How I Got to Now (Five Hours Ago)

1. Got to Metcalfe and found no open parking stalls. Thought a woman who got into her car was going to leave, so I waited. She didn't move. Then I noticed an empty stall at the metered parking across the street and pulled in. I didn't have enough change for two hours, so I had to walk to campus, buy something, walk back and add more coins to the meter.

2. Class got out a little late, but luckily I had ample time on the meter. Got to my next class at KCC. Did my presentation in which I presented badly-cooked picarones (which I had cooked for the first time the night before-- it really is a make and eat treat. It doesn't really store well). Others did their presentations, but many more did not show up, so class let out early.

3. Waited for the bathroom to reopen because the sign on it said it was closed for cleaning. That mofo must have been super filthy because it took a long damn time. In fact, it took so long, I left before it opened, deciding that the universe was saying I didn't need to go to the gym because I couldn't change my clothes. The wasted time felt like nothing compared to saving myself from a grueling workout.

4. Called Charlie on my way out of school, and he asked me to buy ulu. Fortunately, the KCC farmer's market was open, but they had no ulu. They did, however, have these enormous beets sans greens. I purchased one. The failure to find ulu was bothersome, so I decided to trek to Whole Foods. The reasoning was solid: if I had gone to the gym, I'd be in that area, anyway.

5. Roamed around the produce section and discovered no ulu. Remembered we were out of Dr. Bronner's so I grabbed a bottle. Poked at some meat in the cooler, eyeballed some dried herbs and spices, landed up with a Big Island beef roast.

6. Remembered I needed cash for Lucy's school. Went to the ATM.

7. Walked upstairs to my parked car, still talking to Charlie on the phone. My eyes met the eyes of a woman who was carrying a baby as she walked away from her car with a man. I know that woman, I realized, and I hadn't spoken to her since high school.

But here's where I pause. Numbers one through six positioned me in such a way that I emerged from between two cars at the very moment my old classmate looked up. All those things happened so our eyes could meet, because maybe we wouldn't have noticed each other. Maybe if I'd seen her first, I would have not said hi because I wouldn't disturb them. Maybe if she'd seen me first, she might not have recognized me.

The key to this brief reunion was in the eye contact.

We chatted briefly-- they were eager to get their groceries and go home, I'm sure, and I was keen on doing the same. The funny thing is that she works where I go to school, so I kind of anticipated bumping into her at some point. Except there. At school. Not in the parking lot at Kahala Mall.

I mostly think of these series of events when bad things happen. Maybe if I'd left on time/later, maybe if I'd put shoes on rather than slippers, maybe if I called ahead first . . . then I wouldn't have gotten into this fender bender or had the car drive by and douse me in rainwater. You get me. But today was a rare day in which the afternoon events led me to something felicitous. Thank you, universe.

Moral of the story: sometimes not going to the bathroom can be beneficial.

Charitable Expectations

I've been in limbo over a donation I made to a local charity.  Even as I type this, I still don't know if I want to divulge the name of this charity because I think they do good despite the bone I have to pick with them.  When donating to a charity, is it wrong to expect something in return if that's how they solicit funds?

Back in April, I donated a significant sum of money to a local charity as part of an assignment I had in one of my classes.  It probably wasn't significant to them, but it was to my bank account.  My original intent was to give less than half of what I landed up giving . . . and then I saw their donation packages.  For different amounts given, the charity offered gift packages in return-- the greater the donation, the heftier the return gift would be.  For example, if I donated $10, I might receive a bumper sticker and a pencil, but if I gave $50, I might receive a CD, tote bag, and all the lesser gift items.  I had my eye on the tote bag, so I donated the appropriate amount, felt good for doing so, and felt even better knowing I'd have one of those snazzy bags in my possession soon enough.

It wasn't until the middle of June that I realized I had yet to receive my gifts from this charity.  My first thought was that I had maybe skipped a step or missed something.  I went back to the website and it appeared that I might have forgotten to click the button that said yes, send me my gift!  I swear that option hadn't been there in April, but I clicked it and waited, sure the bag would be in my clutches in no time.

It's now August and I have not received my gifts, and when I went back to the website, the gift packages are gone.  It's as if they'd never existed!  One can now purchase those items in their store, but there are no donation incentive packages like I swear there were in April.  What does a girl like me do, then?  Write an email!  Four days ago, I went to the charity's "Contact Us" page and contacted them.  It was, I believe, a polite missive.  I don't usually donate to charities in hopes of getting a prize or gift.  For this same assignment, I also donated to another local charity that offered nothing but a thank you email in return.  I was happy with it because it's all that I expected.  This charity has yet to respond to my email, and to be honest, I don't think I'll ever get one.

Let's be clear about this, though.  I'm upset because they said they'd give me something in return for my donation.  I held up my end of the bargain-- I donated.  They processed my payment and took my money.  They, however, did not send me the items they said they would.  I feel lied to.  Misled.  Then the charity did not respond to my email, and so now I feel ignored AND misled.  And that makes me feel bad, too.  I feel guilty because they put me in the position of holding my hand out when they should have just honored our deal in the first place.  I should not feel bad about giving to charity!

Maybe if I were a better person, I'd be able to let it go.  The less they have to give away, the more they have to promote healthy, sustainable living, right?  But now I can't feel good about them because they lied to me.  I now see them at work in the community and I think they got the funds to do that through manipulation and shady deals.  I question their integrity.  I feel so let down.  It's like finding out your heroes are only human, victims of the same frailties as everyone else.

The charity may yet contact me.  Who knows?  They may offer an apology, maybe even offer the gifts they offered in the first place.  Will I accept them?  Yes!  Will I feel bad about it?  Nope.  Am I wrong? But what if they ignore me completely?  What do you think?

A Family That Dragonball Zs Together, Powers Up Together

Dragonball Z and I go way back.  The first summer I came back to Hawaii from North Carolina, my siblings were obsessed with DBZ.  I laughed at them.  The show can be completely ridiculous (just look up where their names come from), and, depending on which version you're watching, episodes can be slow-moving and even uneventful.

And then I got hooked.

From then on, I watched every episode I could, except back then there wasn't a DVR or online episodes.  You either caught it when it was on or you missed it.  Living out in North Carolina, I also lacked access to DBZ manga, which probably wouldn't have been a problem in Hawaii.  I tried to buy the VHS tapes (yes, they were still in wide use then) or DVDs, but they were way out of my price range.  So I settled on t-shirts and cheap comic books.

These days, my kids are into DBZ, too.  They've watched every American episode of each saga, and it's super neat that they can talk to my siblings about DBZ with confidence.  The series spans generations with vigor.  The kids now know more about the Z warriors than I!

So, I a couple years ago, we went to see Battle of the Gods in the theatre, and it was amazing.  It's so much fun to watch such an iconic show with so many other fans.  Knowing how fun that experience was, I took them to see the new DBZ movie, Resurrection "F" last night.  It was a ton of fun.

Noah left cross country practice early so we could get there on time, knowing that it would be crowded.  But, oh!  My slipper broke between the car and the theatre, so we made a visit to the shoe store to pick up a cheap pair of slippers (never mind that I have a bazillion pairs at home).  We ate a fast dinner, then headed to the theatre.  Amazingly, we got there late enough that a line had already formed, but early enough to get great seats.  Last time, they shoe-horned us all into a tiny theatre, but this time they were kind enough to open up one of the big ones.

Prior to going, I'd read a review saying this movie was dumb and superfluous.  Well, duh.  That's DBZ, right?  Silly, weird, with lots of odd noises, powering up, and pauses between fights.  Resurrection "F" was all of those things minus the long, drawn out voice overs while thinking and growling while powering up, plus blue hair. I really liked the blue hair.

The cost of tickets and dinner was already high, and then I had to buy new footwear.  This movie outing turned out to be quite expensive.  But it's such a rare experience and we all had a bunch of fun.  Love that fricken Dragonball Z.

Writing Is Hard (No, It Isn't)

Last summer, I experienced a breakthrough in the form of a creative writing class.  I blogged about this before near the beginning of this journey.  So much has not changed since then, but my writing world has embiggened, I think.  You know, more experiences.  Here are some examples.

1.  I have a story I'm working on.  Last summer, I began writing about two beloved characters I created, Tomas and Madrigal.  They were my world for a long time, but I kind of gave it up.  During the Spring 2015 semester, I began writing another story.  It was a short, ten-page story assignment that just kind of just kept growing until I realized it wasn't going to be a short story.  I guess that means, technically, I failed the assignment, but my teacher is awesome and encouraged me to pursue the story.  It's been difficult and sometimes it overwhelms me.  Sometimes I want to print it out, crumple up the pages, and wipe my butt with them.  You must understand, though, that having a work in progress is a big deal for me. Prior to Tomas and Madrigal, I've never had a WIP since high school.  Now I have two fiction and one non-fiction.  This is fairly momentous.

2.  Having never really written something so ambitious, I never really appreciated the kind of work that goes into it.  I've never been a plotter or outliner, but this story has me keeping all kinds of notes and doing all kinds of research.

3.  Realizing how much work goes into a story, I have become a better reader.  Not always, though.  Reading is for pleasure.  I read because it's fun and not because it's work.  Once it's work, it starts being less fun.  Again, not always, but often enough.  As a reader, I look for fully formed characters who I can really get into, whether I really like them or really despise them.  I've begun to notice how my favorite authors nudge the reader toward certain attitudes toward their characters.  It's always just kind of been magic all these years, and I've never considered myself a magician.  My perspective is changing.  If I can recognize these techniques in the books I love, then I can repeat them myself.  I can write stories.  I can be a writer.

4.  I've never really considered myself a writer.  I put writers up on a pedestal on a level that I could never reach.  Yes, even the bad writers.  There are many reasons for this, one of them being simply that even bad writers had a vision and the discipline to follow through.  I'm lazy and lack vision.  Furthermore, I know some really good writers and I felt shame next to them.  But taking classes, worrying about grades, GPA, and financial aid, I'm forced to write.  Whether it's a research essay, a short story, a poem, or mini ensayo, if I don't write it, I could fail, and even if I don't feel like a talented writer, I can't fail school.  Not failing school forces me to write, and that much writing is that much practice, and with that much practice I become a better writer.  I become a more confident writer, and being a confident writer, I'm finding, is as good (if not better) than being a good one.  I'm starting to learn that it's less about having good ideas and more about just fucking writing.  Just write.

5.  People can be mean even without meaning to.  Providing constructive criticism and even praise can be tricky.  I know that I've offended other writers even when I was trying to be thoughtful, careful, and encouraging.  The last time anyone really read my story was about ten pages ago, and I'm a little nervous about getting feedback in its current rough draft form.  I want to give it to people and remind them that this is truly a first draft and to assure them that I already have notes to change and improve certain scenes and characters.  But then I want to say fuck it.  I've already put a lot of thought and hard work into it, too.  It isn't easy.  Bear this in mind if ever I ask you to read it.  Please, be kind.

Noah's Broken Arm

It was a Wednesday in April.  I left the Manoa library to pick up Lucy from school and we met Charlie at the Farmer’s Market at the Neil Blaisdell Center.  I remember poking around, looking for something unique to try— Lucy had already bought herself a lemonade.  We got home, excited with our produce purchases (we felt like rich bastards with our bounty), about to settle in and start dinner, when my cell phone rang.  It was a trainer from Roosevelt’s track team.  Noah, they said, broke his arm.

Like the wind, the three of us flew to the car.  Having just arrived home, we were still dressed and ready to go.  My first thought was that Noah was going to miss his chance this year at states, something he’s been training for for a long time.  At that time, I didn’t know how bad it was.

We live just a minute’s drive away from the school.  In the waning sunlight, Noah was brought to our car in a cart, his arm in a sling with an ice pack on top.  Getting him out of the cart and into the front seat of the car was a challenge because the slightest move gave him intense pain.  The trainers and coaches all looked so somber, but left Noah with jokes and encouragement.  

I drove very carefully but swiftly to Tripler Army Medical Center while Noah told us his story.  He'd been practicing hurdles when he fell and his arm crumpled.  It was immediately obvious that his arm was broken. I dropped Noah and Charlie off at the door to the emergency room while Lucy and I parked.  By the time we joined the boys in the waiting room, the nurse was ready to see Noah.  She was kind and efficient.  She didn’t coddle, but she made sure Noah was taken care of and helped make him physically comfortable.  I got my first glimpse of his injury while in that waiting room.  The bones had not broken the skin, but there was a bulge in the skin that was frightening to see.  It amazed me that Noah could function at all.

While we waited to be seen by a doctor, I went outside to call my family.  It was already dark.  As soon as the doors closed behind me, I heaved and wept.  It seemed such a ridiculous, self-indulgent thing to do.  I was not in pain, Noah was.  His life was just getting complicated, not mine.  But my heart hurt for him.  I know it wasn’t my fault and there was nothing I could have done except lock him in a bubble, but I wished I could have protected him.  My boy.  My baby.  My first born.  For a long time, it was me and him.  

After talking with family briefly, I went back inside and we were seen to by many fabulous nurses and doctors.  Noah obviously broke his arm, but he needed to get x-rays.  He wanted me in the room with him, so I went and lent him as much courage and strength as I could, though he seemed to have more than enough within himself.  Every time he gasped or cried out, I wanted to scream at the people in the room.  But they were kind, too, if young and inexperienced.  Noah was also thirsty, dying for just one drink of water, but it wasn’t allowed until later.

Almost immediately following the x-rays, we were able to wait in his own room in pediatrics.  Charlie and Lucy had been separated from us, waiting in the waiting room for hours.  We were all welcomed into pediatrics.  The soft light of the room, the welcoming nursing staff, the tv and comfortable chair helped us draw strength together as a family.  We waited for about an hour and then Noah went into surgery.  

The x-rays showed that Noah had broken both bones in his left forearm.  The bulge I’d noticed on his arm was not the bones jutting up against his skin as I had imagined, but rather appeared to be a sagging of his skin since the bones weren’t keeping it up properly. Like a tent with broken poles.  They were going to repair his bones with plates, which in the post-op x-rays appeared to me like caterpillars on his bones.  

We went home while he was in surgery.  It was after midnight and he would be done in a few hours.  I slept briefly, then went back to the hospital to join Noah when he got back to his room.  He in his bed and I in the pull out chair slept fitfully in batches of hours.  Two hours here, wake up, one hour there.  He was finally allowed something to drink and eat, but when that time came, he was feeling too sick to do so.  I have it on video.  My son, the voracious eater, too out of it to eat food that was laid out in front of him.  I thought it was hilarious.

Noah got discharged later that afternoon.  He was beyond stoked to get out of the hospital, reminding the nurses to give his antibiotics on time so he could leave on time.  Before we left, the nurses helped Noah bathe himself.  The things we take for granted!  But he felt so much better after that first awkward bath, and I’m thankful that those wonderful ladies were there to give him assistance.  It was easier for him to get their help than from his mom.

We were both happy to be home again, but having a broken arm in a bulky splint made life challenging.  The love seat in the living room became his bed because it provided support for his arm and head.  Charlie and I took turns sleeping on the couch to help Noah get up to use the bathroom and to get him settled again when he was done.  We were trying to help him get up and about again, but even short road trips fatigued and nauseated him. Bathing was the biggest trial.  It took us a few days to finally get a routine down and acquire accessories that helped him get as clean as possible.  He couldn’t get in the shower and we don’t have a tub, but I bundled up his arm in a garbage bag and then he gave himself a sponge bath.  

When Noah went back to school the Monday after falling, he had to bring with him a pillow to help him support his arm when sitting.  The constant weight of his arm in a sling made his neck hurt and gave him headaches, which also made him nauseous.  He couldn’t walk to school because it often rains here in the morning, and the arm couldn’t get wet, so I drove both the kids to school and often picked them up after.  I had to get special permission from the high school to be able to drop off my son on school property, which was imperative on days that it was rainy.  Some of his teachers seemed oblivious to the physical and mental challenges of such a serious injury, and I had to call the Vice Principal to get it sorted out.  I guess unless you’ve experienced something like this, you don’t realize how much an injury can change your life.  I was going through it second-hand, and my life was super complicated.  I was working and going to school, which was already trying enough.  But now I also had to spend a half hour helping Noah bathe.  I had to wake up a half hour earlier every day to help him get dressed for school (because he couldn’t put a shirt on alone and for a few days before I wised up and bought him slip-on shoes, I had to tie his shoe laces every morning).  It was difficult for all of in those first couple weeks.

Noah experienced some mood shifts, for sure.  He grew irritable quickly and sometimes he was demanding.  I know he was frustrated that he would want so many things and be unable to do them himself.  I know he wasn’t happy to rely on others to help him, and I know he wasn’t happy to miss out on stuff at school because of his injury.  But lots of people were super supportive of Noah.  People bought him snacks, came to see him.  People wanted to hear Noah’s story.  My boy was back to himself in no time.

At this point in time, he finished the prescribed occupational therapy, and the doctors were impressed with how much progress he made in such a short time.  Noah dutifully massages his scars like he was instructed and performed his exercises to regain motion.  It helped that the doctors encouraged him to play video games as part of his recovery.  Noah had been cleared to run again a couple weeks ago, but cannot return to all regular activity for another couple of weeks.  His arm remains completely weak, though he’s not as helpless as he was before.  At least now he can open his own bottles, though he’s not allowed to bear any weight on his arm.

I am so proud of my son.  I can’t believe he’s endured this whole thing with the kind of maturity and strength that he’s displayed. Several years ago, Noah tripped over a tree root at the zoo and cut his hand deep enough to need stitches. The boy wailed during the whole thing even though it had been numbed by the doctor.  Noah learned from that experience and was in better control of himself (although if he had wanted to scream and cry, that would certainly have been understandable).  He was pleasant to visitors, and patient with them if they said something impolite.  He wasn’t content to just sit around and make everyone do stuff for him, he got up and got active (mostly because he was motivated to run again for summer cross country training).  School work was extremely challenging for him, to get caught up and to find the motivation, and he ended the school year still on the school honor roll.  Though I continued to push him to excel in school, I’m also proud of him for knowing his limits and knowing when to give himself a break.  It’s a great thing to achieve, but it’s also important to remember to LIVE.  He is such a good kid (which makes me laugh at this very moment because it’s 11pm and I’ve just told him to go to bed.  He’s ignoring me because he’s come to a particularly climactic point in his book.  My good kid who ignores me so he can finish his book.  My nerd!).

So, we go back to the occupational therapist next week, and then the orthopedist a couple weeks after that.  Hopefully both doctors will clear him for regular activity.  I know that’s Noah’s wish.  He was eager to go to the gym with me right after he got his cast off, which happened NEVER before.  Then he was eager to be okayed to run again.  I think he surprised himself by wanting to get back to doing crossfit workouts with his family and core workouts with his cross country team. He's still considering whether or not he will continue to do hurdles next season, but we've talked about it several times.  I don't want him to limit himself because of his fears and doubts, but really I just want him to be happy.  Who knows?  Maybe he'll go back to pole vaulting?

Girls

I am the second child of five, the eldest of three girls.  In my family, though, we have a long-standing joke that my mom has five sons instead of two because us girls just aren't very girly.  Having an older brother, I always wanted to be like him and do what he did.  As a result, I aggressively learned to read, longed to run around shirtless, and learned to hit a baseball as a lefty and throw a football like I (mostly) knew what I was doing.  To this day, I enjoy playing catch with ball and glove or tossing the football around, especially in the ocean, which always made leaping to make a catch so much more dramatic, right?  Fearlessly leaping forward, arms outstretched, water streaming from your body like a cape, your bangs strewn across your face.  You feel the thump of a water-logged Nerf football in your hands just before you crash into the surface of the ocean, and you feel like a huge fucking hero.

I was out on yard duty today and was surprised when I thought I saw "Jane" on the blacktop playing basketball with the boys.  I squinted my eyes and stared.  Just before I visually confirmed it wasn't Jane, I thought, "Jane would never be running around, SWEATING." And the truth of that statement kind of bummed me out.  But I looked over to the other playground in time to see another 5th grade girl, petite, in her cute outfit, hair just so, throw the shit out of a football to her friend thirty feet away.  It was so beautiful, I actually watched the arc of the ball in the sky as it left her fingers and spiraled smoothly into her friends open hands.  No one squealed in delight, no one woohoo-ed, no one jumped up and down.  It was just part of the scenery, another ho-hum Wednesday, these two lovely girls in lovely outfits, their pretty hair barely moving out of place, in the middle of the field, effortlessly tossing a football between the two of them.

The scene had me in awe for so many reasons.  People are still going outside to play and they're teaching their girls to do stereotypically boy things; girls are still wanting to learn to throw balls even while they maintain their girlish ideals of beauty;  stereotypes are being blasted out of the water!  I love it.