Why is it a lucky dime?
Palindrome week, Tuesday (51215).
I’m sitting in Starbucks—not my usual Starbucks, but one three minutes farther away from Twelve’s dance studio that stays open later—trying to settle in after a day of making arrangements. Twelve hours earlier my surgeon confirmed my worst suspicions: the only way my frozen knuckle was going to get better was surgery. I’ve spent the day making lists, shooting out email messages, lining up teachers to sub my classes, taking a hiatus from my corporate gig … I’m having trouble settling in partly because I feel the tick-tock pressure cooker of more to do than I can in the five days before surgery and partly because I never saw any surgery as part of my personal story. Yet here I am, prepping for surgery number two.
I’ve left my phone in the car and that doesn’t seem like a good idea as it’s been op center all day, so I hustle out to my car, find it under the pile of mail I dumped on it earlier, and hustle back. I check Facebook and email again because, well, who doesn’t. They’re lovely distractions. Then I stare out the window, trying to riddle through a pivotal plot point in my revisionist fairy tale, as yet untitled.
It’s not twilight, but the sun is low enough in the sky to evidence the coming night. I see a shiny object on the patio. I decide it’s a penny and I should leave it alone. I look away. I look at my screen. I stare across the café at the shuffling baristas. I look back out the window. Penny. Shiny.
An hour ago I might have contemplated sitting outside, but it’s not quite warm enough now, so even though the music is a little louder than I’d like and I’m sitting with my back to the door, something I never prefer, I’ve settled in and I’m not going to move. I tell myself: It’s time to write. I see the penny again. Aww, crap. I’ve always taught my children not to disregard small change. It adds up. I unfold from my chair and go outside, leaving my table, computer, wallet for the second time, to pick up the penny. When I get there, I’m rewarded—it’s a 2015 dime. Back inside I place it next to me on my table and write steadily for an hour. On my drive to collect Twelve, the dime goes in the center console of my car—a talisman for the week.
Palindrome week, Thursday (51415).
Wednesday was a busy teaching day, as Wednesdays always are, and already this morning I started with a meeting, subbed two classes, and taught a private at my studio, but a few other things have moved around and my lists are keeping me organized. I’m inside Home Depot to purchase light bulbs when I get the phone call every parent dreads: This is the nurse at the junior high school … I have Twelve here. She fell in PE and she has a pretty good goose egg on her head. I’m reluctant to put her on the bus.
“I’m close. I’ll be right there.”
I walk into the nurse’s office, and there is my daughter holding an ice pack to her forehead. The goose egg on her head is enormous, such that I catch my breath. She’s also got two skinned knees, a fat lip, and pain in her right elbow and wrist. She’s been crying.
“I think we’re going to the emergency room.”
“Really?” Twelve eyes fill up, “but I have dress rehearsal this afternoon.”
“Oh Sweetie. We have to get you checked out first. We’ll worry about dress rehearsal in a little while.” The nurse looks relieved.
It was more than a spill, as she will explain first to me and then to each of the medical people we see. The game was sharks and minnows, a variation of tag in which the sharks tag the minnows and they become seaweed, sitting on the floor. Running and swerving to avoid both a shark and seaweed, she tripped on a seated student and crashed right into the wall. We leave the ER two hours later with the diagnosed broken elbow in a sling, the hematoma still under ice, and a referral to an orthopedist. The tears have dried now; she’s hungry and quite stoic, talking about attending school the next day and how she might support her dance friends when they take the stage without her on Sunday. Plus, she’s oddly jazzed about breaking a bone, another first for either of my children. My mind is trying to add this to the story of the week. And I’m wondering how do I go forward with my surgery while taking care of my injured child?
Palindrome week, Friday (51515).
On the drive to school, it’s foggy. I love fog, always have. Twelve agrees that it’s magical, and we marvel that up ahead we see the edge of the fog, but when we arrive at that place, it’s clear. The fog moves with us. Twelve decides it’s like we’re driving in a bubble.
After I leave Twelve to school, walking her in and making certain that she’ll have a study hall instead of PE, I get it. Her school is her world and they take care of one another there. The counselor and the nurse made much of her when we arrived, the principal stopped to offer kind words, students rallied around and asked her what happened. The counselor arranged for a student to be her book buddy, leaving class a few minutes early and helping Twelve from one classroom to another. It’ll be healing for her to be at school. Saturday can be a day on the sofa.
On the way home I continue to enjoy the fog. Fog always makes me feel like it’s okay to focus in close. I watch the Target sign emerge out of the fog and smile at the symbolism as I drive past. Like a palindrome, in the fog it’s hard to tell whether you’re coming or going. But, this, too, all of it, shall pass. It’s going to be a bumpy few weeks, but no more impossible than anything else. The fog gives me permission to keep my focus on the close-in targets, the things I can see, and to do just what needs to be done to facilitate my healing and Twelve’s. The larger picture that I’m forever questioning but rarely feel like I can see—it will become clear soon enough. We can only ever really know the parts of our personal stories that have played out. And when we know them clearly, we will all have, in fact, moved forward.
Palindrome week, Monday (51815). It’s a new moon and I’m ready to get my hand repaired. I don’t know how soon I’ll be typing steadily again so the next overneathitall might be a while … still, the lessons in this one precious life keep arriving and I feel richer for them, and for the dime I paused to pick up, and for the dear ones who make the fabric of this world more opulent. Thank you for taking this journey with me, love, Rxo