else's dachsund get flattened by traffic! I took off running after him, all the way across the street and through a parking lot, into a grocery store where he actually found his master! So weird. I ran back, bought the $12 pack of glorified newspapers and hurried up to get Olive. She was still sleeping! Good. I bundled her up, grabbed some food and a water dish, a towel, and put her in her carrying bag in the front basket of my bike. She meowed the whole way to class. I made it back just 4 minutes after my class started--I would've been on time if it weren't for that escaping dog situation!
For the next 90 minutes, from under my desk, she mewed, cried and hissed. As you can imagine, the kids were beyond thrilled and could talk of nothing else, erupting in giggles every time she yowled. I put a board across the front of my desk so she could have a little space, and finally, before my third class, she fell asleep on the towel. She stayed quiet and snoozed from 5:30-9. I let the kids take peeks at her one by one after they finished quizzes, etc.--it was a good motivator. Toward the end of my last class (older students) I let her out and she wandered around the classroom. (I did ask the kids if any of them were allergic... they all said no and even if they were, they were so taken with her that they would've lied, I think! Can you IMAGINE me being able to do that if I were a teacher in the U.S.? Mom? Maria??) After checking out the room, she positioned herself front and center, under the whiteboard, looking disdainfully around at my students. (I think she decided to take the opportunity to job-shadow me). The kids looked up "olive" in the Chinese dictionary and called her "Gan Lan Xiao Jie" (Miss Olive).
Now we're at home; she's sleeping on her blanket on the couch, I have a full belly (hadn't eaten all day!) and it's Friday night. All is well. And despite losing sleep, running around like a chicken with my head cut off and worrying about her all week, I wouldn't trade the little pickle for anything! She's added so much sweetness to my life and I'm honored to take care of this one piece of God's creation.
Happy Friday to all of you,
"olive you" (just mouth the words, you'll get it!) :)
elly
P.S. (from Sep.28) Olive is totally fine, all healed up, coneless, and back to all her old shenanigans.
To: Mom and Dad, Grant, Maria, Brittany, and Josef
Date: Friday, September 10, 10:12 AM
Subject: martini-chat
Forget coffee. I need a martini to go with my Olive. Sheesh, what a day.
So after her spay-day (Monday), she came home wearing a blue plastic Elizabethan collar to prevent her from getting at the stitches. And for a day, it was fine... she was too knocked out and drugged up to attempt anything. But clearly, neither I nor the vet had taken into account the fact that Olive can channel Houdini at her will, and that she is more flexible than a Chinese acrobat...
Tuesday night I got home from work and found her, SANS (that means WITHOUT in French, folks!) E-collar, sprawled out on the couch and LICKING away like her belly was an ice cream cone! I squealed, horrified that upon closer inspection I would come face to face with her intestines. She looked up and said, "Really, did you think I was going to wear that fashion disaster on my neck all day? Ha!" Thankfully, everything seemed to have held together and I put the collar back on--she was cursing me the whole time.
Monday and Tuesday night, I slept on the couch with her, because the bed is too high for her to safely jump down from and I wanted to make sure I could help her get water or go to the bathroom. It was like having a newborn, I'd assume, as I was up 3 or 4 times both nights and felt miserable during the days.
Last night, around 9:30, as I was barely conscious after an extremely crazy baby-yoga class (that's a different story, one that I might need coffee before telling!), I noticed that her stitches did not look good. It almost looked like they had been pulled out by tiny, nimble claws! AAAHHH! I scrambled to bundle her up in her carrying bag and run down to the vet clinic (which, conveniently, is located in the strip mall on the first floor of my building) before they closed at ten.
Sho'nuff, she had an infection. The vet said she'd have to stay there overnight so he could re-suture the wound. My heart sank. She hates it in there, and of course hates the vet, and also hates the mongrel-cat they keep as a pet. It's one of those smush-faced cats, nearly the size of a Bengal tiger and shaved like a lion. I'd be terrified of him if I were even a head shorter.
At least I slept well last night, in my own bed and not worrying about her too much.
This morning I went down to pick her up at 10:30, but the nurse said the vet wasn't in until 11:30. I guess I misunderstood... "ten" is shih and "eleven" is shih-i. Silly me!
When I returned at the correct time, the vet went upstairs to get her. The mongrel/tiger/wolverine followed him. For the next 5 minutes, I could hear my baby screeeeaming and crying from upstairs. I had to fight back the tears and the urge to run upstairs and rescue her from the vet and/or his Frankenfeline. What could he be doing?! Re-stitching her last minute without numbing the area first? AAAAH!
He finally brought her down... she was still hollering and her fur was practically snowing down from her terrified body. He explained that he was taking off the bandage. Wow. He told me that she had to leave these stitches in for ten days more (we were supposed to get the old ones out this Monday) and that she may have some "EEE-dem-uh" (how he pronounced "edema") from the procedure. She also got a bigger E-collar, this time in hot orange, so she resembles a wobbly, upturned construction cone.
As soon as we got home, she started trying to get to the stitches. She has a way of sitting, human-like, with her legs out and her body upright, spine curved forward and she can easily reach the stitches both with her paws, and by using the edge of her e-collar to scratch at them. I pet her and played with her string to distract her, but as soon as I stopped, she would attack her wound again. I started to panic, because on Fridays I have to work from 1:30 to 9:00. I envisioned myself coming home to find her ripped apart at her own paws! No!
She calmed down a bit and was resting on the couch when I left, but an hour after work started I was still really worried so I told my boss, who said I should go home immediately to check on her and bring her back with me.
I had twenty minutes between my first two classes. I biked home, first stopping in the vet clinic to pick up a package of pet-diaper-pads (I know... ridiculous) so she could stay in her carrying bag (I know... ridiculous) all day at work where I could keep an eye on her (I know... ridiculous). As I opened the vet's door, a little sausage-pup SHOT out of the door and ran towards the street! Great! I did NOT have time to be at fault for letting someone else's dachsund get flattened by traffic! I took off running after him, all the way across the street and through a parking lot, into a grocery store where he actually found his master! So weird. I ran back, bought the $12 pack of glorified newspapers and hurried up to get Olive. She was still sleeping! Good. I bundled her up, grabbed some food and a water dish, a towel, and put her in her carrying bag in the front basket of my bike. She meowed the whole way to class. I made it back just 4 minutes after my class started--I would've been on time if it weren't for that escaping dog situation!
For the next 90 minutes, from under my desk, she mewed, cried and hissed. As you can imagine, the kids were beyond thrilled and could talk of nothing else, erupting in giggles every time she yowled. I put a board across the front of my desk so she could have a little space, and finally, before my third class, she fell asleep on the towel. She stayed quiet and snoozed from 5:30-9. I let the kids take peeks at her one by one after they finished quizzes, etc.--it was a good motivator. Toward the end of my last class (older students) I let her out and she wandered around the classroom. (I did ask the kids if any of them were allergic... they all said no and even if they were, they were so taken with her that they would've lied, I think! Can you IMAGINE me being able to do that if I were a teacher in the U.S.? Mom? Maria??) After checking out the room, she positioned herself front and center, under the whiteboard, looking disdainfully around at my students. (I think she decided to take the opportunity to job-shadow me). The kids looked up "olive" in the Chinese dictionary and called her "Gan Lan Xiao Jie" (Miss Olive).
Now we're at home; she's sleeping on her blanket on the couch, I have a full belly (hadn't eaten all day!) and it's Friday night. All is well. And despite losing sleep, running around like a chicken with my head cut off and worrying about her all week, I wouldn't trade the little pickle for anything! She's added so much sweetness to my life and I'm honored to take care of this one piece of God's creation.
Happy Friday to all of you,
"olive you" (just mouth the words, you'll get it!) :)
elly
P
P.S. (from Sep.28) Olive is totally fine, all healed up, coneless, and back to all her old shenanigans.
Monday, September 27, 2010
je manque...
Being an expat can be wonderful. Over the past two years, I've fallen in love with so many aspects of the lifestyle--the excitement, constantly being challenged and stimulated, the interesting places and people, and so much more. I often feel hypersensitive to the world around me--more aware than I might need to be in a familiar, comfortable environment. Every part of me is straining to understand what's around me, grasping for clues that can help me move through situations where I don't fully understand the language, social cues, traditions, religious beliefs, and gender roles that color the human interactions going on around me.
Accomplishing day-to-day tasks within a foreign environment, even things as small as going to the bank or post office, leave me with a sense of achievement. And bigger things I've done--like finding and renting an apartment, taking the initiative to meet people and begin friendships, or developing curriculum for preschool yoga classes in a cross-cultural, ESL setting--really make me see how being here has pushed me in a lot of good ways.
However, in the same way that the highs are higher, the lows are also lower. While small things can make me feel accomplished, other small things can totally exhaust/frustrate/infuriate me. Things just take a lot more energy.
All this--both the good and the bad--inevitably wears a person out from time to time! It's when I'm feeling a lot of this extreme up and and down that I feel the most "homesick." Wikipedia says:
Accomplishing day-to-day tasks within a foreign environment, even things as small as going to the bank or post office, leave me with a sense of achievement. And bigger things I've done--like finding and renting an apartment, taking the initiative to meet people and begin friendships, or developing curriculum for preschool yoga classes in a cross-cultural, ESL setting--really make me see how being here has pushed me in a lot of good ways.
However, in the same way that the highs are higher, the lows are also lower. While small things can make me feel accomplished, other small things can totally exhaust/frustrate/infuriate me. Things just take a lot more energy.
All this--both the good and the bad--inevitably wears a person out from time to time! It's when I'm feeling a lot of this extreme up and and down that I feel the most "homesick." Wikipedia says:
Homesickness is the distress or impairment caused by an actual or anticipated separation from the specific home environment or attachment objects. The term is in origin a loan translation of nostalgia, a learned term coined in Baroque Period medicine. The Oxford English Dictionary describes homesickness as a feeling one has when missing home. Feelings of longing are often accompanied by anxiety and depression. These symptoms may range from mild to severe. Homesickness frequently occurs when one travels and may be exacerbated by unfamiliar environments or foreign cultural contexts.
Over time, I've come to be able to notice when I'm coming down with a bout of the homesickies, and also have found what cures work best for me when I'm missing my family/home/friends/Iowa/Chicago/the USA/Western Civilization. So here are my very scientific, tested and guaranteed-to-help...
TOP FIVE HOMESICKNESS REMEDIES
in no particular order
1. Books. I spent hours on Saturday wandering around a huge bookstore in Taipei that has the most English books I've seen in place anywhere in Taiwan. I read titles, look at covers, browse pages, and inhale the scent of ink and paper. I float happily from Magazines to Classics to History to Religion to Arts to Health and Fitness to Languages, accumulating a stack in my arms of the books I realize I can't live without. Saturday I left with three books and three magazines. Financially, I justify these purchases as necessary for preserving both my sanity and my intellectual well-being (my day-to-day life does not expose me to higher thought in properly spoken English).
2. Animals. Specifically now, my precious kitten, Olive. However, even before she came to live with me, I loved visiting pet shops or having friendly interaction with other people's pets. Animals are just easier than humans... there's no language barrier or cultural misunderstanding. Animals trustingly invite us into their space and accept us with playfulness, inquisitiveness and sweetness--not seeing what color we are or judging our cultural baggage. I've been delighted by cats for as long as I can remember, and they make familiar companions for me, reminding me of all the pet cats I've had since I was a toddler. I love their mannerisms, the way they move with grace and intention, their independence. Adopting Olive made my house here a home. She follows me around, greets me with sleepy meows when I get home from work, and even does her cat-stretches next to me on my mat while I'm practicing yoga.
3. Yoga. Having had a physical practice for most of my life--whether ballet, running, pilates or yoga--movement and breathing and getting into my body makes me feel more at home than almost anything else. With traveling and moving as much as I have in the past ten years, I've learned to make a nurturing yoga practice a constant. Living out of suitcases--a year here, a year there--doesn't give me a sense of "home base," so I achieve that groundedness by making my body my home. Whether I find myself in the concrete jungle of a city in Taiwan, the frozen prairies of Iowa, or a quiet Costa Rican beach, as I begin to breathe through the fluid movements of my body, I am home.
4. Starbucks. Yes, I know that they are corporate and cliche and everything, and when I'm in the US I go to locally owned, unique coffeeshops. Unfortunately, Taiwan's coffee culture is not quite there yet and there are no other options unless I want to drink something that tastes like cabbage-water. (I will give Taiwan its full deserved glory for having incredible tea, which they grow and produce themselves--they are masters! But I want coffee.) When I go into a Starbuck's, I know what I'm going to get and what it will taste like, and sitting in a Starbuck's anywhere in the world is pretty much a homogenous experience, so I can lose myself in a book and a latte listening to Miles Davis under soft lighting and not have any idea whether I'm in the Northwest suburbs of Chicago or Seoul or Taipei.
5. Skype/Facebook/Email/Blogs/Internet in General. This is an obvious one... I don't know how expats did it 20 years ago before all of this stuff was invented! I love knowing that I'm a few clicks away from communication with my friends and family, news from home, pictures, and anything I'm missing about my culture--from catching up on trashy celebrity gossip to being able to listen to lectures given by professors at my alma mater. I even "shop" at Target(.com) sometimes!
So... are you ever homesick? Even if you live at "home," you can always be nostalgic for another time in your life or other places you've left bits of your heart, or loved ones who are far away. What are your cures?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
wind
in the trail of a typhoon, there is wind. typhoon fanapi has blown over taiwan, headed toward the mainland. the swirling rains have passed, but not the winds. my windows rattle and whistle, and from time to time i hear something heavy blow down the street, far below me.
i venture out after being shut in all weekend. the wind pushes and pulls me as i walk, and it's perfect. i am not afraid; i feel comforted by the wind.
wind reminds me of home, where the midwest's open prairies are vulnerable to gusts all year round. in summer, tornadic winds flatten fields, rip ancient trees to splinters and send chickens tumbling across the barnyard. in winter, the bitterly cold wind can make the snow fly from earth to the sky and sculpt twenty-foot high snow dunes overnight.
i stop on the sidewalk, letting the typhoon's winds pick me up, rip my hair out of its ponytail and suck the breath from my lungs. closing my eyes, i ride the wind, weightless. flocks of leaves from distant, unseen trees tap me on the shoulders. aside from the siren-song of the wind, the city is quiet for once. and, except for the faint scent of the pacific ocean which has been carried inland on fanapi's wings, i could be home.
i venture out after being shut in all weekend. the wind pushes and pulls me as i walk, and it's perfect. i am not afraid; i feel comforted by the wind.
wind reminds me of home, where the midwest's open prairies are vulnerable to gusts all year round. in summer, tornadic winds flatten fields, rip ancient trees to splinters and send chickens tumbling across the barnyard. in winter, the bitterly cold wind can make the snow fly from earth to the sky and sculpt twenty-foot high snow dunes overnight.
i stop on the sidewalk, letting the typhoon's winds pick me up, rip my hair out of its ponytail and suck the breath from my lungs. closing my eyes, i ride the wind, weightless. flocks of leaves from distant, unseen trees tap me on the shoulders. aside from the siren-song of the wind, the city is quiet for once. and, except for the faint scent of the pacific ocean which has been carried inland on fanapi's wings, i could be home.
Monday, July 26, 2010
on giving up and moving on
it's been six months, today, since i got hit by a careless driver while walking to school. six months spattered with pain, loss, anger, dark dreams, and fear. and fighting for what i think might begin to compensate for what's been taken. the insurance agents are flippant, insensitive, irresponsible, and have pushed me around every turn, making a bad situation more stressful and threatening what little sanity i had left.
they've given me their final offer, after all the hours of doctor's appointments and physical therapy and emotional therapy and running everywhere to collect enough paperwork to prove that my loss has a monetary equivalent.
their offer is pathetically shy of what i had suggested to be fair, and i hope that doesn't come from an "entitled Westerner" attitude--but this is likely to affect me for the rest of my life. where i come from, that means something. but here, all that matters is what i have a receipt for, and health care is so cheap, my receipts don't begin to show the severity of what happened to my leg.
my options are to accept, or to go on and take them to court. i'm sure this is what they were hoping would happen--that i'd be worn down, tired of fighting and just take it. and that's exactly where i am.
what i really wanted was for the guilty one (and his jerk of an insurance agent) to look me in the eye, understand my pain and acknowledge responsibility for making a careless, stupid mistake that hurt someone whose leg happened to be very, very important to them.
that's not gonna happen. sincere apologies aren't really part of the culture here.
while i know i have a good case, and would probably win more money by suing, and would smugly enjoy bringing the situation closer to justice, i just can't. i'm tired of being angry and i've just realized, that's energy i'm sending out to a black hole, energy that would be better spent focused on myself and healing and going forward with my life. energy that would be better converted into love--which multiplies and creates, than hate--which divides and destroys.
i give up. so tomorrow i will call the insurance sleazeballs, accept the offer, and hopefully collect soon, so i can close that door and move on, with emphasis on the word move. i can't wait to dance myself into an oblivion when it's safe to do so... to fold my body into a tiny child's pose with knees deliciously bent beneath me... to run and jump and roll and frolic without pain or fear.
and it's not all about loss. what i've gained is a deep understanding of living with pain that i never before experienced, which will translate into empathy as a teacher of movement and yoga. may i always treat pain--both mine and others--with compassion, rather than insensitivity. and while for some time, i felt incredibly disconnected from my body and even disgusted by its incapacity, i've grown into a deeper relationship with it and have a better understanding of myself; a higher respect for what it can do and not as much frustration with its limitations.
i still have a long road ahead with my healing, which will take patience and grace. but now i'm ready to turn away from the futility of seeking justice and fully embrace that journey. with my best leg forward.
they've given me their final offer, after all the hours of doctor's appointments and physical therapy and emotional therapy and running everywhere to collect enough paperwork to prove that my loss has a monetary equivalent.
their offer is pathetically shy of what i had suggested to be fair, and i hope that doesn't come from an "entitled Westerner" attitude--but this is likely to affect me for the rest of my life. where i come from, that means something. but here, all that matters is what i have a receipt for, and health care is so cheap, my receipts don't begin to show the severity of what happened to my leg.
my options are to accept, or to go on and take them to court. i'm sure this is what they were hoping would happen--that i'd be worn down, tired of fighting and just take it. and that's exactly where i am.
what i really wanted was for the guilty one (and his jerk of an insurance agent) to look me in the eye, understand my pain and acknowledge responsibility for making a careless, stupid mistake that hurt someone whose leg happened to be very, very important to them.
that's not gonna happen. sincere apologies aren't really part of the culture here.
while i know i have a good case, and would probably win more money by suing, and would smugly enjoy bringing the situation closer to justice, i just can't. i'm tired of being angry and i've just realized, that's energy i'm sending out to a black hole, energy that would be better spent focused on myself and healing and going forward with my life. energy that would be better converted into love--which multiplies and creates, than hate--which divides and destroys.
i give up. so tomorrow i will call the insurance sleazeballs, accept the offer, and hopefully collect soon, so i can close that door and move on, with emphasis on the word move. i can't wait to dance myself into an oblivion when it's safe to do so... to fold my body into a tiny child's pose with knees deliciously bent beneath me... to run and jump and roll and frolic without pain or fear.
and it's not all about loss. what i've gained is a deep understanding of living with pain that i never before experienced, which will translate into empathy as a teacher of movement and yoga. may i always treat pain--both mine and others--with compassion, rather than insensitivity. and while for some time, i felt incredibly disconnected from my body and even disgusted by its incapacity, i've grown into a deeper relationship with it and have a better understanding of myself; a higher respect for what it can do and not as much frustration with its limitations.
i still have a long road ahead with my healing, which will take patience and grace. but now i'm ready to turn away from the futility of seeking justice and fully embrace that journey. with my best leg forward.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
mei mei mau mau (pretty kitty!)
Monday, June 7, 2010
day one-hundred twenty-something
The drama continues, as does the pain, sadness, anger, loss... and the fear. I'm not healing as I should be. Anxiety over not having a doctor who cares or can speak my language and wondering if I do, actually need surgery keeps me on edge. I've developed patellar tendonitis--inflammation in the front of my knee. The physical therapy isn't really helping, and I spend an agonizing 6 hours there every week. I've recently developed a throbbing, screaming ache in my lower back. This past week it got so bad that I would wake up several times a night from the pain, unable to find a position I could fall asleep in.
Saturday I went to an American chiropractor in Taipei. He confirmed my concerns (and then some) by telling me the physical therapy modalities are probably not doing anything to help me heal. He seemed surprised that I didn't get surgery. He looked at my legs and feet when I stand, and pointed out that my ankles are starting to pronate (sink inwards), my achilles are sloping where they should be straight, and my left kneecap is gradually turning inwards. My sacroiliac joint (low backbone) is out of alignment, which is causing the muscles in my left lower back to distend, which is causing this pain.
My heart twisted as Dr. M explained my deterioration--which is all a result of the accident. I've tried, not without fail, but I've honestly tried, to keep as positive about all this as I can over the past four months, though my life has been completely different. Never--not since I was a very young child--have I gone this long without dancing, running, sweating profusely, feeling my spirit, the world around me, and the love of God in my body. I try, with pilates, with the yoga poses that I can do, with attempts at meditation, to retain that connection but it's slipping away. I feel my legs shriveling, atrophying, my whole body shrinking with the lack of its accustomed level of activity. And at times, despite my best efforts, it feels that my heart and soul are doing the same.
Dr. M gives me some suggestions, like using frequency-specific microcurrent therapy, which accelerates cell growth and healing, special inserts for my shoes, and he gives my back an adjustment. He writes a prescription to take to a nearby x-ray technician, to get four pictures of my hips, spine and neck so that he can see better whats happening in my SI joint.
I hop into a cab and am at the x-ray shop in five minutes. It's a small, clean clinic that specializes in x-rays and AIDS tests. An assistant leads me to a room, motioning for me to change into a stiff green robe. The x-ray technician is a small, smiley man in his 60's. He is efficient and professional, whisking me from pose to pose in front of the camera, tilting my head up, yi dian dian, just a little more! I am a model. America's Next Top Skeleton. Each time I'm in the right spot, he jumps out into the hall, commanding me to "HOLD BREFF!" A second later he pops back in and puts me in the next pose. The whole thing takes about three and a half minutes. He tells me not to change just yet and goes into the hall to view the pictures on a big light box.
I sit in my robe on a stool to wait, and I can see my illuminated frame in the pictures on the wall through the open door. There, my clavicles, sloping down slightly from my shoulders, the same way they do when they frame my favorite silver sparrow necklace. And there, in the next picture, my skull in profile, looking much too large to be so perfectly balanced on the slender column of cervical vertebrae which drip down from my occipital bone like a dangly earring. I see my teeth, the upper ones jutting out slightly from my maxilla--proof of buck-teeth once reined in by years of braces and headgear, but have since continued their movement forward.
I see my pelvic girdle from the front. It looks like a large bowl. Are my hips even? I can't tell from this angle. Would I be able to see the problem Dr. M was looking for? I hadn't exactly excelled in Anatomy, but Dance Kinesiology had been more hands on, and I'd loved that class. I remember my self-analysis project, and how I'd discovered that I have shallow acetabulum, the hollowed notches where the heads of the femurs fit in. Shallow acetabulum allow for more turn-out from the hips--a desired asset for a ballet dancer. I wonder when--or if--I will dance again. I wish I could touch my bones, play with them, study them, the way we explored the curves, ridges, and condyles of the Dance Department skeleton, which got wheeled from studio to studio on its hanging rack with its plastic phalanges clicking and clacking along in the sweaty air.
I see my lower back and hips from the side, my tailbone tipped in its stubborn anterior tilt. It looked the same in x-ray as it used to in mirrored ballet studios. With one hand on the barre, I'd happily go about my plié and dégagé unaware of my sneaky tailbone until an eagle-eyed teacher would walk by, swat me on the bum and tell me to tuck, tuck, TUCK! Looking at the image, it was clear I'd forgotten to tuck for the picture.
The x-ray technician gives me the go-ahead to change my clothes. I pay $40 for the four x-rays, and I'm back out on the street, hailing a taxi. I'm amazed and impressed by the whole process, inexpensive and devoid of insurance politics--it wouldn't be so easy in America. But then, because I'm so frequently confused and clueless about life here, the rare occasions when things are simple really catch me off guard.
All afternoon I am out and about in rainy Taipei, shopping, going to another appointment, lunching at Sababa Pita... all the while toting the large, flat plastic bag that reads "FASHION SHOPPING COLLECTION" in gold print which holds my x-rays. I feel oddly attached to the pictures, in which I can see my past, and that show my most inside self.
But somehow, getting out of another taxi later in the afternoon, the bag slips below my other bags, and I jump out of the cab in a hurry, at a busy intersection... without the x-rays. I realize it immediately, but there's no way I can chase the taxi, which has dissolved into a sea of traffic, into a city of three million people and hundreds of thousands of yellow taxis.
I do not have a very good evening after that.I cry a lot, unable to accept being dealt this particular blow, which just feels unnecessarily cruel after so many months of unfortunate events. I email my chiropractor--in the minute chance that an unusually kind-hearted passenger found my x-rays, opened them and were able to find some sort of marking which showed where they were taken. Not likely. Good Samaritanism isn't a common practice here, from my observation. I finally accept the situation and am grateful that the x-rays weren't too expensive, and resign myself to making another trip to the clinic this week.
Sunday morning,minutes after tearfully explaining the whole story to my mom over Skype, I receive this email from my chiropractor:
Saturday I went to an American chiropractor in Taipei. He confirmed my concerns (and then some) by telling me the physical therapy modalities are probably not doing anything to help me heal. He seemed surprised that I didn't get surgery. He looked at my legs and feet when I stand, and pointed out that my ankles are starting to pronate (sink inwards), my achilles are sloping where they should be straight, and my left kneecap is gradually turning inwards. My sacroiliac joint (low backbone) is out of alignment, which is causing the muscles in my left lower back to distend, which is causing this pain.
My heart twisted as Dr. M explained my deterioration--which is all a result of the accident. I've tried, not without fail, but I've honestly tried, to keep as positive about all this as I can over the past four months, though my life has been completely different. Never--not since I was a very young child--have I gone this long without dancing, running, sweating profusely, feeling my spirit, the world around me, and the love of God in my body. I try, with pilates, with the yoga poses that I can do, with attempts at meditation, to retain that connection but it's slipping away. I feel my legs shriveling, atrophying, my whole body shrinking with the lack of its accustomed level of activity. And at times, despite my best efforts, it feels that my heart and soul are doing the same.
Dr. M gives me some suggestions, like using frequency-specific microcurrent therapy, which accelerates cell growth and healing, special inserts for my shoes, and he gives my back an adjustment. He writes a prescription to take to a nearby x-ray technician, to get four pictures of my hips, spine and neck so that he can see better whats happening in my SI joint.
I hop into a cab and am at the x-ray shop in five minutes. It's a small, clean clinic that specializes in x-rays and AIDS tests. An assistant leads me to a room, motioning for me to change into a stiff green robe. The x-ray technician is a small, smiley man in his 60's. He is efficient and professional, whisking me from pose to pose in front of the camera, tilting my head up, yi dian dian, just a little more! I am a model. America's Next Top Skeleton. Each time I'm in the right spot, he jumps out into the hall, commanding me to "HOLD BREFF!" A second later he pops back in and puts me in the next pose. The whole thing takes about three and a half minutes. He tells me not to change just yet and goes into the hall to view the pictures on a big light box.
I sit in my robe on a stool to wait, and I can see my illuminated frame in the pictures on the wall through the open door. There, my clavicles, sloping down slightly from my shoulders, the same way they do when they frame my favorite silver sparrow necklace. And there, in the next picture, my skull in profile, looking much too large to be so perfectly balanced on the slender column of cervical vertebrae which drip down from my occipital bone like a dangly earring. I see my teeth, the upper ones jutting out slightly from my maxilla--proof of buck-teeth once reined in by years of braces and headgear, but have since continued their movement forward.
I see my pelvic girdle from the front. It looks like a large bowl. Are my hips even? I can't tell from this angle. Would I be able to see the problem Dr. M was looking for? I hadn't exactly excelled in Anatomy, but Dance Kinesiology had been more hands on, and I'd loved that class. I remember my self-analysis project, and how I'd discovered that I have shallow acetabulum, the hollowed notches where the heads of the femurs fit in. Shallow acetabulum allow for more turn-out from the hips--a desired asset for a ballet dancer. I wonder when--or if--I will dance again. I wish I could touch my bones, play with them, study them, the way we explored the curves, ridges, and condyles of the Dance Department skeleton, which got wheeled from studio to studio on its hanging rack with its plastic phalanges clicking and clacking along in the sweaty air.
I see my lower back and hips from the side, my tailbone tipped in its stubborn anterior tilt. It looked the same in x-ray as it used to in mirrored ballet studios. With one hand on the barre, I'd happily go about my plié and dégagé unaware of my sneaky tailbone until an eagle-eyed teacher would walk by, swat me on the bum and tell me to tuck, tuck, TUCK! Looking at the image, it was clear I'd forgotten to tuck for the picture.
The x-ray technician gives me the go-ahead to change my clothes. I pay $40 for the four x-rays, and I'm back out on the street, hailing a taxi. I'm amazed and impressed by the whole process, inexpensive and devoid of insurance politics--it wouldn't be so easy in America. But then, because I'm so frequently confused and clueless about life here, the rare occasions when things are simple really catch me off guard.
All afternoon I am out and about in rainy Taipei, shopping, going to another appointment, lunching at Sababa Pita... all the while toting the large, flat plastic bag that reads "FASHION SHOPPING COLLECTION" in gold print which holds my x-rays. I feel oddly attached to the pictures, in which I can see my past, and that show my most inside self.
But somehow, getting out of another taxi later in the afternoon, the bag slips below my other bags, and I jump out of the cab in a hurry, at a busy intersection... without the x-rays. I realize it immediately, but there's no way I can chase the taxi, which has dissolved into a sea of traffic, into a city of three million people and hundreds of thousands of yellow taxis.
I do not have a very good evening after that.I cry a lot, unable to accept being dealt this particular blow, which just feels unnecessarily cruel after so many months of unfortunate events. I email my chiropractor--in the minute chance that an unusually kind-hearted passenger found my x-rays, opened them and were able to find some sort of marking which showed where they were taken. Not likely. Good Samaritanism isn't a common practice here, from my observation. I finally accept the situation and am grateful that the x-rays weren't too expensive, and resign myself to making another trip to the clinic this week.
Sunday morning,minutes after tearfully explaining the whole story to my mom over Skype, I receive this email from my chiropractor:
Dear Elly,
YOU ARE IN LUCK !!!!
I just opened my email box this Sunday morning, called Dr Chang immediately, and YES the taxi driver brought them back to the Ba De X-ray clinic for you to pick up!
Dr. Chang has an excellent reputation and is very well-liked in the community, the driver knew who he was, and wanted to help a "foreign friend".
So, on this Sunday, we can give Thanks to people who still value their humanity and kindness above other things!
Have A GREAT Weekend!
--Dr. M
It feels like the rain has cleared, if just for a day, and I am grateful for this unexpected act of kindness, and reminded that there is goodness, even when when you've given up on it.
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