You're Not Down a Mine

Every now and then, writing affords me to see life with a new perspective. That's why I love it so: it's not the gerunds or the self-expression or even the flexible schedule. It's the life experiences I get to have.
I swear to this day the best day I ever had was the day I emptied garbage.
Today I had another eye-opening experience.
On the surface, it seemed simple enough. The editor of our small-town paper emailed me a day or two ago and asked if I might cover a speaker at the local Parkinson's Support Group. Sure, I said.
At this point it might be helpful if I explain my relationship with the paper has changed a bit in recent days. Four years ago, I started by writing, for free, features on the zillion book groups in this tiny town, for the Sunday book page. I had pitched the idea to the book page editor and she went for it, but had no budget money for freelancers. I just wanted my foot in the door. ...and I wanted to write. So I did it.
After a few months, the Lifestyles editor asked if I'd be interested in doing some things for her -- for pay. She had no idea I had been comping the articles for books. She had assumed I was paid for them. I jumped at the chance, and have been writing features for her for the past 3 years or so. She's great to work with and I get to meet the nicest people.
Recently our paper, like all others, is having a bit of a downturn. It seems the bigger advertisers are the car dealers. They aren't making money. Gone are the full-page spreads, because there's no money for loans at the banks.
So our local paper is not replacing people when they leave. They offered early retirement to their staff and several took it. Those who remain are now like jugglers -- but having been deft at juggling 3 or 4 balls, now they have 6 or 8 in the air at any given time.
It's prime time for contractors. So I am helping out onsite 2 or 3 days a week and now am picking up the occasional news article, in addition to the features and food pages I have been doing.
My favorite articles to write are profiles of people. Like the bank president who delivered milk as a kid. The sanitation worker who never took a day off, in twenty-five years. The mayor, daughter of a mayor, who became mayor overnight, literally, by accident, and has served this town, served it well, for ten years. The pastor who, at 70, is still running foot races. Trains with a high school coach and sets records through the state.
I always, always learn something from these people. It's sort of intimate to sit with them and get their stories. People love to talk about themselves, and I love to be in on it. It's a privilege. Who else gets this opportunity?
So today I went to the thing for Parkinson's. I was a tad irritated. The meeting was from 1 to 2. The people hosting the speaker invited me to lunch (btw at a restaurant that offers NO veggie food. Yes, they still do that, around here, anyway. ). I had to shoot photos of the speaker afterward, so what might have been a 1-hour assignment somehow turned into a 3 1/2 hour assignment, 11:30 to 3pm. After that I had to listen to the tapes and write the story.
So I went.
The folks hosting the speaker are struggling with living with Parkinson's. The husband, a retired dentist, has been diagnosed for a year or so now. His tremor was only noticable when he folded his hands on the table and all the water glasses jingled. He's quite self-effacing, takes no credit for the absolute class he has shown through this ordeal. He has volunteered his time and dental talents at the local free medical clinic for the poor, only stopped this month when he became concerned for his precision in someone's mouth. He was a pilot -- just quit that, too. He handled it all with grace and humor. He wonders if his exposure to Agent Orange in VietNam years ago set this disease in his system.
The speaker is a social worker from Duke University who helps patients and caregivers figure the whole thing out. How to afford medications. How to convince a husband a walker is not a sign of weakness. What to do for the wife with osteoperosis who has to lift her larger husband out of the chair. How to understand Medicare, Social Security. How Parkinson's affects the 45-year-old differently than the 65-year-old. She's seen it all.
After lunch, we walked over to the church where the meeting was held. The social worker involved all the group members in discussion about living with Parkinson's. I got a first-hand glimpse of the challenges, the discouragement, and the love between husband and wife. It's hard to watch him button his shirt; it takes him 20 minutes, one wife said. It's hard to see her do things I should be doing for her, one husband said.
I felt almost voyeur-like as I peeked into their lives and frustrations. I don't mind that it took over 3 hours. It was time well spent. I learned so much in that time.

Oh, and the title? Last night the guest on James Lipton's Inside the Actor's Studio was Daniel Radcliffe, who played Harry Potter in all the movies. When he complains, his father tells him, "Oh, buck up. You're not down a mine." I couldn't help notice the irony in the timing: last night's show and today's meeting. Things happen like that for me.

It will be a long time before I complain again. I'm not down a mine.

Jewel

Following is an eloquent story as told by one of my dear Artist's Way friends. He is a professional IT person for the local corporate hq of a national grocery chain, a former professional game designer, a guy who fits in well no matter how many women are in the room, and just an all-round heck of a nice guy. He wrote this as an email and I quickly wrote back and asked permission to post it on my blog. Of course he graciously agreed.

Enjoy.

T and I have done some volunteering for the Obama campaign and I just wanted to share a true experience we had (but I’ve changed the woman’s name)…

Tuesday night an elderly woman (who we’ll call Jewel) told one of the phone bank workers at the Democratic Headquarters in our town that she wanted to vote but she was in a wheel chair and needed a ride to the voting station on Wednesday morning. The staffer asked if anyone in the room could drive the woman and I generously volunteered fully knowing that I would pawn the job off on T because she didn’t go into work until 11 on Wednesday.

Wednesday came and I ended up deciding to go along with T and the woman because, as it turned out, I was staying home anyway to meet a plumber at my house at 10:00 AM and I figured we’d be back by then. After a short drive we pulled up in front of an off-white public housing duplex that had a wheelchair ramp. T went up to the door, knocked and went inside. A few minutes later T came back out to the car and told me there were two women living there who wanted to vote, both of the women were in wheel chairs and they would only go if they could bring their caregiver with them. Since our car only seated four T told the women she would be right back. Five minutes later T had dropped me off at McDonald’s. I spent the next 45 minutes enjoying a relaxing breakfast, reading USA Today, and reveling in my “me” time.

When T came back her eyes were full of tears and I thought, omg what did I get her into, but she quickly told me they were good tears. It turned out that Jewel, who I never saw, was 80-years-old and frail as tissue paper. She rode up front with T while the other woman and the caregiver rode in the backseat. On the drive over Jewel told T that she grew up during the depression in pre-civil rights era South Carolina. She had never voted before in her life and sadly said this “vote was too late to do me any good, but it might help my children or my grandchildren." It was clear to T that the act of voting was frightening for Jewel.

When they arrived at the voting station T parked in the curb-side voting station and a worker came out, verified the women were on the eligible voters list and gave them ballots. The Jewel’s hands shook so badly that it took almost 10 minutes for her to fill it out and blacken the bubbles sufficiently. The worker collected the ballots and T started up the car, backed out and headed back to the woman’s house.

Now for the good part – Jewel was wrong – this vote did help her! The entire ride back she was excited and animated. She had faced down her fear of voting and cast a ballot for the person of her choice for the first time in her life. She was literally giddy with personal power and she thanked Tracey repeatedly for helping her. T in turn thanked Jewel for allowing her to participate in this important event. As T was retelling this to me she teared up again as she remembered Jewel’s triumph and gratitude.