Personal record

Robyn and I went to Walker's Invitational Cross Country Meet yesterday. Walker's a junior varsity guy, but the varsity team is ranked number on in the state. It was easy to see why. In a field of 300 or so ripped young men, Prairie runners finished in the top 30 or 35. They won the meet, which by all accounts was very fast. Walker, who has grown legs over the summer, knocked a minute and a half off his personal record for this event. His goal was a sub-20 time and he finished at 18:51. He was surprised, and in true cross-country tradition, vomited nicely at the finish line.

Cross country is a great sport. The kids seem more laid back and are great sports for the most part. I'm still amused by the long lines of young men and women, in grand physical condition, lining up at the porta-potties for their pre-game dumps. Wouldn't want to get to mile eight and have to poop down your own leg. These ordinarily self-conscious young men and women all stand in line together as though they are in the return line at Best Buy. I like that the kids compete against their own previous times (at least on our team) and encourage each other, regardless of how they finish. Walker finished well but did not medal or (I think) score for the team (which took second), but his friends were excited at the dramatic improvement in his time. They all embrace suffering and pain and personal accomplishment. Then, of course, they come home and neglect taking out the garbage. Some generalization of values will surely ensue at some point in time.

I made the final arrangements to move Mom into what seems like a very good nursing facility last week. As I finished the arrangements Friday afternoon, I felt a wave of sadness. When we moved Mom into her current facility - Memory Care - she asked "How long will I have to stay here?" I lied. "I don't know, Mom." The answer, it turns out, is "until you need a nursing home."

Choosing a home can be depressing, to say the least. My point of view has certainly changed, though. I remember being appalled when I visited my Aunt Joan at all the sleeping folks seemingly abandoned in their chairs and in hallways, folks sitting gazing off into nowhere, or sitting in front of televisions in congregate areas noticing little or nothing. I didn't want to think about Mom being one of those people. She is, now, of course, one of those people. They are doing the best they can with what remains of their gray matter, conversing or responding with great effort and then resting, nodding off, gathering wool until called upon to interact again, with great effort. We have found a clean, quiet place full of people who seem kind and knowlegable. Mom will have a room-mate who, like her, needs a quiet place, a radio, some classical music.

Although my first instinct in the face of these things is to purchase and consume expensive and tasty single malt scotch, I have not done so. Nor have I made the pitcher of martinis for which the situation seems to call. I drove down in the rain and saw a client, a woman of some significant insight whose lot seems to be improving. I came home and talked with my daughter who, bored and with a very sore ankle, came home for the night at my invitation. I vacuumed up a lot of puppy hair. It's falling off Maggie in great patches, carpeting our rugs with mismatched fiber. I watched our over-rated football team fall prey to hungry underdogs. Beware the hungry underdog.

I often introduce my young clients to the concept of struggle. Most of them have had to struggle mightily. They see their struggle as an exception. Their future is filled with satisfaction, to which they are no doubt entitled, punctuated by occasional hard times, which they don't really deserve. Why do bad things happen to good people?

I try to tell them that struggle is the known constant. Our lives are full of effort to understand, to cope, hoping to overcome. We struggle for things we believe in, for our truths, our values, for the people and ideas we love, or we struggle to no end, for no palpable reason, to pretend that things are in fact "okay." One way or another, day after day, we push the rock up the hill. I encourage my young charges to find passion, to think about what they believe, to pursue what fascinates them. Struggling for something one believes in, struggling to match our erratic behavior to something resembling our personal values, feels to me more worthwhile, even if I often fail, than struggling for what feels like no good reason.

This is a fine recipe, but the dish is hard to execute. One can blithely turn up the volume on one's own hypocrisy, in front of one or more witnesses, and not see the clarity of one's own delusion. Age does not improve us in this respect. Awareness is a fleeting thing - often appearing only in the rear view mirror, on the embarrassing video tape of memory - in the remonstrations of a close friend, a son, a spouse.

We make coffee and watch the sun rise. We make plans for the day. We think back on what's done, think forward toward what we intend.

Tomorrow, moving day, is all arranged. Mom's current care givers have cut her hair stylishly short and will dress her neatly. Hospice has given me the name of a service which specializes in the smooth transport of the elderly in wheelchairs. Mom's next care givers, specialized in the "next level" of her need, await her arrival. They are prepared to get to know her, to find the spark of preference and desire left between her befuddled and tortured neurons and to make her comfortable.

All I want is a room somewhere
Far away from the cold night air
With one enormous chair . . . .