Power Off

So about a week ago I woke up around five in the morning to discover the power was off.  Not me this time, but the electricity.

I fumbled around on my iPhone to find the number for ComEd to report the outage. I mean really fumbled.  Of course it was right in the menu but it still took me a while to find it.  Report noted, 92 houses out, should be fixed by 7:45 a.m.

At that point, I should have been able to fall back to sleep.  But I didn’t.  Such a nuisance not to have power, even if I was tucked up in bed with a heavy duvet thrown over me.  Nevertheless, the house and my bedroom were frigid.

Then I thought to myself, how privileged you are to have power in the first place, and in the second only to have it out for a few hours—well, who knows when it actually went out.

I’m not more of a humanitarian than anyone else, but the thought did strike me of those suffering from war and famine and distress through no fault of their own, who had more to worry about than a few hours without power.  Like, survival.

But then I got out of bed and checked the other side of the street and the street behind me.  Both had power.  Typically so.  Our little strip is prone to power loss.  One time we were without power for eight days.  So I stopped thinking about others suffering and thought, well, damn it, there we go again.  My bed was cold, the room was cold, the house was cold; and, if/when the power came back on, I’d have to reset the clocks.

The mind wandered again.  What does it mean to reset the clocks?  Can we ever reset the clocks of our lives?  Movies like “Groundhog Day” have tried, but the rest of us have to stumble onward, not being able to correct mistakes, bad choices, hurt feelings.

What would it mean if we could go back?  I think, as a child, I would have run away from home.  Maybe not literally but figuratively.  Just distance myself from the hurt that comes from living amidst a cold, destructive environment.

And college, my wasted education?  During my first year I became absorbed in a book about medicine and decided I wanted to be a doctor.  The trouble was I had no head for details, wasn’t good in math and sucked at science.  I still remember my chemistry lab partner, such a sweet boy.  He did want to be a doctor.  He gently refused to let me do anything in the lab, we would just share results.  It worked for me.

I branched off in so many directions in my four years that I had to end up an English major.  I’m still recovering from reading the entire works of Ernest Hemingway.  Yes, I know Edmund Spencer was more of a slog, but I came to realize Hemingway really had nothing to say.  To women.  I pointed that out in my paper and for some reason got a D.  Hmm.

Men.  Why did I turn down a second date with my instructor in physical anthropology?  (After the class was over.)  He was such a nice, interesting guy, and it wasn’t as if I was deluged with offers.  Oh well.

I never regretted my marriage or my three children.  Now, with power slowly ebbing away, I have my memories to keep me warm.  Husband in assisted living, children off living their own lives, each successful in his or her own way.  I’m lucky.  They survived me.  And I survived them!

Power still out, I can’t sleep.  I’m draining like a battery.  Unfortunately, no one’s so far come up with a replacement for the years spilling away.

Seven thirty-one.  The power is back on.  Time to retreat into the ordinary.  Have a good day.