Restoration : The Loop

I deleted this contribution a week ago,when I thought it was too (in)sensitive.  Based on gathered intelligence, D and I have apparently weighed in with their neutral approval, so I am re-posting.  Since I know now that I don't want to be ostracized, I am going to work on a complete fiction next.   Friends are too important.  Plotting and designing 'real' interaction is much harder than simple memoir, this was always the easiest exercise.
The plane was half-empty. A baby got on with us and we eyed it warily, but it took a seat up front and must have slept, which was only natural on a 6:40 am Saturday flight.

With the hour we gained going west to Chicago, we were almost lively getting into the cab at O'Hare and heading for the Harmony rehab center. Our cabbie was from Mogadishu, and his unsentimental attachment to his newly minted US citizenship was refreshing (although unlike taking a ride in Phoenix, we did not ask to see his ID). He was dreaming about a new career in real estate. So at least in Chicago there isn't any regret about leaving the old country-- probably because back home is a place teeming with corruption and murder.

The accident occurred three weeks ago. At the Harmony, our friend D has a private room and is lying in bed, but preparing to go to physical therapy, where they will help him walk again after both his femurs were crushed.. He skillfully transferred himself from bed to wheelchair by means of a board, and we rolled /shuffled out to the hallway. Every other patient is in a wheelchair too-- except that D is 30 years younger than them and a lot more animated. I find myself looking around for more motorcycle accident victims, because I think he must be lonely.

The therapist is a no-nonsense Indian American woman, and D is enthusiastic up until the point of grimacing, doing everything to rebuild his strength. Darling joins the therapist in her duties, sort of like a Teachers Assistant, which she seems to enjoy. There are no props, but a series of exercises done in supine position appear to be the most grueling. There is a nerf-target board that looks like fun, but I restrain from freeloading on D's rehab.

D's wife I and son F arrive, and they prepare for what has become the culinary rescue operation, for lunch and dinner is not edible at Harmony. Darling and I are ready to start helping in any way we can-- that is, idiosyncratically, in our way. We are not family, but D and Darling go way way back to some cheap but sociable apartment in this Uptown neighborhood, where they celebrated nothing with potlucks and D stayed up late even until dawn, reading tomes of philosophy and impressing the hell out of Darling. After a run to Wholefoods and bringing back lunch, we pile into I's Corolla and drive back to their home.

After the accident it was pretty clear that their home for the last 10 years, Condo-up-the-Stairs, would not be an appropriate home for D upon his release next week. I and F are in the process of planning a temporary move to Rental-by-the-Lake. Preparation must include securing the condo premises which may lie empty for 8 months. Darling is handy and the front door is falling off its hinges. He will fix door and unplug a sink. He will also put oil in the tank of the Corolla which has been running around town on empty with scary warnings appearing on the dashboard. I have an urge to give financial advice, which I mostly suppress since it's probably a rude thing to do, and I abhor chaos which is also my general impression of the place. I and son F are in their routine. This routine involves a great amount of compensating behavior and adjustment due to F's diagnosed Autism Spectrum Disorder.

Even without this diagnosis, I would probably regard the average 8-year-old with confusion. My adequacies do not include childcare, but no one ever asked me about it and I've been able to reach the age of 48 without this skill. It's almost as if I attended a Kibbutz school from the early days of the Movement, that assumed the kids would live in the Children's House and they would never be under foot or heard from unless expressly requested to participate, so that we can all get on with the work of building the New Society. I also enjoy all things Victorian.

I tried to speak with F -- but he was inculcated by the rule book. An example is our discussion of the charming, purring football-shaped piebald cat, Tooze (Twos? never saw it in print). I thought the cat would be a good opener for my relationship with F, and remembering their previous cat from 10 years ago, I offered "I remember Pickles". But F replies, "We don't talk about Pickles, Pickles is dead". This is a real conversation stopper and I say that's silly, of course you talk about people and loved ones who are dead. But F has read the rule book and we can't proceed. After some desultory talk about Harry Potter -- they are on the bookshelf, he says he has read 4 of them-- I repair to the back room that smells like a kitty litter tray that hasn't been cleaned in a month.

Sunday is moving day, and savior friend P comes by with his wine van. P is a robust former singer (tenor?) who used to wait on tables with Darling in their days of menial servitude. This is a kind of reunion, they didn't know eachother well back then, maybe 15 years ago, but they recognize eachother now. It is a good thing too, because they must schlep futon frames and cabinets and futons and boxes down the outdoor back stairs, during a 90+ degree afternoon. P is not the complaining type, however, unlike me. I refuse to do this kind of thing, since I am a Princess. I spend the time stuffing some bags, and asking I what sort of little tasks I might take on, which turn out to be the afore-mentioned kitty litter tray and some mopping up in the kitchen. I am also able to stand around with the van at Rental-by-the-Lake while everyone else goes up and down in the superduper wheelchair-accessible elevator, bringing stuff up to the 9th floor apartment. I never see any cops, I never have to move the van: Chicago is easier than NYC in this respect.

On Sunday night Darling and I have amazing Vietnamese dinner in Uptown and visit the Green Mill, where we hear a swell Hammond B3 played by the prototypical blind man, accompanied by a young guitarist. I swallow a couple of white russians which went along with the venue.

I caught the bus on Monday afternoon and headed south to East Wacker, where we had a $127/night room at the Hyatt. Darling stayed behind to finish multiple trips to plumbing suppliers and finalize the sink repair. The hotel was cavernous, one of these soulless high-rising conference centers cum convenience spot, a stone's throw from Millenium Park which was really Grant Park or I don't really know because I wasn't there long enough. On the 31st floor there was a view of the adjacent gym roof pool. Some spiders were idly spinning their webs, up there in the ether, summarizing the entire experience of anomie and simple dizziness. I had no idea how to escape in an emergency.

With a few hours to spend on my own, I rushed to ... the nearest cafe for a 3 pm lunch. This turned out to be the luxurious Tavern on the Park, on Randolf, where the waiter quickly identifies me as a hungry middle-aged female tourist with money. This is immensely satisfying in a 21st century way, it is more Henry James than Saul Bellow.

After this outdoor meal of roasted veg /mozarella sandwich, marinated in my stomach with fancy Chardonnay, I went to the Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit at the Art Institute. This had traveled from MOMA but typically I missed it in NYC. Mr. Cartier-Bresson really lived the life away from home! Brilliant. Get the catalog when it goes on sale.

The rest of our trip was unexceptional, except that our good friend C solved Darling's greatest computer problem by turning it off and on. C knows his Apples, he has networked them and can find the power button.