Finding Funny

When Marty and I first got together some 40 years ago we laughed, a lot.  We laughed with each other, at each other and we laughed at the world.  I don’t know if it was our new, young love, youth or our too often altered states but we did laugh a whole lot.

Somewhere along our journey we, meaning me, lost part of that laughter.  It didn’t mean we were unhappy it just meant we, meaning me, were too busy living and doing life to stop and laugh with each other.  We, meaning me, forgot to revel in the day, we, meaning me, forgot to look for the joy and humor life offers.  

I don’t think that’s particularly unusual.  You get focused on raising a family, developing and succeeding in a career while the verve of youth wanes and gets pushed aside by the realities of paying bills and doing yard work.

I mean really, life requires a serious and focused approach to everything.  Maybe……..actually that’s kinda bull.  A serious life requires laughter.

I think I got so consumed with living and with my own imagined self importance I lost myself.  My work, my career, my desire to raise perfect children in a perfect home with a perfect family made me take my own life and what I was doing too serious and I lost part of my laughter.  I was important and important people didn’t laugh very much because they had to think about some serious shit and you can’t laugh if you are thinking about serious shit.

Marty and the strokes brought me back to myself.  After living through impending death I found parts of me that I didn’t realize I had lost.  Marty’s survival helped me remember what was important.

Today, Marty and I laugh a lot.  We laugh in the face of irreparable brain injury, kiss my ass CVA.  

Our new life has many new issues, some more critical than any of the life issues of years past.  Being away from the work a day world makes life easier, having already raised perfect children helps, today we laugh not only at stupid stuff but the scary stuff.  

We laugh at the movies, we laugh at the TV, we laugh at our grandchildren, we laugh at our children parenting our grandchildren a lot and mostly we laugh at each other.  Marty is still the funniest person she knows and I have found the goofy part of my soul that I lost so many years ago and I love to make her laugh, even at my own expense, especially at my own expense.  

Marty loves to laugh and it’s seriously the best thing in the world when she gets really tickled and has a laugh that starts high and moves low and goes on so long we both end up coughing and laughing at the same time.  I have learned not to make her laugh when she has a full mouth, Gator-Aid burns when it comes out your nose.  

The strokes hurt, they hurt both of us deeply and we have lived through some very serious times in the last four years.  In a side miracle I have managed to find something in myself I didn’t realize I had lost, my sense of humor.  As strange as it may seem I somehow feel more whole, I somehow feel I am a better companion, I somehow feel I am a better human being than I was ten years ago.

Our journey, with Marty as my Sherpa, has taken me back to the very basic root beliefs that we all need to love more, forgive more, be more tolerant, laugh more and hug a lot. I have really tried to adopt the whole, “and the greatest of these is love” thing.  Our God seemed serious about that and it really feels a lot better than judging.

Hey, don’t get me wrong.  I can still be a supreme stuffed shirt and I don’t like to do things on the spur of the moment, it makes me tense.  I get anxious over some stupid things and some really important things and I can and do frown with the best of them.  I still like to occasionally tangle with a telephone solicitor or point out in as many derogatory words as I can to describe really crappy customer service.  

But, when I get off the phone or walk away from the offending clerk I generally look at Marty and laugh about it. 

A Smile

On any given day it is the best thing I see.  It is guaranteed make my day better, instantly.  It lights up my world and it does the same for the people around her.  When Marty smiles, I mean really smiles it is the best thing in my day.

Marty has always liked to laugh and to smile.  She was the funny one, the one who could actually remember a joke and tell it without pause and with real comic timing.  She was the one who laughed out loud.  She still does and when she gets tickled it is a worth seeing.  Marty’s face lights up, she laughs and holds her stomach and just for that moment,  a real normal seems to take hold and all is right with the world.

You have to see it to understand, you have to understand Marty to see it fully.  Her eyes light up, her lips kind of purse together and then separate to show a little tooth, the corners of her lips turn up and her whole face smiles.  The mouth is the star but the face is the universe, they combine and show joy.

The best of her smiles are spontaneous, when she hears something funny, when she sees something funny.   

We never really see a smile of contentment, that doesn’t happen, it has to be something that for whatever reason she finds funny.

We went to see Anchorman 2 and Marty laughed out loud and grinned at the first ten minutes of the film.  She yawned the rest of the way through the movie.  That’s her review of the film, she is an astute judge of funny.

They also had a preview for Melissa McCarthy’s new flick, “Tammy”, where McCarthy was wearing a sack on her head and dancing to Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” and Marty smiled big and laughed through the whole trailer.  That’s the stuff, over the top, base, visual, auditory humor that gets Marty going.

Don’t get me wrong, she laughs at me from time to time, she even cracks herself up occasionally.  Yesterday we went to Academy and I went to check out with our few things.  Marty and Renee went ahead to get into the van.  We were parked close (Academy in Waco has great handicapped parking….as opposed to WalMart) and she was riding in the lift up, facing the store as I came prancing out.  When I got to the van she was just beaming and I asked what she was smiling about and she said, “You look like a real shopper.”

Now I’m not sure why that thought made her laugh, but she cracked herself up.  I think it’s because she knows I’m the anti-shopper and she thought it pretty funny that I was earnestly walking up clutching my new purchases like I was carrying something valuable.  I make her smile and occasionally I make her laugh.

It’s the simple things, the simple times that seem to hold this whole thing together, the time spent laughing, the time spent smiling, and the time spent being together, quietly, contentedly.  Smiling is really a good thing.

Our Longest Argument

I have written before about the longest and as yet unresolved argument between Marty and me, who’s smarter.  It’s a 35 year plus disagreement where we are both completely entrenched in our positions.  We both really believe one of us is smarter we simply can’t agree on who that is.

Yesterday we sat in the living room doing some exercises with plans to go on a regular Sunday afternoon drive, kind of like old people in the 50’s but with $3.50 per gallon gasoline. 

 

We are thinking about replacing our car before maintenance costs add up to more than its worth so I have been looking at various transportation alternatives which suit our very specific needs.  I’m trying to figure a way to avoid a mini-van.  I think mini-vans are very cool, we used to have one, but my coolness quotient would take a massive hit if I had to drive one every day, it could destroy the last vestiges of my manhood.

I had mentioned to Marty earlier in the day that I would like to drive her by the cars I was looking at to get her opinion.  Regardless of her impairments I still need and want her agreement and approval to spend this kind of money.  It’s important to me and to her that she be involved.

I asked her, “Do you remember what we are going to do on our drive?”

She said, “Yes, you’re going to show me a couple of cars?”

Being the wise-ass that I am I reply, “See you’re not so dumb are you, you remember stuff.”

Marty, “I’m not dumb, just a little brain damaged.”

Me, “Absolutely right you’re not dumb.”

I bent down to wheel chair eye level and kind of whispered in her ear, “Do you still think you’re always the smartest person in the room.”  Marty was not always the most secure person you would ever meet but she was always secure in her intellect.

Marty looked me square in the eyes and said, “Sure do, in fact I know I’m the smartest person in this room.”

Just for good measure, she smiles and with those blue eyes twinkling she said, “Look around the room, I am the smartest person in this room,”

I had to laugh, she got me again.  In my youth someone surely would have hollered, “She really rocked on you.”  She did rock on me pretty good.

I’m really not ready to concede on this 35 year old fight of who’s smarter, but there are days, even today, even with the brain damage, I know one of us is clearly smarter.

A Biting Response

The act and art of physical therapy for a stroke patient should be part of any ongoing recovery strategy, it’s not, but it should be.  We have had the great good fortune to have a physical therapist visit our home twice a week for the last month.  Great and Wise thought it a good idea for Marty to work with a therapist to help with her overall strength, her flexibility and improve the use of her right arm, broken over a year ago.  

  

The therapist who is working with Marty is reasonably gentle, knowledgeable, relaxed and a good conversationalist, all important traits to do therapy with Marty.  The ability to hold a reasonable conversation is a must for me as I am always full of questions and pretty much always present, I have the need to supervise.

 

Last week the therapist was dutifully stretching and taxing Marty’s right arm, the one she broke in March of 2010.  The therapist was supporting Marty’s right arm with her right hand while reaching across Marty with her left arm to pull Marty’s arm up and across the front of her body; thus stretching and taxing.  The break in Marty’s arm has healed but because of her general lack of strength and mobility its very stiff so the amount and the direction the therapist was moving it hurts, I could see it in Marty’s face.  

I sat across the breakfast table watching the process unfold; the therapist slowly moving Marty’s arm to the point where Marty would sort of grimace and the say “Quit it,” then back again.  Generally I accept and reasonably tolerate this sort of benign abuse of Marty; it really is causing pain for her a good cause.  I don’t like it but truly the means justify the end and I Marty knows that, most of the time.  

As I sat watching the process and making mental notes for when I would do what the therapist was doing I caught Marty’s eye just briefly and saw the flash in her eye, I saw that part of her that hates the lack of control in her new life start to surface.  I could see it before it happened as Marty said stop and grimaced each time the therapist moved Marty’s arm to the point of pain and each time she moved her own arm slowly in front of Marty’s face.  Marty’s eyes lit up, Marty’s brain engaged, old Marty started to resurface as she grimaced, as she felt helpless at stopping the pain, as she thought about her only way to get release from the pain and assert her control.

I started to say something but I was a bit slow on the uptick and before I could warn the therapist Marty reached over with her head and tried to clamp her teeth into the fleshy part of the therapist’ bicep.  I swear I could see it in Marty’s eyes before she did it, I could see in her face she going to put a stop to this nonsense in the only way she could.

The therapist stopped quickly, and pulled her arm out of harm’s way.  I said, “Marty, don’t you dare,” and the therapist retreated and the pain in Marty’s arm stopped, immediately, exactly what my diminished wife wanted to accomplish, stop hurting me.

Her response, biting the arm that was hurting her arm, was almost childlike; it was a way for her to gain control, a way for the person who had the least control to assert her will.  It was clearly a premeditated action; Marty knew exactly what she was doing, she planned it, she exerted control in the only way a person with limited physical capabilities can, she consciously used the tools, she had at hand, so to speak.  Marty has always, always used her mouth to control the outcome of events, she just never bit anyone before, she simply outtalked everyone.

There are times, moments, when Marty exerts control over her life, over her circumstances and says in her actions, “I’m done, quit damn it.”  Sometimes she just shuts down and won’t talk or won’t participate, she becomes passive aggressive.  There are other times when she’s simply had enough of being handled, of being poked, prodded, moved and hurt and she drops the whole passive part of that act.  The lesson learned is if you are going to push her that far, it’s best not present her with an option; she might just take a bite.

Schooled by Marty ------ Again

Marty is a musician. Despite the trauma of the strokes she still possesses the soul and skills of a musician. Music is one of those things that connect her to the here and now, one of those things that bring Marty back to the surface through the fog of the brain assault.

Today as we finished lunch I sat there and looked at the piano and regretted my decision 40 years ago to refuse piano lessons. My mother wanted me to take lessons; she wanted me to at least learn some of the rudimentary musical skills one acquires when learning to play the piano. Being a boy child, a manly child I refused and she didn’t insist and it’s my loss.

My musical roots consist of learning to play the tenor saxophone for the 5th grade band. My saxophone career spanned four years. My dad played in the Texas A & M marching band back in the 40’s and I played his instrument. I learned notes, I learned counts, and I learned the tenor sax is not a chick magnet.

Today as I sat looking at the piano one of those little cartoon light bulbs popped over my head with an idea. I looked at Marty and said, “Could you teach me to play the piano?”

She looked at me, gagged just a little and said, “Yeah, if you can be patient.”

“I can be patient.” I said. “Do you think you could show me how to play?”

“I’ll try,” was her less than enthusiastic reply. The subject was tabled for the completion of lunch.

After lunch I started puttering around doing some odd chores and on a whim decided there was no time like the present. I pulled back the piano bench, pushed Marty’s chair just to the left of the piano, sat down and said, “Okay, tell me what to do.”

Clearing her throat Marty said, “Play a ‘C’ scale.”

As the brother to a piano player, the husband of a piano player, the father to a couple of piano players I have absorbed some piano intelligence by osmosis and listening to repetitious drills. I knew where to put my fingers, I even knew the fingering. I blistered the ‘C’ scale like Fort Worth’s own Van Cliburn.

I looked at Marty, looking for some positive reinforcement. She said, “Do it again.”

Okay, I did it again, looked over my left shoulder for some sense of appreciation of my skill and she says, “Do it again.”

“How many times?” I asked.

A short reply, “Until I tell you to stop.”

I started playing the scale, over and over again, varying the pace, the flow, even the fingering and she didn’t tell me to stop. I kept playing and looked at her. She was lost in a gaze looking at her song books as I continued to play the scales, afraid to stop.

My hand started to tire just a bit and I stopped and finally said, “When are you going to say stop?”

She said, “Stop.”

Great, I’m thinking, my wife has turned into the Sgt. Carter of piano teachers.

We diverged from single notes to chords. I played a “C” chord. That was okay, she told me to play a “D” chord and I kept hitting the wrong group of keys and Marty would say, “No, that’s e-minor, no, that’s F sharp.” I told you, it brings Marty to the surface, it amps-up her here and now, she didn’t even look to tell me I was on the wrong keys. She heard the chord and knew what it was and it wasn’t a “D” chord.

I must now confess I lied about being patient. I tried but I’m not a patient guy so I decided we should move on to real music. A John Denver song book just happened to be on the piano from the last time Marty had played for me. I immediately turned to “Annie’s Song”; one of the songs performed at our wedding 35 years ago, and opened it up. I asked Marty to tell me what the first note was and she said a “B”. I know a “B”. So I started, one hand, one finger playing “Annie’s Song”.

It’s important to know that “Annie’s Song” has only a sharp, the “C” note, and of course I kept missing that and missing plenty of other notes but eventually I made it through the first refrain of the song

Repetition is a key to learning a song, repetition requires patience, I have sworn to be patient, so I started playing the song again, then again, then again. Somehow I managed to mangle it in different ways every time, finding different notes to miss each time through the song. I didn’t turn to look at Sgt. Marty but I know, I have seen the pained expression of bad notes on her face before, I know she was scrunching up her nose and closing her eyes. I have seen that face.

I finally ended the song one last time, hitting the wrong key about four times in a row, sort of pecking at the key board. As the song writer sort of said, my senses were full, I was proud.

I wasn’t too sure Marty was still paying attention at all; she sometimes loses focus, especially when it gets a little boring. Then out of the blue she says, “Thank you.”

I’m touched, I know she remembers this song, I know she remembers the meaning to this song, I know she feels it, I know she relates it back to so many years ago when we pledged to be together forever regardless of sickness or health, I know she is thankful.

I turn to her and say, “You my dear are very welcome, so why are you saying thank you?”

She looked up from her deep thought and said, very simply, “For finally hitting the right note.”