Here’s a thing.

Rarely do you see a Californian mow their own lawn. Yards tend to be small. There are drought resistant plants taking up portions of the space, but I’m not sure I know anyone with their own mower. It’s a service. We inherit a gardener from the people before us. Yard work is a business. There are professionals. It’s not about wealth, even the smallest of yards in every kind of neighborhood has a gardener. Even people who garden, have someone.

Here on the East coast it is not at all unusual to see an eighty- five year old home owner mowing their half acre lot. Grass grows easily here, so there is no shortage of it. Not everyone owns a riding lawnmower either. It’s November and cold, but still the grass needs to be mowed. I’m not able to tell when, I think it’s a weekly thing, but has to be worked in around the rain, so it’s not like every Tuesday. Even the time of day varies. The grass looks almost identical after as it does before. Up close you see the tell tale lines, from a distance, it’s the same. Okay for some lawns it looks greener and more tidy. Today we get to mow and rake leaves and I confess that it’s something I’m looking forward to.

I have memories of my father and most of the neighbor fathers out on a sunny Saturday morning mowing their lawns. This became established in my head as a male dominated activity. One that was followed by a cold beer and the rare moment of sitting in a lawn chair in the shade.

I remember the smell of cut grass. The peace around a happy satisfied father admiring his work. These are fond memories from my childhood.

Since arriving on this coast, I have yet to see a man operate a lawn mower. Is it the opposite of my childhood? Is this a female dominated chore nowadays?

When I first saw my mother-in-law mowing in her cute outfit and make up. Not a hair out of place, I tried to help. I could not believe everyone was okay with her doing this.. She seemed to have a particularly quick turn around. I think she mows every three days. I learned that it was a self propelled mulching mower so the effort was mostly in keeping up with it, but still.

On this chilly November morning I can see some neighbor women out mowing and mowing and mowing. It’s purposeful work. There seems to be some pride and joy in doing these kinds of things. I tried it. It wasn’t terrible. There are things no one tells you that everyone assumes you know, (they will have a good laugh as you learn and then share that laugh with anyone who missed the comical moment)

I miss California so much. The good feelings of peace I used to feel, I miss hearing the mowing sound, that fresh grassy smell, has now been replaced with a less comforting stress. Mowing has nearly lost its charm. I’m hoping that by combining it with raking fall leaves, I’ll rekindle some fun nostalgia. I know it’s a long shot.

I liked my California life.. I like the way I stayed busy. For some reason, and I know to others it’s odd, I felt my purpose ‘fit’ and my version of purposeful ness made sense. Here, I don’t know about anything.

I guess the mowing is yet another reminder of how much I wish I could go home. I wish I could BE home. I wish this segment of life could be a tiny bit less ungrounding. I am hungry for the nurturing, warmth of my own kitchen. Its exhausting being out of the loop on everything. It’s been a long week after many long long weeks of judgement and misunderstanding. This new development has cast a dark shadow and intensified everything.

It’s why we are here. I keep reminding myself of this, but man, it’s no cake walk. I knew it wouldn’t be,but yeah…

Hospitals, man. A world within a world. It’s a little microcosm of busy ness. It’s so contained that it makes navigating a little easy. You go in, you figure out the laws of the land, you go in again and again, every day there are changes, but there’s a structure and a rhythm. We are all grateful for that.

A lot can change from one day to the next. I have to also be respectful of the other characters who I am in this surreal hospital world with. Oh and let’s not forget that no one is comfortable. It’s cold. There is way too much waiting. Way way way too much waiting.

So my worst part of today is the general feeling of being blamed for the extra waiting. Yes my worst discomfort is from my childhood. My adult brain understands how tension and stress make people upset and how blame does happen, but how do I end up in the role of blamee? Ugh.

I desperately want to avoid this happening again, but as I type, I realize there is no avoiding what I didn’t cause in the first place.

Probably my best recourse is to stay neutral, let it go. If I wasn’t intuitive, I would be oblivious. I only need to endure this chill for a little longer, but oh the waiting. The excruciating waiting.

Our patient was last on the roister today. A new doctor, more changes. While our patient is the same. Finally we were able to escape. My sensitive porousness feels the utter sadness. It’s no secret that it’s a sad space this CCU unit. No one visits the other rooms. It’s slowly starting to sink in that this might be more of a stay then they originally led us to believe. No one seems to know.

It’s been a day of dysregulation, more like a full week of it. l’m sipping warm tea and walking as much as possible. Breathing deep long breaths when I remember to. There is no predicting what tomorrow will bring. Is there ever?

A cooked meal, resolved drama, a warm bed, things to feel grateful for right now.

The cold front did not move in as the weather man had predicted. New England weather can be tricky that way.

We had the gift of a beautiful sunny summer-like day. Our morning at the beach turned into a full day. I walked, G rode waves and I laid on a towel on the warm sand. It was bliss.

What a full and lovely day we had. How much do we appreciate these surprise breaks. Driving the gold and orange tree lined roads past one marina after another, jeep top down, music playing. We ate at out favorite restaurant in Mystic (you may have heard of the town. There was a movie called Mystic Pizza, not staring a young Julia Roberts). The Oyster Club is a sweet little restaurant with a James Beard nominated chef. Everything they make is amazing. It’s small and cozy inside, with a treehouse like roof dining out. Its food is only rivaled by its atmosphere.

How did what was going to be a cold rainy commute to the ER shift into this? No telling. But it did. Our patient was much improved and doing well, eating, and feeling better and better as the day went on. Updated every so often, we felt that all was well. He was outside enjoying the warm evening, talkative even, when we got back. The moon was full and bright,

When he went in to watch pregame coverage we walked down to the dock. A beautiful moonlit end to a beautiful day. The Bruins even won.

Then, suddenly

we woke up to a thud. Not a loud thud, but a thud. I think I heard some rattling of the door lock, before becoming fully awake to the thud.

Our patient was down. He needed assistance. It was a long adrenaline fueled night.We rested without sleeping after he was checked out and safely tucked back in bed.

The day included all of these things. We are here to help, it’s why we came. An element of difficulty has been added. A new measure of worry and uncertainty. Dysregulatiion can intensify stress. Some life circumstances intensify dysregulation, others help regulate. There is always shifting and changing. No telling what any day will bring.