Well

well: (adverb) in a good or satisfactory way, in a thorough manner, very probably, (adjective) in good health; free or recovered from illness, in a satisfactory state or position, sensible; advisable, (exclamation) used to express a range of emotions including surprise, anger, resignation, or relief, (noun) a shaft sunk into the ground to obtain water, oil, or gas; an enclosed space in the middle of a building, giving room for stairs or an elevator, or to allow light or ventilation; in physics a region of minimum potential, (verb) rise to the surface and spill or be about to spill

http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/well
http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/american_english/well--2

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On October 16th, 1987 I sat with my Mom-Mom and watched the TV coverage as rescuers pulled Baby Jessica from a well.  That night, while my father was having heart surgery, Mom-Mom was watching my younger brother and I.  I waited on wellness-- Baby Jessica's and my father's.  I remember the TV pictures that night and waiting for, and getting, the phone call.  Mom-Mom took the call on the corded rotary phone mounted in the dual-purpose laundry/bathroom.  I don't know what was said, but the sense of the image was all would be OK. Though I wasn't aware of ages at the time, I know now my father was 37.  I was 9. Baby Jessica was out of the well and my father was out of surgery.

On April 4th, 2011 I packed a bag of coping strategies and drove the Buick to the parking garage attached to the hotel attached to The Hospital at the University of Pennsylvania.  I was less attached to what was happening than the buildings were attached to each other.  A few hours later, early in the morning, I walked through the connections to check-in where Kim completed all the remaining admission responsibilities prior to her open-heart surgery later that morning.  That morning, while I waited, I stared at another TV--one which tracked her progress from pre- to post-op.  For the most part, I didn't move from my seat.  Those who were with me stayed fairly close as well.  I didn't read or write or draw or use anything I'd brought in the coping bag meant to keep me occupied.  I was so full-- so connected, yet so disconnected--there was no space for anything.

Hours later, the desk in the waiting room received the call and we were sent to a room on another floor.Surgery had gone well.  And with the declaration of well, everything I was full of, spilled...

I could have cried for hours... I almost wish I had.  That 'well' started as spilling out of relief-- fear, love, anger, sadness, worry, joy all worked their way in-- though the spill wasn't just about Kim being OK. It was about my father's surgeries, my Mom-Mom's death, childhood, cancer, fat, feeling alone, and being loved.  In the hallway, the tears stopped-- I made calls, sent text messages, informed so many people that all was well.  Not long after, I saw Kim.  A bit later, I ate dinner.  Within what seemed a few minutes, the small handful of people who'd come for the surgery left for home, and I went back to the hotel room alone.  

I opened the curtains on the wide windows looking out to the track used for the Penn Relays and beyond that, the Philadelphia skyline.  Growing up just outside the city, it was a skyline I knew vividly.  If I put the local news on, it was, in many ways, the same local news I'd left behind when I moved to go to school years and years ago.

Sitting in the evenings was hard.  I felt little-- back at home, out of control, and alone.  

By the morning, the newness of the day was enough to move me forward.  A cup of coffee, a shower, a little bit of morning TV...  and then back through the maze of connections to the hospital room with the bag of coping strategies (some books I'd never read, and some art projects I did spend much of the time Kim slept, working on).  

I've not managed to get back to the spilling.  When I get as full as I was that day, well, I either stay full or the fullness comes out as exhaustion, moodiness, or an ADD need to keep moving and keep doing.  I'm not able to sit with it as I had that day or as I had each day I had a chemo treatment.

A new part of my wellness involves working with meditation. I'm trying to sit with anything. The first meditation proved interesting.  After about twenty minutes, an image of my Grandmom Grove's backyard gazebo came forward, and with it the word 'enough.'  It was spellbinding. The process had presented its own mystery, yet what it meant beyond what it was, I had no desire to solve.

Subsequent sessions haven't painted images. They have left me spinning certain words from their original--example: The jug fills drop by drop BECOMES The drug fills-- and though I was able to abandon attempting to decode 'gazebo' or 'enough' my mind, wired to over-analyze, desperately wants to figure out this puzzle. Why is one word becoming another?

This morning I woke on the other side of a dream. It started out one way and became something quite different. Inside my parents' house, in a back corner of the living room, two women told me of their desire to publish my book. It felt right. Then they handed out pages and my mother divided them between my father, my brother, and herself. I told her she wasn't to read it, but she continued, making edits, in pencil, all over the pages.  I stared down. When they were done, my brother also stared down, my father said nothing, my mother told me that I'd better check my facts. I no longer felt right.  I just wanted peace even if peace meant voiceless. Back in the living room, one of the two women asked for direction to the bathroom.  I escorted her and she did not return.  Then, I woke.

Perhaps the reason visual art feels so much safer than words is because it is less editable. Perhaps it contributes to my wellness more, as a result.  Perhaps it is why, with all the memories I have, that pictures come back most readily, or why, with that bag full of coping strategies, I was never able to read or write but completed an art project...after the spill I still have yet to knock over again.

(below is the art piece I worked on while Kim was in the hospital... A scratchboard drawing...perhaps of full...)