Author: Linda Wright

Linda Wright, author of "My Turn: When Caregiving Roles Reverse," now lives in Florida. She has served on the boards of organizations serving people with rare, genetic bleeding disorders like hers. As a writer, she has contributed to several anthologies and is a member of the Tallahassee Writers Association. Linda is married to the Reverend Ms. Robin Gray.

A Skitter of Squirrels

~ Linda Wright
Scurry, tackle and play the squirrels are dashing into the yard for the morning romp. They are noisy, scratching up trees in a spiral twist, and racing through crackling leaves. They cavort with each other, doing somersaults and tumbling. They freeze only when I let the old dog out, but when they realize the dog is not a threat they go back to foraging for food on the ground.
 
I sit at the dining room table in front of the glass french doors munching on my breakfast cereal and watching two squirrels who are sitting upright just on the other side of the glass chewing their breakfast of seeds. They have finished their game of tag. Their tails are gracefully curled upward. They can see me munching. I can see them chewing. Have they come to thank me for the peanuts scattered on the patio just for them? Most people who feed the birds don’t like having squirrels. The truth is whenever we buy birdseed we also purchase a bag of peanuts for the squirrels. They don’t bother the birdseed that is in the bird feeders when there are peanuts for them to eat.
 
The squirrels seem to mingle in a balanced harmony with the birds. After all, they share the same trees. If only humans could be that reasonable.

Dropped Stitches

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

I arrived early for the Wednesday Knitting Circle, which gathers at a local coffee café. Pulling out my bag of yarn, I began work on the three-colored sweater. The balls of brown, peach and ivory yarn form bands of different widths and textures. Around and around I looped the colors through my fingers then between the points of the needles. The control of tension created by my fingers keeps the stitches looking even. As with life, too little tension creates slack and a sloppy appearance. Too much tension leads to a stiff tight finish.

At other tables in the café, I notice that the people sitting with their laptop computers are left to their solitary pursuits. However, like walking a puppy, knitting in public often invites conversations with strangers. A man doing a crossword puzzle at the next table looks my way and asks what I am making; he explains that he used to crochet. We chat briefly about the focus and relaxation one gets from handwork. The man speculates that if he had been allowed to crochet in school he would have been able to pay better attention to the lessons.

One by one the other members of the Wednesday Knitting Circle arrive. We squeeze in closer around the table, ordering cups of coffee and tasty snacks. Some members pull out yarn to give or trade with others. We offer suggestions to the knitter who intended to create a baby blanket; she is now considering transforming it into a sling for carrying the infant instead. Appreciative cooing rises as each member unpacks the current work in progress and begins to knit.

My mother told me that she learned to knit at the age of three. Her nine siblings needed a steady supply of socks, mittens, hats and sweaters to endure the Canadian winters. The youngest of the children, the ones who could not do the heavier chores, had the task of knitting. Mom taught me how to knit, but I never had to knit in order to have warm clothes.

After the hemorrhagic stroke I had a few years ago, I took up knitting again with a new purpose. Connecting the stitches from right to left between the needles as I mended the connections between my left-brain and my right. Now, knitting has also become a form of relaxation for me. Most of all, it has helped me to release the bonds of my desire for perfection.

In knitting, you can correct the mistakes. I have learned the term “frog,” meaning rip it, rip it, rip it, unraveling row upon row. I have learned that to “tink” (knitting spelled backwards) I must undo the stitches one by one.

There is another option though, and that is to let the mistake remain uncorrected. I have learned that others will not see these mistakes, but I will always see them. It is liberating and humbling. It is so human.

Got fish food?

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment
There are some anniversaries that are not on any calendar. They are buried deep in my memory. They rise up slowly like air bubbles escaping from a fish’s lips. One at a time they float to the transparent surface. First one, then two, then three float up into my conscious thoughts.

They say, “This is the time when it happened.”

I try to ignore these memories; they are rarely happy anniversaries. If they had been pleasant experiences I would never have needed to banish them to the bottom. More often than not they are anniversaries of injuries, hospitalizations and trauma.

This month marks the eighth anniversary of my hemorrhagic stroke. I don’t actually remember the specific date in August when the cerebral hemorrhage began.

A few days ago the anniversary bubbles began to float up to the surface. They said, “It has been eight years now.”

I look at each bubble and remember the healing that has taken place over those years. I take an assessment of the gains and losses and determine that a game has been played well. Recovery has won the match.

End of Time

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment
 

Mother told me that she had seen people standing on the roofs of barns waiting for the rapture. It seemed irrational to me. Did they think they could thumb a ride from God?

I have seen billboards posted beside highways that read, repent the end is near. Some predicted the exact date when the world, as we know it, would end. I wondered if the believers went back to their sinful ways when the end did not occur. Why did people continue to believe even when life continued after the prophecy? One such group claimed credit for avoiding the cataclysm by the power of their prayers.

By 1998, I began hearing the phrase Y2K. The year 2000 was coming and the world was about to stop. This time, instead of the religious fanatics predicting Armageddon, it was the computer scientists.

Computer systems that operated things like lighting and power and food distribution warehouses were only set to accept two digit years; at the end of 99 the numbers would roll over to zero. People with no foresight and no ability to plan for the future had apparently been unable to comprehend anything beyond the 20th century.

As the ball dropped from Time Square at midnight the lights around the world would go out. There would be no electrical grid, no power to heat or cool or cook food. Transportation would come to a halt. Mail delivery would be impossible. Funds in banks would be unavailable.

By 1999 the doom and gloom predictions became more frantic. Most people would be unemployed. There would be increasing crime and mayhem as those who were not prepared would turn towards stealing the supplies others had stored.

The world was about to come to an end. The news was carried by “official sources” in the government: stock up on all your prescription medications; fill your cabinets with canned food and bottled water; lay in a supply of wood if you have a fireplace. The Y2K bug is coming!

I had a friend who assembled a supply of food that she believed would last three months. That was the time she thought it would take for the systems to be restored. She learned how to grind raw wheat into flour. She filled her basement and every available space in her house with medical supplies and canned goods.

Meanwhile, instructions for checking and fixing the Y2K bug were disseminated. The mass media networks proclaimed the need for personal and corporate disaster planning; government commissions were formed. In a rampage of buying, businesses and organizations worldwide replaced computers with older operating systems.

On January 1, 2000, we awoke to a New Year’s Day that looked much like the day before. The stove in the kitchen worked, the electric lights came on with the usual flip of a switch and the telephone rang. Even the computer worked when I turned it on to check email.

There were no momentous computer failures when the clocks rolled over into 2000. Much like the religious fanatics, the fact that the predictions did not come true only inspired the computer experts to claim that they deserved the credit for avoiding catastrophe. There were also cynics who thought the predictions had been grossly exaggerated… perhaps for monetary gain? A little fire and brimstone increases the flow of cash into the collection basket just as Y2K stimulated the purchasing of computer hardware and software.

Most breathed a sigh of relief, crisis avoided, and went back to indulging their addiction for the newest digital tool.

How long have you had hemophilia?

~ Linda Wright

My friend Bill and I used to joke about the questions health care providers asked us. Bill had Hemophilia B, a factor IX deficiency. Although our bleeding disorders were different, our experiences with doctors had been much the same. Medical professionals rarely wrote our answers down or consulted our previous medical records for information. Not surprising to us the questions didn’t make any improvement in our medical care. What was startling though was how the questions we had been asked so routinely were identical. By the time we were in our twenties we had answered the same questions countless times. More than once I had been asked. “How long have you had congenital afibrinogenemia?” I felt as if I should carry a dictionary with me and open it up to congenital: adjective (esp. of a disease or physical abnormality) present from birth.

Often two or three different doctors would ask the same questions in one day. Once the doctor had finished asking his or her questions, they showed little or no interest in us. It felt like we were rare birds in a zoo, not people who had gone to a hospital for treatment. It took years for us to understand that we were viewed as subjects for research. We were offering a short cut for doctors who didn’t want to use the medical library.

Bill started responding with “Are the answers to your questions going to help you treat me or are you asking me because you need to learn?” He didn’t say this with a sarcastic tone of voice; he simply wanted the inquisitive doctor to be honest.

Like many people we wanted to be of help in educating doctors. We weren’t acknowledged for providing a service; instead we were expected to respond to questions that seemed irrelevant, even foolish, before we could receive medical attention. It seemed as if the priorities were upside down.