I hate March 12th

So, I think that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. Either that or I'm dealing with some strong countertransference. In the therapy world, countertransference is a term used to describe feelings that are stirred up in the clinician in response to material or presentation of the patient. No, it's not a bad thing and yes, it's unavoidable. My job is to manage it.

Anyway, I'm in a really shitty mood. I have an idea of why, in addition to potential countertransference, but I will do my best to keep that to myself. I'll try to be a "good girl."

First, I realized when my alarm did not wake me up, that I had my actual time on the alarm clock on PM, rather than AM. I'm just so anxious about daylight savings, I guess. I haven't learned somehow, even though I've done this about 300 million times before. Pissed at myself, I rolled out of bed, and debated for about 10 minutes whether or not I should take a shower. Of course I didn't have time for this, and I did it anyway. I must have been thinking REALLLLY hard about the day. So, I started to acclimate to the day and managed to get dressed. Good thing I left the house with clothes on. Luckily, I managed to pick out my outfit for the day, even though I fussed over the accessories for too long as well.

I make it out the door. More disheveled than I would have liked, but I'm on my way to the bus. Oh the freakin' bus. On my sidewalk I noticed a friend Van Oodles, enjoying his iPOD but making his way up the sidewalk, looking down. My original plan was to stand there, in his path, where he would clearly run smack dab into me. Ooo, wait I have my umbrella. I decide to point it at him. I lowered it down and put it up numerous times, thinking 'um, Lindsay this looks like a gun,' finally deciding 'oh it's harmless.' The look on his face, the clearly visceral reaction of fear that I instilled in my friend, the very loud scream followed with an expletive louder than when the fire engine leaves from the station up the street, and the hands he threw up in a kind of surrender was well, priceless. The encounter helped me laugh on my ride the whole way down the hill to the BART. His fear made me feel guilty and ashamed. I mean, he did say he thought it was funny though.

I do manage to get on the bus, holding onto a handrail, and clearly not behind the yellow line. Safety succumbs to the importance of being on time. The little old man near me practically crushed my hand with his arm, just to make sure I knew that he wanted off at the next stop. 'I got it, I got it,' I wanted to yell at the man. I see that you want to get out! Remember 'anterior'? Yeah, I had a brief moment of thinking that if I got into that position on this MUNI bus, I would make it all o.k. You know traffic? Imagine that happening with people and all on the limited area of a bus. I survive. I manage to allow my feet to feel the stairs down to the platform, instead of tumbling down. Good thing. Wearing a dress.

Damn, I'm only a few pages from ending a really good book. Figures. I decide to read slowly. I don't want it to end. Whew, the relaxation of BART. Yes folks, it's come to that. I relax on BART. Someone else is driving and I just hope that they keep it on the tracks.

Ahh, ALMOST my destination...30 minutes early despite my late start. I have retained all hope in public transportation for AC Transit. They drive very fast and the buses are nicer. Anyway, yes! One minute until my bus. Oh, not so fast. Despite the thousand buses that race past me, the wheelchair is waiting for my bus. Bless his heart. I was disabled once and it sucks, but I find it difficult to locate my empathy when I'm in a rush. Easy, Linds...the lift only takes 30 seconds. Yes, I've timed it.

Get there. Nice to arrive at my favorite circular building. Actually, it's a brown hexagon. Getting off course here...For those of you who don't know, I am continuing to see patients using a laptop and an external monitor. Despite the fact that I've had to superglue the tiny little plastic thing that's under the 'N' key onto my keyboard, it's been a clinical fascination. I should write a book. That's what my patients tell me. Well, my foot decided to fall asleep during a session. Great, I almost broke my ankle. Good thing I'm not running down any stairs to a platform.

I found out over lunch that my phone is not working properly. It must've been the water I spilled on it or the time that I dropped it in the street, risking my life to pick it up to catch a cab, and just to have it not work. New every two on March 23. Thanks. Oh, wait. The hotel didn't pay me. They claimed a direct deposit happened, but my account still shows 3 pennies. Believe me HR, I would know if a direct deposit occurred.

A little syrah has since calmed me down. But the KRON Channel 4 News is making me ill. Then again, this could all have to do with the fact that in a few short months I'll be ending one of the best experiences of my life...my training at TPI. I'll keep you posted.

Also, in regard to my health, my doctor told me this week that things are healing nicely. She encouraged me to be using my voice at a very low decibel. If I get hoarse at any point throughout the day, I can't speak at all. She wants my right vocal chord (the one that they operated on) to become accustomed again to vibrating. My second surgery is scheduled for April 6.

E.B.

A note on mothers and daughters with a pinch of Julia Child

I suppose, since my mama left on Saturday, I haven't much felt like writing. My mom seemed to bring with her a kind of mojo, an urge for creativity in writing that seems to somehow have left me, I think temporarily. I realized that even though I traveled 3,000 miles away in search of a different life outside of my family, that this inevitably meant a disconnect from almost all that I've known my entire life. Prior to my mom's arrival, my dear grandmother, Dot, passed away. A woman who's life undoubtedly shaped my being. Idiosyncratically, my grandmother taught me the advantages of pushing the envelope. Ironically, my grandmother was at first sight a conservative, Christian woman. However, I remember so much more; trips to the local nursing homes (her notorious Willy Nelson puppet in hand) bringing cheer to the men and women who could not seek out their own happiness anymore, that her favorite day was April Fool's Day with Halloween coming in a close second, her jello, buying my dad the same purple shirt two years in a row, her fascination with anatomically correct human toys, and how dolls made her melt. I recall that was one of very few things that calmed her in the nursing home...her baby doll. I do not question my love of babies. It came from my grandmother.

When I learned of her passing, in the early morning hours of February 13, I was devastated. I felt as though a part of my childhood was gone. However, my mom reminded me that the loss was bigger, larger than that. She had lost her mother. My mom sounded hopeless and crushed. It was heartbreaking. It then struck me that if there is one way to provide my mother with the hope of regeneration, it was to invite her more vigorously on her journey to assist me in my own recovery. She arrived in SF, tired and worn. She just lost her sister and I, my aunt, about two months previously. I was so nervous that my embrace would not be enough to give her breath, help her walk, help her live. That very afternoon, my mom closed that casket on the woman who gave her life.

I sat in the car anxiously watching and listening to my Mom's every move, word. She seemed to breathe. That gave me hope.

My mom was overjoyed with my new space in the city, which she had never seen. It cited the room that I needed to make my own life better and lively. It had space.

While in my room, she presented me the sea glass from my grandmother's funeral. With the crash of each wave and the friction with sand, each piece of rock becomes a sparkling, wonderful gem. They passed these around at her funeral.

She then presented me with the beautiful ring that my grandmother left me. It seemed to fit perfectly. I don't plan to take it off. I was often intrigued by my grandmother's hands. I began to stare at them when she was alive, thinking about everything that they've done. My mother paid homage to her hands in her eulogy. She read to me what she said and stated how proud she was of her mother,looking so beautiful finally resting, surrendering. What my mother did not know was my pride in her.

The day that my mom left, we (well I decided) that we should go jean shopping. Yuck. Before we left the house, I became engrossed in the Julia Child special on some public access channel. It seems like they all are public access when you have basic cable. Whatever. This woman (Julia) is unreal.

But then again, so is my mom. And my Grandmother. And my Aunt...

Much love and butter,

E.B.