As I write this day’s entry, I lay in a hospital bed on the 4th floor of the infusion center at our local hospital. I am writing this on the back of my BMP lab work paper. It is 3 am. I am dreadfully tired, but the strangeness of the atmosphere, the irregular snores of a patient next door, and the steady pump of my IV machine give me insomnia.
The glow of the flurries outside my window bid me to smile as I recall the years of snowfalls outside my big, cathedral shaped window growing up. I can’t wait for dawn and yet when it comes, I will be so utterly spent that there will be little left for me to give tomorrow.
There are some things in life that we may choose. And, there are some things that we may not.
I was a beautiful, chaste twenty-three year old when my husband and I married. It was out of deep conviction—and the fear of loss that I abstained. There were many kind and brilliant men that I dated prior to meeting Frederick. Still, I believed that if I gave that part of myself away to someone prematurely, I wouldn’t have it for the one with whom I wished to share my whole life. That decision and choosing the man I married were two of the best choices I ever made.
The day after I graduated from high school, I packed my vintage army duffle bag and set off for the Snow King, a 217 ft. Alaskan fishing trawler docked at one of Seattle’s piers. Wrestling inside my young spirit were ambition, restlessness, and incorrigibility. I was a strong but thin 110 pound 18 year old with blond hair down to my waist and a will as stubborn as the proverbial ass. I had the fiercest determination; that was the only way a pretty 18 year old girl got to hold her own on an Alaskan fishing boat. Out of 91 crewmen only 11 were women. And at that, the term “women” could only be used loosely. “Come hell or high water” I was there and I was going to fulfill my contract. I didn’t care if the ocean swallowed me up; that was my only way out. So, I had to deal with everything on the fishing boat—or face the Bearing Sea waters, which would give me a cold death in less than three minutes.
The days were long, and the work was labor intensive. My first shift started at 12pm and went to 4am. At first, I was a galley girl; I helped in the kitchen and cleaned the ship. I took great pride in cleaning the boat; the poop deck and bow were only for the foremen, so I didn’t have to worry about falling off. The men really appreciated the smell of bleach and cleaners to the lingering stench of rancid fish (except for a few times where I must have used too much bleach—then the smell of fish would have been better).
Days carried over to weeks of introspection and longing. The ocean invited us restless souls, it seemed. Everyone had a story so far from the civilized life, they now seem unbelievable upon retrospection. But, they weren’t.
Froweena, was a lady of the same determination. She was an Ethiopian mother, on the boat for the sole intent of earning enough money for her family to survive. Every single day, from June to the end of September, her sea sickness got the better of her and no natural cure could abate her vomiting. Several times, the ship’s nurse had to do vital checks on her to see if she was well enough to stay aboard. But, through a constant regimen of “Ensure,” Saltine crackers, and lemons, she made it to the end of her contract. She spoke probably ten English words, but she always smiled and always said “thanks.”
Pasco, the baker and faithful friend, was an immigrant from Croatia. The Bosnian-Serbian war had left him and his family bereft and with nothing but ruins, after having had a legacy of land and house for more than 400 years.
Still others had a more sordid and nefarious life. One man, got offloaded as soon as our fish quota was met. Allegedly, he stabbed a man in a bar and was hiding from the law. Another man, who spoke no English, bit a coworker, and had to be offloaded. The other man had to be tested for HIV. Additionally, a very cunning fellow named “Sharky,” as he liked to be called, cheated on his wife and family and then left his girlfriend (the quality control specialist-“soon to be fiancée”). I only know he was married because we sat next to each other in orientation and I remember him wearing a wedding ring, and giving a pitiful story about how he very badly needed this job to keep his family alive. On the boat, he told Sharon, the girl, that his wife had left him and he was left to tend to his two kids for himself. There are still eighty plus more stories, but I will save that for another time.
It seems, the older I grow, that there are far fewer things that we actually control, than the things that we think we control. We think that if we decide one thing, then a certain consequent phenomenon will follow. That is often true, but not always. We get in to all sorts of trouble when we think that we can control things, or that certain patterns are predictable. I am not touting the notion of relativism or saying that there are not universal truths. All I am saying, is that sometimes in life—even circumstantially—there exists a wave-particle duality, two truths which simultaneously exist on the same plane.
I cannot control this illness, where it goes, what it will do, or even what the medicines I take will do to me. But, I can control my perspective, the thoughts on which I choose to dwell, and how I choose to spend the good days that I have. That is the same for everyone’s life. A friend once told me, “Anna, you cannot choose the story that God has written for your life. All you can do is live it.”
Sometimes, my fists are clenched and I remain indignant that such a lot could have fallen to me. At other times, I am grateful, that I am so blessed to experience life a way that many cannot. At this quiet hour of the morning, as the snow falls outside my window, I think myself very fortunate to be up and feeling better from this IV. I will be one of the first ones up all through the town that gets to see this beautiful snowfall. There is something enchanting about snow falling from under the pink glow of street lights. Christmas is two days away.
yours truly,
Anne
