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| View from rehab, August 2021 - by S. Vardatira |
On July
20, 2021, three years ago to the day and just as I was beginning to format the
2022 Head in the Clouds Amherst wall calendar, I checked into the hospital for
a planned, routine hip replacement surgery. While I wasn’t promised immediate
healing, everyone – from my surgeon to my primary care provider to friends who
had “been there, done that” – affirmed I would start walking and return home
the next day (or, maybe, depending on how things went, the day after that). In
actuality, I didn’t return home for nine weeks.
Following
the surgery, I spent one week in the ICU, followed by three weeks in an acute
rehab facility and five weeks in sub-acute rehab. My progress was
excruciatingly slow – overnight, I had gone from relative autonomy to utter
powerlessness. It wasn’t until a year later, when I finally forced myself to
read my entire surgical record, that I learned there had been real concern
about whether I would ever walk again.
There never was a 2022 Head in the Clouds Amherst wall calendar. In
early August, as I was taking breaks from my rehab facility’s daily PT sessions
to continue formatting the calendar on my laptop, I finally faced the
inevitable: even with the generosity of friends who had offered to help, I
could not make it happen. Feeling a swirl of emotion (but primarily a sense of
failure), I saved the calendar file, closed InDesign, and shut down my laptop.
I glanced up at my room’s narrow window, positioned near the top of the
ceiling, well above eye level. It was impossible to get close enough to see
anything happening on the ground, but it did allow a glimpse of the sky – not
enough to see what was coming over the horizon, or the position of the moon or
sun, but if a cloud drifted directly into frame, I’d be able to follow its
brief path from left to right beyond the glass.
Since arriving days earlier, however, the sky had been endlessly blue,
with not even a wisp of cirrus to vary the scene. Just that morning, one of the
nursing assistants had greeted me by cheerily commenting on the lack of cloud
cover: “It’s such a beautiful, completely blue sky out there – perfection!” I
had begun to ponder the possibility I had somehow landed in an alternate,
utterly boring universe, devoid of clouds. Thus, it was something of a surprise
to glance up at that moment and see darkening cumulonimbus swirling outside my
window. A summer storm!
Without waiting for an escort or permission to leave my room, I grabbed
my cell phone (for capturing the view) and clumsily maneuvered my wheelchair
down the hallway to a large floor-to-ceiling window I remembered seeing when I
first arrived. A CNA made a half-hearted attempt to intervene, but when I
pointed up, her attention followed. For the briefest instance, lightning
illuminated the darkness, and the sky opened, sending sheets of rain and hail
cascading across the parking lot, hammering on the roof, demanding entry. And
then, seconds later, all was silent.
My view improved considerably when I moved to sub-acute rehab. A window
with a full view of the sky ran along one entire side of my ground-floor room.
Although the new facility was challenging in countless ways, that window, and
the ever-changing clouds above, saved me. But not just me – I noticed that
everyone, patients and staff alike, were drawn to the building’s windows and
doors, hoping to glimpse a rainbow, drifting cumulus, or a rippling, silvery
mackerel sky.
In early September, a few weeks before I would return home, the
remnants of Hurricane Ida swept across the Valley. From my window, I watched
the clouds build and gather overhead. Random leaves fell into view, diving and
rising briefly on the wind before coming to rest, finally, in the meadow.
Outside, under the portico, I watched as a visiting family stashed dinner
tupperwares into canvas totes and pushed chairs back into place under the
picnic table. Another trio glanced up, aware and yet unperturbed by the
impending storm.
That evening, long after I should have been asleep, I peered into the night
and the all-enveloping darkness. The streetlights blinked on and off each time
a tree branch, swaying under the ferocious wind, obscured my sightline. It was
raining hard, the remnants of Ida thrumming off the roof, gathering in rivulets
and puddling across the sidewalks. The parking lot looked oddly empty, only a
few staff cars scattered here and there. A rush of air wrapped around the rain.
A lightning bolt threw the trees into sharp relief. In that moment, a nursing
assistant, who had just gotten off shift, jumped through the entryway into the
night and ran zigzagging across the parking lot, hooting and hollering,
spinning, and holding her arms out to the rain and the wind.
I was at once inside and outside – dry and drenched in rain, motionless
and crackling with electricity.
The manifesto of the international Cloud Appreciation Society includes
a “pledge to fight ‘blue-sky thinking’ wherever we find it,” adding, “life
would be dull if we had to look up at cloudless monotony day after day.” In
that spirit, here’s wishing you breathtaking, dramatic skies, clear starry
nights, and always living with your head in the clouds – no matter the weather.
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| Dawn from rehab, August 2021 - by S. Vardatira |
This stunning image by Mark Lindhult is our featured photo for October in the 2024 Head in the Clouds Amherst wall calendar. Although we receive significantly more “autumnal” photo submissions than any other season, our jury never had a doubt about this iconic scene. As Mark observed, “𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘘𝘶𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘳 𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺!” 
