Showing up
It's 3:30 p.m. at Trader Joe's, and while the lines are long and my temper is short...the cheek bones are high, particularly on the blond women. Someone must measure this sort of thing, correlate facial structure with hair tone and decide if, well, after all, you might just be right for Menlo Park. I check my watch. The noise, the queue, I would like it all to end. And someday it will. Years from now, an archaeology postdoc sifting through the ruins of Menlo Park will try to determine who he was, this Joe the Trader. What were his trading routes...and why were these two wheelchair tracks leading to his door?
Marlou, awakened from a frightening nightmare during an afternoon nap, called out my name. She sounded terrified. She regained consciousness, sat up, smiled. What does such a spontaneous cry from a dream mean except that I am essential to her? It's hard for me to remember this at times. Marlou is preoccupied with illness. And I'm very susceptible to feeling overlooked. Even here at Trader Joe's where nothing is overlooked. Everything stacked and priced and moving fast. Would I like help out to my car? No, this is my car, this wheelchair. Everything is complete. Except for my nails.
Sky Nails is next. By now, I'm almost a regular. Mai, the owner, greets me, as though I'm coming here for the first time. Would I like the full treatment? Good question, for there's only one treatment. And it's mildly painful, but otherwise pleasant, to be rubbed and lotioned and recognized and needed. When you have a chronic recognition deficit disorder, as I do, you need to learn what all the women getting treatment at Sky Nails already know. Get attention where you can, when you can. And be grateful.
In the early 1990s, when I was 25% younger than I am now, the crumbling of my marriage sent me into a dark place. One thing about dark places: you can't see very well. Actually, there was plenty to see. My wife's absence, for one. I spent long days in our backyard, gardening alone. Still, one must credit the ex-wife for a splendid idea. Her bodywork guy was in a men's group. Why didn't I consider joining? Why not, at least, give the thing a try?
I drove my aging Chrysler to Palo Alto's Quaker complex. What else to call it, sprawling as it does in these days of high property values, half a block wide, replete with parking, offices and a nursery school. Appropriately, the men's group met in the nursery school. Tiny chairs, tiny tables, big guys. On the first day, I slammed my car door, grabbed my crutch and, being in my semiambulatory era, hobbled inside. What ensued was fairly routine fare. I'd been in therapy groups before. Hell, I'd been in therapy before. The level of self revelation did not intimidate me. What did, was the moment when the meeting was over. Guys stood up, hugged each other, chatted...while I sat to one side, looking on.
Sitting to one side, looking on, is to be expected at times. And times was what these guys shared. At that point the group had been meeting for 15 years. Then, at the halfway point of its 30-year run, a newcomer was a newcomer. Clear enough in retrospect, but at that moment I was the forgotten man. No one no one cared about me, the man ignored. One can psychologize until the cows come home, try to understand why the cows left home in the first place and if the place ever felt like home. But, for the moment, I had to sit there, looking up at others who were looking down, and not at me. I was neither welcome nor wanted, an unnecessary add-on to a well-established group...and I would do best to quietly slip out to my car...and since nothing I do is quiet, and I lack the neuromuscular capacity to slip anywhere...best thing: make an excuse. The guys were heading out to dinner, that being their custom. I had the name of the restaurant, knew where it was, so it would be easy to drive in that direction. Then, of course, turn and head home.
Clint, one of the older members, being both kind and attuned, said he looked forward to talking to me at dinner. See you in a few minutes, he said, hopping on his bicycle. He was off, the cars were off, and I was off course...the homeward course being abandoned in favor of Thai City, the cavernous, echoing and not very good restaurant where the men's group habitually took over a large round table.
King Arthur had it right, seat people at a round table and you solve a lot of problems. People naturally look at each other, even if they have to yell at each other. It's hard to say who is in charge. Not that this was ever much of a problem with the men's group, where anarchy reigned. The dinner ordering process was like dues paying time at the United Nations. In their 15 years, the men at table had drifted toward affluence at one extreme, borderline homelessness at the other. Placing a group order at a restaurant was no small task. Thai City offered the perfect solution. The guys could haggle, argue the merits of salmon in curry sauce versus pad Thai, but in the end it was up to Mingh, the waiter. $10 a plate, he was told...just bring us some food.
I felt better driving home. Better than I had in quite a while. Still, there was that sinking feeling, an emptiness bordering on panic that had occurred in moments throughout the evening. Times when I wasn't part of the conviviality, didn't understand the conversations, had no history and, I kept thinking, had no right to be there. Yes, I felt better for the human contact and the night out, but I couldn't really imagine going back.
I was a junior in high school when, in the middle of the academic year, everything changed. I moved from a small desert town to the county seat, a postwar suburb just beginning to sprawl. My old high school had 200 students, and the new one had 3500. On the first day of classes, I discovered remarkable amenities, such as a cafeteria with more than one lunch option. I entered, found my way through the line, got my food and looked for a place to sit. The cafeteria was loud, trays banging, forks clicking, kids yelling. Occasionally, a pat of butter went sailing straight up like a rocket. In the ceiling above, a series of yellow stains spread across the acoustical tile. I ate my lunch, no one talked to me, kids on either side conversed with each other. After it was over, the trays went on a pile, and I went outside and stood, waiting for the end of lunch hour. It was an ordeal never to be repeated. The library was open, I discovered the next day. The vending machines sold enough stuff to make a lunch. After which I made a break for the library. I spent the next year of lunch hours in there.
Memories of abandonment must have come back to me on that men's group evening. Coming back myself, the following week, was that much harder. Still, I managed to get in my car, crutch stashed on the seat beside me. Getting on the freeway that second time, the wrongness of this hit me. No one expected me that evening, and no one would miss me if I wasn't there. I could feel it then, heading south on 101, how it would be when the meeting ended and all the guys in the room looked at each other. And no one looked at me. I resolved to get off at the next exit, hang a left over the freeway, and head home. That is to say, return to my house and its certainty and routines. I was no longer at home, at home. But this knowledge had, as yet, eluded me. The men's group was like an old nightmare of being out of the in crowd, shunned by the clique. And here was the Embarcadero Road exit, the logical place to turn around. But something in me was Quaker-bound. I parked there and headed for the men.
This went on, this sinking feeling whenever I set out for the group, for a good six months. Until I felt known enough to feel part of things. And when the divorce came, being part of things meant more than I could have anticipated. The group had all the faults inherent in leaderless activity. Human beings need some sort of ritual guidance to open up, face the difficult, reveal the embarrassing. And to do so, in the service of life, we need elders. The men in the group, just entering middle age, did their best. Like the Lost Boys of James M. Barrie, they made their own land. And I made my way among them. Over the years in this group, I shed tears. A true panic attack overtook me one night, just as the group was heading for Thai City. A couple of the men helped me home. By then, home was a bachelor apartment. It was empty, but it was mine. And today, it is Marlou's and mine.
Woody Allen famously says that 90% of life is showing up. He's right. And showing up can be a major challenge. Like Marlou showing up for chemotherapy, which is to say, her weekly poisoning. No experience could be more consummately ambiguous. Chemotherapy seems to be extending, and narrowing, her life at the same time. The treatments tire her, beat back the cancer cells, make her sick, give her life. What is she to do with all this? She turns up for the treatments, I turn up for the post-treatment support. Another week, another month, another scan.
In a sense, I never stopped turning up at the men's groups. I just started turning up at a different group, one led by a psychologist. While the latter was a good move, it wouldn't have come without the first move. There is little to say except that at one point in my life, turning up was very hard and in turning up, I was turning a corner. I didn't see the corner coming, but no matter. I watch Marlou brace herself for another round of treatments...round and round. I brace with her. It's hard to watch. I'm a bystander. Yet in this role, there's a chance to provide what was missing in my own childhood. There's a chance to chisel a lesson into stone.
That it's easier to turn up when someone turns up with you. That being a bystander means standing by.
Marlou, awakened from a frightening nightmare during an afternoon nap, called out my name. She sounded terrified. She regained consciousness, sat up, smiled. What does such a spontaneous cry from a dream mean except that I am essential to her? It's hard for me to remember this at times. Marlou is preoccupied with illness. And I'm very susceptible to feeling overlooked. Even here at Trader Joe's where nothing is overlooked. Everything stacked and priced and moving fast. Would I like help out to my car? No, this is my car, this wheelchair. Everything is complete. Except for my nails.
Sky Nails is next. By now, I'm almost a regular. Mai, the owner, greets me, as though I'm coming here for the first time. Would I like the full treatment? Good question, for there's only one treatment. And it's mildly painful, but otherwise pleasant, to be rubbed and lotioned and recognized and needed. When you have a chronic recognition deficit disorder, as I do, you need to learn what all the women getting treatment at Sky Nails already know. Get attention where you can, when you can. And be grateful.
In the early 1990s, when I was 25% younger than I am now, the crumbling of my marriage sent me into a dark place. One thing about dark places: you can't see very well. Actually, there was plenty to see. My wife's absence, for one. I spent long days in our backyard, gardening alone. Still, one must credit the ex-wife for a splendid idea. Her bodywork guy was in a men's group. Why didn't I consider joining? Why not, at least, give the thing a try?
I drove my aging Chrysler to Palo Alto's Quaker complex. What else to call it, sprawling as it does in these days of high property values, half a block wide, replete with parking, offices and a nursery school. Appropriately, the men's group met in the nursery school. Tiny chairs, tiny tables, big guys. On the first day, I slammed my car door, grabbed my crutch and, being in my semiambulatory era, hobbled inside. What ensued was fairly routine fare. I'd been in therapy groups before. Hell, I'd been in therapy before. The level of self revelation did not intimidate me. What did, was the moment when the meeting was over. Guys stood up, hugged each other, chatted...while I sat to one side, looking on.
Sitting to one side, looking on, is to be expected at times. And times was what these guys shared. At that point the group had been meeting for 15 years. Then, at the halfway point of its 30-year run, a newcomer was a newcomer. Clear enough in retrospect, but at that moment I was the forgotten man. No one no one cared about me, the man ignored. One can psychologize until the cows come home, try to understand why the cows left home in the first place and if the place ever felt like home. But, for the moment, I had to sit there, looking up at others who were looking down, and not at me. I was neither welcome nor wanted, an unnecessary add-on to a well-established group...and I would do best to quietly slip out to my car...and since nothing I do is quiet, and I lack the neuromuscular capacity to slip anywhere...best thing: make an excuse. The guys were heading out to dinner, that being their custom. I had the name of the restaurant, knew where it was, so it would be easy to drive in that direction. Then, of course, turn and head home.
Clint, one of the older members, being both kind and attuned, said he looked forward to talking to me at dinner. See you in a few minutes, he said, hopping on his bicycle. He was off, the cars were off, and I was off course...the homeward course being abandoned in favor of Thai City, the cavernous, echoing and not very good restaurant where the men's group habitually took over a large round table.
King Arthur had it right, seat people at a round table and you solve a lot of problems. People naturally look at each other, even if they have to yell at each other. It's hard to say who is in charge. Not that this was ever much of a problem with the men's group, where anarchy reigned. The dinner ordering process was like dues paying time at the United Nations. In their 15 years, the men at table had drifted toward affluence at one extreme, borderline homelessness at the other. Placing a group order at a restaurant was no small task. Thai City offered the perfect solution. The guys could haggle, argue the merits of salmon in curry sauce versus pad Thai, but in the end it was up to Mingh, the waiter. $10 a plate, he was told...just bring us some food.
I felt better driving home. Better than I had in quite a while. Still, there was that sinking feeling, an emptiness bordering on panic that had occurred in moments throughout the evening. Times when I wasn't part of the conviviality, didn't understand the conversations, had no history and, I kept thinking, had no right to be there. Yes, I felt better for the human contact and the night out, but I couldn't really imagine going back.
I was a junior in high school when, in the middle of the academic year, everything changed. I moved from a small desert town to the county seat, a postwar suburb just beginning to sprawl. My old high school had 200 students, and the new one had 3500. On the first day of classes, I discovered remarkable amenities, such as a cafeteria with more than one lunch option. I entered, found my way through the line, got my food and looked for a place to sit. The cafeteria was loud, trays banging, forks clicking, kids yelling. Occasionally, a pat of butter went sailing straight up like a rocket. In the ceiling above, a series of yellow stains spread across the acoustical tile. I ate my lunch, no one talked to me, kids on either side conversed with each other. After it was over, the trays went on a pile, and I went outside and stood, waiting for the end of lunch hour. It was an ordeal never to be repeated. The library was open, I discovered the next day. The vending machines sold enough stuff to make a lunch. After which I made a break for the library. I spent the next year of lunch hours in there.
Memories of abandonment must have come back to me on that men's group evening. Coming back myself, the following week, was that much harder. Still, I managed to get in my car, crutch stashed on the seat beside me. Getting on the freeway that second time, the wrongness of this hit me. No one expected me that evening, and no one would miss me if I wasn't there. I could feel it then, heading south on 101, how it would be when the meeting ended and all the guys in the room looked at each other. And no one looked at me. I resolved to get off at the next exit, hang a left over the freeway, and head home. That is to say, return to my house and its certainty and routines. I was no longer at home, at home. But this knowledge had, as yet, eluded me. The men's group was like an old nightmare of being out of the in crowd, shunned by the clique. And here was the Embarcadero Road exit, the logical place to turn around. But something in me was Quaker-bound. I parked there and headed for the men.
This went on, this sinking feeling whenever I set out for the group, for a good six months. Until I felt known enough to feel part of things. And when the divorce came, being part of things meant more than I could have anticipated. The group had all the faults inherent in leaderless activity. Human beings need some sort of ritual guidance to open up, face the difficult, reveal the embarrassing. And to do so, in the service of life, we need elders. The men in the group, just entering middle age, did their best. Like the Lost Boys of James M. Barrie, they made their own land. And I made my way among them. Over the years in this group, I shed tears. A true panic attack overtook me one night, just as the group was heading for Thai City. A couple of the men helped me home. By then, home was a bachelor apartment. It was empty, but it was mine. And today, it is Marlou's and mine.
Woody Allen famously says that 90% of life is showing up. He's right. And showing up can be a major challenge. Like Marlou showing up for chemotherapy, which is to say, her weekly poisoning. No experience could be more consummately ambiguous. Chemotherapy seems to be extending, and narrowing, her life at the same time. The treatments tire her, beat back the cancer cells, make her sick, give her life. What is she to do with all this? She turns up for the treatments, I turn up for the post-treatment support. Another week, another month, another scan.
In a sense, I never stopped turning up at the men's groups. I just started turning up at a different group, one led by a psychologist. While the latter was a good move, it wouldn't have come without the first move. There is little to say except that at one point in my life, turning up was very hard and in turning up, I was turning a corner. I didn't see the corner coming, but no matter. I watch Marlou brace herself for another round of treatments...round and round. I brace with her. It's hard to watch. I'm a bystander. Yet in this role, there's a chance to provide what was missing in my own childhood. There's a chance to chisel a lesson into stone.
That it's easier to turn up when someone turns up with you. That being a bystander means standing by.
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