We called him: "The Bolt" and he was the best surfer I have ever witnessed in person. Though I've had opportunity to be in the water with a few pros, both minor and major over the years, he was better than all of them, and he was from Maine.
As we didn't know his name at first, we christened him with our made up nickname, after the surfboard he usually rode. It was a deep purple tinted "Lightning Bolt." Single fin, rounded-pintail and about 7' long. The logo, made famous by Gerry Lopez, was a bold yellow lightning bolt that stretched about 2/3 of both the deck and bottom. No words, no names, just that yellow bolt. We'd all seen those Lightning Bolt surfboards under the feet of Gerry Lopez and a few of his team riders, Rory Russell most prominent, blasting out of Banzai Pipeline barrel after Banzai Pipeline barrel in both Surfer and Surfing magazines and the few surfing movies you could view at high school auditoriums and community centers in coastal towns on both coasts and Hawaii. Many of us coveted those boards and dreamed of owning one ourselves. In our area though, there was only him: The Bolt.
Lithe and lean, with cat-like agility and possessing every bit of relaxed grace as Lopez himself (he even sported the same mustache that GL did!) we would sit in awe of not only his rides but his otherworldly attunement to the ocean and its rhythms. So many times I witnessed him sitting there casually conversing with one of his buddies, only to spin around without warning and glide into a wave that none of us even saw coming. Though he was goofy-foot (again like Lopez!) and our home break was a long walled right, he took off backside deeper than any of the best regular footed surfers ever did, both then and to this day. Riding high and tight, feet close together and angled so sharply that his body was nearly facing straight ahead to the nose, he made sections that nobody could, sections that were closeouts fer cryin out loud! Everybody deferred to him, even the older guys. Though they were his peers, and would never let on to him how good they knew he was, (lest his head swell as one of them told me once) they always would back off, sit up, let him have any wave he wanted, and watch...even when they had position on him.
He wasn't flashy or radical like today's surfers. In fact, as I got into photography and started shooting surfing on occasion, I tried, in vain to get some good shots of him. I never accomplished this. Somehow, his surfing just didn't translate to film. The few shots I snapped, always looked rather flat and unspectacular. He didn't whack or gouge his board like everyone else was doing; spray didn't fly. He was more of a glider, a hawk, using the energy of thermal updrafts rather than their flapping wings, to keep soaring. Only his medium was water and waves rather than air. He sensed the waves energy in a way I've never seen since in another surfer. And his dance had to be witnessed in person to be appreciated.
His name was Ronnie Freeman. It took a whole summer to learn his name, and three summers before he said a word to me out in the water. But as I developed as a surfer, he started noticing me a little bit, talked to me some, and in time, we became, if not close friends, at least surfing friends. We both seemed to sense each others' passion for surfing and photography and he offered me tidbits of advice on both. He even invited me into his family's home (which was less than a hundred yards up the street from the Rivermouth; how cool is that that he could stroll down the street each morning to check the surf?) to show me his surf boards and talk design. I'd started shaping my own boards, and though I most remember him on that purple Lightning Bolt, he was always experimenting with new boards. He rode fish designs way back when nobody else, at least on the East Coast had even heard of them. He had his own personal shaper down in Florida where he wintered each year, who designed and gave him boards to try out and test. He made trips to California to surf famous breaks and check the latest trends in board design. He lived the lifestyle better than anyone else in our locale and he never, ever hung around to suffer through the blizzard nor'easters and 35 degree water winters!
Being underground, and from Maine and Florida, he never made a big splash in the surfing world, not that he was even interested in that, but he did have his occasional brushes with semi-fame. There's an old issue of Surfer magazine with a photo of he and Australian legend, Terry Fitzgerald, on a beach on the North Shore of Hawaii, holding a board and talking design. Terry frikkin Fitzgerald! And Ronnie Freeman from Maine, casually talking board design! He also published a couple of photos and articles in Surfer magazine. And this was back in the day when not anyone with a fully automatic, PHd (Push Here Dummy!) digital camera and their own little website could make a name for themselves in the mags. Perhaps his most infamous brush with notoriety was when he was wintering in Hawaii one season and paddled out out Pipline. For hours he tried catching a good clean wave to himself where some asshole didn't drop in on him and cut him off. Frustrated and pissed (which is totally out of character for him, being normally all about casual style and understated grace) he made it up in his mind that the next surfer to drop in on him he would simply...run the bastard over. And who just happened to be the next surfer to do so? Gerry Lopez himself. Mr. Pipeline. The Zen master. Lopez, owned that break! But not on this wave...Ronnie Freeman, Lopez' doppleganger from east nowhere Maine...ran him over! Now, you can call bullshit on this story, and for all I know, Ronnie could have been BS'ing me, in fact, when he told me this story, he did deliver the punchline with a twinkle in his eye, but, Ronnie was my surf hero and if he said he ran over Gerry Lopez, I believe him!
I haven't seen Ronnie in years. He used to come back to Maine each year after Labor Day to hopefully catch a hurricane swell at his old home break. But after working in gemstones in the family business for so many years down in Florida, he acquired enough of a stake to purchase a piece of property out in California at the old Hollister Ranch. The Ranch is a gated community which for a surfer who owns a home there, it means you have unlimited access to a coveted surf region that almost nobody else has. The waves not only are world-class there, but remain largely pristine of development and most importantly, hordes of other surfers. This seems fitting for Ronnie, retiring to soar across his own special waves in his own special way, in utter anonymity...stylin as always...
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Walking Guy
I saw him today, walking the beach, up near the high tide line, while I was jogging closer to the water's edge.
I call him the Walking Guy because that's how I always find him; walking. He walks everywhere. I see him near or on the beach usually, but I often see him inland too, on the back roads I employ to avoid the traffic on Route 1. Though I've seen him for years, decades now, I do not know his name or anything about him, where he's from or where he lives. I always see him walking; head down, as if studying each step before him, or perhaps looking for something on the ground, or maybe simply engaged in deep thought. He rarely seems to look up. And though I've passed him many times, running, walking, riding my bike, or even driving by, he never looks up to make eye contact.
His hair is shaggy and unkempt and his natural color is brown with lighter highlights that used to bleach out under the summer sun. His hair is mostly gray now though. He used to shave his face but left it grizzled, as if he only scraped a dull razor over it once a week or so. Nowadays he often lets his beard grow out and it becomes quite long and gray like his hair, only even scruffier; picture Santa Claus on crack. And I swear the wire frame glasses he wears are the same pair I saw him wearing way back in 1973 when I first came to awareness of him. In the summer he usually wears either faded blue jeans, or an old pair of bleached out blue surf baggies that I think might be older than his glasses. On his torso it's either a sweatshirt, t-shirt, or bare skin, in that order as the weather warms. All his clothes are tattered and stained except for the surf trunks which I'm sure will survive Armegeddon. In the winter he concedes somewhat to the weather and has an old down coat, a watch cap, and a pair of gloves. On his feet it's sneakers. Almost always sneakers.
I used to think he was an old, burned out surfer. He certainly seemed to carry that air about him. And he seemed connected to the beach. In the old days, I would sometimes see him sitting on a rock, overlooking the surf...watching. Maybe he is simply a casualty of the drugs of the late '60's/early '70's. I also sometimes wonder if maybe he's some eccentric genius who when not wandering about town, deep in thought, is back in some hut in the woods, formulating mathmatical theories that the rest of us could never understand.
I sometimes ask others who live in town, if they know anything about him. His name at least. They usually look at me puzzled, not understanding who I'm talking about, which leaves me wondering if I'm the only one who sees him. As if he's no more real than an imaginary friend from childhood. Or more like a wandering specter of my consciousness, whose import or message I've yet to figure out. I actually used to think of him as, in a way, almost myself; that he was my destiny, my ghost of Christmas yet to come. In the throes of my doomed marriage and former life, I envisioned that I too would one day become a lonesome, restless wandering soul. A hermit loner, walking through a life that was surely yet to come, alone, head down, and invisible to the the world around me. Since that has not come to pass though, as I have survived the fog of my earlier life, and come out into the light of my new one, smiling, happy, and at peace with who I am...I wonder, why does the Walking Guy still haunt me?
Anyway, I saw him on the beach today...head down, squinty-eyed, his teeth showing in a mild grimace, because he was scrunching his face, as we glass wearers sometimes do, trying to keep our glasses from sliding down our noses. He always has that same look, that mild grimace, as he contemplates whatever only he and God know. I passed him, going the same way he was travelling, as I jogged, leaving him behind for awhile as I outpaced him to the far end of the beach. When I turned around to come back, I looked for him...but he had disappeared...
I call him the Walking Guy because that's how I always find him; walking. He walks everywhere. I see him near or on the beach usually, but I often see him inland too, on the back roads I employ to avoid the traffic on Route 1. Though I've seen him for years, decades now, I do not know his name or anything about him, where he's from or where he lives. I always see him walking; head down, as if studying each step before him, or perhaps looking for something on the ground, or maybe simply engaged in deep thought. He rarely seems to look up. And though I've passed him many times, running, walking, riding my bike, or even driving by, he never looks up to make eye contact.
His hair is shaggy and unkempt and his natural color is brown with lighter highlights that used to bleach out under the summer sun. His hair is mostly gray now though. He used to shave his face but left it grizzled, as if he only scraped a dull razor over it once a week or so. Nowadays he often lets his beard grow out and it becomes quite long and gray like his hair, only even scruffier; picture Santa Claus on crack. And I swear the wire frame glasses he wears are the same pair I saw him wearing way back in 1973 when I first came to awareness of him. In the summer he usually wears either faded blue jeans, or an old pair of bleached out blue surf baggies that I think might be older than his glasses. On his torso it's either a sweatshirt, t-shirt, or bare skin, in that order as the weather warms. All his clothes are tattered and stained except for the surf trunks which I'm sure will survive Armegeddon. In the winter he concedes somewhat to the weather and has an old down coat, a watch cap, and a pair of gloves. On his feet it's sneakers. Almost always sneakers.
I used to think he was an old, burned out surfer. He certainly seemed to carry that air about him. And he seemed connected to the beach. In the old days, I would sometimes see him sitting on a rock, overlooking the surf...watching. Maybe he is simply a casualty of the drugs of the late '60's/early '70's. I also sometimes wonder if maybe he's some eccentric genius who when not wandering about town, deep in thought, is back in some hut in the woods, formulating mathmatical theories that the rest of us could never understand.
I sometimes ask others who live in town, if they know anything about him. His name at least. They usually look at me puzzled, not understanding who I'm talking about, which leaves me wondering if I'm the only one who sees him. As if he's no more real than an imaginary friend from childhood. Or more like a wandering specter of my consciousness, whose import or message I've yet to figure out. I actually used to think of him as, in a way, almost myself; that he was my destiny, my ghost of Christmas yet to come. In the throes of my doomed marriage and former life, I envisioned that I too would one day become a lonesome, restless wandering soul. A hermit loner, walking through a life that was surely yet to come, alone, head down, and invisible to the the world around me. Since that has not come to pass though, as I have survived the fog of my earlier life, and come out into the light of my new one, smiling, happy, and at peace with who I am...I wonder, why does the Walking Guy still haunt me?
Anyway, I saw him on the beach today...head down, squinty-eyed, his teeth showing in a mild grimace, because he was scrunching his face, as we glass wearers sometimes do, trying to keep our glasses from sliding down our noses. He always has that same look, that mild grimace, as he contemplates whatever only he and God know. I passed him, going the same way he was travelling, as I jogged, leaving him behind for awhile as I outpaced him to the far end of the beach. When I turned around to come back, I looked for him...but he had disappeared...
Thursday, February 16, 2012
DNF
The most ignominious humiliation any road runner or triathlete can suffer is to have the acronym, "DNF" ascribed to their performance after a race. Did Not Finish; DNF. Oh, the shame.
I used to be an obsessed triathlete. Each day was not complete if I did not get at least a "double" workout in. Double meaning I trained in at least two of the three discliplines of swimming, biking, and running. A really good day I might get a triple in, while weekends were usually the "long run" or "long bike" days. It's funny, I initially started training as a way to keep in shape for my true passion, surfing. Cuz let's face it, just surfing alone isn't gonna keep you in great shape if you're an East Coast surfer; too many down days. The irony is that as I became more competitive, especially with my siblings who also raced, I would sometimes feel almost "guilty" to be out surfing when I should have been sweating through a seven-mile fartlek (Swedish for "speed-play;" meaning a free-form speed workout) run. I confess that there were even a few occasions when I sacrificed a surf session to get my workout in. I know, Blasphemy, huh?
My time was the '80's, which were the pioneering, glory days of the sport. While by no means at a world-class or even top level regional athlete, I was an above average finisher in most of my races. I often raced in that no-woman's land, equidistant behind the pros, and ahead of the middle-of-the-packers. My races were mostly lonely affairs where I would pass few other racers and be passed rarely myself...unless I was having a bad day. Fortunately my bad days were few and far between. Only one time did I record a DNF. And in that particular race I knew going into it that I would probably drop out, simply because I had a stress-fracture in my foot, that I expected would prohibit me from finishing. I did slog through about half of the six mile run before the pain caused me to employ reason over bullheaded stubborness and stop.
The worst race I ever had was a half-Ironman distance race in the hills and mountains of Vermont. The race was called the Steelman Triathlon. It consisted of a: 1.2 mile swim/56 mile bike/13.1 mile run, each component exactly half the distances of the full Ironman distance races, made most famous by the original Ironman held each October on the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii. Always more of a short distance, speed type triathlete, as opposed to a distance, endurance racer, the Steelman was a big bite for me to chew. I'd competed in the race twice before in the "team" category, as the swimming leg while two of my brothers each did a bike and run leg. The first year we came in second and the next year we actually won the race, each of us earning exactly $50 apiece and the bragging rights of calling ourselves "professional athletes." My brothers spent the following winter in Florida, both training for an Ironman race to be held on Cape Cod that coming summer. Married with kids, I didn't have the freedom to train as much as they, so set my sights on completing the Steelman as an individual racer. My brothers teased me that since it was only half the distance, it wouldn't be as worthy an accomplishment but I pointed out that it was up and down (some really steep!) mountains not all flat like the Cape race.
My race could be summed up in a single word: Bonk. In cycling and triathlons the word "Bonk," means pretty much the same as what marathoners refer to as: "hitting-the-wall." The physiological phenomenon is pretty much the same; bonking occurs when your physical efforts have utterly exhausted the fuel store glycogen reserves in your body. It's hard to describe the feeling unless you've ever felt it, but for me it's kind of reminiscent of the "Robot" character in the old tv show: "Lost In Space" when someone would remove the battery power back from his back and his blinking lights would snuff and his hose arms would go limp and he would shut down. That's what happens when you bonk, your body, shuts down. I bonked about twenty miles into the bike portion of the Steelman. The only way to stave off bonking is by tanking up, and then refueling during the race. This is why triathletes and runners typically eat massive amounts of pasta the night before a race; carbo-loading we called it. The only problem is, no matter how much you stuff, you will run out at some point and it is imperative to refuel, with glycogen supplements. In the old days, we ate alot of bananas and fig bars. Modern nutritional scientists have now developed gooey gel packets that racers can suck on. What happened to me in that race was that I was so nervous before the race that I could barely eat. Compounding my error that day was I relied on the advertised pit-stops along the way, where water and other goodies would be supplied to the racers, to keep me fueled. I did not pack anything more with me on my bike than water and some lightweight rice-cakes. BIG mistake.
The weather was well into the 90's on race day (heat only exacerbates and accelerates the bonking process; I also never handled the heat well) and, the first feed stop didn't appear until 25 miles into the bike; I was already toast by that point. My race goals evaporated quicker than the sweat off my back and the race for me, soon became no more than a slog. So mad at myself for being ill-prepared, I barely touched my brakes on the back-side downhill of the tallest mountain I climbed that day and my blurry eyes focused on the 56mph reading on my bike computer as I careened towards the bike-to-run transition area. I'd never before or since topped 40mph on a bicycle; I'm too scared! But that day, I didn't care.
It might have been better if I had crashed. Eating fistfuls of cookies, bunches of bananas, and swilling cup after cup of Exceed (which was the high-tech energy juice of the day) I stupidly thought I might be able to get through the run. And for the first 10k of the half-marathon, I did actually have a spurt of energy and started passing a few people again. Of course, maybe half-way up a three-mile dirt road mountain pass, I ran out of gas again and was reduced to walking which next to not finishing was a triathlete's second worst humiliation. I managed to crest that mountain but even walking soon became too hard a chore and a mere two miles from the finish, I actually stopped, sat on a guardrail, cried...prodigiously, and gave-up.
But I didn't really. I sat on that guardrail for at least a half-hour, too fatigued to even offer a "fuck-off" to all the people who passed me, offering their well intended encouragement. I don't know what got me going again, what force of will or mental strength got me off that guardrail and shuffling one foot ahead of the other, but I did. I even jogged the last hundred yards or so and finished, more than an hour after my pre-race target time. Rather than any sense of triumph, I felt only a profound sense of failure.
My brothers completed their Ironman later that summer, amidst their own personal dramas. They still teased me for awhile after that I'd only done half what they'd accomplished. But nothing they said could have made me feel worse about my horrible performance that day in VT. Circumstance kept me from ever redeeming myself again. I did compete for a couple more years but never had the will or opportunity to attempt the Steelman or even consider trying an Ironman. Funny though, both my brothers not only stopped racing, but training as well. And while they got fat and sedentary in their new lives as husbands and fathers, I continued, if not training, at least swimming, biking, and running, for fitness.
I've kept up with varying degrees of dedication, to this day, over two decades later. My fitness is nowhere near the level it used to be. Not only age, and the years, but many injuries and surgeries have slowed me down. For most of those two decades, my competitive energies were thrown into soccer. Having played a little as a teenager, I took up the sport again when my three sons began to play. I played, coached, and reffed. And my body took the toll. 5 knee surgeries alone, later, I ain't got the legs I used to have. But I still run a little and bike too. And once in awhile, I get a little of that old feeling, and a little of the old remorse too, that my triathlon career was a bit of a DNF...that I left something unfinished there...performed lousy in my biggest race, never even attempted the Everest of triathlons, an Ironman...
Sometimes, when my breaths are huffing, the arms are swinging, and everything isn't hurting...my mind wanders...comeback?
I used to be an obsessed triathlete. Each day was not complete if I did not get at least a "double" workout in. Double meaning I trained in at least two of the three discliplines of swimming, biking, and running. A really good day I might get a triple in, while weekends were usually the "long run" or "long bike" days. It's funny, I initially started training as a way to keep in shape for my true passion, surfing. Cuz let's face it, just surfing alone isn't gonna keep you in great shape if you're an East Coast surfer; too many down days. The irony is that as I became more competitive, especially with my siblings who also raced, I would sometimes feel almost "guilty" to be out surfing when I should have been sweating through a seven-mile fartlek (Swedish for "speed-play;" meaning a free-form speed workout) run. I confess that there were even a few occasions when I sacrificed a surf session to get my workout in. I know, Blasphemy, huh?
My time was the '80's, which were the pioneering, glory days of the sport. While by no means at a world-class or even top level regional athlete, I was an above average finisher in most of my races. I often raced in that no-woman's land, equidistant behind the pros, and ahead of the middle-of-the-packers. My races were mostly lonely affairs where I would pass few other racers and be passed rarely myself...unless I was having a bad day. Fortunately my bad days were few and far between. Only one time did I record a DNF. And in that particular race I knew going into it that I would probably drop out, simply because I had a stress-fracture in my foot, that I expected would prohibit me from finishing. I did slog through about half of the six mile run before the pain caused me to employ reason over bullheaded stubborness and stop.
The worst race I ever had was a half-Ironman distance race in the hills and mountains of Vermont. The race was called the Steelman Triathlon. It consisted of a: 1.2 mile swim/56 mile bike/13.1 mile run, each component exactly half the distances of the full Ironman distance races, made most famous by the original Ironman held each October on the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii. Always more of a short distance, speed type triathlete, as opposed to a distance, endurance racer, the Steelman was a big bite for me to chew. I'd competed in the race twice before in the "team" category, as the swimming leg while two of my brothers each did a bike and run leg. The first year we came in second and the next year we actually won the race, each of us earning exactly $50 apiece and the bragging rights of calling ourselves "professional athletes." My brothers spent the following winter in Florida, both training for an Ironman race to be held on Cape Cod that coming summer. Married with kids, I didn't have the freedom to train as much as they, so set my sights on completing the Steelman as an individual racer. My brothers teased me that since it was only half the distance, it wouldn't be as worthy an accomplishment but I pointed out that it was up and down (some really steep!) mountains not all flat like the Cape race.
My race could be summed up in a single word: Bonk. In cycling and triathlons the word "Bonk," means pretty much the same as what marathoners refer to as: "hitting-the-wall." The physiological phenomenon is pretty much the same; bonking occurs when your physical efforts have utterly exhausted the fuel store glycogen reserves in your body. It's hard to describe the feeling unless you've ever felt it, but for me it's kind of reminiscent of the "Robot" character in the old tv show: "Lost In Space" when someone would remove the battery power back from his back and his blinking lights would snuff and his hose arms would go limp and he would shut down. That's what happens when you bonk, your body, shuts down. I bonked about twenty miles into the bike portion of the Steelman. The only way to stave off bonking is by tanking up, and then refueling during the race. This is why triathletes and runners typically eat massive amounts of pasta the night before a race; carbo-loading we called it. The only problem is, no matter how much you stuff, you will run out at some point and it is imperative to refuel, with glycogen supplements. In the old days, we ate alot of bananas and fig bars. Modern nutritional scientists have now developed gooey gel packets that racers can suck on. What happened to me in that race was that I was so nervous before the race that I could barely eat. Compounding my error that day was I relied on the advertised pit-stops along the way, where water and other goodies would be supplied to the racers, to keep me fueled. I did not pack anything more with me on my bike than water and some lightweight rice-cakes. BIG mistake.
The weather was well into the 90's on race day (heat only exacerbates and accelerates the bonking process; I also never handled the heat well) and, the first feed stop didn't appear until 25 miles into the bike; I was already toast by that point. My race goals evaporated quicker than the sweat off my back and the race for me, soon became no more than a slog. So mad at myself for being ill-prepared, I barely touched my brakes on the back-side downhill of the tallest mountain I climbed that day and my blurry eyes focused on the 56mph reading on my bike computer as I careened towards the bike-to-run transition area. I'd never before or since topped 40mph on a bicycle; I'm too scared! But that day, I didn't care.
It might have been better if I had crashed. Eating fistfuls of cookies, bunches of bananas, and swilling cup after cup of Exceed (which was the high-tech energy juice of the day) I stupidly thought I might be able to get through the run. And for the first 10k of the half-marathon, I did actually have a spurt of energy and started passing a few people again. Of course, maybe half-way up a three-mile dirt road mountain pass, I ran out of gas again and was reduced to walking which next to not finishing was a triathlete's second worst humiliation. I managed to crest that mountain but even walking soon became too hard a chore and a mere two miles from the finish, I actually stopped, sat on a guardrail, cried...prodigiously, and gave-up.
But I didn't really. I sat on that guardrail for at least a half-hour, too fatigued to even offer a "fuck-off" to all the people who passed me, offering their well intended encouragement. I don't know what got me going again, what force of will or mental strength got me off that guardrail and shuffling one foot ahead of the other, but I did. I even jogged the last hundred yards or so and finished, more than an hour after my pre-race target time. Rather than any sense of triumph, I felt only a profound sense of failure.
My brothers completed their Ironman later that summer, amidst their own personal dramas. They still teased me for awhile after that I'd only done half what they'd accomplished. But nothing they said could have made me feel worse about my horrible performance that day in VT. Circumstance kept me from ever redeeming myself again. I did compete for a couple more years but never had the will or opportunity to attempt the Steelman or even consider trying an Ironman. Funny though, both my brothers not only stopped racing, but training as well. And while they got fat and sedentary in their new lives as husbands and fathers, I continued, if not training, at least swimming, biking, and running, for fitness.
I've kept up with varying degrees of dedication, to this day, over two decades later. My fitness is nowhere near the level it used to be. Not only age, and the years, but many injuries and surgeries have slowed me down. For most of those two decades, my competitive energies were thrown into soccer. Having played a little as a teenager, I took up the sport again when my three sons began to play. I played, coached, and reffed. And my body took the toll. 5 knee surgeries alone, later, I ain't got the legs I used to have. But I still run a little and bike too. And once in awhile, I get a little of that old feeling, and a little of the old remorse too, that my triathlon career was a bit of a DNF...that I left something unfinished there...performed lousy in my biggest race, never even attempted the Everest of triathlons, an Ironman...
Sometimes, when my breaths are huffing, the arms are swinging, and everything isn't hurting...my mind wanders...comeback?
Thursday, February 9, 2012
What Price Happiness
She calls me "Irish." She knows I'm Irish, she says, by my long, curly locks. She tells me she's Scottish, and therein lies our kinship; two Celts, broad-sword wielding, Amazonion Bravehearts, in her mind.
On her wall is a large poster of "The Highlander," which was the character and title of an old tv series. She tells me the Highlander, or the character who plays him, is her son. "Isn't he handsome?" she asks. I assure her that the man on the picture is indeed a looker. On the wall beside the poster, is a black-and-white framed photograph of: "My husband," she says. The man in the photograph is another gentleman, in a naval officer uniform, and close perusal of both pictures reveal a remarkable family resemblance between the two. A later Google search reveals that they are in fact, one and the same; British actor, Adrian Paul played both the Highlander and a naval officer in an earlier tv series.
My friend, an eighty-plus year old resident in the nursing facility where I am employed as a nurse's aide is, of course...highly delusional. Round and thick as a Sequoia stump, with a pumpkin-head and page-boy haircut, it is hard to imagine she might ever have attracted the attention of so dapper, and darkly handsome a hunk as Adrian Paul. But because her delusion allows her some fantasical relief from the tedium of living in her little room, confined to either bed or wheelchair, myself and the other aides all go along with the ruse.
Before I became a full-time aide on her unit, she was widely known in our facility as an irascible old hag who was quick to anger and even quicker to accuse and report anyone who came into her room as guilty of stealing the few dollars in cash she frequently lost between pillows, under her bed, or amidst the clutter of magazines, letters, food wrappers, and other detritus that was always spilling over her tray-table. Most aides tried to avoid going into her room at all if they could, and often responded to her vitriol and bitterness with either frustration or impatient consternation of their own. You can imagine how this approach went over with her.
Compounding the situation was the grumpy woman's roommate. Restless, agitated, and a mind befuddled with dementia, the roommate would babble all through the night in non-sensical discourse with imagined companions, keeping "grumpy" from achieving any sort of restful slumber.
Over the course of the last year since I became assigned to the unit however, the woman and I became slow friends. Perhaps she appreciated the patience and tenderness I provided her, even when she was being ornery with me. I never snap back impatiently at my residents, or overtly let them know they're being a pain-in-the-ass. Kill 'em with kindness is my approach I guess. All I really know is that I have empathy for anyone who is stuck in the situation they are. Grumpiness, depression, and miserableness are to be expected. Besides, I had a grumpy, irascible father, who underneath the crust, had a soft warm heart that he was often embarassed for us to know he possessed. Crust don't bother me; crust is something I know how to look past.
Even though most of the residents will often gripe and mutter about their roommates, when one of them takes sick, the other will often ask and worry for them. So when my friend's roomie went off to the hospital, then returned a few days later and was put on "care-and-comfort" status, meaning we basically just try to keep them comfortable while they move through the dying process, it did not surprise me when my friend would frequently ask: "How's she doing?" Nor did it surprise me in the days following the roommate's passing that she seemed more lonely and needy, often ringing her call bell just so I would come in and talk to her. Over the course of the past year, as she would suffer from physical and emotional pains, she would cry out to me, "I just wish I would, die!" Sometimes I would make a joke of it: "Not on my watch." Or, "Not tonite, please," I might say. But sometimes, when I sensed she was not in a mood for my humor, I would just hug her or hold her hand. It got to be a regular thing with us, before I could leave the room she would hold out her hand to me and we would squeeze each other's grip before I would be off to tend to other duties.
The other night her call bell rang. I went into the room, shut off the bell and asked, "What can I do for you?" She motioned for me to come close, so I sat on the edge of her roommate's empty bed and leaned in close to her, my face maybe a foot from hers. "What's up?" She had to stifle a coughing fit first; I propped her up a bit and gave her some sips from her ever present orange juice. But when she was able to speak she peered hard into my eyes and said: "I wanna know...how much money would it take to make you happy?"
My heart softened, my shoulders slumped and I replied: "Oh, it doesn't take money to make me happy...I'm already happy!"
She shook her head and said: "Yes, but if you had to say how much, how much would it be..."
I smiled wryly and told her that while I appreciated the sentiment, I couldn't take her money (I didn't bother to tell her it is expressly verboten given the codes of my profession)...
She cut me off and said: "Cuz I have billions coming to me!"
I smiled again, thinking, well, now, wouldn't that be something if she actually was a rich old miser who was willing to shower me with all her fortune when she passed? But the fact that she'd said "billions" rather than "millions" or "thousands" only reinforced the reality that she's...well, a delusional old woman!
On my way out of the room, before I left, I reached out my hand to her and we squeezed each others grip for a moment...before I was off to other duties...
On her wall is a large poster of "The Highlander," which was the character and title of an old tv series. She tells me the Highlander, or the character who plays him, is her son. "Isn't he handsome?" she asks. I assure her that the man on the picture is indeed a looker. On the wall beside the poster, is a black-and-white framed photograph of: "My husband," she says. The man in the photograph is another gentleman, in a naval officer uniform, and close perusal of both pictures reveal a remarkable family resemblance between the two. A later Google search reveals that they are in fact, one and the same; British actor, Adrian Paul played both the Highlander and a naval officer in an earlier tv series.
My friend, an eighty-plus year old resident in the nursing facility where I am employed as a nurse's aide is, of course...highly delusional. Round and thick as a Sequoia stump, with a pumpkin-head and page-boy haircut, it is hard to imagine she might ever have attracted the attention of so dapper, and darkly handsome a hunk as Adrian Paul. But because her delusion allows her some fantasical relief from the tedium of living in her little room, confined to either bed or wheelchair, myself and the other aides all go along with the ruse.
Before I became a full-time aide on her unit, she was widely known in our facility as an irascible old hag who was quick to anger and even quicker to accuse and report anyone who came into her room as guilty of stealing the few dollars in cash she frequently lost between pillows, under her bed, or amidst the clutter of magazines, letters, food wrappers, and other detritus that was always spilling over her tray-table. Most aides tried to avoid going into her room at all if they could, and often responded to her vitriol and bitterness with either frustration or impatient consternation of their own. You can imagine how this approach went over with her.
Compounding the situation was the grumpy woman's roommate. Restless, agitated, and a mind befuddled with dementia, the roommate would babble all through the night in non-sensical discourse with imagined companions, keeping "grumpy" from achieving any sort of restful slumber.
Over the course of the last year since I became assigned to the unit however, the woman and I became slow friends. Perhaps she appreciated the patience and tenderness I provided her, even when she was being ornery with me. I never snap back impatiently at my residents, or overtly let them know they're being a pain-in-the-ass. Kill 'em with kindness is my approach I guess. All I really know is that I have empathy for anyone who is stuck in the situation they are. Grumpiness, depression, and miserableness are to be expected. Besides, I had a grumpy, irascible father, who underneath the crust, had a soft warm heart that he was often embarassed for us to know he possessed. Crust don't bother me; crust is something I know how to look past.
Even though most of the residents will often gripe and mutter about their roommates, when one of them takes sick, the other will often ask and worry for them. So when my friend's roomie went off to the hospital, then returned a few days later and was put on "care-and-comfort" status, meaning we basically just try to keep them comfortable while they move through the dying process, it did not surprise me when my friend would frequently ask: "How's she doing?" Nor did it surprise me in the days following the roommate's passing that she seemed more lonely and needy, often ringing her call bell just so I would come in and talk to her. Over the course of the past year, as she would suffer from physical and emotional pains, she would cry out to me, "I just wish I would, die!" Sometimes I would make a joke of it: "Not on my watch." Or, "Not tonite, please," I might say. But sometimes, when I sensed she was not in a mood for my humor, I would just hug her or hold her hand. It got to be a regular thing with us, before I could leave the room she would hold out her hand to me and we would squeeze each other's grip before I would be off to tend to other duties.
The other night her call bell rang. I went into the room, shut off the bell and asked, "What can I do for you?" She motioned for me to come close, so I sat on the edge of her roommate's empty bed and leaned in close to her, my face maybe a foot from hers. "What's up?" She had to stifle a coughing fit first; I propped her up a bit and gave her some sips from her ever present orange juice. But when she was able to speak she peered hard into my eyes and said: "I wanna know...how much money would it take to make you happy?"
My heart softened, my shoulders slumped and I replied: "Oh, it doesn't take money to make me happy...I'm already happy!"
She shook her head and said: "Yes, but if you had to say how much, how much would it be..."
I smiled wryly and told her that while I appreciated the sentiment, I couldn't take her money (I didn't bother to tell her it is expressly verboten given the codes of my profession)...
She cut me off and said: "Cuz I have billions coming to me!"
I smiled again, thinking, well, now, wouldn't that be something if she actually was a rich old miser who was willing to shower me with all her fortune when she passed? But the fact that she'd said "billions" rather than "millions" or "thousands" only reinforced the reality that she's...well, a delusional old woman!
On my way out of the room, before I left, I reached out my hand to her and we squeezed each others grip for a moment...before I was off to other duties...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Season's Sampling
Nothing earth shattering this season, as far as mondo gigundus swells or anything, but though small, the winter season has offered up reasonable consistent surf for the northern New England wave-rider. Herewith a sampling of southern Maine and New Hampshire.
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