I missed the sunset, but I was there for the afterglow

Nestled in the supple comfort of an old leather chair and sipping a glass of watered-down scotch, I looked at the light catching the bare trees along Forest Avenue. It was only six-thirty, but the colors that I saw told me the day would not last much longer. Weariness from a day of tree climbing and dune hiking and wood piling melted into the chair and held my limp body there like glue. A restless tug, coming from a place somewhere between my head and my heart, beckoned me towards the shore and the setting sun, and I was caught in limbo.  

Time has been relentless. It slips away so quickly that I forget to live in the moment. I lay out my future in the cluttered pages of my planner, and in the present I become a robotical thespian, bound to the calendar script I live by. The present is clouded by my constant awareness of the past and the future. Where is my heart when my head is talking? Where is my head to translate what my heart keeps trying to tell it? A part of my conscious always seems to be drifting around somewhere else.

That day, I missed the sunset. But, with the help of some friends, I made it there for the afterglow. The clouds were purple, the sky was orange, and the waves crashed black and cold against the pier. 

Why I wear a helmet now (and why you should, too)

"Have you ever heard the adage 'You are as old as you feel?'" 'Timmy' asked me from behind the prescription sunglasses that he had recently popped one of the lenses out of by accident. He was wearing a tuxedo-printed t-shirt, and the fake rose screen-printed to the fake vest pocket had a blob of yolk on it from a miscalculated bite into a deviled egg. The blue-raz flavored slurpy he was drinking had enhanced his smile by clown-like proportions, and his purple-stained lips gaped open in a half smile as he waited for my nod. "Because I feel like I'm 101." This was the last thing I had expected to hear from a man who had been requesting to see "The Smurfs" since the first previews for it came out, and whose childish personality had changed very little from the time he hit his head while riding his bike forty years earlier.

 But very few situations have gone 'as expected' since taking a job at a brain trauma rehab facility a few weeks ago. I never would have expected to find myself in a bathroom having a debate with a very large, very naked man over whether or not he should put his socks on before taking a shower. I never would have expected to spend hours walking through the mall with someone who was begging so desperately for a free phone at every cell phone store, that he was eventually lectured on the fundamentals of capitalism by one confused employee.

I may be wiping people's butts and risking strangulation on a daily basis, but what I get out of this job is a lot more than the eleven dollars an hour they are paying me to be there. Besides the colorful conversations with people like Timmy, and the amusement of being in completely novel situations in public, I get to hear some truly incredible stories, about how these people got to where they are and how they survived against all odds, and how some of them are taking recovery into their own hands, and rebuilding a life for themselves despite the constant struggles they face. I have a new appreciation for the homeostasis my body systems can maintain on their own, and for the (relative) clarity with which my brain can function. These people have taught me how quickly everything in life can change. One minute, you may be riding your bike to work like you always do, and the next, you are in a several month coma and nothing will never be as it was. It has given me a little more gratitude for every moment. And now I wear a helmet when I ride my bike. You should, too.

Sparty

Sparty, an MD wanna B who likes to use his initials 'MDS' as a vague allusion to his brief stint as a med-school dropout, is a self-proclaimed 'professor' of Anatomy and Physiology at Wayne State University. In reality, he has fewer credentials to teach the class than the majority of the students taking it, but he was blessed with an overconfidence that makes even the dean cower away from the idea of questioning his authority.

From day one, I knew that having Sparty as a teacher was going to be a much different experience from the classical university learning situations I was accustomed to. When explaining a concept, he likes to contradict facts at random to keep us on our toes. After one student expressed concern over this method, Sparty clearly justified himself by explaining that he 'said it right at least as many times as he said it wrong'. All we have to do is Wikipedia it to figure out what he really meant.

Except one day, Wikipedia was down. There was a worldwide blackout to prove how important Wikipedia really was, and, needless to say, it worked. I may be paying over two thousand dollars to be hassled bi-weekly by Sparty, but everything I had to know was on the internet. When it was shut off, and Sparty claimed it was absolutley ridiculous that cytosol was occasionally used interchangably with the word cytoplasm, I felt compelled to consult him because the internet didn't have my back. And I had been using these two terms interchangeably since middle school. I ran up to the front after lecture, and was second in line. The girl who was first in line was fumbling through her notes, so I asked Sparty if I could ask him a quick question. "No, actually, she was in line first," he said, with a look on his face like I had just suggested killing a kitten. We both looked at her, and she, like a deer caught in the headlights, insisted that I ask my question. "OK, how quick is your question?" he asked me skeptically. Little did I know Wikipedia would be up and running the next day, or I would have walked away right then.

I had hoped I would never have to communicate with Sparty in person ever again. But that was wishful thinking. A few weeks later, Sparty announced we would have a quiz to a half-filled lecture hall, five minutes before lecture began. When I came into class on time, I would not have known there was a quiz except that my sister told me there was. (Note: A quiz consists of writing your name and ID number on a blank scantron. Nothing else.) With shaky hands, I frantically searched for my scantron form and ID in my backpack. By the time I had the thing filled out, Sparty was starting to verbally abuse the people who were turning in their quizzes for being 'late'. Based on a previous situation where Sparty derailed a student who was late for attempting to sit in the front half of the lecture hall, I decided to wait to turn it in until after class. But I had a gut feeling this would be a problem.

Again, I found myself running to the front of the lecture with my quiz and a written up challenge to what I thought was a faulty exam question. Someone beat me there. He was turning in a quiz late too. Sparty smelled trouble. "Why are you turning that in late?" he demanded. The student gave hims some type of reasonable response, but Sparty wasn't having any of it until he saw the mess of papers at his feet. "OK, if you arrange these papers into a nice neat pile, I will let you turn in your exam." The kid instantly dropped to his hands and knees and began sweeping the mess up with his hands. Then he turned to me, and saw the quiz in my hand. "Why didn't you turn YOURS in??!" he asked, the annoyance in his tone audibly escalating. "I didn't want to walk in front of you" I said. "I find that hard to believe" he said, and soon he was surrounded by a crowd of kids trying to turn in their quizzes. "OK, THAT'S IT. THERE ARE JUST TOO MANY OF YOU. I AM NOT ACCEPTING ANY MORE QUIZZES!" He was now just standing there watching the kid on his hands and knees like a hawk, making sure no one slipped their quiz in. I was just standing there watching my grade slip from an A to a B for no reason.

I was very mad, but I had my exam question to challenge so I stood my ground. Sparty was waiting for the quizzes to be cleaned up before he took any questions, and this process was taking an awkwardly long time. So I just stared right into his eyes to pass the time. He avoided my gaze. I took in a deep breath trying to regain my inner peace when he finally looked at me. "I can tell you are getting frustrated," he said, and I nodded, smiling. For once, we understood each other. "If you are so frustrated, maybe I cant answer your question. Maybe you should just leave."

I didn't just leave, but I wish I could have. I stood my ground and waited for him to accept my challenge, never breaking eye contact with that indifferent gaze.

WSU

There is one (and only one) thing that I love about Wayne State University: the graffiti. Specifically, the graffiti etched, paint-penned, sharpied, and penciled all over the inside stalls of the girls bathrooms. Where you might expect obscenities, ridicule, and just plain stupid stuff, at Wayne you find inspiration. Everything I have ever read on a stall on campus has been uplifting, hopeful, encouraging. One common tag, done in bubbly letters with a silver sharpie, reads "It Gets Better" with a little heart next to it. Sometimes people will affirm these statements or even add a bit to them, like "it really does, I promise!" and "you are amazing!" At first, I thought all of the inspiration was sort of over-done. It seemed to me that these young humanists were being dramatic. How tough could their lives really be?

As the weeks wore on, this attitude began to shift. With each passing day, things got harder. I started to mix up my vectors in physics and confuse bits of the skull in anatomy. I was slipping behind, even though I spent (nearly) every moment studying or dreaming about what I had studied. Despite my efforts, I was faced with the threat of failure, something that I rarely have the guts to challenge myself to come anywhere near.

I was reading the graffiti with less critique every day. After reading, I would think to myself, that's nice! in an "I'm not so sure if I am being sarcastic or genuine" sort of way. I was beginning to relate to the writers. On one particularly miserable day, I found myself hoping the silver-pen girl was telling the truth.

Sure, there are some downsides to going to school here. But there is a sort of solidarity that emanates from the bathroom stalls as people go in, downtrodden, and come out knowing that they are not alone in their struggle, and that someone out there cares enough to tell them so.

Digging deep

Yesterday, I found myself in a headfirst dive position at the bottom of the 'Five for a Dollar' book bin at the Salvation Army. Half of my body was submerged in the bin, my feet had left the ground, and ma was holding back an avalanche of books that would surely suffocate me or knock me out if she were to let go. We had both broken a sweat several minutes before. My arms were covered in bits of torn up book covers, and the mildewy book dust had my sinuses caught up in that uncomfortable limbo before a sneeze. I strained my left arm in an awkward twist under an old macroeconomics textbook and tried to free a promising-looking small book that was wedged under a heavy car repair manual from the 80's. I finally had the book freed; another romance novel (The Right Moves).

This all started when I was helping ma stuff six brand new used couch cushions into two shopping carts. The cushions happened to be next to the five for a dollar book bin, so I casually picked up an old orange hardback book. It was called 'To See the Word in A Grain of Sand,' and it was a collection of inspirational poems and sayings. This was just the type of thing I like to read to my dog after dinner, so I decided to get it. The next thing I new, ma was beside me, shuffling around the top layer of books. There was a copy of 'The Little Prince' in mint condition! And a Dictionary of American Slang! And a book of Polish Trivia! A field guide to tropical fruits! We were finding so many good books with so little effort. Before I knew it, the pile of books I had cradled in my arms was getting close to my chin. And ma didn't show any signs of stopping. Soon, it became apparent that she intended to dig all the way to the bottom.

Not many people have made it to the bottom of the five for a dollar bin. It is a physical and mental challenge, and should never be undertaken by the lone book-hunter. The bin itself is made of sturdy cardboard, five feet wide and about that deep, and is wrapped in burgundy paper. It probably once held watermelons at a fruit market. Now, it was full to the brim with books. The deeper you got into the bin, the more haggard the books became. Covers were missing, pages bent, some books were even torn in half. Because of our previous successes, our search was fueled by a sort of blind hope that the best book was still in there. But the reality was, the deeper we got, the worse the books became. Finds were fewer and farther between. When I came up from my last dive with 'The Right Moves' we both knew the search was coming to an end. Maybe we had to dig deep and find nothing just to realize that we had what we wanted all along.