A work in progress.  This is a revision of an earlier post: Doing Dishes.  This revision also includes a series of “textual photographs” at the end.  For those who don’t know, a textual photograph isn’t an actual photograph.  It’s a picture in your mind of something you “see,” and then you use words/text to describe your mental photograph to help the reader “see” a scene that lives only in your mind.

by Debi

Even with an automatic dishwasher, the plates, cups, pots, and pans still pile up in my kitchen.  Maybe it’s not so much that I’m a lousy housekeeper, but that I’m a distracted one?  The dishwasher needs to be emptied prior to loading in fresh dirty dishes, but emptying the dishwasher requires I stop doing whatever else I’m doing.  It also just plain seems like too much work at times.  In reality, it isn’t a lot of work when I actually do it. But my mind tends to make emptying the dishwasher seem like a huge task looming over me that will somehow disrupt my entire day, taking me away from more intriguing ways to spend my time and energy.  Before reloading the dishwasher with fresh dirty dishes, the caked-on gunk needs to be soaked for a few minutes and lightly scrubbed or the dishwasher leaves residue.  Learned this the hard way after needing to rewash too many dishes.  Found it was easier to just soak and rinse everything rather than chiseling off the baked on goo left behind after the dishwasher’s drying cycle transformed food residue into concrete.

There’s something calming, almost mesmerizing about doing dishes by hand. The mindlessly repetitive, rhythmic movements. The soothing warm water. The fragrant lemon-scented bubbles, soft and silky on tired hands.  Sometimes I listen to music while dishwashing. My favorite dishwashing CD is the soundtrack to the No Reservations movie.  Usually I listen to the soundtrack in my head.  A song stuck in my brain, quiet random ruminations, a remembered childhood poem. There is satisfaction in the transformation of the kitchen from disarray to order. Hysteria to calm. Is it less satisfying on some internal level to only do little clean-ups here and there, but never have the transformational experience that comes from a complete overhaul? Is that why I procrastinate doing dishes?

Creative moments can surprise us. But times of quiet personal reflection are often a prelude to accessing our deeper selves.  Standing at the kitchen sink, up to my elbows in warm, soapy water, gently scrubbing my plates and glassware brings on a meditative state for me.  Standing in one place, actively involved with a mindless, repetitive, physical activity, releases my creative self.  Dreaming, meditating, creating—all part of the same deep interior well.

Many things I’ve written developed after a time of quiet personal reflection—believe it or not, usually while standing at the sink up to my elbows in warm, soapy water, gently scrubbing my plates and glassware.  Standing in one place, actively involved with a mindless physical activity, seems to release something creative.

Writers over the centuries have used walking as a physical meditative process.  For me, while I thoroughly enjoy a good walk, I find myself caught up in the sights and sounds, people and birds, creatures and weather around me, and my mind isn’t quite as free to wander as it is when I’m staring at a corner and small window of my kitchen.  The kitchen almost works as a sensory deprivation chamber.  There isn’t much to see, hear, or experience.  Just the warmth, the steam, the water, the suds, the rhythms of the washing.

I wonder why I delay doing dishes when it’s often such a fruitful experience?  I have no answer.

But on that note, my dishes await.  Meditation time draws nigh.

Photograph #1

Interior of author’s kitchen. Countertops, kitchen sink, and range top are piled haphazardly with dirty dishes, silverware, pots and pans, drinking glasses, and coffee mugs.

Photograph #2

Close-up of open automatic dishwasher filled neatly with clean plates, bowls, silverware, glasses, and mugs.

Photograph #3

Full kitchen shot, showing author removing clean dishes from automatic dishwasher.  Overhead cupboard is open, revealing small stacks of plates, bowls, upside down glassware, and mugs.  Countertops above dishwasher and to the left of the author are covered with array of dirty dishes.

Photograph #4

Close-up of author’s right hand putting the No Reservations CD into a portable CD-player.

Photograph #5

Medium close-up of side-by-side stainless steel kitchen sink with approximately 12 inches of countertop visible to the left of sink.  Several stacks of dirty dishes, glassware, and a bowl of sudsy water with silverware handles protruding from bubbles are just visible on countertop.  Left-hand sink is filled with water and a generous mound of white shiny bubbles.  Steam is visible above left sink.  Right-hand sink is clean and empty except for metal dish drying rack.

Photograph #6

Long full body shot of author standing at sink with both hands dipped beneath the bubbles.  Author is seen from left side.  A beam of sunshine is coming through the small sliding window over sink, lighting the author’s long straight dark hair and face (shown in profile).  Author is dressed in faded blue jeans, a plain black short-sleeved polo shirt, and red casual slip-on shoes. Fewer dirty dishes visible on countertop.  Automatic dishwasher is open directly to the author’s right, partially full of freshly rinsed dishes.

Photograph #7

Author’s clean kitchen with sun shining through the window above the sink and lighting up the countertop and the front of the automatic dishwasher.

This experimental piece of writing is followed by a series of “textual photographs” per instructions given in class this week.

Diary Entry
October 6th, 2007

Moving into his own apartment has definitely been the best thing for him.  One of my husband’s main symptoms is an inability to deal with distractions and things being “out of order.”  Living in a household with three kids, a wife, pets, and the general happenings of any busy family was too much for him. The kids and I walked on eggshells constantly, but anything could upset him. There was no way to prevent his rages.

SLAM!
(Who knew a freezer could slam shut so loudly?)
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
“WHAT THE HELL? THE ICE CUBE TRAY’S HALF EMPTY AGAIN!  HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT?—FILL THE GOD DAMN TRAY WHEN YOU USE ICE!”
More than yelling.  Roaring.  A raging lion.
Rattling windows.  Rattling nerves.
Over ice cubes?
Children and cats scamper to hiding places throughout the house.
“Honey, please.  Try to calm down.  You’re scaring the kids.”
“I’M NOT SCARING THE KIDS!  YOU’RE SCARING THE KIDS!”
Oof.  Ouch.
Wow, such a horrifying feeling—someone picking me up and throwing me physically across the room like a toy to land in a crumpled heap on the living room floor.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON THE FLOOR?  GET UP!”
Later, he’d ask why I over-reacted and threw myself across the room.
Another day in the life of this stupid disease.

Keep in mind this was previously one of the kindest, gentlest men I’d ever known.  These rages and out-of-control episodes were completely out of character for the man I’d been married to for essentially my entire adult life. He never physically hurt the children. I spent my waking hours keeping the kids safe. But because I was constantly putting myself between him and the kids, I called down his wrath and rages directly onto myself.

He doesn’t seem to remember why we’re no longer living together.  He often forgets that he even has a problem—another prominent symptom:  lack of self-awareness.  He seems to think our marriage just ended.  It’s sad and difficult to be married to a man who no longer recognizes our relationship as an on-going thing.  Sometimes he remembers we had to separate households because of his health problems.  He’s always so sad when he remembers what’s actually happening. Other times he seems to think he’s an adult child who left home.

VOICE MESSAGE:  ‘I can’t come down this weekend.  I’m going to a birthday party. See you next weekend.’
Repeat.  We hear the same Voice Message every Thursday for three months.
“Mom, I don’t think Dad even knows enough people to have a birthday party to go to every weekend.  Do you think he even remembers from one week to the next that he’s used that excuse before for not coming down?”
“Nope, he probably has no idea he’s said it before.”
“Sometimes it feels like there’s a glitch in the Matrix. It’s such a stupid excuse, too … a little kid excuse.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’s super frustrating how we have to hold our weekend plans open just in case he actually has a weekend without a ‘birthday party’.”
Hugs. Tears.
“I miss my dad.  I don’t know who this guy is.  It’s like we inherited somebody’s crazy uncle. But we have to call him Dad.”

He won’t let us come to his apartment anymore.  I don’t know if it’s just the stress of having people there that’s too much for him, or if he’s hiding something.  With his memory lapses and uncontrolled rages, it’s hard to make sense of what’s happening in his life these days.

He no longer acknowledges our anniversary or my birthday.  He no longer wears his wedding ring. I’m living life as a married woman—he’s living life as a single person. In many ways, it feels like he’s already died. The kind, gentle man I’ve loved and built a life with is long gone.  Some stranger stepped in to take his place.  Could be a new episode of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Before he became ill, we would talk. A lot. Staying up most of the night, talking about life, family, goals, dreams, parenting, etc., was a common—almost nightly occurrence—for years and years in our marriage.  Now, when I face major (and even minor) family decisions—and I find myself wishing that I had my husband’s input—I can recall our past conversations and extrapolate from there how he may have responded to the situations now.  I find this is a helpful and practical way to honor and respect him for the man he was before this horrible disease took him from us.

Photograph #1 (November 1979)

Casual wedding photo taken in Hough’s living room.  Bride in white Gunny-Sac dress with matching wide-brimmed lace-trimmed bridal hat.  Groom in brown corduroy three piece suit.  Stone fireplace in background.  Bride and groom holding hands, looking directly at camera, and smiling.

Photograph #2 (May 1987)

Husband holding baby in front pack.  He is wearing a white and blue striped polo shirt with light blue shorts.  Photo taken on mountainside at Ohme Gardens State Park in Wenatchee, Washington.  Trees and Wenatchee Valley in background.  Baby is sleeping with head resting on her father’s chest.  He is smiling.  Had right arm cradling baby’s back.

Photograph #3  (Easter morning, 1997)

Outdoor family photograph taken before church.  Mother to the left of photo wearing knee-length off-white skirt with matching sweater, holding two-year-old daughter who is wearing a pink and blue print dress with matching floppy hat.  Father to the right wearing navy dress pants and casual button-down short-sleeved beige shirt.  He has his hands on the shoulders of ten-year-old daughter (center of photo) and six-year-old son (to the right).  Older daughter wearing a white sleeveless dress with multi-colored polka dots.  Son wearing navy dress pants, blue-and-white button down shirt, and navy bow-tie.  Everyone is smiling except for son who is frowning and staring at something out of sight behind and to the right of photographer.  Front of a small white house, green lawn, and red rhododendron in background.

Photograph #4 (November 2004)

Family trip to Disneyland.  Mother standing to the left of photo wearing black sleeveless polo, beige walking shorts, and brown leather Doc Marten sandals.  Mother has arms around shoulders of two oldest children standing on either side of her.  She is frowning and looking at husband.  Oldest daughter is between mother and father, wearing a pink Minnie Mouse t-shirt, blue shorts, and white Converse shoes.  She is not smiling and has both arms around mother’s waist, head resting on mother’s left side. Son is standing to left of mother, wearing “I’m Grumpy” Snow White themed t-shirt, frowning and looking at ground.  Youngest child smiling and standing between older sister and father, wearing one-piece sun suit, and holding hands with older sister.  Father to right of photo, frowning and looking off into distance, hands on hips, elbows wide, standing about 12-inches away from family group.  He is wearing a black Mickey Mouse t-shirt, blue shorts, white crew socks, and white running shoes.  One sock is rolled down to top of shoe, other sock is pulled up to just below the knee.

Photograph #5  (January 2005)

Outside hospital emergency room.  Mother wearing grey sweatpants and navy hoody, sitting in wheelchair, arm in sling, frowning, visible black eye.  Father wearing blue jeans, black sweatshirt, white running shoes, and pushing wheelchair, frowning.

Photograph #6 (June 2007)

Family photo taken outside home in Auburn, Washington.  Flowering cherry tree and blue house in background.  Mother in center of photo, smiling, wearing blue jeans, white button-up short-sleeved blouse, black leather sandals.  Smiling oldest daughter standing to mother’s right, wearing multi-colored floral skirt with yellow tank top.  Youngest daughter standing in front of mother and sister, wearing blue shorts, green t-shirt, white sandals, smiling and holding long-haired tabby cat.  Son standing left of mother, frowning and not looking at camera, holding skateboard in right arm.  He is wearing black jeans, black skateboarding shoes, black t-shirt, black stretchy hat, and red-green-and-white beaded necklace with black skull pendant.