This is On

I turned my camera on today.  Then I switched it off. 

Rain hit the windows, and the wind howled. Glancing at the gray sky, Hmmm, I thought, wind actually howls before turning back to my camera.

Off, one more time.

The rain continued.

I stroked the lever that pointed toward the word ON and then read the word OFF. I read it once more.  Water dropped on the stove vent.

I toggled the camera on and said the word “on.”  My thumb caressed the bumps on the back. I moved the lever, and it snapped into place when I said, “off.”  The tinkling on the vent became a tap, tap, tap. My calico cat, Ruthie, jumped into my lap and purred as I stroked the curve of her body.

Last year, I used this camera to take photos for concerts, politicians, a newspaper, and magazines. I photographed for advertising. Using special brushes, I dusted the cover and wiped the lens with a soft cloth, caressing it as one would a child’s cheek.

It was my companion every day and every night, my extra arm. Until one evening, I paused as a line of people dressed in finery stood, each watching me with expectant faces. They waited to be photographed for the newspaper.

I knew every centimeter of this camera, inside and out. And I was as familiar with it as I was the back of my hand, but suddenly, it was a stranger, an unknown entity. Pushing my head down, I thought, “How does this thing go on?” 

My hands fumbled over the frame, my fingers trembled. And I sucked in a deep breath to calm my racing mind of nothingness.

The tip of my thumb finally found the switch, and I moved it to on. And my brain flickered back on, too. I resumed photographing as if nothing had happened, hoping that no one noticed my uneasiness.

Within weeks, I couldn’t complete assignments in time, so the newspaper stopped calling, and the magazines had no more job offers. And I never heard from them again. But by then, I had forgotten how to process and label photographs. My computer collected dust because I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on, either.

A neurologist informed me, “You have lesions and white matter disease.”  There was nothing that could be done. I sat for an hour staring into space, and when my husband came home for lunch, I told him about the disease, “You have to divorce me.”

He replied with a broken voice, “You are my wife.”

“I don’t want this life for you.”

Placing the palm of his hand over my chest, he said, “I married you,” and left the room.

I had two cameras. Before, they were side by side in a special bag with padding on both sides. Now, one camera was placed in the closet, a forgotten beloved doll. The other was stranded somewhere and lost forever. Its extra charger still plugged into the same socket.

 Relearning one thing made me forget other things, such as cooking an egg. So, I had to practice cracking a shell. Now, how do I cook this egg?   Then I did it again. You are cooking an egg, I tell myself, so I don’t forget what I’m doing. Walk to the refrigerator, take out the eggs. You are cooking eggs. What am I doing? You are cooking eggs.

Why do I have an egg in my hand? You are cooking eggs. 

What do I do with this egg? I don’t know.

I did it.  I relearned.  I forgot again.  I pushed too hard.  So again, with the switching on.  Switching off.  Like my brain.  It went on.  Then it went off. Again, and again.  A dance.  Step by step.  One step goes forward.  Two steps backward.

I tried every holistic program I could find and finally settled on plants. I juiced celery. I grew thyme, oregano, and parsley. I stewed broths, ate apples, and consumed as much as possible.

Now, sometimes, I retrieve my camera from its cubbyhole to switch it on.  And I switch it off, just to be certain that I am able, noticing the make-up stains and grit. And I run my fingers against the sleek front. “I’ll clean you soon, I promise,” I tell it.

I confided my secret to a friend.  “I can use my camera now.  And I’m relearning Photoshop.”

Not to be outdone, she shrugged.  “I know someone who had to relearn their ABCs.  Did you forget those?”

No.  I didn’t.  I relearned on and off.  Not a big deal to her.  But to me, it was everything. A world that was once lost, now within my grasp. A promise that one day I could return to humanity, and I would no longer be buried in forgetfulness.

I took a photo of Ruthie. She sat at the door to entice me to the rose garden, her favorite place to be. When she crouched beside a Hosta, her face mischievous, I aimed my camera toward her and snapped a photo.

Her image reminded me of where I started, and it showed me how far I’ve traveled.  And I can now turn the dial to correct the settings.  My pointer finger finds the button that takes the photo. I look at it.  This is the button that takes the photo.

I am content to switch my camera on.  Switch it off. The rain continues to pelt my house. The wind still howls. Only Ruthie to witness my private moment, my attempt to cast off this cloak of isolation. My friends and family don’t realize that on this day, I sit with a smile and repeat, “This is on.”

It’s a secret between me and Ruthie, my calico cat.