In January, 2003, a friend with whom I’d once worked asked a big favor of me. I owed her, and therefore agreed, to travel to Moscow, Russia to make presentations, via an interpreter, at a couple of seminars. I hate travel. Add to that, living in Florida, the prospect of experiencing a Russian winter was a bit daunting. For starters, I would have to buy a jacket. I went, bringing two checked suitcases and one carry-on. When I got off the plane and arrived in customs, there was no one there. I looked about and, when I stood next to a pair of glass doors, they opened and, all of a sudden, I was in the crowded terminal in the Moscow airport. “Taksi? Taksi?” men kept asking me. Then I spotted my contact. “I have to go back and check through customs,” I told her. “I’ll hang on to your bag,” she offered, and took my carry-on from me. I returned to customs, now swarming with passengers and the officials running the show. Retrieving my other two suitcases, I got in line. Next to the very serious-looking blue uniformed woman doing the checking was a conveyor belt upon which each arriving passenger had to place their luggage to be run through security. An equally serious-looking fellow in a brown uniform monitored the luggage as it funneled through. I was third from the front of the line when it suddenly hit me: the customs declaration that I had signed on board claimed three items, but now I only had the two, since my contact was holding my carry-on out in the terminal. How do I explain that? I doubted these functionaries spoke English. I had visions of being packed off to the Gulag. I was pretty sure ostomy supplies would be non-existent. I got to the front of the line. The uniformed woman leveled me with a hard stare. I handed her my customs declaration. The line of suitcases was pushing along on the beltway at her back. She picked up her stamp. WHOMP, WHOMP. I was through. What I took to be a glaring discrepancy, they hadn’t even noticed. I had officially entered Moscow, if somewhat negligently, and escaped being packed off to Siberia for luggage fraud.
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About seven years ago, just about every aspect of my life was ostomy related. From the moment I was told an ostomy might be needed until some months down the road I existed as a person afflicted with a colostomy. I feared someone other than my immediate family might find out I had a bag. Ugh! What could be worse? Suppose it filled real fast when I was out with no place to hide and take care of myself. God forbid should it leak in church! Suppose I roll over on it in bed. I was a lesser creature, destined to a life of emotional anguish and physical routines different from most of the rest of the world. I felt like a freak. Then I found folks like you guys here, read your stuff, really “listened” to what you had to say and I began looking at things differently. We know perception is everything and I began to understand how good things were relative to what they could’ve been. So many folks had it so much worse than I did. That didn’t make my discomfort go away but it exposed how fortunate I was to be dealing with my stuff and not their’s. I felt a little guilt, maybe selfishness but quickly forgave myself by understanding I just wasn’t smart enough to fix my feelings. Then, I wonder what smarts have to do with feelings. My perception was warped so my perspective toward my existence was warped.
I learned over the last few years with the help of lots of folks right here at MAO that I could be better at living just by accepting some facts. It is what it is and so what? It’s not the worst thing to happen to a person.
I think everything is, in some way, related to everything else. I just put the ostomy thing in the back seat and drive forward.
Respectfully,
Mike
Hello HenryM.
Another interesting memory for which I thank you. I too do not like travelling but have encouraged myself to do so in the past because the destinations have almost always been worthwhile.
Best wishes
Bill
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