Lisa Hoffman and Charles Atkins

Published January 6, 2005

Lisa writes:

It’s amazing how much in life we take for granted—all of the trivial things that make up such a large part of our existence. Only when something happens do we become aware of all these things, and they’re no longer so trivial.

Ever since I’ve become homebound, this has been brought more and more to my attention. To mention some small examples: I recently reordered checks from the bank that I’ve been with dealing with for many years. Until now, they would be mailed to me without delay. This time I received a phone from the branch informing me that my checks had arrived and I could pick them up. I told the person at the other end that I was physically unable to do so and would they please send them to me. He hesitated and then asked me if someone could get them for me! I pictured which of my friends I’d have to ask, feeling the by-now familiar guilt that I was once again going to have impose. Finally, I convinced him to put them in the mail…the way they’d done for the past umpteen years.

Another thing that irks me is when I’m told I have to "write a letter," when something could just as easily have been settled over the phone. First of all, I make my living writing and if I had to spend my day sending letters there wouldn’t be any time left for more creative work—not to mention it’s what I do to pay the bills.

These people who make such demands don’t realize the inconvenience they put me through; "just write a letter" doesn’t end there; maybe I’ve run out of stamps and have to wait till someone buys me some. Or, even if I’ve written the letter and put postage on it, I still have to wait for a friend to mail it for me, as I am physically unable to go down the steps where the mail boxes are.

So, as the saying goes, "until you’ve walked in someone else’s moccasins, you can’t criticize." But that’s not it exactly. It’s more like, "until you’ve walked in someone else’s moccasin’s you can’t really know what their life is like."

Maybe we ought to make that a New Year’s resolution, to put ourselves in the other person’s shoes and be a bit more considerate of each other.

Peace on earth and good will to men…and women!

I’m on vacation in the Keys, and as I do every morning—this time with roosters crowing in the background—I write. I have the above two pages handwritten by Lisa and am typing and editing as I go. Her words get me thinking about the year gone by and the one to come. It’s been a strange week—I suspect for many of us—with the horrors of the disaster in Asia, the last gasp of the holidays, family and work demands, and all of the other bits and bobs that go into our daily jogs on the treadmill (for some the rat race).

In general, vacation—and in particular, the New Year—is a time where I try and catch a moment’s perspective. Away from work, and away from all of the other distractions—noisy rooster aside—I look for that quiet place where I can think through where I’ve been, and possibly set some personal goals.

As I read through Lisa’s words, I have several thoughts, starting with her handwriting at times is shaky—a side effect of medication? A remnant of her stroke? I think about the last half year, and how she’s gone from being not homebound, to clearly homebound. She’s been a trooper, but the reality is her life is now highly dependant on others—including myself—as evidenced by my sitting here writing this essay.

The moccasin-switching exercise is a good one, and once you get started it leads to lots of interesting discoveries—not all of them pleasant. Such as, getting a taste first hand of what the caregiver roles is really like--the uncertainty, the lack of resources, the feelings of isolation, the constant hassle with Medicare to try and keep some minimal level of services in the home. And then there’s the really bad stuff, like finding out at times I get resentful, that I’m not always happy taking away from my novel-writing time to do this. And then I switch shoes…and realize that years earlier it would have been Lisa on vacation down in Key West, hob nobbing with other writers, sipping rum runners on a pier as the sun went down in a vivid sky of rose and mauve. Now, her every task, her every expedition from her riser chair, is a study in moving slow. The simple act of mailing a letter gets broken down into its components, each one taking time and effort—finding the stamp, the envelope, the address, figuring out who she can ask to mail it. And most of the time she doesn’t complain, but now and then—like my resentment—there it is.

And then I watch the news, the death and the devastation. And I think of those who’ve lost family, friends, their homes. Some, like me during this week, were at wonderful resorts enjoying much-anticipated vacations. And then…disaster. In post 911 America, it’s not quite so difficult to imagine, this type of a nightmare, where you wake up in the morning, thinking it’s "business as usual" and then count yourself incredibly lucky if you’re alive and physically whole at the end of the day.

I think the reason we do take so much for granted, is that if we didn’t, if we constantly focused on all the badness that could happen, on how easily our lives could be changed by forces outside of our control—like having a stroke, winning the lottery, or being swept away in a natural disaster—we’d be unable to function. "Gee, I’d love to go to work today, but maybe I’ll stay home just in case terrorists or a disgruntled employee decide to blow up the building."

At times, Lisa talks about the "mental blinders" she’s used throughout her life to get her through the rough spots—The Nazis, the murder of her family, the bombing of London, her stroke. I think we might all have these—a defense against the daily onslaught of bad news and "what if?" scenarios. The good side is our blinders keep us moving, let us get our respective jobs done. The down side is that they conceal a great deal of our world—the struggle to mail a letter after having a stroke, the isolation of a caregiver, the soldier away from his wife and young children, the mother who’s lost her family, the child who’s now an orphan.

Taking off the blinders, or at least peeking around them, hurts; we see; we feel, and we gain some understanding. We glimpse our own mortality, and realize how fragile life is. But we also see other things, the beauty of the individual as he or she struggles in the face of adversity, and we discover the best of human nature when strangers reach out to strangers, or family and friends rally together and say, "Let me help. Just tell me how I can help."

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