Riding the #8, realizing there's a whole other world outside of my head

I was not intending on writing something that honoured the troops in any way shape or form, but I just remembered that earlier was Memorial Day and my experience today seems to fit, I guess, even though the intention was not to write some hokey troop-loving post.

As I am jobless and in a complete state of flux here in PDX, I have taken up a new hobby of late that I like to call urban hiking. Basically, urban hiking started because almost five years ago I left Portland. Now I'm back and I don't recognize shit. So I spend most of my days (when I leave the house) urban hiking, walking long distances around town exploring, and trying to take in the scenary. I did a bit of this on the Drive back in Vancouver, but obviously there is more walking potential in Portland.

Today I walked from PSU to Powells and then walked to the foot of Pill Hill (actually known as Marquam Hill) where OHSU is located. I managed to get about halfway up the Hill before my back started giving me shit, so I decided to cheat and bus on the #8 the rest of the way up.

On Friday I got a call from my doctor. Turns out he is actually on the ball and called because he was checking files and saw that the referal he gave me won't pan out until July and was surprised I didn't call him to get in sooner. (It's weird getting reaquainted with semi-timely healthcare again.) So he called to get me in with another specialist much sooner. This then resulted in me doing a 30 minute interview on the phone with a nurse with a promise that I'd hear something in the next 7 days.

The #8 was uncharacteristically practically empty when I got on it along Terwilliger, except for three people, 2 of whom were wearing Vietnam Veteran caps and the other was wearing a coat similar to the one I've seen Pat wear for his unit (they look like lettermen jackets). I happened to be sitting in the middle of the bus, towards the back and got to watch and hear their conversations. The two grisseled grey haired guys in front of me were engaged in a loud conversation about PTSD and their symptoms. They loudly and awkwardly rambeled off phrases like "self medication", "flashbacks", and "hypervigillence". The terms themselves weren't hard to hear. Hearing grown men (older than my parents) who seemed to epitomize an older time and way use these terms seemed not only strange, but just flat out uncomfortable. It was the same kind of uncomfortable I feel when you hear a stripper or porno star open their mouths and all you hear is the voice of a six year old girl. These Vets didn't seem to really have the personalities, faculties, whatever the word is to use their words without them seeming like buzz words or sterile. These words were defining them and they weren't their words. I still can't explain why it felt so weird to hear them use them but I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

Then I looked over to the opposite side of the bus and looked at the other Veteran, a woman, clearly only old enough for the most recent Iraq war. I have no idea if she was reacting to the Vietnam Vets conversation as well, or just reacting in general, but she sat with her head leaning against the window, and in the reflection I could see her silently crying. I instantly felt so much better and so terrible for feeling better/lucky at the same time.

They got off at the VA before me and I got off at OHSU, climbed the stairs, and took a picture or two from the tram dock. I hate the tram, but I love this view from up top.

I'm glad I can still enjoy it.

It takes one to know one.

My grandfather is depressed. There's pretty much no denying it at this point.

While in Iowa I not only got to witness this firsthand, but hear the stories from relatives. They had no idea that it was what they were describing, but let's just pull out that old cliche: it takes one to know one.

This isn't the first time this has happened. My grandmother died 4 days after my 3rd birthday, and according to everyone in Oregon who watched my grandfather over the following years, he wasted away. He physically wasted away as he stopped eating and mentally wasted away as he stopped doing anything except working. My grandpa admits to losing 20 pounds during a brief period after my grandmother's death, but beyond that he has never really admitted to how painful losing her really was for him.

The neighbours commented to both my mother and I (after we moved in) that my grandpa seemed more lively, fitter, active, and finally happy again. He seemed like the guy that moved in there in 1976, not the guy that found the walls surrounding him constant reminders of pain and sadness. I remember our next door neighbour specifically saying to me "Emily, you've really saved his life."

That's why watching my grandpa only walk one block a day out to the newspaper stand in the mornings, seeing him nap six hours in the middle of the day in his chair, and have him telling me that he doesn't even like watching TV or eating much anymore was so hard for the past week. What was worse was hearing his family tell me it's the most active and happy they've seen him in a year. I know what that feels like and he is the last person on Earth I would wish this on. I wanted to say something about it, bring it up, but he was born in 1931 and I was born in 1984. He manages to move ahead with the winds of social progress and change relatively well for a guy of his age and background, but I know he would never admit to it, let alone seek any kind of help. The closest we'll ever get to that was when at a dinner party at Brian's family's house he said "moving back to Iowa was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life." At the time I thought that statement had a lot to do with his sister.

His nephew was trying to get me away from his sister to talk to me, but she managed to find a way to stop that from happening. But when his nephew heard I was applying for MFA programs for the next school year he asked me which ones, and then repeated several times that it would probably be best if I could attend a school "off the west coast, closer to all of us" (meaning grandpa). He flat out even said "I think it would really make your grandpa happy if you got into one of those Minneapolis schools."

This whole situation makes me feel really fucking guilty on two levels:

1) I feel like he actually misses me and I feel like shit that I kinda broke up the family by moving to Canada, and giving him that perfect out to return to Iowa. I feel like shit that the only thing that seems to make him happy right now is trying to make me happy, and in turn it makes him feel like shit.

2) I wasn't able to see this early enough, and even managed to convince myself from May of last year until February of this year that he could move on if he had to. In turn I did a bunch of stupid selfish shit and now feel like hell because I could have put him through mountains more of pain.

I really feel self-centered I mean something to him, thinking that my absence causes feelings of sadness or loss for him. I think to an extent it does but it took me the whole 6 days there to figure out what else he's lost.

The last night I was there he fell asleep in his recliner watching The Colbert Report with me. I had kept him up late the night before watching bullriding and talking about travel until after midnight, and that day his niece, nephew, and their significant others crowded into the livingroom and we visited for hours. He was tired and worn out because compared to his recent schedule of napping and staring at the wall in the pitch black dark, this day was long and strenous.

He woke up at the end of the show, sat up and looked straight at me with a big smile on his face while his hands shook. He then turned to the end table between us and started picking up objects, scattering them around. I asked him what he was doing and he handed me a flyer that had flown off the table in his frenzy and asked me what it was. An ad, junk mail, I told him. I've been used to him finding random pieces of paper he's dropped and unable to read thanks to his poor eyes now. Then he picked up his magnifying glass he uses for reading sometimes and said "and this?" I stopped and wondered was this some kind of game? It reminded me of something you do with a kid that's learning to talk, holding up objects and asking them to recall them. I answered "it's your magnifying glass". He held it to his eye with a big smile on his face and looked at me through it.

Then he grabbed a coaster and held it up towards me. "And this?"

I was stunned and I didn't really try to hide it at first. "What? It's your coaster, Grandpa." He held it closer to my face. "How come you didn't eat all your dinner? Did you get all that you need?" he said holding the coaster out in front of me like a plate.

I tried to collect myself and not crumble while being very assertive. "Grandpa, that's your coaster. I have no idea why you are asking me about dinner. That was five hours ago. That's just your coaster. Do you know what that is?" The smile on his face disapeared and he looked at me very intently, and with worry. There was a brief moment of fear and understanding we exchanged between us with just our eyes.

"You've been napping for awhile now, are you still dreaming? Are you awake now?" I said.
"I know I was sleeping. I was tired."
"Yeah, so am I. Maybe we should both go to bed."
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."

After walking him to his room and shutting his bedroom door for him, I walked into his sister's room and collapsed and curled up on the floor at the realization that finally came to me.

He's in pain because he's lost himself.

Happy Mother's Day...the dog shit on the carpet

Yeah...it was not a good Mother's Day for Mom- let's just leave it at that.

Weird sorta eventful/not eventful in anyway kind of a day.

I went to Whole Foods...oooo- so yuppie of me.

Also got some test results back from OHSU that basically prove that a) I CAN be physically healthy but in turn b) this means I'm mentally not. YAY for life alterning news delivered in bullet point form!

The Dr. had to write me a personal little email through my online health account with the hospital, basically explaining that for once, I am not a physical disaster. My automatic instinct was to reply back just telling him to put IT in my mouth, which I'm pretty sure is not only inappropriate and crass, it might prove his point. It's thoughts like these that I have, that make me realize why people are embarrased by me.

Speaking of embarrasing, now because I have TWO Ativan's left and four flights ahead of me in the next 9 days, I'm about to be THAT person on the plane. I'm about to mix together a cocktail of varying amounts of sleeping pills, airport wine, lack of sleep, an eye mask, a freshly charged iPod, and a Holy Bible (just so I can find the BBJ when it counts). I want to be so screwed up on those flights that not only will I need a wheelchair to get off the plane, I don't even want to be aware of who the Wright Brothers are.

How fucked would that be? My grandpa, who should probably be in a wheelchair, picking up his 24 year old granddaughter who is drooling on herself and being pushed through a midwestern jerk-water town airport in a wheelchair, because she had to self-medicate herself to get to Iowa for 6 fun filled days of...watching cable news and eating shit food from the Hyvee's.

I just found out the coffee shop in town has wireless. To prevent more episodes of rage and panic, I will be trying my best to avoid his television while there. Except for hockey. Hockey is always acceptable.

Ain't it so weird, how it makes you a weapon?

In light of recent events for me over the last couple of days, posting this video is about the best way to express...this, whatever it may be.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skU2dAjAPv8

If this is what this is, then the world is a weird place. Over four years ago now it started with this song for me and now here we are again- everything has come full circle. I heard this little ditty back then and just felt something. I just knew it meant something more, something I kind of, but not fully yet, could understand. I knew I got it, I just didn't know how I did.

They tell me soon things will be illuminated forever, that I will have turned a corner of some kind.

Never turn your back on it again.

Taking a step in some sort of direction

I called OHSU Gabriel Park today to make an appointment with a doctor over there.

Turns out they only have an appointment with a male doctor which if you know anything about my history with male doctors, makes me super uneasy.

Then I remembered he was the doctor that realized my back was actually a muscular thing (not a kidney/autoimmune thing)...and that he is HOT. That then let me to the hot physiotherapist at War Memorial.

I think as long as I keep working with specialists and doctors that are sexy maybe I won't care if they try to drug me, rape me, and charge it to my insurance.

Fugitives and Refugees

Had an eventful day/night/morning yesterday. I think we can officially call the start of Emily's social outings in Portland. Saturday was D's b-day + Oisin's belated b-day/housewarming. This led to a night that was a bit like the twilight zone/deja vuish mixed with a plethora of voodoo doughnuts, dancey goodness and strippers, of course. Embodied the finer bits of PDX I love so much.

Partying with Oisin and his random friend's, plus all the usual characters from high school was nothing short of hilarious and just fucking weird. Oisin is still carrying way too many weapons at all times, Max is still oddly creeping out the ladies, Zach is still a champ with liquor, Vicki is still bitter as shit, and John is still...just British. We're all five years older, slightly wiser, often hotter, but just as socially awkward/intelligent/unique/humorous. I hope I get to hang with them again soon. I kinda feel like after five years away I'm finally able to almost keep up with all of them creatively and intellectually...almost.

I'm glad I had a good night out here. I really don't want to hate it here anymore, but it's hard not to. Did some drunk dialing to those north of the border last night.

I just wish I could transplant you all here into this weird carnival town, along with the beaches, the amazing gay clubs, sushi, and the accents. Alas, I drink from a flask in a club bathroom 317 miles away. Wish you were here, one of the fugitives and refugees.

An apology to someone I lied to

When I was leaving Vancouver I stated that I didn't expect Portland to cure any sort of bad feelings I was feeling in Vancouver. I stated that I knew a change of location alone would not revolutionize me, my attitude, my bullshit, etc. I tried to act like coming to Portland was not a blatant attempt at pushing the reset button.

I realize now I lied. Actually, it's not even that I lied- I was just hardcore in denial. This is the mindset of an ex-military brat, I guess.

Maybe it's just these first few days and it will pass, but I haven't felt this trapped since Gresham (and by Gresham I mean pre-Benson days).

I've stopped watching TV altogether here at home except for hockey and House, because seeing American TV makes me panic.

This return home embodies what I've always said- I may be American but I have no real idea what that means. Until I figure out who I am and where I have to be to survive, I walk these vaguely familiar streets aimlessly and ask myself who am I without you?