Volunteer

The silver cord was just clear enough to show foggy images of wires inside, producing an overall effect of techy and cool. As far as you can call a USB cord “cool”, that is.

Two ends, one shaped for a USB port - that’s easy, fits into my computer in the hole with the matching picture over it - and one shaped like a square with rounded edges at the top. Hmm, that must be the printer side. I moved my hands around the back of the printer, trying to find the glass slipper to the silver foot at the end of the cord.

After collecting enough dust to let a dust bunny retire early, I pushed the square-ish peg in the square-ish hole, completing the connection to my laptop. I sat crosslegged on the floor in front of the screen, my elbow angled just far enough from the edge of the shelves I’d pushed away from the wall to reveal the outlet behind them. All I had to do then was click print and I’d be in business. Maybe click it twice, just for good measure. I looked at the silent, unmoving printer with mounting frustration, willing it to do its job, but to no avail. Clearly it hated me. I proceeded through each of the tricks I could think of, fudging names and numbers when necessary, but still nothing. Finally giving up (a whopping ten minutes later, fifteen maybe), I sighed and started to scroll down the pdf on the screen: “The Children’s Hospital Volunteer Application”.

I got some good advice from my aunt after writing about my anxieties surrounding starting to work again: she said to try some part time volunteer positions. That way I can get back into a structured atmosphere, possibly even in an office setting, without the stresses of a full time job. It’s a way for me to dip my toes in the water and swirl them around a bit so I can be sure I know when it’s time to dive in. So I read through the application and decided to just drive over to the hospital and apply in person. Maybe that way I could be seen by someone rather than just mailing in a printed out application with saliva on the back of the envelope and a crooked stamp on the front.

The Denver Children’s Hospital is somewhere between and five and ten minute drive from my place, and would probably equate to a twenty minute to half hour walk on nice days or when I had the time. The street in front of the hospital didn’t have any parking meters, so I hopped out of my car and walked purposefully through the revolving door and to the front desk. The front desk happened to be a security desk guarding the space between the hospital on the right and an eating disorder clinic on the left. Taking off my sunglasses, I cheerfully stated that I would like to apply for a volunteer position and inquired as to where I might do that.

“The main campus. In Aurora.”

The main Children’s Hospital campus in Aurora is a thirty minute drive from my place in minimal traffic. I looked at the digital clock on my phone and saw that I had exactly an hour and a half before pilates. Okay, then, Aurora it is, I thought.

And the drive was as long and exasperating as I’d dreamed, hitting every red light on eight miles of Colfax. My foot itched on the break each time I glanced at the arrival estimate on my Garmin GPS navigator and saw it readjust farther and farther away from the time on the clock below it. I thought of the times I’d had athlete’s foot as a kid.

My hands tapped on the steering wheel as I looked for a parking place; my shoes tapped against the tile floor as I made my way through the lobby; my breath tapped quickly in my chest as I opened the door to the volunteer office. “Hi, I’d like to apply to be a volunteer”, I offered almost as cheerily as the first time.

I was handed an envelope with a printed out version of the online application. I should hear back at some time in the future, hopefully.

Productive Member of Society

I've been thinking a lot about jobs lately. I'm trying to figure out when I should go back to work. When is it time to rejoin the workforce and become a productive member of society?

I feel like my mind is sound and I can perform most tasks, but my stamina is still so low that I need to either nap or take some quiet time everyday. But which of my reasons are valid and which are just excuses? Am I really ready to go back to work or should I trust how I feel? Even if I do trust how I feel, how much longer do I stay in this stage where I spend my days writing, napping, learning how to take care of myself again and only sleeping on my right? I wish I had the answers; I hate that I don't.

The thought of going back to work fills me with so much anxiety. I don't know my mental limitations yet and don't know how far I can stretch my attention span before I glaze over from too much stimulation. Finding those limits as I start and learn a new job scares me. How is that going to hamper my ability to perform? What if I'm bad at it? I think that's the real question at the root of it: what if I'm bad at it? My confidence in my ability is shaky at best, and having that confidence smashed by under-performing or getting yelled at by a boss sounds awful. I've come so far as a person since last October that anything that could possibly de-rail me and send me back to the person I used to be terrifies me.

I guess the question is: how do I know when I'm ready to go back to work?

Cold Night, Warm Heart

Tonight more than any night yet, it really hit me how happy I am to be back. Standing outside at my apartment building, wearing a heavy sweater underneath a sweatshirt with a hat and a scarf, holding a beer in a mittened hand, I looked around at my friends and couldn’t stop a smile from spreading its way across my face. It wasn’t planned, there was no evite, it was just a night like any other, but shifting my weight from foot to foot to stay warm, I felt special. I felt accepted. I felt like I had a place; no matter how adrift I may be, I had a place. And I felt so lucky.

Writing Habits

I’ve gotten into the habit of writing at the end of the day, sitting in my bed as I reflect on my life. It’s usually nighttime when I feel most reflective and insightful, but the problem is that I keep falling asleep on top of my computer. Therefore, I’ve decided I need to train myself to be more thoughtful during the day.

I bent over and untied my shoes, brown Roos with blue trim and matching blue laces. I keep them tied loosely enough that I can slip my feet in without untying them, but for a long walk like today, I wanted them to hug my feet and support the ankle I sprained last year that still bothers me. I loosened the laces and shoved each white-socked foot in its proper Roo. I pulled hard on the laces at each turn around, dragging the sides across the tongue, as close together as I could get them. I stood up and glanced at the clock on the microwave as I picked up my backpack: 10:46.

My keys sat heavily in one pocket of my zip-up sweatshirt, my phone heavy in the other. I reached back and found a fiver in the back pocket of my jeans. Sweet. The purple backpack I’d bought last year when I thought I might become a hiker and regularly climb fourteeners (mountains with a summit at an altitude of 14,000 feet or more – it’s a thing) – a ridiculous idea that I abandoned after I realized that fourteeners reside in the eighth circle of hell – was lighter than usual, just carrying my computer, notebook and the essentials from my purse. I flicked off the light and left, noting that my door needs some WD40.

It’s a little colder than I thought it’d be, so I pulled up my hood as I crossed the street and entered the park. I was on my way to a coffee shop just short of the other side. I was going to write. There’s so much inside of me that I need to get out; I need to purge myself of the thoughts, the feelings, that seep from my mind into my body, filling it up like a viscous liquid that rises and rises until I can’t breathe. Not until the words form in the ether within me and spill forth from my fingers am I able to sigh again. So on I walked. The park has changed since I left last November; the paths have gone from worn grass shortcuts to clean, white concrete, weaving its way along the perimeter, loosely following the road I take to avoid the constant intersections of residential streets.

No one was sitting on blankets in the grass or playing Frisbee with friends while dogs run back and forth around them. It’s too cold today. A woman with a Mohawk walked next to one with a shaved head ahead of me, the first wearing spandex workout clothes and carrying an ipod, and I wondered to myself if she’d suited up for the walk or if they’d met up after her run. A man in a heavy, worn coat and hat sat on a bench feeding peanuts to squirrels. They sat in a semi-circle around him, munching and waiting for more. They scattered when I walked through, and I almost felt bad for breaking the man’s spell, but changed my mind and decided it was weird.

Remembering Lessons Learned

Two and a half months since it was shaved, my hair is long enough to curl again. Just a little, not a full curl rotation, but I can tell it's coming, especially in my bangs. I'm not sure how I feel about curl versus curl-less, but I have about a week before I need to cross that bridge.

That's not what I wanted to write about though.

I used to talk about how I needed to learn how to depend on others, not try to do everything on my own, and during the surgery I learned. Lying in a hospital bed, not able to sit up, too weak to feed myself, scared and in pain, I had no choice but to lean on the support and love of everyone around me. My mind foggy, my body tired, I finally saw that they'd been there all along, arms up, hands waiting to catch me.

Figuring that out changed me. I understood, really understood on a basic level, that people want to help, and accepting that help doesn't make me any less strong or less able. Life became easier, happier, when I began to let people in. Now the challenge is to remember that.

I'm back in Colorado, and without my parents to ask for help from, it's easy to slip back into not asking for help for fear of bothering anyone. The problem with that is that I still need help, and furthermore, people want to help. People like to be needed, and right now, I need them, both for emotional support and physical support. Moving back into my shoebox, there are a lot of things that need lifting and shoving and bending and carrying, and I can't do that. Wait, let me amend that: I can do it, but I shouldn't do it. I'm able to lift heavier things, but I'm still not supposed to. What I'm supposed to do is figure out another way to get the heavy box full of my books up three floors to my apartment, meaning ask someone else to help me. I haven't tried it yet, but I'm guessing the power drill follows similar rules. It's frustrating when I know I can do something but needing to get somebody else to do it for me.

I guess there is a silver lining though, because despite my frustrations, my limitations are forcing me to remember the lessons I learned back when I didn't have a choice but to let people in.

Gushy Brains!

I finally got the pictures of my brain from the two surgeries! Two show the grid of electrodes placed on the surface of my brain, one is my brain with the dura on it, and two show my brain without the the chunk they took out. Pretty cool stuff!! Enjoy!!

Second Night Back

Tonight is my second night back in Denver. So far it’s good. It’s really good to see my friends again spend time with them, going on walks around the park, “running errands” at Crate & Barrel, barbequing kebabs under the stairwell and just talking. I do miss my family, but it’s good for me to be around people my own age. My entire apartment is smaller than my parents’ kitchen, but it’s home and I like it. Of course my kitchen table triples as my dining room table and my office, but the wall behind it is lavender – every room is different colors: lavender, yellow, light lime green and deep red (the only one I didn’t pick and can’t paint over). It’s cheerful and homey and more of a haven than a cocoon. After months in my love cocoon, sleeping in my old bed, having dinner every night with my parents, it’s time for me to burst forth as a butterfly, leave the nest, and all of those other growing up clichés.

I haven’t been getting overwhelmed in the same way I used to, where I would shut down and need to extricate myself from the situation as quickly as possible. I do have to remind myself to take naps, though harder than that is actually tearing myself away from whatever I’m doing and make myself lie down so I’ll be able to make it through the rest of the day without glazing over and crashing. With all of the unpacking between reunions, I’ve been much more active than even in the Bahamas. I like it. As long as I do take breaks. It’s good for me to feel like part of society again; to feel like a twenty-something again. Tomorrow, my friends are throwing a little welcome home barbeque for me, complete with all non-alcoholic drinks (save one glass of champagne each to toast my successful surgeries). It’s also Palm Sunday, so I’m gonna go to church, which I’m excited about, but I’ll have to take a nap between the two activities since I’m not allowed to partake in the host’s espresso machine and I’d hate to fall asleep during my own party.

When I opened the door to my apartment for the first time on Thursday, there were flowers in all different shapes and shades of pink as well as a sign saying, “Welcome Home Erica”, signed by my friends in my building. The living room and my bedroom were full of the boxes that Eve brought over from the crawl space in which I’d put them back in November. I couldn’t, and still can’t, believe how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends.

It’s funny to come back home in the mid-afternoon or later at night, tired and ready to start in on this task or that, and have no background noise. No footfalls from different sizes of feet carrying varying weights that each move with their own timbre. No TV playing in the next room. No opening and closing of the fridge; no chopping or scraping; no one building a fire; no one asking where their keys are and saying they’ll be back after fill-in-the-blank. It’s quiet. Until I put on some music, the only sounds are people talking in the open-air stairwells of our building and the one next door. It’s strange living in an apartment that’s empty but for me and my thoughts. It makes me miss my parents, my aunts, and even the two girls who work for my dad’s consulting business. Most of me is glad to be on my own again, but likely it will be like the latter.

Now, finally, I’m completely exhausted and need to go sleep before I fall asleep on my computer permanently.

Good night.