Belated Equinox blessings. For most of March, Doris and I have been dazzled with early spring bursting alive like a symphony of greens as we drive the swooping hills so reminiscent of the Ozarks. First the brilliant yellow forsythia rush at me with memories of walking a mile to St Jerome School in Rogers Park in April 1940s with sudden surprising hope.
Before that yellow weaves into green here in the Carolina hills red bud branches appear with their mauve delicacy deep in the forest. These give way to big waxy white magnolias dipped in ruby and pear trees as white as communion dresses. For a week now fresh dogwoods and pink flowering trees I can't identify dot the roads.
Every chance we get we take drives in different directions. Last Sunday we discovered UNC-Chapel Hill campus. Yesterday we spent a couple of hours inside a Verizon store getting me a Droid with keyboard and internet access. I'm determined to figure out how to access email from my new larger heavier multi-task phone.
If I'd had the transplant in March and if spring hadn't come early, I'd have missed all this luscious color and palate of greens. Today I celebrate ten months since my heart attack when I'd always thought I'd pass a safe threshold with my heart healed enough to come off Plavix, the blood-thinning drug that's making my skin so fragile for bruises, so they can do surgery.
Waiting requires patience I've never really had. Last week waiting to see the doctor in clinic took an hour in the outer waiting room and another two hours sitting on the uncomfortable metal chairs in the examining room. If we'd known how long we'd wait, one of us could have stretched out on the examining table and taken a nap. I took pulmonary function tests at 8 am, and we left the clinic about 12:30. By then we were ravenous. They want to do a few more tests. I'm trying to be grateful for their caution.
I continue my daily three hours at Duke Center for Living in order to keep up my muscular and aerobic strength in this Olympic-style prep for transplant. Never have I pushed so hard.
One rare day the therapist leading the floor exercises started a brief meditation. "Relax and deepen your breathing," she droned in that come into alpha state voice. "Go to a place that makes you feel happy."
The old guy on the mat next to me growled faintly, "Hardee's."
His eyes popped open as he rolled in my direction. "Did I say anything?"
"Hardee's," I growled faintly.
"Oh no," he rolled back on his mat. I don't even remember who he is, but I've been pondering Hardee's as a happy place ever since.
Please send healing calming energy to me and all who need it now. I'm eager to cross the bridge into my new life so that I can give back to communities here by doing what I love--teaching, reviewing plays, writing my memoirs, performing, and joining in political action. I'm also eager to be walking and breathing fresh air without needing oxygen, driving places on my own, getting my own groceries, and doing my fair share of everyday tasks.
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