writing – Page 6 – aliciajoseph

Just Another Day of Not Writing

I am a writer. I write. Unless I can think of nothing to write. Then I don’t know what I am. I suppose I’m still all the same things I am while I write, when I’m not writing. I’m a daughter, an aunt, a sister, a friend…a basically good decent human being, thank you very much.

Except when I can’t write, I feel like I’m nothing. That’s a terrible feeling. I may still be all those other things, but when I’m not writing, I’m not a writer.

I know how I’m supposed to present this to myself, as well as to others when they ask, Hey Alicia, how’s the writing going?

I don’t say – It sucks. I @#%^$#% hate writing. I slammed my hand against the wall three times yesterday. My head soon followed.

Instead, I slouch my shoulders. Apologetic soft grin and utter the words – Writer’s block.

Encouraging smiles all around. Arm pats. Don’t worry, it’ll come back….Write through it…You did it once, you can do it again…Is there anything we can do?

Yes, feel sorry for me. Feel sorry that I can’t do my job. I’ll remember to feel sorry for the paramedic who forgets how to perform CPR – I’m sorry he’s gone. But I was blocked……..It’s okay. We didn’t like him much anyway.

I hate the words “writer’s block” and whenever I use it, I verbally abuse myself later. I hate it because it lets me off the hook. It excuses my failure to meet that day’s deadline – one page, two pages, five hundred words – as though it were out of my hands. Does God control writer’s block? No? I didn’t think so. So the ability still must be within me and yet…

We (me) use writer’s block as an explanation because it is prettier than images of punching and slamming walls, or throwing objects. There’s something quaint and self-suffering, very ‘Hemingway-esque,’ about the term “Writer’s block.” Wikipedia defines it as “a condition…in which an author loses the ability to produce new work.”

You see…I’m not really bad at what I do. I have a “condition.” I’m excused. I suffer from a “documented” problem that has affected all the best writers – including Hemingway.

The fact is – I need to be inspired. I am a writer who needs to be inspired to write. There are writers who wake up and write. They have a schedule and they stick to it. They don’t have to take walks. Observe Nature. Hear children’s laughter. Or listen to inspiring movie scores on YouTube.

They just write. They Sit. In silence. And write.

Something pops into their heads and they may not know it as they write (or maybe they do b/c they’re just that good) but their ideas will lead to something – a new character a reader will fall in love with, or a surprising twist the reader will never see coming until the words spill from their lips across the pages.

But I need the music. I need the feeling. I need the inspiration. Joe Pesci sits across from me, scowling at me. “I’m a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I’m here to…amuse you?”

Yes, Joe, you are. Amuse me. Inspire me. Do something. Please.

“Inspire Someone. Smile.”

I went to Starbucks today. I sat in my usual comfy chair with my journal in my lap and a book set on a table to read when I am finished writing. I hear a woman’s voice tell someone their usual spot is taken. I look up and see a woman settling into a chair across from me. I ask her if she would rather sit here. A huge smile covers her face. She’s sixty-five years old, (I learn this later) but has the ‘full of life’ smile of a child and she really likes to sit near the window.

I stand up and collect my things. With the help of a cane, she walks toward me. I offer my hand. She takes it, kisses it, and presses it against her face. I smile. That’s not why I extended my hand. I meant to help her, but I don’t mind. It’s not awkward. She’s sweet and thanks me many times for giving up my seat. I tell her I’m happy to do it. Her husband arrives with their drinks and they sit together, side-by-side, on the cozy chairs near the window.

We talk a little. She tells me her age and the reason for the cane is because she has Multiple Sclerosis, a condition she developed when she was twenty-two. She tells me she worked with children with Autism and she is recently retired. Because I know MS is a progressive disease, I tell her how wonderful it is that she was able to work for so long doing what she loves. Again, she smiles that awesome smile.

She talks about her husband and casts a loving look his way. “He’s been taking care of me our whole marriage. We’ve been married almost forty years.” I imagine she takes care of him in ways she doesn’t even realize because being with her for the short time that I was made me feel more alive – more appreciative of life – than I’ve ever been.

I listen to this woman talk and occasional symptoms of her disease show, but she works through them. “I’m a fighter,” she tells me.

“Yes, you are.”

She smiles and waves at people. When a young mother with a small child orders the exact beverage she has, she raises her drink, and says, “Me too!”

I go to my new seat and open my journal. I try to concentrate on what I was there to write, but I can’t stop watching the couple I just met. Their legs stretched out on an ottoman, as they relax into their chairs, talking and laughing, completely enthralled with each other.

After nearly forty years of marriage, not only does this husband and wife still love one another, but they really like each other, too. Even when they’re saying nothing, I can feel contentment in their silence. It’s a touching moment because sometimes a partner’s illness can strain a relationship, but poor health hasn’t dampened this couple’s bond – -perhaps it has enriched it.

I watch them closely and know they are oblivious of the woman sitting across the room writing about them. And that she is inspired. They inspired someone – me — just by being themselves and I really needed that today.

I see them preparing to leave and I toss my journal to the side. I’m sure the woman will come to me, so I get ready to stand up. I ponder if a simple ‘good-bye’ will do or if I should extend my hand. It’s an uncomfortable predicament because so many people are anti-contact, but the woman puts my concern immediately at ease when she approaches me with her arms wide open. And that smile…Oh that smile.

She hugs me as though she’s known me for a long time. It’s not a quick embrace. She lingers close to my neck, long enough to tell me I smell good. She kisses my hand again.

I ask her name. It’s Betsy. She says she comes here a lot. I tell her I hope to see her again. And I mean that.

We don’t need to climb a mountain to inspire – – just look adversity in the face and smile. Someone will be inspired.

Photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

To Love You Like a Dog

I have loved and I have been loved. I know love. There is no greater feeling. There are all kinds of love and I can’t live without any of them. I need the way my mother loves me or my brother, my sisters, nieces, nephews, my friends, and of course, a partner. But what about the love of a dog?

A little over three years ago I decided I needed a pet, a dog. While growing up my family always had a dog and it was time for another one. I didn’t know what kind I wanted. All I knew was it had to be a shelter dog. So I took to the Internet and scrolled through page after page of dozens of dogs – too many dogs – who needed homes. One by one, I browsed every page, every face, and then I saw him. A tan and white Pit bull mix. His name was Phil and he stopped me. I had to meet him. He was in a shelter in the city. I live in the suburbs. Surely, there were shelters closer to me. Yes, there were, but Phil wasn’t in any of those and there was something about him. So I grabbed my shoes, my wallet, and my best buddy and off to the city we went.

My friend and I walked into the shelter and instantly were greeted with loud barking from the many nervous and anxious dogs crammed into rows upon rows of kennels lined up in the room – a doggie prison for sure. I rushed inside and hurried down the aisles, peering into each cage, looking for the dog from the Internet who had captured my heart.

The rest can play out like the greatest love story of all.

I was walking so fast I almost passed up a cage where all I could see was the back of a dog and then he turned his head sideways. I stood still and for a few seconds we just looked into each other’s eyes. I smiled. I had fallen in love and from that moment on he was mine. He was quiet and calm, unlike the other dogs, and I still ask him if he knew his momma was coming for him that day.

I hurried to the front desk after instructing my friend to “stand guard” to make sure nobody else takes him. After telling the lady sitting at the computer that I wanted Phil, she asked, “Have you taken him out yet?”

“Um, no, I haven’t.”

“Well, you have to meet him first to know if you get along,” she stated, with an obvious tone, but the joke was on her because I didn’t need to meet him cause I just knew. But not wanting to argue, I waited for them to set us up in a room. He came to me as if he knew me. I felt it, too. Even the volunteer commented that he’d never seen Phil take to anyone like that before. I’m aware that could have been a sales pitch because there were a lot of dogs there who needed homes, but maybe I’m a sucker because I believed him.

Yes, I thought to myself, it’s as if we are truly meant to be.

After some completed forms and a short interview, I opened my car door, as well as my heart, to my new four-legged, furry companion. Days later, the same volunteer would call and say, “I’m just checking to make sure you’re still in love.” I was sitting on my couch and glanced beside me to where Phil lay and smiled. “Yes, I’m still in love.”

And three years later our love is still going strong.

A dog’s love is irreplaceable. He is always happy to see you. Whether you left the house for a quick spray tan or a three day road trip, he will wag his tail while greeting you at the door, knocking down anything that gets in his way. He’ll let you take funny pictures of him at all times of the night and never complain when you post them on Facebook or Twitter (even if you didn’t get his “good side”). He will always be up for a ride in the car or a walk in the park, but is also just as willing to be a couch potato with you, never leaving you to feel like a lazy bum by yourself – a true team player.

He will wait patiently on the other side of the door when you accidentally shut him out. He will let you drench him with your tears when you need a good cry without ever leaving your side. He will rush to get between you and anyone, or thing, he perceives as a threat, with complete disregard for his own safety.

Best of all, he will love you unconditionally and lick your face when you need it the most because dogs know; they always know.

I was 35 years old the first time I experienced “love at first sight” and it was with a dog. Sad? Probably, but it turned out great.

Since then, only one other person has ever stopped me in my tracks, with just one picture, the way Phil did. I looked at this woman and just knew, the way I knew with Phil. It was in her eyes. In her smile.

And I wonder if someday we will look each other in the eyes, smile, and just “know.” And maybe, I’d have to call a friend over to “stand guard” so nobody else takes her.

More than ever before, I want to love someone like a dog. I don’t want to be a dog, I only want to love you like one.

I’m not Superman, anymore

I was strong before I had MG – really strong. An athlete since I was a child, I enjoyed sports and being active. I also loved to lift weights. Maybe a little too much, that was debatable, but I liked the appearance of looking strong and loved how it made me feel so capable. I have a friend who’s in a wheelchair and she’d always tell me to wait for someone to help pick her up. I’d smirk and say “G, I got you.” And leaning down, I’d scoop her into my arms with such ease, so high, that she’d say, “I think you can put me over your shoulder and run up a hill!”

I probably could have. I was that strong, but not anymore. That kind of strength had been unknown to me for so long I’ve forgotten how it feels. I don’t remember a time when I could talk as long as I wanted without my jaw getting tired or my tongue feeling like a dead fish in my mouth – completely useless. I was often referred to as “the quiet one” – shy around those I didn’t know well, but now I wished I’d talked more. Not because I had anything all that relevant to say (trust me, my words of wisdom continue to be few and far between), but simply because I COULD!

Like everyone who suffers from something, some days are better than others. Sometimes I find I could talk more, walk more, DO more. But the people who love me know when I need to rest and are very supportive. My twelve year old nephew, whom I share a very deep relationship with, always knows when I’m not good. I play with my nieces and nephews as much as I can, but they know Auntie can only do so much. It’s my little Joey, Jojo, who shows so much concern for me. He’ll say, “Auntie, your talking’s not good today.” Or he’ll notice when one of my eyes start to droop, ever so slightly, a sign that I’m getting weak. He watches me. REALLY watches me. I’ll tell him that Auntie needs to rest and then go lie on the couch. He’ll lean down, give me a kiss and a big hug while telling me to get better.

Whenever we see each other, he always asks how I’ve been feeling and if my breathing’s been okay. It’s very sweet the way he worries so much about me, but I wish he didn’t have to. When he falls asleep on the couch cuddled against me, I wish I could carry him to his bed. But I can’t. I know there was a time I could have, but each day takes me further away from those days that I barely remember them. I now have to wake my sleeping nephew and watch as he groggily makes his way to his bed.

The day it hit me that I’d really lost my strength was when I had to ask my near-seventy year old mother to open a jar for me. That was brutal. It made me sad and she knew it. I used to be the one people asked to open jars, carry the heavy bag, etc. This happened in the first few years of the disease as I was slowly transitioning from my old life into this new one. It was hard for my mom to witness. Often, I’d hear her on the phone, expressing to someone with sadness and maybe a little anger too, “She was used to being so strong.”

Thankfully, I am now able to open jars by myself. It’s a part of the “good days” that the new forms of treatment my doctors have put me on allow me to enjoy. The treatments have increased what I am able to do, and for that I am grateful, but it isn’t anywhere close to the capabilities I once enjoyed.

My nephew was too young to remember how I was before I got this disease. He only knows me as being sick, yet despite this, the song we hold hands to and refer to as “our song” is Bon Jovi’s “Superman Tonight.” It’s one of our “road trip” tunes burned onto a CD designated to accompany us to whatever destination our journey brings us.

The chorus goes like this:

“Who’s gonna save you when the stars fall from your sky? And who’s gonna pull you in when the tide gets too high? Who’s gonna hold you when you turn out the lights? I won’t lie, I wish that I could be your superman tonight.”

The line where Jon Bon Jovi sings, “Who’s gonna hold you when you turn out the lights?” My nephew yells out “Auntie is!” and while I’m driving I reach behind me and we clasp hands every time that verse is sung. Every time. Although I hardly feel capable of being someone’s hero anymore, at least I can still get a glimpse of it during a car ride while I sing out loud with a little boy who really, really loves his Auntie and sees her as his “Superman.”

Maybe I can’t lift my friend from her wheelchair, carry my sleeping nephew to bed, or bench press the ridiculous amount of weight I probably had no business lifting in the first place, but there are days when I feel like I can. I do as much as my body allows. And although it may not come close to what I used to do, I go to bed snuggled underneath the cape that is Superman because there are days where I still feel invincible.

When I was a little girl Superman was my favorite superhero. It really wasn’t a hard decision. As a toddler he was already lifting cars, he could fly, run faster than a speeding bullet AND the guy could change clothes in a hurry. I’m talking in like a millisecond, which would come in handy during a hurried morning-after getaway (not that I would ever do that! I’m the girl who stays and makes you breakfast) Did I mention the guy could frickin’ fly! (I purposely didn’t bring up the whole x-ray vision thing because that ability played NO role in picking him as my favorite. None whatsoever).

But the best part about being Superman is that he gets to save the woman he loves while she’s falling into the pits of the Niagara Falls. Who wouldn’t want to do that? I sure would. I’d always seen myself as being the protector of my family, though sometimes I doubted my ability to do so. I worked out because I wanted to look tough. Hoping that if I appeared that way, no one would mess with me because I didn’t know if I possessed the courage to fight back. I only knew I never wanted to find out and that’s why I needed to look so strong on the outside because it countered how I felt on the inside.

Though this disease has taken away much of that outer strength, it has made me realize the inner strength I never knew existed.

Maybe I’m not Superman anymore, but ego-check, I never was.

Thank you for reading this and if you’ve never heard Bon Jovi’s “Superman Tonight” please check it out! Great song! My nephew and I also love Bon Jovi’s “Love’s the Only Rule” Another road trip song we blast out loud!