Tanja is simultaneously settling into the new rehab place and gearing up for the work.
As it turns out, Tanja’s new roommate is the mom of her grade-school friend and childhood neighbor in East Moreland…and suddenly there she was— long braids and big smile, and very, very Portland.
“Do you remember,” she said to Tanja, “you’d go to a party and there’d be someone from out of state and everyone would be like, ‘wow, ok, really? What’s that like?”
“Now, when people are, like, ‘where you from?’ and I say, I’m from here, they’re like, holy shit, seriously?”
“I work at the water department and I’ll tell you the truth, Portland water is dialed in. I was standing at the outflow pipe the other day—the whole city of Portland, all the shit and rainwater gets processed and comes out this one pipe and there’s fishes living right there. It’s amazing. These guys are like NASA, but normal. Old school portland, you know? We had a winter party, the whole back wall was crock pots! Crock pots all the way down. If it comes to politics, you wanna keep the conversation short, but these are hard working people, kind people. I love ‘em.”
She asked Tanja what she was in for and Tanja gave her the short version.
“That sucks. Gawd that sucks so much!” she said. “But listen, you look good. You got this.”
Then she looked around quickly, leaned in and began to speak in a whisper.
“Look it, these guys are the best, ok. Let me tell you something though: just do whatever they say… whatever… there are only two ways to get booted out of here—stop working hard or stop making progress. But you put the work in and you show results, that’s all there is to it.”
“Okay,” Tanja said.
“I’m gonna hug you. Can I hug you?”
“Hug away!”
The days at RIO are much more scheduled and demanding. If Tanja was a baby in the ICU and the trauma ward was more of a kindergarten situation, this feels like she’s off to college—maybe a military school, if you can imagine one grounded in kindness and healing.
I can visit, but I can’t walk her up and down the hall or accompany her to the bathroom. In fact, an alarm would sound were she to leave the bed. They have taken control.
That is all for the good.
And, tonight as I got ready to go, Tanja said, “I don’t know why. I’m sad.”
On Saturday, March 4th, at 5 am, having thrown up in the MRI, and on the verge of surgery, her limbs immobile, she told me, “I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll never move my arms again.”
A week later, I arrived in the morning to find her crying and a little panicked. Her call button, the special one she can activate with her foot, had come detached from its socket—but she couldn’t know that. She just knew she was pressing and pressing and no one was coming.
Other than those moments, her spirit has been so powerfully infectious and, I don’t know the word— but wonderful will point in the right direction.
So to see tears tonight was a surprise. After all, this rehab was what she wanted.
Except that of course what she wanted was to spend the first weeks of March getting the garden ready. What she wanted was to take Wren to the coast for spring break. What she wanted is what all of us want, every day, without thinking to ask for it or remembering to be thankful for it.
One of the many things I love about RIO is how, when a nurse or therapist or caseworker or guy who takes the food orders comes in, it is as if I don’t exist.
“What do you want for lunch tomorrow?” he asks.
“I’ll have a garden salad and—Jed, what was the pasta thing I liked?”
“She was interested in your pesto,” I say.
His eyes do not waver from Tanja.
“That’s right,” she says. “The spaghetti pesto.”
“Spaghetti pesto and garden salad. Great. Any beverage?”
To me the point is, this is her body and her journey. I don’t know why she got sad today. Even after we talked about it, I didn’t know.
But, with those disclaimers, I’ll offer a guess.
Maybe she was sad because it’s finally safe to be sad. She’s come so far, she’s put a lot of really difficult possibilities behind her, she has pushed off a lot of fear and all of a sudden she can take a minute and feel it all—or at least start to.
Ups and downs. Ups and downs. I imagine she is asleep now—she worked hard today—and I bet she is sending little messages of encouragement to her fingers and her shoulders and her arms.
So, fret not. Tomorrow is another day and she will tackle it like she always does.
Meanwhile, here’s a tune that never fails to make her smile:
Tanja power 