Now, I have realized I have no more fear left. I give my fears to God, and pray for the safety of all those with whom I have feared COVID-19.
It is not right to live in fear. My mother, when she was told I was born with a brain injury that would likely leave me unable to walk, talk, or think, told the doctors they were wrong. She did not fear their dire predictions that I was best left in an institution, to be forgotten in my likely-vegetative state. Mom and Dad fought for me, and through their strength and devotion, I learned to walk. I learned to talk, to read, to learn and to succeed. It took over two-and-a-half years for me to do so, but I did learn to walk. It was 47 years ago to this day that I jumped up and ran. I didn't just walk. I ran.
Mom began working my muscles from Day One. I was a limp baby. No muscle tone whatsoever. The fall Mom suffered the night before my birth landed me on my infantile head. I was born with a subdural hematoma, which grew even after I was born, pressing down and damaging my brain's motor and speech centers. My first photograph showed an infant with almost two heads, the swelling on my tiny brain was so great. Even so, my parents' love for me was so great, their elation at my very birth so intense, they promised to do whatever it took to guide me into a healthy and vibrant life. Every time I step out into a walk, I thank my parents for their refusal to accept my defeat. I constantly thank them for their dedication to me. In this, my 60th year, I continue this gratefulness. Within my soul, everything I have achieved is due to Mom and Dad's devotion. Because of them, I charge into COVID-19's scare with a renewed desire to not let them down.
In the early 1960s, there was no internet. Anything they learned was through Mom's intense dedication. She read countless medical journals in her quest to find a way to make my brain recover from the damage it had suffered. Her first exercises began by simply changing my diapers. She would cross-pattern my arms and legs, pulling them together and stretching those muscles, urging them to feel her pressure. I'm sure kisses and love murmurings were incorporated in there as well, because a mother's love is absolute, her desire we succeed circumvents any others' words to the contrary. As months evolved into my first year, my studio photographs showed a beautiful child sitting up and showing the face of a beloved child; what lacked in the shots were Mom's hands propping me up underneath the blankets in which I was swathed.
As year two came about, I could sit up, but still could not crawl. Instead, I scooted about on my butt or however else I could. Still, Mom saw my determination to locomote, to move on my own. It was then she found this one means of forcing me to stand on my weak legs, governed by a brain center that had been damaged at birth. It was a "standing box" into which she locked me into for hours each day. Of everything that transpired during Mom's insistent exercises, this is the only one which resonates with me today. She would lock me into that contraption, regardless of my screams of protest, then kiss me and close the bedroom door to my protestations. Only when she deemed it necessary would she come back and release me from its' grip.Countless trips to the "Crippled Children Medical Center" emboldened Mom to keep trying new methods to force my body to overcome
Then one day, it happened. Watching TV while sitting on the living room floor in our Mundelein, Illinois home, something on the screen inspired me to jump up. I began running around, screaming with joy. Mom simply watched from the kitchen door, tears likely streaming from her face. I can only imagine the incredible joy she felt at that moment, and the reward of her constant dedication to be there at that moment as I defied the doctors' initial, dire predictions that I would ultimately amount to nothing valuable as a human being.
Yet, here I am. Full of faults, yet a fully-functioning and accomplished human being. Nearing my 60th birthday, I am grateful for the life Mom and Dad devoted so much energy into ensuring me. The depths of my appreciation cannot be adequately described in words. In this life, I have always defied the odds. Not only do I ferry my fellow Portlanders around in a vehicle that defies descriptive words of justice due to its intricacies of difficulty, but I do it with charm and style.
All my life, I have endeavored to bring laughter, to show love, to those with whom I encounter. Even in the depths of despair, I have found a way to do as Dad always taught... have fun every day. To bring a smile to someone's face is my ultimate goal, and doing so brings me great peace.
Today, I want to apologize to many people. To TriMet management, toward whom I have written many words of great disrespect. I have done so under the guise of utter contempt, feeling empowered to do so hiding behind a pseudonym while sometimes taking more liberty than I should. I am very grateful to be allowed to do this job, not only because of my early history but also because I truly love people. Some are not so lovable, but the vast majority of those I serve are decent, hard-working and generous. I have been humbled so many times by the passengers I serve, this job has been a God-send to His humble servant. My words may have also insulted or hurt my union brothers and sisters, with whom I toil and revere; I am deeply sorry to have injured any of you. Additionally, I have lambasted our local media; not only because it fails to report our good deeds, but because of my vanity due to its refusal to recognize my writing this single operator's truth to transit.
To anyone I have injured in heart, word or deed, I humbly apologize. It truly grieves my soul to know I have caused any of you to feel pain at what I have written here. Whether it be upper management, passengers, fellow operators or the random reader who stumbles upon this blog, I apologize for ever having insulted you.
If I fail to survive this pandemic, my greatest hope is you realize I only wanted you to understand this blog for what it was originally intended to be. One transit operator's reality as I did my job, lived my life, and loved my family and friends. On occasion, I shared many a funny or serious interaction with those I have served. Often, I berated my employers as they failed to find value in our constant toils on the front line of transit while they reigned supreme from their offices on-high.
At this time, I pray you all continue to practice the Social Distancing medical experts have pleaded we all do. Yes, the economy is suffering. People are scared and often without money to feed their loved ones. This is an historically-significant time in our lives, but it's imperative we continue working together to ensure our future. There can be no economy if we die in greater numbers than the "curve" allows humanity to endure. This uncertainty could endure for several more months, at least until a viable vaccine is developed and administered.
Do not, I beg you, give in to those who hold "life as usual" up higher than "life itself" and common sense dictate. Listen to health professionals first, politicians last. Humanity deserves dedication toward itself, rather than idiocy winning us only extinction.
My Beloved went to work, along with many of my brothers and sisters along with members of our worldwide community the past few weeks, to fashion masks meant to protect us from this tiny assassin. Even though COVID-19 viruses are tinier than we can even imagine, the simple face covering could protect us from inhaling the stubborn few particles which linger amongst us. Even though our management won't allow even so much as a one dollar shower curtain to protect us from exposure, we must still do whatever we believe is right. If a buck spent on a clear piece of plastic provides more of a barrier than our employer can provide, then I wholeheartedly-support its widespread use. A halfway-forward barrier is of no use as opposed to one that entirely separates us from impending doom.
I pray you all forgive me. Andrew Theen, Shirley Block, Doug Kelsey, the TriMet Board of Directors and everyone else in between, please accept my apologies if my words have injured you. Perhaps you believe you're doing right by us and my words are an affront to your efforts. They're not meant to be. They are simply what I feel at any given time, not to necessarily be taken as gospel for what everyone else might think. It's just me describing what I feel. Take them with a grain of salt, but thanks for reading just the same.
I truly desire to celebrate not only Deke's seventh birthday on May 13th, but also Patrick's 60th on October 5 this year. This is a pivotal year in my life. I'm working on a new novel as well as resurrecting one I began 22 years ago and hope to finish shortly after my Troll story is completed. My friend Billy is feverishly working on a pilot for a TV series about a bus operator, and new friends have expressed desires to pursue other creative endeavors dedicated to our "essential" careers. I want to help you ALL; I just need to live through this, as do you.
Peace, love, and safety to you and yours. That's all that matters to me. Especially now.
db
Comments
Post a Comment