Most people in ten countries lost an hour of time between yesterday and today in the name of Daylight Saving. (Nearly 30 nations in the Northern Hemisphere will lose an hour by the end of March.)
Among the many who woke up at a later clock time today are the seven million or so Americans who have dementia. They opened their eyes and their gazes passed over the clocks in their worlds. The faces of those with dementia may have matched the faces of analog clocks: Flat, blank, lacking emotion.
There were fewer sparks of electricity this morning in these brains speckled with scar tissue. Amyloid plaques and tau tangles are the remnants of neurons that once vibrated with vitality. The hues of their hair have faded to gray; the gray matter of their brains continues to disappear.
When they looked at their cell phones, they may have forgotten that their phones automatically adjusted the time at 2:00am. The steps of logic are missing from these brains; the staircases of reasoning have crumbled. When someone mentioned “Daylight Saving”, they sprang forward with their praxis memory, similar to “muscle memory”: They can no longer explain the steps to search the internet on their phone, but their fingers reflexively swipe and type.
Their aged fingers tapped out the word “time”, trusting that Google would orient them to this moment.
Except their query was unsuccessful. With the decay of the gray matter in their brains, their abilities to give and hold attention, to notice details, have also deteriorated. Their single word question didn’t go to Google; it went into a text message:
Time
And then again, since Google did not respond:
Time
Daylight Saving Time may have stolen one hour of our time, but dementia has stolen hours and ours from us.
The Person’s error wasn’t about my sexual preferences; it was that they thought I go to nightclubs!†
What impression do you have of The Person?
Would your impression change if The Person is:
a man?
a woman?
the teenage child of a friend?
a stranger over the age of 70?
a white person? a non-white person?
a straight person? a queer person?
my boss?
As much as we try, we can never really get away from ourselves. We all think we view the world through relatively impartial lenses. Then we encounter people and situations that trigger our mental habits.
Like viewing the world and the people in it through the lens of sexual preferences.
Or believing that blog posts are only worthwhile if they resemble articles.
† Long-time readers know my opinions about dancing.
For those of you who read my last post, I have an update: I saw the World’s Largest Baseball!
In addition to sharing my impressions about this artifact, I will also shout into space my opinions about Play Ball Park, where the World’s Largest Baseball currently resides. (Important context: Because this giant ball was in the free portion of Play Ball Park, that is the only part of the park I visited.)
Access. I will, no doubt, go on for way too long about access to Play Ball Park. (This is an excellent example of attentional bias. Because of the work I do, I am often thinking who can and cannot access care. I regret to inform you that I am now going to carry on about access to the World’s Largest Baseball.)
In order to enter Play Ball Park, you must download an app so you can show a QR code on your phone to the gatekeepers.
What if you don’t have a smartphone?
What if you don’t have a robust data plan with your cell phone carrier? (MLB does not provide clear orientation about how you must have this app. A lot of people who wanted to enter the park ended up loitering outside the gate to download the app and complete the questionnaire—more on that in a moment. If MLB made it crystal clear on its website that you need this app to access any part of the park, even the free portion, people could have gotten this app somewhere with WiFi.)
The app asks for your name, date of birth, home address, and contact information. Sure, you can lie, but I’m just speaking to the principle here. Why does MLB need to know this information? (You and I both know why, but just indulge me.) Must I share this data when I just want to see a giant baseball? (I’m turning into that Old Person who is paranoid about sharing personal information… even though I maintain a blog that allows me to shout into space.)
To be fair, most, if not all, people who go to Play Ball Park have a smartphone. And most people in this area have home internet access (per the US Census, over 93% of King County households have a subscription to broadband internet), so most are familiar with apps and their data-gathering ways.
The World’s Largest Baseball is not a true baseball. It has a diameter of 12 feet and there are numerous autographs from baseball luminaries on one side. (The photo accompanying this post shows the “back” of the baseball.) Guests are not permitted to touch the baseball or sit on the base. It looks like it is made of metal or other hard material. The red stitching appears to be plastic bumps that are attached to the surface. The panel on the “side” of the ball is secured with bolts and nuts that are painted baseball white. The ball does not appear to be a complete sphere; it looks like the bottom of the ball is flat so it sits flush inside the red base.
Even though the World’s Largest Baseball is a fraud, I still took a photo with it. Who knows when I will see an enormous fake baseball again?
The Budweiser Clydesdales were in cages. They are large horses. I don’t know if they ever come out during park hours. Few people were looking at them. This entire situation made me sad.
Fake ball, real smiles? (Julio was the only cutout who was smiling.)
There was a significant police presence in and around Play Ball Park. David Gutman with the Seattle Times wrote a thoughtful piece about the “two Seattles on display as thousands attend MLB All-Star festivities” that has relevance here. Seattle Police was out on foot, on bikes, and in vehicles. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so many law enforcement officers; it’s not often that we’re surrounded by so many people carrying lethal weapons. It’s not that I felt more or less safe; it was just unsettling to see the amount of firepower amidst a sea of baseball jerseys.
The trains were packed this afternoon for the Home Run Derby. For a few moments, I was transported back to the New York City subways: Standing room only, holding onto poles and straps in awkward angles, and taking shallow breaths to cope with body and breath odors. However, people here were only passive-aggressive (“it would be nice if people moved down more”) versus just plain aggressive (“MOVE, PEOPLE”). I did not need to throw my elbows to escape the train when I got to my stop.
For those of you who follow baseball, you likely know that All-Star Week is happening here in Seattle. For those of you who don’t follow baseball (like me), All-Star Week lasts less than a week and is a celebration of baseball and baseball players. (For example, the World’s Largest Baseball is currently here in Seattle. More on that below. You can already see how I’m focusing on the wrong thing.)
This is the only event I can recall in the 16-ish years I’ve lived in Seattle where the city has put in extraordinary effort to make it shine for its citizens and visitors. (I enjoy living in Seattle, but let’s be honest: the effort is for the visitors.) Because Seattle is tucked in the northwest corner of the country, people just don’t routinely pass through. People seem to equate visiting Seattle with visiting the Galapagos Islands: Neat places with oddities, but so out of the way!
In an effort to be a better spouse, I have been learning about baseball over the past few years, but my fund of knowledge is superficial. For example, when our Mariners made it to the playoffs last year, that’s when I learned what a “rally cap” is, though I had to learn about this via the “rally shoe“. (Again, I’m still missing the point.) It takes me a while to offer a complete definition of a “perfect game“. I know just enough about certain baseball players to ask questions one expects from a child: Do you think Shohei Ohtani the pitcher could strike out Shohei Ohtani the batter? (Can you imagine being married to a psychiatrist who also asks unsophisticated questions about baseball???)
So, for our mutual amusement, here are random, initial impressions from the beginning of Major League Baseball’s All-Star Week from someone who doesn’t follow baseball.
It costs a lot of money. Well, at least the Home Run Derby and the All-Star Game cost a lot of money. The event that most interests me is the inaugural Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCU) Swingman Classic, created by former Mariner Ken Griffey, Jr. (There’s a statue of Griffey in front of Seattle’s baseball stadium, which has the phenomenally boring name of T-Mobile Park.) Tickets are all sold out, so I can’t attend, though I’m inspired with Griffey’s efforts to do what he can where he can.
The World’s Largest Baseball is here. I’m suspicious, though: Is it an actual baseball composed of cork and rubber and yarn and leather? (Here’s a promotional video of Play Ball Park that features this giant baseball stationed outside T-Mobile Park; it appears around 0:14. There’s what appears to be a panel near the base of the ball. That doesn’t seem right.) I’ve been wondering about the World’s Largest Baseball all week. If I actually go to Play Ball Park, I’ll provide an update.
The young people are excited. A couple of shockingly pink tour buses featuring Mariner’s star Julio Rodriguez’s smiling face parked in front of a hotel within walking distance of the stadium earlier today. Children and adolescents in baseball uniforms spilled out. Adults corralled their wandering, jumping, and chatty bodies through the revolving doors. Other young people and their accompanying adults are roaming around, proudly wearing jerseys and ball caps that declare their allegiances. (I am particularly impressed with the Milwaukee Brewers logo: The glove contains the letters M and B! So clever! Designed by an art history student!)
This may be the most excited people have been about baseball in recent memory. The Mariners is the only team that has never been to the World Series. People are perennially disappointed with them. (The Seattle Times recently published this piece: Why fans dislike this Mariners team so much. YIKES.) Whenever I see a televised Mariners game, the seats are never full. The only Mariner who made it onto the All Star roster by public vote was pitcher Luis Castillo. Now, none of us can get away from baseball: Posters emblazoned with ball players are plastered all over utility boxes downtown! The local paper has published numerous articles about baseball (not all of them supportive, as noted above)! The city made an assertive push to remove/house all the people living outside near the stadium in the weeks leading up to All-Star Week! The beautification of downtown and Pioneer Square (flowers! new trees! pocket beaches!) has all been in the service of sports! (It seems that the All-Star game was also the catalyst to fix the escalators in the downtown light rail stations that haven’t worked in over two years.)
If any of you fine readers are in town for All-Star Week, enjoy the next few days! If you’re going to any of the games, one of my favorite things about the stadium is the sculpture of the baseball glove at the left field gate. It’s called “The Mitt” (it’s in the photograph accompanying this post). You can learn more about the artist and this sculpture here.
There are valid reasons why people catastrophize (to imagine the worst possible outcome of an action or event): Terrible things happen. Uncommon calamities occur, things that we never thought would happen to us. Common catastrophes occur, too, things that we know will happen, and yet all of our preconceptions do not provide adequate preparation.
Are common catastrophes really “catastrophes”? Like death and dying? Death by “catastrophic implosion” is a catastrophe by definition. What about migrants drowning at sea? People dying from heart disease? overdoses?
Do the reactions and opinions of other people determine whether something is a catastrophe? If you’re the only one who thinks it is a catastrophe, is it still a momentous tragic event?
To catastrophize is to have an active and creative mind, one that brims with possibilities. These options are unlikely to happen, but they could.
One function of catastrophization is to provide mental rehearsals. Practice gives us a sense of mastery: We thought about a Thing, we considered the consequences of that Thing, and now we have plans to avert disasters related to that Thing.
Doesn’t “Emergency Preparedness” sound better and induce less anxiety than “catastrophization”?
However, “catastrophization” often omits the “preparation” part of “emergency preparedness”: We get lost in loops of apocalyptic ideas. Paralysis (and perspiration) ensues.
More recently I’ve wondered if catastrophic thinking reflects a lack of self-confidence, or at least a fear that we are incapable of dealing with disasters. We are terrified that we will not survive.
It seems the most debilitating aspects of catastrophization do not always involve material things. We may fear the flames engulfing our home, but we fret more about the potential destruction of our pets and loved ones who live with us.
Material destruction is distressing, though annihilation of our identities is intolerable. Who am I if my children die? What does it mean if I’m the only person left who has these memories? What will happen to “me” if I can’t deal with this Thing?
Maybe this is a lesson that only comes from time and experience: We can survive more than we think we can. The world can shatter our hearts in unimaginable ways, but we persist. What was unimaginable becomes part of our personal history. We weren’t eradicated; we endured.
This is not to say that the experience was “fine” or that we are “fine”. The external and internal wreckage is real, but we are still here.
How do we persevere among the ruins, though? What do we do when catastrophic thoughts descend upon us, demolishing the tenuous safety and security we think we have now? What do you do when your thoughts take you to a world that doesn’t exist right now (and may never come into being)?
It sounds trite and overdone: Bring yourself back again and again to this world and yourself. What is actually happening right now? Where are you? What are you doing?
See the summer trees, their limbs full of luscious leaves. Hear the wind rustle the branches, a green applause filling the air. Feel your toes in your shoes, the way the small bones in your feet support all of your weight. Do you feel your tongue in your mouth?
Indeed, what is the texture of the pain in your lower back? Is it mostly sharp right now? Or a monotonous throb? Can you trace the direction of the sensation? How do you respond to it? How does it respond to you?
The sirens that wail: Can you hear how they change pitch? When does the “WOOOOoooo” finally disappear? Did you hear it dissolve, or did you only hear its absence a few minutes later?
What are the shapes of the letters in that text message? What punctuation is present? What are the colors in the emojis? What might happen if you took a full breath before sending a message? What message are you sending yourself with a short breath? A long one? A noisy one?
Life, in all its beauty and ugliness, continues to unfold whether or not you are giving it your full attention. You could live your life entirely in your thoughts, one catastrophe to the next. What might you miss in the world outside your head if you do that?
And have your catastrophic thoughts diverted any disasters? Thinking about all the things that could go wrong might help us feel like we have control over something, but do we really? Things will go wrong whether we think about them or not… and things will go well even when we think they won’t. Thoughts are magical, but magical thinking is ultimately a collection of ideas in our minds.
In catastrophization we have great confidence in our thoughts. When living in this world, let us have more confidence in ourselves. We can make it, even if we don’t believe it.
Maria Yang, MD 