Monday, August 20, 2007

A Bit Much, Really

“What are we here for?” It was not an existential question.

Dr. Du Plooy asked me this after I’d waited for thirty minutes in a waiting room and thirty more in an examination room. Dr. Du Plooy is from South Africa and he wears square-tipped snakeskin boots. Seven years ago when I took a job with Hamilton County Schools and received my insurance card, I was told to pick a primary health physician. I flipped through the insurance directory and wondered how you simply pick a primary health physician you’ve never met. As the names of medical practitioners rolled past in columns, a new decision presented itself. Do I want a man doctor or a woman doctor? It’s an odd business, the repair and handling of people’s bodies, but then so is the business of building people’s capacity to think, function in society, and lead full lives in which I engage daily with my students. Considering the types of examinations I will inevitably have to undergo, do I want a man or a woman to perform those examinations?

Neither, when it comes down to it. For the same and different reasons.

Then I saw the name Dr. Du Plooy. I wrote it on my form. That is a great name.

In seven years, I’ve never been to see him, although my wife had. She likes his accent. And now, here I sat on a giant roll of tissue paper, my finger bookmarking my page in Becoming a Literacy Leader and Dr. Du Plooy asking my reason for being here.

“Well, I brought a list,” I said. “I haven’t been to see a doctor in 15 years, except for walk-in clinics when I have a sinus infection.”

“Those aren’t real doctors,” he said. “They don’t count.” See? I like this guy. We have the same philosophy on walk-in clinics. They are places where you announce your self-diagnosis for $80 so that you can get a legal prescription. It’s a beautiful system. I would go to Dr. Du Plooy for that because the co-pay is cheaper, but it’s hard to get in on the day that you need the drugs.

I told him my suspicions and ailments, some of which I’d rather not mention here, which probably gives enough context to narrow them down for you. After the plethora of examinations, I felt like apologizing to him.

Anyway. It turns out some things are no big deal, while the dry skin on my ear seems to be a bit of a concern. Now I have to go see another doctor about that. And, my cholesterol is really high. 251. It’s not supposed to be above 190. There’s a grandmother that teaches across the hall from me and her cholesterol is 134. I know she plays tennis about twice a week, plus she jogs every morning, and she eats good food. I mean “good” in every sense of the word…good tasting, good for you…it’s probably got better morals than most people I know.

My beautiful and amazing wife, she did research. She loves to research. If anyone was born at the right time to appreciate the internet, it is my wife. She initially panics about my cholesterol, which I love her for. Then, she outlines my diet for the next six months.

Green and orange vegetables, fresh.
Fruits, fresh.
Some chicken,
fish twice a week,
oatmeal every morning,
green tea,
whole grain breads if I eat bread.
Olive oil on everything.
Lots of garlic and omega-3s.
Black beans (which I love!)

No butter,
no red meat,
no hamburgers,
no sugar,
no trans fats,
and obviously nothing that lists cholesterol on the nutrition chart.

If my Bi-Lo—my favorite place—only sold foods I could eat, they could fit it all in a 1922 Ford delivery truck. Most of it is in the produce section. (And I love the produce section).

So what? I’m not even suffering. Although, I may have to start exercising, too, which might induce an inclination to complain, but I doubt it. And if it was intolerable to eat this way, I would do it. The PE teacher at our school says, “If you don’t take care of your body, where will you live?” It’s a simple decision.

Well, I have nothing to report yet. I don’t get my cholesterol retested for another seven weeks. But, since I learned about my cholesterol, I have eaten well. The very next meal I ate—Thursday night—was a cholesterol-reducing meal, and I have not failed to eat right for 10 meals in a row. And really, I’m not suffering. (Check out the comments for recipes we’ve tried and loved.) Delicate and Fancy Chicken, Lemon Coat Chicken, Spicy Chicken, Chicken Ratatouille, and Cioppino.

Plus we’ve had curry rice, black beans, hummus, Triscuits, steamed broccoli, raw carrots, plums, apples, lots of blueberries, Cherrios, and oatmeal. Marcy cooked up a chicken using ginger and rosemary from our herb garden, and it was savory…succulent, even.

So I’m eating right all of a sudden. But, it does make one think, what are we here for? When a person who knows about the mechanics of bodies says that yours is in a bit of self-inflicted danger, it elicits certain thoughts:

1. Well, no one lives forever. When your time is up, your time is up

2. Wait! If your time is up because of cholesterol and you change the cholesterol variable, might not your “time” change?

3. Of course, you could always die from other causes—car accidents, aneurism, lightning, plane crash, random violence, deadly virus…I haven’t even touched the tip of the iceberg here. (Speaking of icebergs, sinking boats…)

4. OK, carpe diem, then, as always.

5. I don’t feel like going to work today.

6. I’ve always wanted to write good poetry, instead of the bad tripe I spawn in moments of inspiration. They say to create art, one must suffer. Perhaps this is my chance to really suffer.

6b. This isn’t suffering. I don’t crave suffering, really, and this definitely is not it. Is art worth suffering? Other people’s art is worth other people’s suffering, sure, but do I want to be a martyr for art? Not really. Although, I would really like to write something really good…

7. Am I spending whatever “time” I’ve got well? Back to the existential…

I can’t really say if I’m spending my time well, but here is one thing I can say: I’m enjoying most of it. I love spending time with my family. You should hear my daughter make up stories or sing songs she’s learned. When she starts a conversation in the car, all I can think is, “I’m glad I was in the car when she said that.” I tell her she is precious, and she says in her two-year-old voice, “I am precious. What is precious, Daddy?” My little boy makes the happiest noises and has the most charming smile. And he smiles at everything. Of course, my daughter is stubborn, and my son only wants to pull the washbasin on his head or pull poisonous substances out from under the kitchen sink instead of playing with toys. But, when I am wresting the basin stand from his hands for the dozenth time, or trying to convince her to eat one bite of dinner—as tired as I am—I am so glad for it. I always have been. And what choice is there but to choose between loving and cherishing what I have or wearing myself out on it? I choose both.

And then there’s Marcy. If you’ve read any other part of this blog, then you have seen my inability to describe the Rocky Mountains or flying through a cloud. How then can I describe Marcy? I can tell you she is funny, smart, clever, determined, caring, compassionate, intentional, loving, curious, deep, light, concerned, honest. But you won’t know her. Nine years in, I barely know her. I long to know her.

I watch her and try to learn about God. If He created her, then He must be all those things that she is and more, but more so. Can a creation surpass its creator?

So far away from Dr. Du Plooy’s office we are now. Cholesterol really didn’t spark this conversation. These are the thoughts I have every day, but it seems too burdensome to say these things in response to, “Hello! How are you? How’s your family?” So, I use my cholesterol as an excuse to unload these thoughts. Hey, it’s got to be good for something.

My friend put up some poems on her blog. One, The Happiest Day, illustrates so well my greatest fear—that I will reach the end of my life looking for happiness and then realize that I probably had it in my hands and chose to ignore it. I choose—even when it is work to do so—to enjoy and relish my day. And what else? To “fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.” This, I could do better.

Really. If I can change my diet so quickly, why not this?

Saturday, August 18, 2007

The Best Room Ever

I had never seen clouds like these or from this perspective. I was in a 60-passenger jet slightly above the cloud version of the Rocky Mountains. They were gargantuan, and the plane was a broad-tailed hummingbird flitting about them. As with the Rockies, words fail me.

Although the cumulonimbus clouds were generally below us, huge grey-white walls jutted up in front of us so high that our miniscule plane seemed to be only at the foot of a new mountain. The pilot had announced we were traveling over 400 miles per hour, yet it felt as though we merely hovered about the crags of cottony cliffs, the scale was so great.

Slowly, our hummingbird floated about, but then something must have startled it, for as we neared the towering Cliffs of Oblivion, we darted in quickly with impressive dexterity and speed. Once inside the pillowy wall, all bearings drained quickly away. Were we moving or not? When the plane banked to the left, it was difficult to tell if we stopped banking or if we simply kept rolling over. I gripped my seat and noticed the lady across the aisle simultaneously did the same. We both laughed a short, quiet, nervous laugh.

We would burst into inner cloud chambers—small rooms in which we could see cloud walls, ceiling, and floor before piercing the opposite wall. One chamber, though, was simply massive. The room itself was bigger than I even imagined clouds could be. The plane emerged from one wall to find itself floating in this cavern of white, surrounded at a distance by cloud. This room was also different in that a shaft of sun had forced its way in from the upper left, reflecting off the crystal clouds, emphasizing stalactite- and stalagmite-like formations. I was momentarily surprised that the sun was not below us, shining up. We hovered about in the room for a full minute or two, and I thought that this is the safest place there is. No one could find you here. How exotic this is, I thought. Of all the people who have ever lived on the face of the earth, how many have experienced this? Call me Icarus.

It reminded me of the astronauts a little. How many humans have been in space? Twelve actually walked on the moon. Of the earth’s population throughout history, what decimal point of a percentage is that? Isn’t that why people want to meet astronauts? To hear something new and novel and profound? What a responsibility that must be for them. I’ve heard that Neil Armstrong is quiet, introspective, and private, and that people resent him for that—for not being a more public figure after his historic and unique experience. But, really, how would you describe it? I can’t even capture an experience in the Rockies or in these clouds. One astronaut, when asked what the moon was like, said, “It was really great.”

Greater than this cavern, I thought.

Then we fell. Hard.

I don’t know how far the first drop was, but when the wings slammed down on a mass of air, it rattled our bones. After a few seconds, the pilot reminded us to keep our seatbelts on—that this turbulence would probably last until Chicago. Gone was the paved skyway, and now onto the country, washboard, potholed road.

I guess the turbulence shook the novelty out of me. All I wanted to do was land. I began to feel very overheated and began to sweat. The gray-whiteness all around me was making me sick. We could be doing summersaults, I thought, and then became convinced of the very thing. Suddenly, raindrops began appearing on my window, and watching their path across the Plexiglas reminded me of the raindrops on a car window, and my comportment was restored. Seconds later, we slipped out of the cloud, seemingly inches above the runway, and rolled onto the land.

I’m glad that’s over, I thought. But then I thought back to the crystal cavern of cloud. It was really great.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Professional Development (in every sense of the term)

At a professional development conference recently, I had the opportunity to attend a session led by a woman from the US Department of Education. She is one of about 50 advisors to Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings concerning educational policy and legislation. She was here to gain teacher input concerning No Child Left Behind and to tell us some of the changes that may be in effect as the NCLB law is reauthorized in the near future.

Many people have significant issues with the accountability system. I don't think the law is perfect, but I am not ready to discard an imperfect reform for a return to a completely broken educational system. Special education teachers seem to have more issues with the law than anyone else, and (I think) they have the most justification for their complaints.

At this session, I was so proud to be a teacher in the room. The other participants voiced their concerns in clear, calm, and professional terms. The session leader listened to the concerns, compared them to concerns from other states, and explained when federal legislation was the root of the issue and when it was really a state implementation problem. (She did this so we would know which legislators to contact for advocacy.) The most exciting part came when she explained the changes that were coming about in the law due to previous teacher input. I believe most teachers left more in favor with the law.

Except one.

One woman sat in the corner with her needle work and ... I'm not sure what verb to use here. It was more than complaining. She was loud and very rude. She actually hurled insults at the presenter. She would hold the group hostage with long, rambling tirades that made little to no sense and scoffed at every response from the presenter. She looked stupid. She embarrassed herself--even if she doesn't know it--and she embarrassed this profession. What other profession would tolerate such behavior? My third graders behave better than that!

This woman came for professional development? It may be time to start developing more professionalism in this profession. Some teachers really shoot our profession in the foot as they insist on talking during faculty meetings and conferences, coming late to events, dressing in lackadaisical ways, and upholding a culture of negativity. While there has been a general shift towards professional learning communities in schools, there are some tenacious weeds still among us.

With so many products on the market for educators (including an antacid I recently saw designed specifically for teachers, whatever that means), I’m thinking about making a new “weed” killer. Except, it won’t be a spray with which we shoot persistently negative “teachers”. It will be like a health elixir that strengthens tendencies of grace and humility while inoculating against whininess and rudeness. It will drive people to shun incompetence and instill a deep desire for collaboration. Those that refuse to drink the elixir will either breathe it in from the other teachers that become intoxicated with it, or else they will slink away when they realized their attitude is futile.

I can’t tell you what good it does me to have these fantasies!

As a para-postscript, let me discuss some of this elixir’s vital ingredients: grace and humility. Actually, first let me describe what these ingredients are not. Being gracious does not mean being a doormat. Humility does not mean thinking poorly of oneself. Being gracious means treating people better than they deserve to be treated. Imagine a world of gracious people—on the road, in the grocery store, in the workroom, in the faculty meeting, in front of students. Humility is not false modesty. It is simply not thinking of yourself; it is thinking of others first and foremost. What if we all only thought of the people around us and strove to meet their needs and also treated them better than they deserve? Of course, I think we could add a few spices to this elixir: Humor, self-reflection, collaboration, professionalism, and cinnamon.

I think it should be coffee flavored.