While I was visiting my parents and family briefly for the holidays, my mom directed me to a particular closet where she thought some of the coats that had ended up might be mine.
Once upon a time, I had moved to Minnesota for graduate school when my parents left the home I spent most of my childhood in to move to a new place. I think I was still working at Borders (minimum wage-type customer service job), so no way could I afford to go home and pack or help or anything. Some important things got thrown away, but many things ended up in bins in the basement of the new house. When I visited the new house, I was looking for some coats that I thought I could bring to Minnesota with me, and they were nowhere to be found.
It was a great mystery. Where did the coats go? Nobody knew. We eventually figured they must have gone to Goodwill by accident, so probably someone was enjoying them out in the world.
Fast forward nearly two decades. They mysteriously appeared in this basement closet we had all looked through multiple times, including when my sister living at home left, at which point it was completely cleaned out.
Yet here were these coats I had not seen since 2003.
I cannot tell you how little room I had in my luggage. I had checked a bag with my carry on inside, so I could pick up stuff I had shipped to my parents house, so I could bring it back to Canada because it didn't exist in Canada / I hadn't had room in my luggage when I moved to Canada.
But it had rained almost constantly and, when it wasn't raining, the wind cut through my fall coat like it wasn't even there. I could sure use some sort of wind-proof coat.
And there, in the closet, was a MASSIVE green raincoat. The lining inside was red plaid. There was a tear in the lining by one of the pockets, and one of the snaps had come off and was in the pocket. And I suddenly felt like this must have been the coat that I wore in Oxford when I studied there in 1999. I had this visceral series of memories. I remembered how careful I had to be with the snaps after that first one came off in my hands and how irritated I was when the coat tore by the pocket (so early on). I remembered how overheated I would get when I walked the two miles from my lodging to the CMRS building for classes in the rain, how I would feel like I was steaming when I stepped into the shop to get a tiny quiche Lorraine for breakfast, how hard it was to wrestle my backpack on over the stiff, waterproof plastic. I could almost hear the inevitable "Blue" as I ducked through the mall to get to the semi-hidden entrance. That song played everywhere all the time that autumn.
And I honestly have no idea if any of these memories are true. I don't have access to my pictures while I'min Canada, but even if I did, I had a regular camera and selfies weren't a thing, so I have no idea if there is any photographic evidence anywhere of my coat choices. It could have been my sister's coat, and I could have made all those things up. But if it was true, it went with me on my last, long-term other-country adventure, and it felt a bit like destiny for it to suddenly turn up after decades of disappearance right at the moment when I was on a long-term other-country adventure.
The coat was huge and far too hot, but I decided I could wear it on the plane and cram my autumn jacket in the 2 inches remaining in the suitcase. Which was, of course, overweight.
The coat is still a little too hot and stuffy, as it was made of cheap materials before "breathability" was a thing, but it is perfect for going out for a walk in the rain or the wind and covers my knee brace, so people stare at it less. (It also somehow has a blood feud with said knee brace and manages to somehow rip one of the strong velcro straps off its place to catch on the lining, and the lining collects on all the exposed velcro like pet hair.)
The stove has 5 burners but only 4 knobs, and all the labels have worn off. I did find the instructions for how to use the oven, though! No helpful diagrams or info about the stovetop in those instructions. Here are some pictures with captions for your enjoyment.
When things fell apart for me at work last year, I can only describe it as running into an invisible wall. Like I was just sort of frolicking along (metaphorically) at a good clip and then all of a sudden, WHAM. All momentum smashed into a wall I hadn't even known was there and then slid down in a semi-comical smear.
While dealing with a lot of nearly incandescent rage and grief in the aftermath, I also still did work. Maybe not as well as I had been, but we got all the things done, and most people likely didn't even know I was having such a rough time. I did my best to protect those not involved from experiencing that anger and loss.
But I was (and still am) really stalled out. I thought I would spend the rest of my career in that place with that department doing those things I spent 13 painstaking years building up expertise in despite the brain fog and the pain and the imposter syndrome. And now that feels completely gone, like that entire path on the other side of the wall has just been obliterated. So it's not about picking up the pieces and healing and climbing over and carrying on. It's about something completely different. It's about figuring out what's next when everything I thought was next is gone. It's about facing the truth and figuring out who and how to trust.
My leadership made choices that, in the end, sabotaged my career and led me to smash into that wall.
How am I supposed to trust them going forward? How am I supposed to trust ANY leadership to help me accomplish my goals? SHOULD I even try?
My leadership seemed nice and like they cared about me as a person, and that's important when you're dealing with as much disability as I am. I know that. I am grateful. And they've let me do some great stuff with a multi-site impact.
But their job is also to help me reach my career goals, and they did the opposite.
Not out of malice; just out of incompetence.
But that makes it worse, in some ways.
Maybe it's my fault for trying to get promoted despite all the physical headwinds. Maybe I lost sight of the fact that my goal was to do work I liked, make a certain amount of money, and then cut back to 4 days a week in an attempt to lengthen the amount of time I will be physically capable of working (maybe even until retirement age). Maybe my hope that since I seemed to be really successfully doing the next level of work I might have a chance to get that impossible promotion if it ever came was my downfall. Maybe . . .
And maybe what I had wasn't hope but optimism.
Maybe . . .
All I know is right now I'm definitely in that place where I need Jesus to be my Prince of Peace, not just King of My Glory.
And no lie, as I typed that, the next song on the randomized playlist was Hold Me Jesus by Rich Mullins from his A Liturgy, A Legacy, A Ragamuffin Band Album where it holds the place of the Dona Nobis Pacem in the Liturgy. I was planning this post around that song, but that kind of coincidence feels like an invisible hug helping me hold it together after such a hard fall.
And now I'm crying. And not out of rage. As long as I don't poke at the details too much, the rage has mostly gone. Honestly, it was just gone as soon as I moved in here for the year. It was almost magical. Sometimes running away is exactly the right thing to do, and even when it's not, it's good to know Jesus is holding me.
So I am driving what my mom refers to as a toaster. It has a shark fin on the top. It wasn't cleaned between uses, but don't worry, they included two sets of keys in case I lose one. And then welded them together.
***pic here***
I'm glad I picked this one mostly because it's the only one that could possibly have fit all my luggage. I literally don't know what I would have done if I had to take one of the tiny sedans left (even though we'd reserved something bigger).
Our initial introduction was rocky. I had written down directions from the airport to my lodgings, but I had also purchased magic international credits for my phone, and I was willing to use them to navigate me there. They seemed to be working for the first half of the trip, and then they started taking me in circles, and I realized I couldn't access the map navigation software.
So, like any brain-fogged, travel weary person who found out she was leaving the country the day before and stayed up until 3 packing and then had to get up at 5 to get ready to leave, I drove around for 2 and a half hours until I found it. I didn't stop at a gas station to ask for directions or a map or any sane thing. I went out like a detective with a few street names as clues and no concept of how large the area is or how wrong it could have gone.
And I found it.
Instead of feeling triumph, I just felt so tired. And not up for dealing with the after hours concierge security people who did not understand me when I said the exact words my paperwork told me to say. Thank God for the lady who was just there to pick up a package and talked both sides through until they figured out what I was asking for and handed me my welcome envelope and keys and none of the other things I was expecting. No map of the building or information about it.
They gave me some incomprehensible directions about parking (the lady helped explain again), and I found out that my parking space, while not actually as far from the entrance as possible, was 7 spaces from being as far away from the entrance as possible. I'm on the lowest level (level 5), and anyone who gets motion sick of claustrophobic should just wait at the entrance for me to pick them up. In 10 minutes.
There was one of those cursed luggage carts that moves based on physical laws from some other universe, and I only broke one toe getting everything up to my unit. I broke many rules about swearing, I am sure.
And then I was in the unit, and there was a festive bag full of vital things for new residents. There were
Welcome home! For an indeterminate period of time.
One of the great chores for my physical therapist as I got ready to leave has had nothing to do with PT. She was instrumental in PT things like trying to get this left foot problem to calm the &W@* down, testing the walking cast (what a disaster that was), helping me determine that any kind of walking aid would cause terrible problems (and thus helping me decide that the walking cast is seriously a last resort), and helping me realize I need to do things like get the straps on my knee brace changed and try out the compression top to keep the shoulder in place. But so much more of what she was doing was helping me plan not to destroy myself.
We've talked through what to wear to the airport: All the braces, seriously ALL of them.
We had a hard conversation about why I have trouble asking for the help I should at the airport: It somehow all comes down to pride and brain fog, in the end.
I made her cry (in sympathy) when I asked her why it's so hard for me to do things that are better for me, and she flat out said, "It's because you don't want to be disabled, but you are." And she's right. She's still right. I still HATE it and will do myself harm for weeks just to prove (to whom?) that I can (when I really shouldn't).
We've talked through all the scenarios. I will be ready early. I will get to the airport with extra time. I WILL wear all the braces (yes, including the neck one and the shoulder one and the wrist ones). I WILL have someone help carry the 4 overweight suitcases down the stairs. I WILL ask the driver to load them. I WILL check them curbside. I WILL ask for a wheelchair. I WILL take the cart. When someone offers any help, I will say, "Yes, please!" instead of no, thank you.
And I will write something on my hand to remind me in the middle of things when I'm tempted to forget all of this. We spend some time joking about what I should write and decide on "there is enough time" because my problem is that I feel rushed and get flustered. A reminder that there is enough time should give me the chance to take a couple breaths before I respond or do the next thing. In theory.
In practice, the neighbor who I asked to help bring the bags down forgot how days of the week work (it happens), so I had to bring the bags down the stairs, but I wore all the braces and was very careful to use good posture with the right muscle groups engaged. Turns out you can't check curbside for international travel, but the driver is a sweetheart and helped me get everything inside where the gate agent didn't know how to process my not-quite-Visa and the appalling baggage fees, and it was okay because I had so much time.
When I got to Canada, I lucked out and found a cart ride and then got captured by the wheelchair people who were uninterested in my reflexive no thank you, and then the baggage guy brought all the bags to the car rental place where he waited forever and then helped load them into the car even though he wasn't supposed to, and I rested and iced aggressively and didn't collapse.
So huge thanks to BH, who is my guide to learning to be more kind to myself to get the results I want even if I don't want to be in the situation I am in.
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