Cracked

In the summer of 1996, when most people in their early 20's were partying or falling in love, I attended cadaver lab at the medical school nearby. Like "Henry," the nickname we gave the 58 year old man who had donated his body to science - and to us - the experience cracked me open.

Henry's last meal was corn. And, as we cut into the meaty area to remove and dissect his lungs, he exhaled. We had taken his last breath. Despite the sterile unemotional environment of cadaver lab, I couldn't abandon my poetic brain. I wanted to know his story. How did he die? How did he live? Did he love? Was he happy? Heartbroken? Angry? What kept him awake at night? Did his hands once embrace children and a wife?

Students aren't given any information about the cause of death in cadaver lab; that's part of the learning process: to discover how your cadaver passed from this life. We were only given very basic information: age, race, demographics.

I was struck immediately with how vulnerable and fragile we are when I learned how easily fascia, the thin fibrous connective tissue that surrounds muscle, tears away; I thought in metaphors. Fascia was like the finest linen, lungs like sponge. And yet, for all of our vulnerability, I marveled at our resilience as I learned Henry had survived open heart surgery, the staples still embedded in his chest.

One of my favorite lines in all of literature comes from the 18th and final chapter of James Joyce's Ulysses. It is often referred to as Molly Bloom's soliloquy. In the passage, among other things, Molly Bloom says "...and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes ..."

Sometimes, all we have to do is say a resounding "yes" to what we are offered to be transformed. 

I have been thinking a lot about Henry lately and the experiences I took away from cadaver lab because, now 17 years later, I have returned to that medical school. And once again, I feel cracked open. With gratitude.

After nearly two years of the highs and lows that have come with my unemployement journey, I applied and was offered a job via that same medical school.

The position is through an AmeriCorps grant funneled through the medical school. It is essentially a pipeline project to guide and encourage middle school and high school age students in rural communities toward careers in healthcare. This week was my first week.

During training, I sat in a room with physicians counselors and students discussing things like how to guide teens into lucrative areas of study, how to help them make decisions to avoid astronomical student loan debts, and the factors that affect the demographic who enters medical school.

This was a far cry from chicken marsala.

This is important work. Work I can believe in and be proud of. Meaningful work. Work that has the potential to shape future generations of physicians, surgeons, nurses and psychologists.

But, if I'm being honest, I would make more if I continued to dish out chicken marsala.

I entered college in 1992 as a biology major. In my second or third semester, I took organic chemistry and received a D. I decided then to switch my major to English and embrace who I was, who I had always been.

But, just because we are good with words and not with numbers does not mean we cannot shape and contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways. Just because we serve chicken marsala doesn't mean we cannot contribute to the world in positive meaningful ways.

We all have the ability to give, contribute, guide and transform when we are willing to dig deep, be true to ourselves and give a resounding "Yes!" to what we are offered.

I have been cracked open once again. I've learned during this period how vulnerable I can be, but also how resilient. I might not make much money. But I am so thankful for who I am and for being true to myself. I am thankful for parents who allowed me to not fit into the box, who celebrated who I was and continue to be for all of my quirky idiosyncrasies.

I have to believe that, if I continue to say "Yes!" the world will provide the rest.

Magic words and mondays

I love Mondays.

Mondays mean quiet. Mondays mean recuperation and rest from a crazy weekend of waiting tables. Mondays are my time, the time I sit down, coffee in hand, and remember who I am.

Signs of spring

A recent weekend was especially hectic. A few Saturday nights ago, the restaurant I work at closed for a private wedding reception, which left me conflicted. I knew the moment would come, and I braced myself for it: the moment the photographer walked in the door.

I would watch him or her scrupulously, critiquing every shot, envisioning how it would look in my mind, criticizing. But it's only because, for this night, I was on this side: serving Prime Rib and Chicken Marsala instead of being where I love to be - my second favorite place in the world to be besides behind my dog team: behind a camera.

As the night went on, while tending to my tables, I couldn't help but focus on the photographer. At one point, a gorgeous halo of light fell right on the bride and the groom sitting at the head table. I walked over to the photog, who was sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and eating Prime Rib to tell him about the moment begging for capture with his Canon Mark IV. He shrugged and took another bite, indifferent to the golden light of the setting sun.
 
My favorite magic words these days are these: "you're phased."

Those of you in the service industry are undoubtedly familiar with this phrase. For servers, these words mean you are slowly being phased out of actively taking tables. Things have died down enough that you stop taking tables in your section and can begin your side work. It means you will soon be leaving work. 

Before long, I was phased. Once I finished my side work, I felt especially downhearted. I left the photographer and the reverie of the reception and wandered outside. Where I work is a bustling area in a college town, a block full of bars and taverns, restaurants and studios. I walked across the street to another pub for a beer. Such a relief to sit down, the beer went down all too easily and I had another. I decided to leave before I was tempted to have another.

As I walked to my truck, eager, hopeful faces of college kids passed by in all directions. One young man with a vaguely familiar face stumbled up to me, clearly already quite drunk at only 11:30 p.m.

"Hey!" he said, slurring his speech. He touched my hand, his blue eyes sparkled with a youthful exuberance. He was tan, with sandy brown hair and an aqua green button-down shirt. "You were my server!"

I smiled. I didn't know whether to be flattered or startled by his simple recognition; I think I was a little of both.

"Yes," I replied, returning his touch by steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, I was. And it seems like you made the most of that open bar!"

"Can I give you a dollar?" he asked. Now I was taken aback.

"No, you can keep your dollar," I laughed.

"What if I give you twenty?" he asked. He reached for my hand again, this time cupping the crisp bill between his and my own palm.

"What?" I said, flabbergasted. "Why would you want to give me twenty?"

"Because you did a great job ... and I know how hard it is." He said, at 22 years old, he had recently started his own landscaping company and "rakes in two-thousand dollars a day." I don't know that I believe him, but he insisted I keep the 20-spot. He was so drunk, I doubted he would remember giving it to me, but I was quite thankful for his generosity. He hugged me before stumbling further down the pub-lined sidewalk. He smelled like Old Spice Swaggar and Bud Light.

Who wakes up and thinks to themselves, "I want to be a starving artist when I grow up?" I sure didn't. But somehow, I feel fortunate and grateful for the random blessings of strangers, and the lessons of this time period.

I am the sum of all of these parts: mother, sister, daughter, lover, dog driver, writer, photographer, and yes, server of Chicken Marsala. I am not too proud to accept the gifts of random strangers. And I am pulling myself up by my bootstraps, one boot lace at a time.

Thank you, handsome young man in the dapper aqua green shirt who handed me a 20-spot that night on the sidewalk. I hope karma returns your generosity one-hundredfold. Namaste.