Progress report
In which we discuss the limitations of human bodies, the joy of nurturing, and the glories of spring
Howdy! How are you doing?
I saw a line in an article this week that living in the United States is like being “stuck riding shotgun in a car with a drunk driver.” Which is just horrible. Here’s my solution: get outside, read some poetry, write some poetry, and take care of my family. Do not read the news.
It’s easy to be joyful right now when the world is greening up and the weather’s not too warm. Kate’s back to riding her bike to work. If I get on the ball, I’ll ride my bike up the canyon for my writing. Maybe tomorrow, maybe.
Progress report
Just about two weeks ago, Peter broke his leg. The tibia and fibula each snapped clean in half. He was at a trampoline park with his friends at an event sponsored by the university. We got a call right as we were headed to bed. He called his mother.
“Mom, I just broke my leg. I’m so sorry,” he said.
We tried to ask how he was, but he mostly just told us how sorry he was. We asked if it was actually, really broken. Maybe it was just a bad sprain. “My foot is dangling,” he said. And then he apologized again.1
We were going to drive over and take him to the hospital, but the trampoline park paid for an ambulance. Good thing. By the time we saw him, after he had been admitted to the hospital, we saw that his foot was twisted at an unnatural angle, the bone threatening to burst through the skin of his shin. It was clearly broken.
Lots of drugs and the ER doc at least got the foot pointed in the right direction. He had surgery the next morning, and ended up spending two nights in the hospital. He’s been home and pretty much glued to the couch ever since.
In some respects, Peter is like a toddler. “Dad, can you please come and fill up my water bottle? Can you make me some toast? Would you hand me the remote?” On the other hand, he is shockingly polite and grateful. It’s so easy to do things for Peter when he’s so dang gracious about it. Where did this delightful young man come from?
Because I have no job at present, Kate heads off to work and I try to help out Peter in the morning. Make sure he’s all set on the couch, and I get his food and whatnot.2 I am still trying to get outside for my writing daily, but then stay close enough that I can dash home if he needs me.
I’ll be glad when he’s in a walking boot and can bend his leg again. That’ll be a huge improvement in his quality of life, and should open up a world of self-sufficiency.
But there’s another part of me that will miss being able to jump up and refill his water bottle (with ice, please) or make his toast (two pieces with jam, one with cinnamon sugar) or to stand at the door while he showers in case he slips while wearing a plastic bag that covers from his foot up to his upper thigh. I’m actually a little surprised to discover just how fulfilling it is to be a caregiver first and other things second. When I think about it, the thought of doing this for a person who isn’t my family sounds like an unpleasant experience, but for my child, it’s actually a delight.
When I do get out of the house, I’m currently on wildflower watch. A couple of weeks ago in southern Utah, I saw my first wildflower of the season. It was a cluster of little pink redstem stork’s-bill (Erodium cicutarium) growing under a stop sign in Thompson Springs.3 It is clearly quite a bit warmer there on the Colorado Plateau than it here here along the Wasatch front, and in the weeks since, I’ve been waiting for the first flowers to appear.
Today was the first day that I saw some. Some longstalk springparsley (Cymopterus longipes) was the first ones I saw, and then two others with tiny little flowers. Based on what I can see on wildflowersearch.com, I think one is bur buttercup (Ceratocephala testiculata)4 and the other is, maybe, jagged chickweed (Holosteum umbellatum). None of these are what you’d call showy.5 The flowers are so tiny that I wouldn’t have seen them if I weren’t walking slowly and keeping my eyes peeled.
Still, I’m grateful for what I’ve got.
Least Bad Poem of the Week
Because of Peter’s leg and the podcast, I didn’t share a least bad poem last week. I apologize about that.
“Bill”
The parliament of owls And the murder of crows Or the charm of hummingbirds And the conspiracy of ravens. The exultation of larks! A bird alone is just a bird, Probably has a twittered name And is some other bird’s cousin. The other birds in his family Know that he is the guy, Always a little pitchy, But great to have on your side When there’s a fight at the feeder. Let’s call him Bill. Though I with my human eyes And human brain Have a hard enough time Distinguishing Bill’s species, He knows who he is. For a moment we, bird and man, Bill and I, regard each other. He watches me, ready to fly off And so I do not move, I ignore the sudden itch On my face and keep my hands Carefully on my notebook. And We are transformed Elevated, even exalted Into a conspiracy, a charm, A murder, a parliament of two. We have a flicker of kinship. We are cousins now, too. Until Bill flies off Again, aware but alone. I can move now, And write again in my notebook, Hoping that he returns, Just a bird, twittering at the feeder, Hungry, a little pitchy: Bill.
I’m grateful that Peter is healing, and I’m grateful for the wildflowers and the birds. And of course I’m grateful for you, my friends.
If you’ve seen any wildflowers if your neck of the woods, let me know. Send photos!
All is well,
Jeff
He was apologizing in part because he knew that I have no job and we have no health insurance. At the time, our insurance guy told me that Cobra wasn’t available and that we had to wait until April 1 to have any health insurance from the Marketplace. Peter broke his ankle on March 26. We told him not to worry about the money, but honestly I was a little worried.
HAPPY RESOLUTION (PENDING): Apparently we can get Cobra, which will be backdated to March 1, which means that Peter’s $50,000+ hospital+surgery+etc bill will be reduced to a much more manageable amount. Presuming that the paperwork actually does go through as planned.
Fortunately he’s not had any issues in the bathroom area. I’m grateful for tender mercies.
Thompson Springs, population 34. No services. There’s a one-room schoolhouse (shuttered) and a private campground (maybe?). A couple of buildings had notices in the window with building permits, but they were long expired and the work was very clearly never completed.
Which wins an award for having the most uncomfortable scientific name of the week: testiculata.
Look at those photos: they are just taken with my phone and then cropped down. The flowers are tiny. Like, from my eyeball’s perch 6’ off the ground, they were almost invisible. So how come my phone can take these great photos of teeny flowers, but still can’t get a real bokeh? (I know, it’s physics, but still…)
The jagged chickweed is actually a Mississippi Murbledoom, native to Bavaria not Mississippi, or anywhere else in America. The flower was introduced to the southeast by a German immigrant in the early 19th century who had brought seeds from his hometown to plant and grow in Tennessee on the banks of the Mississippi and deliver to his beloved, Murble. She had immigrated there five years earlier. The transplantation was a success but the romance wasn't, thus the doom.