Friday, April 28, 2006

Of Cars and Paperweights

I have mostly been too depressed to write. Not in an unrecoverable way, however.

When Robert was being seen by the neurologist at Hopkins who gave us our first reasonable diagnosis, we were discussing with him our worries about some other ailment (incidental) that was afflicting Robert at the present. He told us this story about how enraged his father became when, after being diagnosed with terminal cancer, he developed the worst cold of his life. Dr. Crawford reminded us that just because something really bad has happened to you, it doesn't mean that you become exempt from the petty inconveniences and difficulties of ordinary life.

This is how I feel about my current difficulties. Last week, my husband was in a minor car accident which involved rear-ending one of those giant pickup trucks, which meant that when he thought the pickup was moving forward in heavy traffic, yet it wasn't, he stepped on the excelerator and ran under the other car's giant bumper. Which resulted in no damage to the other car, but because our Buick was a 1995, resulted in our car being totaled.

Then, like some episode of Three Stooges (only there are 2 stooges in this version), my husband drives the car home. I see the car, which had been my grandmother's and was the nicest car I had ever owned (which I guess isn't saying much), and I could tell immediately that it was totaled. As Roger wasn't hurt, I flew into a rage which involved slamming a bathroom door so hard that a paperweight sitting on a shelf above my computer fell on the computer and apparently has physically broken the hard drive.

I am in mourning for the car. It was a fine vehicle and had a full life. I think Mark Halliday has a poem in Jab about such a car as that one was:

The pink car rolls slowly along a pale green lane
till it needs to go fast then it goes very fast
while still quiet. It knows what it is,
it is the pink car!

Along the lanes to be what it is
it goes around hard corners and far across a wide plain
and back again whenever it wants.
Other cars can be all those other colors
the pink car doesn't care they can be loud and big
the pink car doesn't care that is why it can roll
so quietly and go slow until it goes fast for a while.

That's from the middle of the poem--the poem's title is (surprise!) "The Pink Car." Our car was dark green. It's a great poem. Look it up.

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