Island Living

I'm using some grant money to take NYU continuing education courses at the Woolworth building in the Financial District. This is in a part of the city I rarely visited before now.

When classes began, I was scheduled to participate in my dance school's annual recital at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center. The theater is a few blocks from the school. I was concerned about how I would simultaneously attend a final exam and dress rehearsal the day of the show.

As fate would have it, my dermatologist made the decision. He found dysplasia on my back and it required surgical removal. I couldn't dance with stitches so I missed the show this year.

After class on the day of the recital, I stopped by the dress rehearsal to return costumes to my dance instructor. The stage and the dancers looked amazing. I felt a pang of sadness about not performing. It reminded me that this is the second annual event I missed this year due to health issues.

When I left the theater around 4:45, it was still sunny and reasonably warm. It snowed heavily the day before. I realized I was fairly close to Battery Park and decided to walk home so I could enjoy the snowy scenery as the sun set on the Hudson River. As I walked, I noticed that the sun was setting much later. Lengthening daylight is a small encouragement that spring is approaching.

When I reached 20th Street, I turned right. This is the heart of the Chelsea gallery district. Once again I admonished myself for not going to more gallery openings.

Although I was a bit eager to get home, I was intrigued by what I saw in the window of Jack Shainman's gallery and decided to get a better view. The show consisted of large, shimmering wall hangings made by Ghanaian artist El Anatsui. Each piece was composed of hand-sewn pieces of beverage packaging components, such as metal labels or bottle caps. It is marvelous that such humble materials can be transformed by artists into glorious objects.

I felt inspired.

After a quick change and bite to eat at home, I headed uptown to a former co-worker's birthday gathering at a bar. I was wavering about going. My energy level was as low as my bank account, but he is one of the loveliest people I have known and I wanted to see him. We were laid off around the same time, and he joined me in the Thrill the World dance project and Macy's Day Parade.

As I walked the 20 blocks to the Hell's Kitchen bar, I decided to call a couple of friends who live in that neighborhood to see whether they could join me. It is rare that I go out now, so I thought I should maximize the event.

My designer friend welcomed an opportunity to take an impromptu break from a heinous freelance project, and planned to meet me at the bar.

When I hung up with him, I passed a man dressed late-Elvis style walking out of The New Yorker Hotel. He adopted every Elvis detail from the glasses to the 1970s flared suit. His hair, which may have been a wig, was jet black and perfectly coiffed into a pompadour. He appeared to be about 50 or 60 years old. As he pushed his date into a waiting taxi, I wondered whether he was a fan or had dressed this way for a special occasion.

Regardless, his flamboyance made me smile.

The birthday boy assembled a small group of close friends at the bar. I was surprised and honored to realize I was in the inner circle. I enjoyed meeting and talking with each of these extraordinary people. It was also a special treat to catch up with my designer friend.

Unexpected blessings seem especially likely to happen in New York City, which in my mind, is beginning to resemble a campus. I am fortunate to live in the middle of Manhattan where I am within walking distance of so much, and am able to take full advantage of social networking technology. It also helps that I enjoy walking a mile to meet people or go to an event.

To mention that life is a journey with many unexpected twists and turns is a cliche. It is a cliche for a reason. Most people seem to expect a smooth road.

I grew up in a chaotic environment and am particularly adverse to instability. Unemployment is especially difficult for me to bear. In the past year I've endured a rapid erosion of the financial foundation I built in the expectation of bringing calm and stability to my life.

I've struggled to find another, less depressing interpretation of this experience. The alternative view is that this period of unemployment and uncertainty is a lesson in handling events that are unexpected and unwelcome.

It has also taught me to be receptive to the many pleasant, unexpected things that can happen when you let them.

A window closed today, but a few others opened. I never know where the day may take me. This day reminded me that sometimes that is a good thing.

Compromise

A popular message in American media is the triumph of a unique individual against conformity. This theme is played out in many forms, such as the nerd against the elite clique, the scrappy entrepreneur against the corporation, or the parent who decides to home school.

This year, I had a pulmonary embolism and thereafter entered the uncomfortable world of medical compromises. A medication I used to address hemorrhaging from a fibroid tumor was a contributing factor to the embolism, so I am no longer able to use that medication. Nor am I able to take the medication used to control the pain associated with the condition.

As a result, these serious fibroid-related side effects went untreated and became distressing. I found myself with few options to address the problem and agreed to a surgery that I had refused several years ago.

Relatives in the medical field urged me to see one of my uncle's colleagues for a second opinion. I canceled the surgery (which took several months to schedule) and traveled to Baltimore. The new surgeon considered the procedure far too risky for someone on blood thinners and recommended a progesterone IUD instead.

An IUD is one of the last things I ever imagined acquiring. In my mind they were tied to major gynecological problems. I already have major gynecological problems. Why would I invite Pandora's Box to reside in my womb?

The lack of options to address my problem led me to accept a solution that looks like another problem.

The insertion did not go well. Among other unpleasantries, it involved a shot in the hoo-ha. From that moment on, my body shook throughout the procedure. As I laid supine on the exam table, I imagined running from the room on my buttocks like a cartoon character I saw in Tex Avery's Rock-A-Bye-Bear.

I expected to have cramps during and shortly after the insertion, but I didn't expect them to last for several days. The pain was distracting, and I probably focused on it more than I usually would because I distrust the device that had been inserted into my body. There was very little in the drug literature about persistent cramping, except with regard to lower abdominal pain as an indication of a PID (which is a recognized side effect).

My mother happened to call a couple of days after the procedure, and I ended up confessing to her my distress. Generally, I avoid telling her about any problems because she is incapable of offering sound advice. Her remarks, which tend to reflect poor judgment and her removal from mainstream intelligence (this is someone who doesn't use an ATM, cell phone, or computer), usually are not helpful and tend to result in more frustration. That I told her about the pain, my concerns about the device, and my overall sadness about my life-long struggle with gynecological problems indicates my desperation.

I'm not sure why, but after hanging up with her the idea crossed my mind that I had acted like the conformist derided in the popular American cinematic and literary narrative. Instead of being a Norma Rae or Karen Silkwood who fights for my medical options, I succumbed to a procedure I really didn't want. In fact, I paid a $95 co-pay for it.

As I pondered this idea, I began to realize that the notion of people becoming medical consumers who have control over their care and health costs is deeply flawed. In what realistic scenario am I going to know which tests are necessary, how much they should cost, and which labs charge reasonable fees? In light of my long-term medical odyssey in which I have researched my ailments and current treatments, it is remarkable that I hadn't recognized this before.

It is virtually impossible for anyone other than a medical professional to know the panoply of medical options available to patients, especially when the need for treatment is pressing. Insurance companies tend to not cover experimental treatments, so options are limited by their designations of appropriate treatment. Now my medical options are further narrowed by another medical condition and the medication used to treat it. In fact, the extreme complications raised by these factors led me to surrender to the advice of the best doctor I could find.

It isn't reasonable to expect every person to acquire the expertise of a doctor to address their health needs. I go to a doctor because I am not a doctor.

This line of thinking made me reconsider the American narrative of the rugged individualist fighting the system. In many cases, the likely outcome is that the nerd would be better off avoiding conflict rather than risk getting crushed by those who are stronger, the Norma Rae is a crackpot fighting a lost cause based on faulty arguments, and the home schooling mother is an unqualified educator doing her children a disservice. Perhaps by focusing on the triumph of a maverick the expectations for ethics, collective expertise (such as those that inform medical and insurance decisions), and educational standards have been allowed to plummet.

Being the leader who fights the system is admirable in some situations. But it really shouldn't be the expected default when the system is deeply flawed, especially in a world where companies drop your service or charge a fee when you complain to customer service.

It's a sad fact that sometimes it makes more sense to go along to get along. As a former coworker advised me, there is a time to "put on the rain slicker and let the shit fly.

It was a holiday weekend, so I had to wait a few days to call my doctor. I was in continual pain and discouraged about my options. I looked forward to calling the doctor early on Tuesday morning.

On that day I woke up for the first time since I got the IUD without pain. Suddenly, it was gone.

Later, I called my mother to let her know I felt better.

It amazes me that pain can overshadow my existence for days or weeks. Then, when it lifts, I fail to appreciate adequately the miraculous state of non-pain for more than a day.

A Slow Turning

When I think about myself as a teenager or young adult, I usually cast that recollection as a more ignorant or naive version of someone like myself now. Every once in a while, that perception is challenged.

Today I signed up for web design classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT). As I walked around the building to register and get my student ID, I recalled visiting the campus as a high school student. At that time I was hell bent on going to FIT because I wanted to be a fashion director for a department store.

I am so far from fashionable now, it takes effort to recall that I used to focus on it obsessively. As a high school student I was most likely the sole subscriber to ID and Women's Wear Daily in my suburban Maryland zip code. I grew up in a conservative community where my theatrical 80s fashion risks stood out. Whether it was positive or negative regard, I was considered stylish.

There was only one class in my high school that took a trip outside of the county, and I made sure I got into it. The class went to New York City where I visited the FIT campus and decided it was the place for me. Unfortunately, my parents, who cultivated the expectation that I would pursue tertiary education, declined to provide financial support for me to attend FIT or any other school when the time came for me to apply. So I went to a community college and then transferred to a liberal arts school. It turned out to be a seven year odyssey to earn my tuition and complete my coursework for a degree.

In those seven years, I changed a lot. What I learned changed me, but I was changed most dramatically by financial circumstances. I was poor and couldn't afford clothes, hair cuts, cosmetics, or fashion magazines. I tended to work at two or more jobs simultaneously, so there wasn't time for much primping.

In bitter moments, losing my job has led me reflect a lot on my odyssey and how I valued a college education. At the time, I thought a college degree was my ticket to employment. I made sacrifices with the expectation of future reward.

In the twenty years since I graduated from high school, the world has changed. A college degree is about as meaningful as the high school diploma was when I earned it long ago. I now hold a master's degree and am having difficulty finding a job.

The fact that I have invested approximately $130,000 in education and 20 years in work experience and can't find employment is depressing. But when I think about it, and I rarely do, the circumstance that really saddens me is that I changed in ways I didn't like to accommodate a job market that has failed me. In fact, I changed so much I almost forgot who I was and what my initial ambitions were.

To be clear, I don't feel pangs of longing to be a fashionista. Department stores are fading as quickly as publishing houses, so my career circumstances would be just as dire. My regret is a more diffuse remorse about the choice to pursue a less creative path. That an effort to pursue a career I would have liked was supplanted by an expedient plan to do what I could to pay for school. Instead of shaping my future, my future was shaped for me by my environment.

The fact is, few people have the resources to control the course of their lives.

It was strange to be at FIT today, and to recognize that in an odd way I am realizing a long-dormant ambition to attend school at that institution. Like much of what life offers as one wends their way through circumstances, this ambition is realized in a way that doesn't match my expectations. Yet, I take it as a hopeful sign that things will work out in the end. The result will probably not be exactly as I envisioned it, but the bones of the expectation will be present.

Strange and True

It was another snowy day today. As I trudged the 20 blocks to dance class this evening, I followed a woman dragging a crummy rolling suitcase.

At a crosswalk I looked up from the inch of slippery slush to see the unfortunate person hauling a suitcase down the icy sidewalks. She was slim and wore a tiny white leather coat over her stylish outfit. Her head was covered by a clear plastic rain bonnet.

This is the kind of rain bonnet that was advertised in the Harriet Carter catalog. Women wore these devices in the days when they had their hair done twice a week at a salon. I haven't seen one in a long time. Until today I haven't seen one on anyone under 30.

It made me smile.

Two hours later I was in the neighborhood pharmacy looking for contact solution. I walked up and down the aisles several times. At one point a man standing nearby said, "This is worse than a labyrinth!"

I looked up and did a double take. He looked like someone I knew. Who was it?

He looked like President Obama! He had the same facial features and hair. He was dressed in a president-casual black puffy parka and jeans.

I finally located the contact solution, and as I was examining the offerings the Presidential doppelganger walked past. "Still looking!" he said.

I asked him how often people tell him he resembles the President.

He smiled and shook his head. "Every day! Ha ha! Every day!"

Flames

On the cusp of the new millennium, I made a dear friend who shared with me the many rituals she uses in her personal life and art process. She told me that when she was a child, she occasionally found solace from a large chaotic family by attending services at the local Catholic Church. Her family was not religious, so she went on her own. She customized some of the practices learned there to create her own rituals.

If I understand her correctly, she prays or makes a request and lights a candle as a way to signify the hope or desire and to make it manifest in as an element. Shortly after she showed this to me, I began to do it too.

I've kept on top of a chest of drawers a candle that I acquired on a visit to Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. It was a religious votive candle with the Virgin Mary printed on it. Usually these candles come in glass jars, but this one seems to be made of plastic. I've lit the candle many times over the past couple of years, but didn't allow it to burn longer than an hour or two.

Last night I prayed and lit this candle. A half our later, it burst into flames.

When it caught on fire, I was about ten feet away in an adjoining room. From the corner of my eye I noticed a very subtle increase in light intensity, but it quickly faded so I figured it was a flicker. For some reason, I was compelled to get up and check on the candle.

I'm glad I did because a portion of the table top was on fire. The fire was about the size of my hand and I tried to blow it out. But the fire was spreading too fast and wouldn't be extinguished this way.

I ran to the other end of my apartment to retrieve a cup of baking soda by my stove. As I poured it on the flames, they got higher. I realized I had never actually used baking soda to put out a fire and started to doubt it worked. Just as I was about to panic, the flames died out suddenly.

I'm not sure what happened to the candle, but it appears to have exploded. There was wax sprayed like a mist around the area where the candle had been. The cup was gone. Only a small pool of wax and the bottom tray of the container remained.

The furniture is badly damaged. There is a small circle of wood intact where the candle sat, but a five inch ring of charred wood surrounds it. This is a fine piece of furniture, and I would be upset about its condition if I wasn't so grateful that the fire didn't escalate.

This incident rattled me. The fire was nearly out of control. It could have caused a lot of damage to me and others in my building. My circumstances, which are not good, could have gotten much worse.

Although I am not a Santeria follower, I made inquiries with friends who are. A combusting candle is a strange phenomenon. I wondered whether it would be regarded as a good or bad omen.

My friends interpreted the event positively. One said the candle was lit to deflect negativity so abundance could flow in. She thought the explosion indicated that the candle was doing this job powerfully, and that it was a lesson that I need to expect positive change rather than negativity.

That sounds about right.