World Mental Health Day, the Mayan Apocalypse, friendship, and other things

When the calendar turns to October, I remember the Mayan apocalypse of 2012. For me, that apocalypse was centered in the month of October, focused most distinctly on the tenth day of October. The Mayans maintained a complicated calendar which reset after many years, and the end of our year 2012 coincided with one of their reset times. For most people, the Mayan apocalypse was nothing, just as the switch to 2000 had been nothing. But my life was hit by apocalypse in October 2012.

Much of the apocalypse was mechanical and financial. Every vehicle in the household seemed to break down that month, requiring towing and expensive repairs. (Since the household included young adults, you can imagine some of those cars were old, used models, prone to breakdowns.) As we were dealing with that jolt, the family desktop computer stopped working, requiring replacement and including the loss of some documents and programs. As soon as we replaced the computer, we also had to replace the printer. Some other appliance also required repair at that time—the oven, I think, or maybe the refrigerator. It seemed as though everything was falling apart.

My feelings regarding that turmoil became focused on the announcement that a prized and precious coworker was leaving to take a new position at another job; her last day was the tenth of October. We had worked together for the past five years. Her presence had made work more enjoyable, and her assistance improved the quality of my work. We had no romantic attachment, but—given the chaos of the apocalypse—I came to regard her departure as the worst crisis of the month. Every October reminds me of that month. Songs on the radio bring back memories. Songs and stories I have written keep those memories alive. I received with a sense of irony the news that October 10 is World Mental Health Day, given that I entered a breakdown of sorts on that day eight years ago, one which led to counseling, medication, and a new perception of anxiety and depression.

The day the calendar changed this month is the day that history repeated itself, as another coworker announced that she was leaving for another job, choosing October 10 as her last day. We have worked together only two years, and never as closely as in the previous case. Yet she is a coworker I have liked, respected, and admired—a person who probably would be a friend if we had met at church or in some community activity. Common sense and CBT are keeping this change from becoming a crisis, but the coincidence of dates is disconcerting and ironic.

Woody Allen’s movie Annie Hall is, primarily, the story of a failed romance. One of its subplots is a portrayal of friendship. Alvy and Rob are so close that they have a nickname for each other—the same nickname; they each call the other “Max.” I have had some Max-like friendships in the past: people whose thoughts and feelings and lives seemed to mesh with mine. A children’s rhyme teaches us to “make new friends, but keep the old: one is silver, and the other gold.” Aside from family, I have not been successful at holding on to the gold, nor have I acquired much silver in recent years. The truth is that I find it easier to confide my Mayan apocalypse experiences to my virtual friends on the Internet than to share them with anyone I see face-to-face on a regular basis.

When the virus crisis began to change our lives this spring, I thought I would achieve much productive writing. Instead, my writing has been mired in other issues. I have finally, this month, completed a first draft of my book about Christian faith and depression; but I know that this book will require more than the usual editing and polishing before I can send it to Kindle to be published. I have other book ideas, largely supported by writing I already have done. The energy to bring those projects to completion is also lacking. Since school days, I have prided myself on completing projects before they were due. Now, some of my most important writing is being done on the last day, with very little progress taking place before it is almost too late.

I knew for a while that I would write a post about John Lennon on his eightieth birthday, October 9. The night before, as I lay in bed, I composed what I wanted to say about the Walrus. In the morning, I got to a computer and typed my tribute. When I posted it, WordPress linked the post to related posts I had written and published before. I clicked on the first linked post, which I wrote two years ago. I was stunned to see that the previous post was all but identical to the newly-crafted post. Not that I would expect myself to have new insights into John Lennon that came to me in the past two years; but it seems like one more symptom of stagnation that a new production would so closely ape the work I did two years ago.

Mental health has many facets: sudden appearances of illness and long declines into illness, exercise of self-control and loss of control to situations or bad choices, being conquerors or being victims, seizing control of life or surrendering control of life. These issues are complex; they raise questions not easily answered. Generally, the one-day-at-a-time approach is best, with confidence that “the sun’ll come out tomorrow.” And the Lord who is control provides help and blessings along the way, when we have eyes to see his grace. We all struggle; we all help each other to get through these times. J.

Untitled post about new printer

As part of the Mayan apocalypse in October 2012, our family desktop computer failed, followed a few days later by the printer. Of course we had no choice but to replace them both, even with expensive car repairs already on our credit cards. I am still using the same computer today, although at seven years old it’s a bit slow on the Internet and does not always behave properly. But over the past several months the printer has been failing, and I finally replaced it with a new printer last night.

The failure was in the mechanism that draws paper into the printer. The printer repeatedly reported a paper jam, even though the paper was inserted properly. We got through the summer and into autumn using a procedure of rattling the stack of paper, then unplugging and replugging the power cable and computer cable on the back of the printer. Sometimes that process would work the first time; sometimes it required a repetition or two. Sometimes the printer worked without any phony paper jam report. But the problem was increasing, and finally I had had enough.

The new printer cost only $49 at Walmart. But money is only part of the problem, especially when it comes to lingering effects of the Mayan apocalypse. I bought the same brand of printer that I was replacing, hoping that I would be able to use the same cords. The computer cord turned out to be usable, but the power cord attachment is completely different. So I had to spend more than five minutes identifying the printer power cord among all those going into the power strip, unplugging and removing that cord, and then snaking the new power cord behind the computer to the power strip.

Next, I had to get the printer working, following very sketchy instructions. Those instructions detailed the working of the lights and buttons on the panel, but neglected to tell me the location of the power button. I had to find that button myself. It was clear where the paper goes in and where the paper comes out, but it took some experimenting to find exactly what panel has to be extended, and how far, for the paper to feed properly. Then I had to reinsert the ink cartridges, because I had only set them into place, and they required a firm push to be installed correctly. Once that was accomplished, the printer was kind enough to print a page giving me some information about its wireless functions.

But I wanted to be able to print from the desktop computer, and that required an app called a driver. Manufacturers used to put that app on a compact disk that came with the printer, but now they prefer that the user downloads the app. I made the mistake of trying to find that app through the computer’s capabilities Things were going fine until the computer asked me to choose the new printer from a list of printers. My new printer was not on the list. But an option was offered to update the list of printers through a Windows app, and I selected that option.

How many printers do you suppose have hit the market over the last several years? The correct answer must be in the hundreds, perhaps more than a thousand. All I can report is that it took my seven-year-old computer twenty minutes to update its list of printers… and my new printer still wasn’t on its list.

I backed out of that procedure and asked Google for help. Google sent me to the proper page on the web site of the printer’s manufacturer to download the driver. It still took another fifteen minutes before I had a working printer, but I was able to print five pages before I had even completed the installation process.

As part of the installation process, the computer was urging me to activate an app in the printer that would automatically order new print cartridges to be sent to me in the mail when the ink supply is getting low. Assuming that I would have to pay by credit card for the privilege, I backed out of that process. The option remains, and I’m sure to get reminders that I still haven’t finished setting up the app. That’s fine with me. Keep reminding me to do something I don’t want to do, and I can keep on ignoring you.

Insert snappy conclusion and publish. J.

My ongoing apocalypse

There should be a limit to the duration of apocalypses. The Mayan apocalypse, which I calculated to have begun on October 10, 2012, should have expired today. Instead, the Mayan apocalypse is still going strong.

After I came home from work, my daughter informed me that water was dripping from the laundry room ceiling. I went down and looked and, indeed, water was dripping from the laundry room ceiling. I tried to guess what item upstairs was leaking, but I did not succeed. There are two bathrooms roughly over the laundry room, containing a bathtub, a shower stall, two toilets, and three sinks. I checked under the sinks and saw no water, so that left the other four possible sources.

My first guess was the wax seal under the toilet. I replaced one of those before, and it was not a fun job. Since I didn’t know for sure that was the problem—nor which toilet—I decided to call a professional. I expected to make an appointment for someone to come in the morning, but the firm I called said they could send someone this evening.

The plumber arrived. He looked at the dripping water. He explored the bathrooms, checking under the sinks. Then he said, with an apologetic smile, “I’m going to have to cut a hole in the ceiling to see where the water is coming from. Sorry—I won’t be able to fix it afterward. You’ll have to bring someone else in.” I gave permission for the hole, and he brought in his ladder, his flashlight, and his saw. Taking out a big panel of sheetrock, he was able to look up and see that somewhere in the pipes above was a leak, but he still wasn’t sure where.

When this house was built (roughly 1980), the designers didn’t consider the possibility that a plumber might ever need to work on its fixtures. Since the two bathrooms share a wall, they brought the pipes up through the wall and left no access to them. So the plumber and I had to empty the cabinet under the sink that is across from the wall to the bathtub. Then he cut a hole in the sheetrock there. As he was cutting, he said, “I know I found the leak—this sheetrock’s wet.” He had to enlarge the hole twice, but he finally located the leaking pipe.

As is always the case with this house, he did not have the kind of fitting he needed for this repair. So he had to run out to the hardware store for the part. Every professional who has come to fix something in this house has needed to go somewhere for extra parts; it seems as though every feature of the house is eccentric. The dishwasher is not under the sink; it is around the cabinet corner from the sink. When a new dishwasher was installed, the installers had to run out for a longer line. The kitchen was designed for a drop-in oven and stove. Hardly anyone makes those any more, and the few that can be found are more expensive—even double the same size oven in a standard model. We were blessed with an installer who was able and willing to cut out the extra boards so a standard oven could go into the space.

He got the part installed and checked to see that everything was working properly. I had to pay him, of course, and I’ll have to pay someone else to fix the holes he made. But that’s one thing about an apocalypse—nobody ever said they would be cheap. J.