New Year's Day 2006
Dear All,
It's funny how a particular date can pause one, asking for pensiveness. Christmas, Easter, certain Anniversaries. It is a day, just as every other 24-hour gathering is a day... but for some reason the inked, or even spoken, name of the day makes it different, stands it apart. I suppose because the name is weighted with memories, or expectations -- or both. Joyous, or sorrowful, or both. Usually, somehow, a balance -- weighted differently at different times, for different reasons.
And so, it is "New Year's Day." And this day which begins our New Year has been filled with normalities, surprises, challenges. As a day, perhaps somewhere within its definition, often is. It began with sun pouring in the bedroom window (not having seen sun for several days, we flung it open) accompanied by the chattering of birds, and the drip-dripping of melting snow. Greg slept quite late, having been contentedly tired out by his first evening out last night. (We had wound our way up into the Chartreuse massif and right into a hearth of warmth and joy and good food. Some of our first French friends -- first met 6/7 years ago! -- who have ever graciously and generously shared home and family with us, and who have given us incalculable gifts [such as helping Greg fall in love with the concept of "a house in the country," introducing us to the French artist Arcabas (whose work we love and have shared with others), having children who greet us with big smiles and proffered mouths for warm kisses, and including us in their extended New Year's Eve's gathering.])
Greg was awoken by our cheery traveling nurse, who brought us "chocolates for our health" -- rather fine chocolates they are too! He continues to be very pleased with how Greg's stomach is looking. Tomorrow Greg will be at the hospital for the doctors to check on it. They will also be pleased with how the stomach looks I think, and with the complete lack of inflammation or infection. But we are anxious to hear what they think about the skull incision. It is healing well externally, yet the nurses were concerned there might be a hematoma there as well -- and Greg thinks the bump has definitely grown over the last few days. This is a much more delicate issue, as it cannot simply be drained, like the stomach. Tomorrow we will know more.
The sun came and went through the morning, for rising temperatures meant "snow mist." At one point there was even a serious downpour. Before getting up to putter around the house, and outside, "sorting and tidying," Greg spent some time on his daily physio. Right now, this is the hardest part of the day. Greg has to practice speaking, in front of a mirror. Those of you who have heard him since the operation might be surprised to hear that this is so hard -- but that's because, since then, Greg has been speaking out of the side of his mouth. He now has to unlearn this, and also unlearn how he has spoken for the first 33 years of his life -- because to keep speaking that way now would result in his face pulling sideways. From this point he has to learn how to speak using very little motion, trying to keep as much symmetry as possible. Imagine trying to learn to say the alphabet for the first time as an adult... for this is what he has to do. He watches himself in a mirror, and tries to figure out how to say "A, B, C, D" in a manner that sounds as it should, moving his lips as he should. "C, S, F, and P" are the hardest. He still isn't even comfortable having me listen to him practice for very long. The physio warned him that it will be several months before he will learn how to speak in a manner that sounds "normal" again -- if he can be disciplined enough not to cheat while speaking, and thus preserve his face. Also, the physio said, in learning not to tilt his head to hear people better, Greg needs to begin to learn to lip read. Lots of work, which seems, at times, a bit overwhelming. Not surprising that in French it is called: "re-education".
Greg had another long sleep in the afternoon (and I a short one), and when he woke up we had a lovely time of laughter and goofiness, just us and the cat, even laughing at some of the changes that have affected us. Later, after making some preparation for tomorrow's long day of appointments (hospital at 8:00, physio/kiné at 2:00), and after reflecting during a phone conversation on the fact that (despite the first attempt) he can't really drive right now, because he can't see well enough, he got a little down. He didn't let himself stay there long -- he's off teaching his mother how to make Risotto right now -- but he said to me, with his head in his hands: "What am I going to do if I can't ever see properly?" Because his right eye has to be kept blurry with lubricants, his vision in general is impeded. Try looking out of just one eye, the other closed. Then open the closed eye *just* enough to see fuzzily through the lashes. If you can, do this while keeping the other eye fully opened. Try doing this for about a minute, and you'll probably find it a big relief to close the "fuzzy" eye again, and just look through the one eye instead. This is a little bit like it is for Greg. When he tries to read a little, or watches a DVD, he just covers the bad eye all together (remember, it doesn't close on its own during the day, so he has to cover it if he wants to get rid of the fuzzy aspect). Even looking out from the car as a passenger can be tiring -- but even more so it is frustrating as he realizes he can't see well enough to be driving himself. What will happen long term, if the lid can't learn to raise and close well enough, we're not sure -- Greg will ask more questions about that tomorrow. But it troubles him some.
Yet now he is off in the kitchen, preparing Risotto, pulling out the gifted homemade fois gras (lovely, but not near as lovely as the gift of the visit of its givers -- our friends Louise, Clementine, and their parents... more good people in our lives who so easily bring Greg and me joy).
Rain or shine, we know that the gift of loved ones -- old and new -- will carry us through. We also know that there will be times in which we will need that carrying more than we will want to need it. Other times it will be pure pleasure. Even phone calls, like a few we received today, remind us of this.
A new day, each day. Each a foray into this new year... with normalities -- surprisingly normal -- and challenges -- expectedly *and* unexpectedly challenging. A bit of sun, a bit of rain, and the gift of not being alone.
Love,
Kirstin (and Greg)
It's funny how a particular date can pause one, asking for pensiveness. Christmas, Easter, certain Anniversaries. It is a day, just as every other 24-hour gathering is a day... but for some reason the inked, or even spoken, name of the day makes it different, stands it apart. I suppose because the name is weighted with memories, or expectations -- or both. Joyous, or sorrowful, or both. Usually, somehow, a balance -- weighted differently at different times, for different reasons.
And so, it is "New Year's Day." And this day which begins our New Year has been filled with normalities, surprises, challenges. As a day, perhaps somewhere within its definition, often is. It began with sun pouring in the bedroom window (not having seen sun for several days, we flung it open) accompanied by the chattering of birds, and the drip-dripping of melting snow. Greg slept quite late, having been contentedly tired out by his first evening out last night. (We had wound our way up into the Chartreuse massif and right into a hearth of warmth and joy and good food. Some of our first French friends -- first met 6/7 years ago! -- who have ever graciously and generously shared home and family with us, and who have given us incalculable gifts [such as helping Greg fall in love with the concept of "a house in the country," introducing us to the French artist Arcabas (whose work we love and have shared with others), having children who greet us with big smiles and proffered mouths for warm kisses, and including us in their extended New Year's Eve's gathering.])
Greg was awoken by our cheery traveling nurse, who brought us "chocolates for our health" -- rather fine chocolates they are too! He continues to be very pleased with how Greg's stomach is looking. Tomorrow Greg will be at the hospital for the doctors to check on it. They will also be pleased with how the stomach looks I think, and with the complete lack of inflammation or infection. But we are anxious to hear what they think about the skull incision. It is healing well externally, yet the nurses were concerned there might be a hematoma there as well -- and Greg thinks the bump has definitely grown over the last few days. This is a much more delicate issue, as it cannot simply be drained, like the stomach. Tomorrow we will know more.
The sun came and went through the morning, for rising temperatures meant "snow mist." At one point there was even a serious downpour. Before getting up to putter around the house, and outside, "sorting and tidying," Greg spent some time on his daily physio. Right now, this is the hardest part of the day. Greg has to practice speaking, in front of a mirror. Those of you who have heard him since the operation might be surprised to hear that this is so hard -- but that's because, since then, Greg has been speaking out of the side of his mouth. He now has to unlearn this, and also unlearn how he has spoken for the first 33 years of his life -- because to keep speaking that way now would result in his face pulling sideways. From this point he has to learn how to speak using very little motion, trying to keep as much symmetry as possible. Imagine trying to learn to say the alphabet for the first time as an adult... for this is what he has to do. He watches himself in a mirror, and tries to figure out how to say "A, B, C, D" in a manner that sounds as it should, moving his lips as he should. "C, S, F, and P" are the hardest. He still isn't even comfortable having me listen to him practice for very long. The physio warned him that it will be several months before he will learn how to speak in a manner that sounds "normal" again -- if he can be disciplined enough not to cheat while speaking, and thus preserve his face. Also, the physio said, in learning not to tilt his head to hear people better, Greg needs to begin to learn to lip read. Lots of work, which seems, at times, a bit overwhelming. Not surprising that in French it is called: "re-education".
Greg had another long sleep in the afternoon (and I a short one), and when he woke up we had a lovely time of laughter and goofiness, just us and the cat, even laughing at some of the changes that have affected us. Later, after making some preparation for tomorrow's long day of appointments (hospital at 8:00, physio/kiné at 2:00), and after reflecting during a phone conversation on the fact that (despite the first attempt) he can't really drive right now, because he can't see well enough, he got a little down. He didn't let himself stay there long -- he's off teaching his mother how to make Risotto right now -- but he said to me, with his head in his hands: "What am I going to do if I can't ever see properly?" Because his right eye has to be kept blurry with lubricants, his vision in general is impeded. Try looking out of just one eye, the other closed. Then open the closed eye *just* enough to see fuzzily through the lashes. If you can, do this while keeping the other eye fully opened. Try doing this for about a minute, and you'll probably find it a big relief to close the "fuzzy" eye again, and just look through the one eye instead. This is a little bit like it is for Greg. When he tries to read a little, or watches a DVD, he just covers the bad eye all together (remember, it doesn't close on its own during the day, so he has to cover it if he wants to get rid of the fuzzy aspect). Even looking out from the car as a passenger can be tiring -- but even more so it is frustrating as he realizes he can't see well enough to be driving himself. What will happen long term, if the lid can't learn to raise and close well enough, we're not sure -- Greg will ask more questions about that tomorrow. But it troubles him some.
Yet now he is off in the kitchen, preparing Risotto, pulling out the gifted homemade fois gras (lovely, but not near as lovely as the gift of the visit of its givers -- our friends Louise, Clementine, and their parents... more good people in our lives who so easily bring Greg and me joy).
Rain or shine, we know that the gift of loved ones -- old and new -- will carry us through. We also know that there will be times in which we will need that carrying more than we will want to need it. Other times it will be pure pleasure. Even phone calls, like a few we received today, remind us of this.
A new day, each day. Each a foray into this new year... with normalities -- surprisingly normal -- and challenges -- expectedly *and* unexpectedly challenging. A bit of sun, a bit of rain, and the gift of not being alone.
Love,
Kirstin (and Greg)
posted by Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson | 10:19 pm
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