Sketching a Twisty Path on the Globe

I spent 12 years in Mississippi my photos albums tell me. I SHOULD have become a damn good Southern belle in that time—sweet buttercream accent, impressive make-up collection, able to bake and fry anything for a last minute pot-luck. But, unfortunately my accent, a patient tells me, “is more like the Northeast somewhere,” my makeup could fit into a snack-size baggie, and I don’t even own a deep-fryer.

When I first arrived in Arkansas and told my co-workers I grew up in Mississippi, one of them let out a giant sigh of relief and said, “Thank Gawd yer not a Yankee!!” But, after it became obvious that I’m more North than South he amended, “Well, we’re gonna have to Southernize you!”

Despite daily, rigorous study in the areas of speech, religion, and gastronomy, I’m afraid that what wasn’t accomplished in 12 years also wasn’t accomplished in 2 months. BUT, what a restless high schooler’s eyes couldn’t be grateful for, I can now appreciate as some of the more unique points of the south:

Cuisine: In the OT Gym, the Food Network plays daily. While patients pedal, lift, bat and loaf, Paula Dean (who matches her outfit to her kitchen to the theme of her meal) whisks and sprinkles and tenderizes. Fittingly, last weekend for my going-away party, my coworkers threw a huge Southern Feast: fried porkchops, fried chicken, fried okra, country-fried steak, corn, baked beans, red beans and rice, CheezWhiz crab bites, apple cobbler, and cherry pie. Actually, come to think of it, we’ve been celebrating my “going away” with two weeks of eating, culminating (so I think) with chocolate gravy and biscuits for breakfast tomorrow.

Wildlife: This may refer to the snakes, armadillos, deer, or the turtle on my doorstep. Of course there’s also The Razorback Hawgs that have people “sooueeeing” with pride. Guess it could also be my glimpse of The Electric Cowboy nightclub that plays songs like, “My Baby Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.” Truly though, it’s most fitting to describe my co-workers during a game of pool, Guesstures, or a late-night footrace in the street. Either way, my image of the South as being a bit “too well-behaved” is humorously crushed.

Language: I stifled a giggle when I heard myself slip “reckon” into a serious discussion with a patient. I’m fixin’ to get myself into a pickle when I cain’t stop talkin’ like this and the Kiwis look at me cock-eyed. But ma’yonnaise a heap of fun things to say down here.

Weather: Everyone is amazed that I could stand Alaskan winters for so long. But, for the last month it’s been so hot outside that the seatbelt buckle burned my hands, “Max AC” didn’t take effect for 15 minutes, and I actually considered driving my car across the street once. Isn’t that the same thing….but inverse? Well, now the incredible heat has been washed away by rain. In fact, it’s even raining INSIDE my apartment (a puzzle since I live on the bottom floor). I think that’s my sign that it’s time to board my raft like an ark (with two of each bug life?) and make my way out of Ft. Smith. I certainly will never forget though these two months, the people, or, of course, the food.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that our breath is taken away.” 

This was quoted to me last week by a 93 year old patient, affectionately “my Renaissance man” as his history includes being a ballet dancer, poet, and Las Vegas bartender.  Ironically for him, his breath is taken away multiple times each day as he dies from COPD.    

Today one of the other OT’s told me about turtle races in Mississippi and said the article described them as “breathtaking.”  A smirking patient next to me says, “I’m from here so I can say this:  There ain’t nothin’ ‘breathtaking’ in the South.” 

So I mulled over the number of times my breath has been grabbed here:
— just now at the grocery store when the checker rang up $403 of cantaloupe
— each time I climb into my crockpot of a car that’s cooked to 120 degrees
— both times I almost stepped on a snake on my running trail before I realized the branch was alive
— the time I saw a cockroach in my apartment and realized with horror what that meant for a girl sleeping on the floor
— when four BANG!’s woke me up at 2:30am and I tried to convince myself that it was tardy pyros, not a drug deal gone wrong like my co-workers say

Hmm, that’s several times, but I certainly don’t want to “measure my life” with cantaloupe and cockroaches.  I wonder if this is why last weekend what I wanted most to do was ride down to another State Park….after renting a motorcycle.  Hours spent on the phone instead may well have saved my life, even if they robbed me of what may have been my only legitimate “breath-taking” experience in Arkansas.

Sometimes I have 3 to 4 patients in the gym, similar hissing tubes snaking from their nostrils, winded after I ask them to reach over their heads.  For them, just breathing “in through your nose, out through your mouth” provides the only life they have.  Breath, as it turns out, is not always in unlimited supply.  Maybe sometimes it’s OK to just hang onto it.  Keep it steady, meander slowly, days run in like a “crick,” out like molasses.  

So, my reply:  “Life may not be measured by the number of breaths we take, but if it’s all taken away, guess you won’t be gasping at any more turtles.”   : )   

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