The Eeyore Within

I have a (former) friend who is a complainer. I call her Eeyore behind her back. Eeyore, if you recall, is the donkey from the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie the Pooh and all his friends live. Eeyore is perpetually unhappy, complaining about everything. Being around Eeyores zaps my energy and brings me down. What a drag. Don't they notice they are sucking the air from the room? What my friend has taught me, is that I never want to be an Eeyore.

Of course sometimes I feel like Eeyore, I think we all do. Life gets complicated and makes us weary. When someone asks, “How’s it going?” it's so much easier to say “This sucks," than "I'm full of joy today!" and break into song. Yes, finding inspiration in the daily struggle is often a chore. In my line of work, I meet medically fragile children. It’s a privilege. When I am feeling Eeyoreish, I think of those children and I remember that my worst day is still pretty good compared to their situations. Sometimes I think about Tina.

Tina was 16 when she was diagnosed with bone cancer in her arm. Even after chemotherapy and radiation, she needed an amputation. To make things worse, she would need it amputated at the shoulder joint which would mean no prosthetic would be possible. She would live the rest of her life with 1 arm. But Tina and her family were gracious and grateful. They were SO pleased that the amputation would saveTina's life. Prior to surgery, Tina went to Glamour Shots as bald as could be, and posed in a tiara and sleeveless blouse, showing off both arms as a perfect pair for one last time. She was beautiful. She hung this picture on her hospital door to share with the nurses during her stay when they cut off her arm. She never once complained. She remained optimistic and cheerful right until the end. As a reminder of her spirit, her family buried her in the sparkling tiara a week before her would-be graduation.

As sad a story as that is, I am inspired by Tina. She reminds me that no matter how bad things feel, my problems are always petty and life is wonderful and amazing every minute I get to live it. Even with its heartbreak, its complexities, life is a GIFT! We get to wake up every day and unwrap its mystery. None of our problems today or tomorrow are as big as Tina’s. We have nothing to complain about.

Other times, I think about the Watsons. They are parents to four children, two girls and two boys. The girls are healthy, but both boys have a genetic condition called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Their condition has progressed so they cannot move at all, except their eyes. They need ventilators to breathe. They are 5 and 2 years old. I recently spoke to their mother, Erica. Erica remarked to me how blessed they are as a family; how fortunate their family is, and how happy they are. I said “Erica, this is remarkable to me – with your sons fighting for every breath, how do you find yourself blessed?” She said, “When our first son was born, they told us it would be a miracle if he lived to be 5. He did. We are the parents of a miracle and we are so happy about that.” Erica inspires me. To find so much good in so much tragedy is uplifting.

When I feel my Inner Eeyore start to surface, I remember the struggles of Tina and the Watsons. The more I squash the urge to complain about life, the easier it gets. I’m not going to lie – I still have some work to do. I still complain. But I recognize that complaining forces me to dwell on the negative, and letting it go sets me free. When I feel good, I notice people around me feel good. Erica’s attitude is contagious! Tina’s spirit is contagious! Every time I think of them or tell their stories, I feel inspired to be a better person. To complain less. To not sweat the small stuff.  My worst day is still a pretty good day.

The Yellow Bus

I was reminded today of Grandpa’s yellow bus. I saw an old school bus parked in a field with long grass growing up around it. I thought about my Grandpa's bus.

After he retired from farming, my mother's dad drove a school bus for Conestoga Valley School District. He would back it into his driveway at the end of the day, and park it in the same place. He used to keep a large wedge of wood under the rear tire, although it didn’t appear to me that the bus would ever roll anywhere.

I loved that yellow bus. It was a funhouse to me! Grandpa kept the sliding doors slightly ajar, but I was small and had a hard time prying the rubber flaps open to hop aboard. The steps were high and black, and the driver seat was big. I would sit tall in that big seat. He kept a lightweight jacket on the seat-back, and sometimes I would wear it while I pretended to drive the bus. I adjusted the giant overhead mirror so I could see all the way to the back. For many years, my feet could not reach the pedals, but it didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that I could flip all the bright red and yellow switches to make the lights work - headlights, tail lights, hazard lights, warning lights – who knew which was which? Over and over the flashing switches would blink on and off, making a ticking sound like the turn signals, and I would pretend to drive that bus. As best I could, I shifted the long, metal gear shift and flashed those lights, stopping to let imaginary kids in and out of the door with the big black flaps. To close the doors, I had to leave my driver seat and use two hands to maneuver the heavy silver handle. No matter what, I figured as long as that big block of wood was under the tire, I would be okay.

I would run fast up and down the aisle just for the sake of it. Sometimes I would tap the tops of each seat as I ran by to see how fast I could go without missing a seat. And sometimes I would jump out the emergency exit at the back because there was a pretend fire.

Grandpa always kept his bus very clean, and it smelled like vinyl and rubber. I would go from seat to seat and flip the cushions up from the back to find combs, barrettes, chewed gum, sticky dirt-covered sourballs, and pencils in the cracks. I never found money like I wanted to. I also never understood why Grandpa could keep a drawer full of candy in his desk in the house, but never any on that yellow bus for me to eat.

Then there was Easter. Never fail, every year an Easter egg was ALWAYS tucked inside the bus's exhaust pipe for us to find on our hunt. Sometimes there was an egg on the bumper or the tire, but never inside the bus.

Me finding Easter eggs behind the yellow bus, Easter, 1974. 

I remember riding with him one day, in the afternoon. I sat in the seat behind him, against the window. I could look up in the overhead mirror and see Grandpa’s face. I was very quiet, and nobody sat with me that day. Two big kids, probably 5th graders, tapped my head and I turned around in my seat. They asked me what my name was, and if I was a boy or girl. I told them I was a girl and my Grandpa was the bus driver. I must have been five, because that was the year I had a boyish Dorothy Hamill haircut. They were nice, and one of them gave me a ruler. I don’t remember if it was the same time or another time when I was riding the bus, that Grandpa told the kids to behave. Since I was in the front seat I didn’t know what was going on in the back, but I know Grandpa was mad. He told those kids to sit down or he was turning that bus around and going back to the school – Is that what you want? To go back to the school and have your parents come for you??  I was scared because I never heard Grandpa with anger in his voice before that, and probably never after that. Things must have resolved, because he didn’t turn the bus around. I sat there, riding in the seat behind him, watching his face in the overhead mirror. One by one the kids got off the bus until it was just me and Grandpa, riding home.

I was 12 when he died, and the yellow bus disappeared from his driveway. It left behind strange shallow oval divots in the pavement where the tires used to be - a quiet tribute in the blacktop to the man and his bus.

My grandparents, me, and the yellow bus in the background. There are only
two bus pictures in my entire album, both from the same day in 1974.