I Drive A Tesla (E)

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Hi, my name is Ron, and I drive a Tesla.

I’ve labelled this “explicit” because DanDanTheTranspoMan is the last person in the room with some semblance of clean cut, Midwest values. And he doesn’t like it when I write like George Carlin talked.

I bought a red Model Y with a tow hitch for the two-wheelers two years ago. The frictionless purchase process makes you wonder why anyone ever subjects themself to the conventional dealer experience. Brilliant.

And it’s outstanding transpo. Utterly amazing. There are are innumerable things to criticize the CEO (in name) about, but those who criticize the cars are being disingenuous.

Two weeks in, I somehow avoided a crash in Bend, OR as a result of one of the computers which stopped the car much more quickly than I could’ve. I also dig how it silently and ever so smoothly and slowly creeps in and around parking lots and in inner city Oly. With the home charger, it’s always ready for a good time. And it’s a fast motherfucker.* Rest assured, I’ll never be pinched in entering the fwy.

Of course, there are a few downsides. The insurance costs. The automatic wipers have a mind of their own, so much so, I have to manually set them. Oof, and most especially, the depreciation.

Oh, and I almost forgot, there’s the enriching of one of the most loathsome of the 8.062 billion people alive today.

And the increasing grief that comes with being associated with him. Which just recently started with this winsome greeting from a fellow driver, “You fuckin’ douche bag.” I told friends, I didn’t recognize him, but he obviously knew me! And yesterday, a woman on the other side of the road flipped me the bird.

Normally, being a modern, sensitive guy and all, these “greetings” would leave a mark. But these are not normal times. Both times I was picking up prescriptions at the pharmacy for my ailing wife. Caring for her has changed me. What constitutes a problem keeps getting redefined. The bar, for what gets to me, keeps getting raised.

The other day, on a cycling reprieve, I got soaked in much more rain than I had anticipated. I thought to myself of the revered philosopher, Jay-Z, and his “99 Problems” treatise.

Ninety-nine problems, but a bitch ain’t one
If you’re havin’ girl problems, I feel bad for you, son
I got ninety-nine problems, but a bitch ain’t one – hit me!

I’ve got ninety-nine problems, but being soaked, cold, and filthy ain’t one I thought to myself.

Maybe that’s why I laughed to myself when the rando woman flipped me the bird yesterday at the Fifth Street circle.

Then I thought I should probably prepare for the next encounter and the next. My plan is to channel the restaurant or Airbnb owners when they get scathing reviews. Something along the lines of, “I am sorry my car purchase has angered you so much. But thank you very much for your feedback. Please know I will take your middle finger and/or invective into consideration as I work to be a better person.”

No doubt my mix of zen and humor will disappear if and when my car is vandalized. If I parked it downtown with any regularity, there’s no doubt that would happen sooner than later. I have a $1k deductible, so fuck you in advance.

So maybe I should trade it in for something more socially acceptable. Which of course, doesn’t solve the larger problem. Still, in prep for that possibility, please let me know which carmakers you approve of so I may avoid offending you in the future.

*Now that DDTTM isn’t over shoulder, I feel freed up.

People Are Cheering Fifteen Percent?

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My writing about my family’s experience with Lynn’s Multiple Systems Atrophy has resonated with a lot of people here and on our CaringBridge site.

A recurring theme is they appreciate the “honesty”. And how I sometimes use humor to lighten things. And many of my readers, like me, are also “on the back nine” and so final chapters are more relevant than if I had a younger, hipper readership.

Honestly though, the “honesty” feedback perplexes me because I feel like I’ve only been able to paint about 15% of the picture. There’s way more that I’m leaving out than I am including.

But maybe, everything really is relative, and people are used to even far less transparency?

Of course, it’s impossible to perfectly quantify how much someone lets their readers in. Just know, when you listen, read, or watch anyone’s story, there’s always way, way more to it. Always.

Why aren’t you and I more forthright with others? More vulnerable? More honest especially about what’s most difficult. And about our related, negative emotions?

As a male, I have the excuse of not having been encouraged to communicate my emotions growing up. But I’m sure that’s true for boatloads of women too. And so that’s a lousy explanation that really doesn’t get at my reticence to be more honest.

Another explanation that I’ve touched on previously is not knowing how to be more honest without compromising others’ privacy. Hell, the picture I included with the last post, I got in trouble for it. Because it was a “tender moment”. Which is exactly why it was such a good picture. So there’s that. Lynn didn’t want me to share her tenderness with you. So what’s a writer to do?

Maybe, if I outlive her, and the odds in Vegas are that I will, I’ll be freed up to paint far more of the picture. Even 16-17%.

Women For The Win

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My wife’s debilitating illness has given me a front row seat to a profound gender dynamic. A dynamic that informs today’s mostly mindless discussion of masculinity.

First, even before we dive in, let me muddy the water a little. Some men, albeit small in number, are superseding the ways males are typically raised.

Cases in point. When we moved into the new crib 11 months ago, Travis, unannounced, showed up with dinner for us on the first, exhausting night. A few weeks ago, Michael dropped in with (amazing) carrot cake and two loaves of Wagner’s (amazing) cinnamon bread. Allen (okay, sure with Patty’s help) baked dinners and drove over hill and valley to lighten our fall when I was teaching. Brian fills Lynn’s hummingbird feeder and repairs her recumbent.

National Public Radio ran on oddly common story on it’s website last week about a dying woman who needed lots of home care. A female friend of the woman ended up singlehandedly providing most of it until the very end.

I would’ve placed the odds of the woman’s key caregiver being female at 95%.

Almost exclusively, my wife’s female friends have taken action. The men in our orbit, on the other hand, have almost always offered sympathetic words. One close male friend recently sent me an email in which he said, “Let me know if I can do anything to help.” That, as it turns out, is the male default. It’s safe. A way to maintain distance. A sure-fire way to not be too bothered.

To my “one close male friend” who I hope isn’t going to read this, I need so much help I don’t even know how to start articulating it.

Most women, in my recent experience, don’t wait around for a guidebook on how to help, content not to receive it. Instead, a larger proportion of them move towards people in need.

Joan heard Lynn say she wasn’t enamored with the industrial gray plasticware I purchased on-line for her. So she showed up one day with much spiffier tumblers. Vivian routinely shows up unannounced with soup and gets down on her knees and huddles with Lynn when her body shuts down. She doesn’t really bother to email or text, she just appears at the door.

I watch Little Chris during one of her regular visits and tell her, “Man, you are so skilled and comfortable at meeting Lynn exactly where she is. It’s a beautiful thing.” She proceeds to tell me that when she was in high school, she cared for a housebound woman every day after school for a few years. And how formative that experience was. I don’t know if Little Chris had a brother of similar age, but if she had, I’m 95% sure her parents would not have suggested him for the job.

We expect girls and women to be nurturing as if they’re somehow uniquely built for it. We give boys and men a pass in the form of exceedingly low expectations. And so most males don’t develop that wonderful female instinct to act. Not to wait to be told how to help, just to show up. To look ailing people in the eyes. To hold their hands. To help them get undressed and dressed. To feed them. To console them. Until the end.

More men will be more hands-on caregivers when we expect boys to be more nurturing. Absent that expectation, women will continue do the vast majority of kind-hearted caregiving.

Uphill Finish

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On a website called “CaringBridge”, I’m writing occasional updates on the Good Wife’s Multiple Systems Atrophy for a growing list of family and friends from near and far.

What follows is this week’s CaringBridge update.

One of my favorite bike rides is super challenging. And hella scenic. The boys and I, starting near Widgi Creek Golf Course in Bend, Oregon, spend the morning climbing up to Mount Bachelor and then midday circumnavigating it. It’s 85 miles in total, but when it comes to the day’s nutrition/hydration/grit, I prep for 72ish because the last 13 or so are all downhill, sometimes even with a tailwind.

I wanted to live out life with Lynn just like the Bachelor ride. Spending the final segment, having real fun, aimless, with the wind in our (fading) hair, enjoying ourselves, without much effort. We saved money, I unplugged from work, and Century Drive stretched out before us.

In my warped/idealized vision of unreality.

Now, I’m so sad to report, our collective ride is ending not with a grin inducing downhill, but with a major climb. Into a headwind, with plummeting temps, even hail. Think Italy’s Stelvio Pass.

If I had known we’d have to confront a hugely challenging curveball at some point in our story, I would’ve chosen an earlier chapter. Fo sho. But wasn’t given the option.

There’s too much to do to feel sorry for myself. I can and do feel very sorry for Lynn though.

One of Alison’s friends from high school died recently at exactly half of Lynn’s age.

That tragic event made me appreciative of the length of our ride, but I’m still extremely sad about Lynn’s daily challenges.

In short, things are going from rough to rougher. She’s sleeping more, her voice continues to fade, and her body completely shuts down about once a day.

But her mind and loving spirit remain intact. And for that, we’re grateful.

An Entirely Different Kind Of Marathon

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A year ago or so, when my wife’s Multiple System Atrophy (MSA) really started to take a toll on her and us, one of her close friends pulled me aside and said, “You’ve run a lot of marathons. This is going to be another one.”

It’s an apt metaphor until it isn’t. Apt in the sense that caring for my wife is daunting and it requires real endurance. And ultimately, it’s exhausting.

But when running marathons, there are markers every kilometer or mile that help you carve the total distance up into more manageable parts. “Okay, now I’m half done.” Or “Okay, now I just have to gut out a measly 10k.”

With MSA there are no markers unless you count steadily worsening mobility, steadily losing one’s voice, or steadily losing. . . pick the system. Despite my wife’s steady decline, I don’t know how to pace my caregiving, so cliché alert, it’s literally one day at a time.

Two aspects of it are especially hard.

The first is the utter selflessness required. A traditional marathon is almost entirely physical. It mostly boils down to whether you’ve put in the miles or not. In contrast, this caregiving marathon is entirely spiritual. Very simply put, the question is whether I can let go of all of my personal hopes and dreams to meet my wife’s immediate needs. All day. Every day. Over and over. And over.

I want to waste some time watching bad television, go away for the weekend, and sleep through the night uninterrupted, but I can’t do any of those things. Or much at all because there isn’t time.

We’re fortunate in that we’ve hired some help, which means I can squeeze in runs, rides, and swims, and thereby flush some of the stress. But some inevitably accumulates.

Recently, I approached a crosswalk in our nearby traffic circle at the start of a run. Not seeing me and thinking she would just roll into the circle, a driver approached the crosswalk way, way too fast and nearly clipped me. I straight-armed her bonnet and lost my shit. So much so she looked scared and immediately turned apologetic. For those scorekeeping at home, my anger was worser than her speeding. “Who have I become?” I wondered.

Which leads to the second challenge. Instead of mustering some semblance of self-compassion, which I’ve become convinced is probably the key to a good life, I continually beat myself up, concluding I’m not nearly up to the spiritual demands of providing the patient, selfless, and kind care my wife would undoubtedly provide me if the situation was reversed.

So, instead of saying to myself, “Ron, you’re doing the best you can to be as selfless as possible in very difficult circumstances.” I find myself thinking. “Because I lack the requisite spiritual depth, I’m doing a shit job caring for my wife.” Those are not constructive thoughts. But, they are mine.

The City Of Angels Needs Some

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Exactly 40 years ago, fresh from student teaching at Dorsey High School in South-Central Los Angeles, I drove wide-eyed in my VW Bug onto LA’s wealthiest high school campus, Pacific Palisades, to start my second required student teaching stint. Due to my youthful good looks, a ripped security guard stopped me and lit into me for parking in the faculty lot. This week, Palisades Charter High School, with over 3,000 students, burned down.

Seven years later, I temporarily moved into a friend’s palatial Pacific Palisades house to do my doctoral research at the Venice Foreign Language/International Studies Magnet School. We are no longer in touch, and I would be surprised if his family still owns the house all these years later, but based on the photos and video of the devastation, I’m guessing it’s gone too.

The average home in Pacific Palisades is valued at $3.4m. That knowledge will limit some people’s empathy, as if it’s a finite resource that should be parceled out judiciously on a sliding scale. Two things can be true. Many Palisades residents will be financially okay once the dust settles while never fully recovering from extensive personal loss.

I am struck by the tremendous interconnectedness of homeowners. Sparks jumping from house to house like dominoes. Given the density of homes in Malibu and along the Pacific Coast Highway, and in the Palisades, as the locals say, it wouldn’t have mattered if a few homeowners cut back their vegetation and hosed off their roofs before evacuating. The one-two punch of the Santa Ana winds and their next door neighbors’ burning houses, sealed their fate.

Intense individualism is the defining feature of life in the (dis)United States. But not this week in Los Angeles County. To borrow from John Donne, “No house is an island.”

Postscript.