Those weeks...

It's been one of "those" weeks where you look back and think, "Did I really make it to Friday?" Oye. It's all a blur, somewhere in my subconscious, properly suppressed next to the death of my cat Skittles when I was 7 and the time I fell off my bike in front of some neighborhood kids......or the time I had a panic attack and broke my babysitter's window and then pretended I knew nothing about it (until they called the police because the broken window looked suspiciously like a break in...and the officer held his flashlight up to my fingers and compared them to the ones on the window...and I knew it was over then). Ha! So much for suppressed, traumatic memories....they are boiling back up like volcanic lava. Isn't that what good psycho-therapy is? Unleashing the latent memories that haunt us and stunt our growth? Well, at least I'm freed of those.

No, really, the week was not traumatic like that incident with the window and the police officer. But as I explained it to my brother-o-law on the phone, "I'm a bad assistant." I really am, at least when it comes to dates and finances and paper pushing. I would make a horrible bureaucrat. But I'll take that as my own personal compliment. A bureaucrat came and visited our lovely home the other day and we were shaking in our stocking feet. She was from Medicaid Waver, and essentially has the power to make or break our life as a L’Arche community. It Is MA that provides our slots for group housing. It is MA that houses and feeds the supports the core members through monthly funding. It is through MA that we assistants have a salary (or stipend, rather). We are really at their mercy. So, when they show up unannounced to check up on our records, it's always a bit disconcerting. I hid in my room, until my addiction to caffeine lured me from my monastic cell to the kitchen where I caught glimpse of a real live bureaucrat, slaving away over her laptop with our schedules and med records and maintenance check lists strewn about her. But then, as I commented on the flurries outside (to myself), she looked up from her work and said to me, "Oh yes. Isn't it beautiful?" and I decided then that she wasn't two-headed monster waiting to rip our throats out....she was actually a blood-and-flesh human being. So that was nice. And she had mercy and grace on us for not signing this or that form.

This will be my job next year, battling the bureaucracy, keeping files up to date. The house is, essentially, screwed. Ha! No...as Debbie and I figured out tonight when I was making chipatis and peanut Thai noodles on the stove, I develop certain capacities when under stress, particularly the S and J of Myers-Briggs. If you are an S and a J, you are impeccable, probably Type A, highly organized, neatly pressed. I am not these things...most of the time (I actually went out of the house today wearing fleece from head to toe, without my teeth brushed, and my shirt on backwards). But Debbie, a usual SJ, when under stress, becomes an FP, evidenced by the fact that she put a metal bowl in the microwave to dethaw the broccoli, which I promptly pulled out, thanks to the help of adrenaline and the SJ coursing through my blood. We did had a mighty feast tonight, and 5 guests to dinner, including a developmentally disabled person named Jong who was pretty raucous. He found and ate three of our bagels in about 5 minutes flat. We were shocked into a state of awed silence.

Well, I've digressed. This week, Tuesday, I was supposed to take Eduardo to the dentist. I had scheduled and rescheduled this appointment twice and was very aware of the day and the time, not to mention the office called and reminded me on Monday. Blah blah. And yet, Tuesday morning rolls around and (due to a late night session with Stephen Colbert), I find myself turning my alarm clock off for another hour and .5 until I wake up at 10 -- the EXACT time I am supposed to be at the dentist with ED. Problem is, the ED is at work and the dentist is 20 minutes away. This is where I begin to perspire with dread. Fortunately, the office was merciful (maybe my shaking voice helped) and ED was slow but easy-going, and we raced there and made it in time for ED to have a new tooth.

As we were leaving the parking garage after the appointment, I realize I must pay $3.00 to a machine, rather than a teller. So, I pull out two crumpled ones and try desperately to stuff them into the machine, only to have them spit out again and again. The cars are lining up behind me. I'm leaning out the window, cursing at the machine all the while ED is smiling at himself in the mirror, until I prompt him to "look around for quarters." So, he finds me about 10 pennies (who knew?) and enjoys the "game" while I am perspiring with dread again and the line of cars behind me is approaching 4. Finally, a miracle of the Lord, some quarters are sent down like manna from Heaven and we make it out of the garage. ED is unfazed but I'm a wreck.

We drive out of the garage onto the main highway, and I sense something is wrong and ED, the perceptive one, says, "What's that funny noise coming from your car?" Like finding a lump on your back or coughing up a bit of blood, your first inclination is to ignore it, because it could only be something awful and it's much easier to deny it than face it. So I ignore it but it gets worse and it feels like I'm driving over gravel, though the road is smooth. Finally, I pull into a parking lot and, with dread of course, start the solemn walk around my car, checking each tire until....I find the last tire in the rear is flat. Completely flat. ED is not concerned and continues to smile at himself in the car mirror. Yay for Zoloft. But I begin to sweat again and my SJ kicks into action -- pull out the tire pump in my trunk, blow up the tire, and try desperately to make it the 13 miles home without totally ruining my rims. We make it, but just barely. The nice man at the shop on Glebe found the leak (which was not hard because it was whistling air out at a loud and rapid rate at the site where the cursed nail had punctured it) and plugged it and then over-charged me. I am sweaty and haggard and let it go.

That was my Tuesday morning....from slumber to total chaos. Such is L’Arche and life, I guess. That evening was my birthday celebration which was a sweet affair. It was then that everything was redeemed. And it's Thursday night and Eduardo's tooth hasn't fallen out yet which I'm counting as a miracle. Call up the Pope. The weeks really do fly in L’Arche. It's almost February. I just turned 23. I thought by this age, I would have my shit figured out, but I guess we all have our strengths and weaknesses and will have (many of) them for the rest of our lives. Today at our team meeting, Barbara was affirming all of us for being so "competent" and I looked at her and laughed. "Barbara, if you only saw me Tuesday." She replied, "We all have our days."