I asked a friend to program my GSA (is that right? That thing with the lady's patient voice??) - - so I could find St. Anthony's Hospital in Gig Harbor. Another friend Googled a map that was focused in on the hospital. I forgot the map at home and didn't realize I had to turn the GSA ON. So. Blind, blind as always, I took off towards Gig Harbor. I grew up around here. I know Gig Harbor. I have a cousin who lives close by, on Fox Island.
I found the hospital Approximately, as they say, five minutes before my appointment time. It's a lovely hospital, all new and sparkly and clean feeling. Like not too many people have died there yet. Like sticks and stones can't break its bones. I get my blood pressure checked (again)....it's ten points higher on my right side than on my left. So why am I not a "right-winger"? And, yes, my heart. "Sounds like you have a heart murmur," said the lab tech. "We've been together since birth," I said, making myself comfortable in the loungish padded chair. She smiled. "Together since birth," she mumbled, "that's rich".
The lady with all the papers to be signed ("MORE?" I groaned, "More," she said, but with a nice smile on her face - - knew how to read lab results. She looked at my blood pressure from "that time". "Oh my God," she said, "you really crashed." "I really did," I agreed. She padded my hand. "It's good that you're here," she said, "you'll have a private room." "Oh, baby," I said, "that's what I like to hear."
A private room. Perhaps with a view. Watch out, E.M. Forster, watch out, Virginia Woolf.
I passed everything. She called Bainbridge Safeway to find out the exact milograms each of my three medications contained. Precise, very. She called the clinic and asked more questions. I sat there, quietly. 'Ask more, ask more,' I demanded of her from my deepest Self. She was a large young woman who seemed fearless. She was my warrior. She stood up for me. Why HADN'T the anesthesiologist been shown the results of my last surgery? Couldn't they SEE something was WRONG?
Oh, baby, baby, I think ah'm fallin' in love again.
"You'll be getting a refund tomorrow," she said to me. "They promised me." She smiled. "Spend it frivolously. You could have died."
Oh, that outpatient Clinic is in the merde, I thought to myself. They really DID screw up.
There's really not very much to say. When things go well, writing something interesting is a cozy armchair in France and there just is not much to write about a cozy armchair in France, unless you are contorting yourself while making wild, passionate love - - or dying - - and I was doing neither. I was just sitting there, happy to be anywhere and especially to be happy to be amongst a hospital staff who wasn't treating me like one of those fainting goats.
Poor fainting goats.
So I drove home, home to more phone calls and e-mails, home to more episodes of "NIP AND TUCK" which I am now thoroughly hooked on even though it isn't near as good as The Soopranos or Carnival or any of those other HBO greats.
Safe (hopefully). A private room. Body and mind. Mind is that which thinks but cannot move. Matter is that which moves but cannot think. The mind and body interacting through some gland or other, maybe the pineal gland. Yeah, the pineal. That's how to get things accomplished.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Surgery Day That Ran Away
The day before my surgery day I drank four bottles of Perrier water. I went out to a fabulous restaurant and, while my friend ate steak, I ate a blueberry slump that wasn't very slumpy, because I was supposed to get down something sweet. I didn't eat or drink anything after midnight. I got up at 4:20 a.m. I was my own captive audience for attending to my fantasies of fear. We drove to the outpatient clinic. They put me in the newest style of open-backed wear, took my blood pressure, weighed me, propped me up on a loungy chair and covered me with a white mattress-looking thing that had had warm air pumped into it. The surgeon came in with a packet of black marking pens and began to draw pictures on me. Just as the drawings were getting interesting, a nurse popped her head in and said, "Dr., the anesthesiologist would like to speak with you in the consultation room."
Poof, went the surgeon.
Woosh, woosh, went the warm air machine.
Shit, I thought. They're not going to do the surgery.
The anesthesiologist came in next. He said he wouldn't allow the surgery to go forward because I had experienced a traumatic event with my blood pressure the last time I had anesthesia, meaning this: they lost my blood pressure. Of course, I had warned the new surgeon about this event. Of course I had taken the event quite seriously at the time and had requested the records from that day but the then-surgeon had nicely slurred over the zero blood pressure trauma in writing, even though eight doctors swarmed into the room during that most stressful time and I awoke to the voice of a nurse saying, "Well, we haven't lost her, her heart is still beating. She's got a strong heart. She's a lucky woman."
Then the surgeon came in and both doctors began speaking at once, going over and over their reasons for not proceeding with the surgery. I finally looked at both of them and said, "I understand. You do not intend to do the surgery today or perhaps any day. I would now like you two to leave me alone. I want to get dressed."
They started in on the explanations again. Again I said, "I hear you clearly. But I do not want to look at either of you right now. I am not mad, just disappointed and I want to be disappointed in private. I want to get dressed. NOW."
I got dressed. The anesthesiologist came in again and sat down again. He said, "I can not find out what happened to you on that day from either the surgeon's notes or the anesthesiologist's notes but I won't take chances. You need to be in a hospital setting, with [something] going into an artery so that I can monitor your every second. We will make an appointment with you at St. Anthony's."
Whereupon I burst into tears. I did not know a hospital named St. Anthony's. I thought it was probably in Seattle. I didn't want to be in a hospital in Seattle.
"It's in Gig Harbor," he said. "You'll be spending the night. I began to perk up, although I still was disappointed. I haven't spent the night in a hospital since I had Kevin in the nineteen-sixties and, perverse creature that I am, I happen to be one who likes hospital food.
The nurse brought me out to my friend and my best friend, Christine, who had already been informed of my plight. They both looked at me sadly. I was crying. The doctors had begun their explanations again. They said them over and over again, same paragraphs after same paragraphs. Finally I said, "Look. I understand fully what you are saying. And I agree. I am crying because I am disappointed, which is a normal response. But I really think you are going over and over this material to make YOU feel better, not me."
Really, it was clear that neither of them knew quite what to say. This is where they should hire a good people-person like me to help them.
"This has never happened to me before," said my young surgeon. His face was flushed and he looked like he might cry. I reached out and tried to take his hand. The anesthesiologist nodded nicely and took off. My friends stood up and hugged me, assuring me that they knew I realized what was happening and that they also understood my degree of disappointment.
"I just wonder why, if you knew what had happened with Kay and the anesthesia before," Christine said, "you had not sent over her chart to the anesthesiologist BEFORE today so that he might review it THEN."
Entranced by her logic and her tone, I sat back, hoping she'd go on. "The anesthesiologist never sees the chart until the day of the surgery," said the surgeon.
"Don't worry, love, crying is normal," one of the nurse's said.
"Of COURSE it's normal," I said. "That's why I'm doing it. I'm a smart, normal person who thinks the doctors' call was a good call, but I am disappointed and therefore I am crying. It's absoLUTly normal to cry. And I intend to keep on crying until my tears make their way to a normal conclusion."
Christine smiled at me.
After being home a few hours, St. Anthony's Hospital called, with a surgery date for me. I go in next Thursday, July 1. Tomorrow I go in for the pre-op, although the clinic faxed the hospital every bit of information (EKG, blood panel, hair samples, DNA, just kidding, ha, ha) - - they had on me.
I asked my friend to take me somewhere for a glass of wine. I didn't care if he took me to my own living room or the local pub or a jail cell. Just so I could have a glass of wine.
I hate the way the medical profession (or any profession , for that matter, handles a normal physical function like crying. Crying? Don't worry, it's normal. You're already crying? Don't worry, it's normal, already. Still crying? Uh...you can stop now with your damn tears. They don't say that last part, but it's implied. A little crying is ok, a lot implies weakness, over-reaction, a tendency to be a victim, a martyr, a nutjob.
I'm no nutjob.
Today I tossed off a note to the surgeon, thanking him and the anesthesiologist (who attends to heart patients at Harrison) - for making what I felt was a rational and proper decision. I had tried several times to point out the day my blood pressure zeroed out, but nobody ever seemed to be impressed and the then-surgeon seemed downright flip.
Christine called, telling me to go by the book OXYGEN, but not to read it until AFTER my surgery. At the bookstore I found out that the author of OXYGEN is the head of anesthesia at a Seattle hospital AND a Bainbridge Islander.
"I don't intend to read it until AFTER my surgery,' I told the women behind the counter.
"Oh, I would read it BEFORE your surgery," said one of the women. "It just makes you want to Go Get Anesthesia!"
"Yes, but a child dies in it because of the anesthesia," said the other woman.
"Well, that's true," said the first woman.
"Uh-huh, I think I'll wait till AFTER," I said. The book is on my coffee table. I have an almost compulsive desire to read it today.
But I won't.
Last night I dreamed that The King of Surgery sat in his throne and spoke to me over a loudspeaker.
"Will you please take a number," he said. "Safeway's candles are on row 17."
Poof, went the surgeon.
Woosh, woosh, went the warm air machine.
Shit, I thought. They're not going to do the surgery.
The anesthesiologist came in next. He said he wouldn't allow the surgery to go forward because I had experienced a traumatic event with my blood pressure the last time I had anesthesia, meaning this: they lost my blood pressure. Of course, I had warned the new surgeon about this event. Of course I had taken the event quite seriously at the time and had requested the records from that day but the then-surgeon had nicely slurred over the zero blood pressure trauma in writing, even though eight doctors swarmed into the room during that most stressful time and I awoke to the voice of a nurse saying, "Well, we haven't lost her, her heart is still beating. She's got a strong heart. She's a lucky woman."
Then the surgeon came in and both doctors began speaking at once, going over and over their reasons for not proceeding with the surgery. I finally looked at both of them and said, "I understand. You do not intend to do the surgery today or perhaps any day. I would now like you two to leave me alone. I want to get dressed."
They started in on the explanations again. Again I said, "I hear you clearly. But I do not want to look at either of you right now. I am not mad, just disappointed and I want to be disappointed in private. I want to get dressed. NOW."
I got dressed. The anesthesiologist came in again and sat down again. He said, "I can not find out what happened to you on that day from either the surgeon's notes or the anesthesiologist's notes but I won't take chances. You need to be in a hospital setting, with [something] going into an artery so that I can monitor your every second. We will make an appointment with you at St. Anthony's."
Whereupon I burst into tears. I did not know a hospital named St. Anthony's. I thought it was probably in Seattle. I didn't want to be in a hospital in Seattle.
"It's in Gig Harbor," he said. "You'll be spending the night. I began to perk up, although I still was disappointed. I haven't spent the night in a hospital since I had Kevin in the nineteen-sixties and, perverse creature that I am, I happen to be one who likes hospital food.
The nurse brought me out to my friend and my best friend, Christine, who had already been informed of my plight. They both looked at me sadly. I was crying. The doctors had begun their explanations again. They said them over and over again, same paragraphs after same paragraphs. Finally I said, "Look. I understand fully what you are saying. And I agree. I am crying because I am disappointed, which is a normal response. But I really think you are going over and over this material to make YOU feel better, not me."
Really, it was clear that neither of them knew quite what to say. This is where they should hire a good people-person like me to help them.
"This has never happened to me before," said my young surgeon. His face was flushed and he looked like he might cry. I reached out and tried to take his hand. The anesthesiologist nodded nicely and took off. My friends stood up and hugged me, assuring me that they knew I realized what was happening and that they also understood my degree of disappointment.
"I just wonder why, if you knew what had happened with Kay and the anesthesia before," Christine said, "you had not sent over her chart to the anesthesiologist BEFORE today so that he might review it THEN."
Entranced by her logic and her tone, I sat back, hoping she'd go on. "The anesthesiologist never sees the chart until the day of the surgery," said the surgeon.
"Don't worry, love, crying is normal," one of the nurse's said.
"Of COURSE it's normal," I said. "That's why I'm doing it. I'm a smart, normal person who thinks the doctors' call was a good call, but I am disappointed and therefore I am crying. It's absoLUTly normal to cry. And I intend to keep on crying until my tears make their way to a normal conclusion."
Christine smiled at me.
After being home a few hours, St. Anthony's Hospital called, with a surgery date for me. I go in next Thursday, July 1. Tomorrow I go in for the pre-op, although the clinic faxed the hospital every bit of information (EKG, blood panel, hair samples, DNA, just kidding, ha, ha) - - they had on me.
I asked my friend to take me somewhere for a glass of wine. I didn't care if he took me to my own living room or the local pub or a jail cell. Just so I could have a glass of wine.
I hate the way the medical profession (or any profession , for that matter, handles a normal physical function like crying. Crying? Don't worry, it's normal. You're already crying? Don't worry, it's normal, already. Still crying? Uh...you can stop now with your damn tears. They don't say that last part, but it's implied. A little crying is ok, a lot implies weakness, over-reaction, a tendency to be a victim, a martyr, a nutjob.
I'm no nutjob.
Today I tossed off a note to the surgeon, thanking him and the anesthesiologist (who attends to heart patients at Harrison) - for making what I felt was a rational and proper decision. I had tried several times to point out the day my blood pressure zeroed out, but nobody ever seemed to be impressed and the then-surgeon seemed downright flip.
Christine called, telling me to go by the book OXYGEN, but not to read it until AFTER my surgery. At the bookstore I found out that the author of OXYGEN is the head of anesthesia at a Seattle hospital AND a Bainbridge Islander.
"I don't intend to read it until AFTER my surgery,' I told the women behind the counter.
"Oh, I would read it BEFORE your surgery," said one of the women. "It just makes you want to Go Get Anesthesia!"
"Yes, but a child dies in it because of the anesthesia," said the other woman.
"Well, that's true," said the first woman.
"Uh-huh, I think I'll wait till AFTER," I said. The book is on my coffee table. I have an almost compulsive desire to read it today.
But I won't.
Last night I dreamed that The King of Surgery sat in his throne and spoke to me over a loudspeaker.
"Will you please take a number," he said. "Safeway's candles are on row 17."
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Vainest Woman on Earth
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Because I am the vainest woman on earth, tomorrow I go in for 4 1/2 hours of elective surgery.I don't mind being the V.W.O.E. but I do mind telling about what's going to be done to me, partially because I am nervous and am already smoking imaginary cigarettes being held in imaginary cigarette holders and partly because there are SOME things even I can be private about. I am trying to think funny about this because I have nobody else around here to amuse me and I have a great need to be amused. One thing that amuses me is the body girdle I must wear for six days straight after the deed is done. The body girdle advertises itself by saying, "Like skin. Only better." Yeah, like skin-TIGHT skin, skin that would hold in an elephant gargling water balloons. The surgeon is making me wear this thing and it will be put on me while I am still under anesthesia. I asked if they would please video this part of the event, but they said no, they would not. I can see myself, limp, scarred, red and purple and pink, being flipped and flopped about, being pinched and pushed and pulled into this "Compression and Support Garment" with Anti-Microbial Protection and I........want to die. Maybe I will. Maybe death is better than this part of the procedure. I don't know.
Yesterday I bought every single episode of "Nip and Tuck". I had to. I'm perverse. Last night I watched the first four episodes. Vanity, vanity, more vanity, arrogance on the doctor's part, blood, gore, slicing, dicing, sewing up, hammering on the nose (no, my nose will not be touched, nor anything else on my face or head), a surgeon who mistakenly inserts butt pads and breast pads inside their potential places but upside down, steel things left in, steel things left out, beautiful woman who just won't stop, it goes on and on. I quite liked it. It made me feel like I am a member of The Weirdest Club in the World. But I am a therapist and I actually know about clubs that are way way way weirder than this one. Even so, I realized that I am one of "them".
"You would think at HER age that she wouldn't care about this stuff anymore," said one very nice, very smart woman I know to her friend (about me). I suppose one WOULD think that. But they would be wrong. Very very wrong. At my age, I still DO care about such things. I care about a lot of things women my age are not supposed to care about and I'm not going to list them, either. The nice thing about all of this is it's optional. I can bag it at any moment up till the second I go 'under". Other than that one moment, there is:
Check here: ( ) Yes, I would like to be carved up.
Check here: ( ) No, thank you. I do not wish to take advantage of the carving offer at this time.
It's good to have options. This isn't like having to have a gall bladder or a spleen out. This is like being Michael Jackson (but not the face! Not the face!) for a few hours. Go ahead. Make my day.
Even so, I"m worried. Last time I was in the hospital my blood pressure plummeted all the way to zero. "Her hearts' still beating, she's still with us," I heard one of the nurses say. Eight doctors ran into the room. "You are a VERY lucky lady," said another nurse, later on. Well, okay, goody for me. I've been lucky and I've been unlucky. I'll take lucky. This time I'm drinking more water, no blood pressure pills (nobody can figure out why I was on them in the first, second or third place) and eating something surgery (aw, gee, NO!) for dinner. "Peaches," said the nurse on the phone yesterday. "Canned peaches contain lots and lots of sugar. Eat them with ice cream." So tonight my friend and I will go out to a very nice restaurant and I will order a big dessert for my dinner. No wine. And water. Lots of water.
And now it's time for me to go through my house and set everything up a little higher than it was before. In other words, I am not to lift. I am not to lower. And, at first, I will walk bent over. This, it seems to me, this walking-bent-over part, is the worst of it all. How humiliating. Still, it's an optional humiliating. You choose it, you do it.
I'll keep you posted. You've got to admit, there is a kind of icky-interest part to all this. At least if you're at all like me and who isn't, even if just a teeny weeny bit.
Friday, June 11, 2010
A Fully Working Brain
The neurologist Oliver Sacks tells of a ward of aphasic patients listening to President Reagan give a television speech. Although the patients were unable to fully understand Reagan's words, they compensated by being particularly sensitive to his tone and inflections, which they found farcial. A patient with a right hemisphere lesion who could not judge tone was there, also. She focused on Reagan's exact words - which she too found ridiculous. Sacks concluded from this that it takes a fully working brain to be deluded by politicians.
Ten years ago, I was in a neurologist's office. One of Dr. Sacks books - maybe A LEG TO STAND ON - tumbled out of my purse. "Oh, you are reading Ollie Sacks!" exclaimed the doctor. I hate it when people who don't know him ( certainly don't know him) call Oliver Sacks "Ollie". "Yes," I said, "he is my inspiration." "So you like his books?" the neurologist asked. "I like his books, I like his articles, I like him. In fact, if I could be anybody in the whole world, I would choose to be Oliver Sacks," I said. The neurologist looked askance at me. "But," he remarked, "Sacks is a man." I looked him dead in the eye. "Yes. I know," I said. He gave me an extra hard pound on the knee.
But I am not really thinking all that much about Sacks today, I am thinking about the brain. I am thinking, with my own brain, about the brain. Which seems and sounds odd. (How can that be?)
Actually, I know very little about the brain. I know that the brain is a thinking machine, but I do not know what a thought in a brain is. What is an idea in a brain? I know that the right hemisphere is music and the left hemisphere is language and that the left hemisphere is good for logic and the right hemisphere is good for visual kinds of thinking. If thinking can be visual. Well, of course it can.
I know that the male brain is often called the penis. I know that the male brain on sex produces chemicals that create a high similar to being high on cocaine. I know that the "lust center" in the male brain automatically directs men to notice and visually take in the delights of the female form. Like buxom women. Of which I am not one. I even know more than all this, I know the brain's limbic system plays a crucial role in mood and, therefore, in depression. I know that when a patient's depression is treated, their frontal lobe changes.
I know that, in many ways, I possess a quite good brain, but I also know that my brain has what I call "gaps" in the arena of mechanics, directions, visual-deduction or figuring things out and lower level mathematics. I know that these gaps have been both a blessing and a curse. They certainly keep me human. I have spent years, for instance, watering extremely life-like but artificial plants, to the great amusement of family members who kept it a secret from me and would roll around in their chairs and muffle their considerable laughter. I know I once told a job interviewer that I most certainly could type at least one thousand words per minute. Seemed reasonable to me AND I got the job, so go figure. My friends know tons of stories about my gaps, no need to embarrass myself here.
"The evolution of the brain not only overshot the needs of prehistoric man, it is the only example of evolution providing a species with an organ which it does not know how to use."
- Arthur Koestler
'If the human brain were so simple that we could understand it, we would be so simple that we wouldn't."
I must go now. My brain is tired.
Ten years ago, I was in a neurologist's office. One of Dr. Sacks books - maybe A LEG TO STAND ON - tumbled out of my purse. "Oh, you are reading Ollie Sacks!" exclaimed the doctor. I hate it when people who don't know him ( certainly don't know him) call Oliver Sacks "Ollie". "Yes," I said, "he is my inspiration." "So you like his books?" the neurologist asked. "I like his books, I like his articles, I like him. In fact, if I could be anybody in the whole world, I would choose to be Oliver Sacks," I said. The neurologist looked askance at me. "But," he remarked, "Sacks is a man." I looked him dead in the eye. "Yes. I know," I said. He gave me an extra hard pound on the knee.
But I am not really thinking all that much about Sacks today, I am thinking about the brain. I am thinking, with my own brain, about the brain. Which seems and sounds odd. (How can that be?)
Actually, I know very little about the brain. I know that the brain is a thinking machine, but I do not know what a thought in a brain is. What is an idea in a brain? I know that the right hemisphere is music and the left hemisphere is language and that the left hemisphere is good for logic and the right hemisphere is good for visual kinds of thinking. If thinking can be visual. Well, of course it can.
I know that the male brain is often called the penis. I know that the male brain on sex produces chemicals that create a high similar to being high on cocaine. I know that the "lust center" in the male brain automatically directs men to notice and visually take in the delights of the female form. Like buxom women. Of which I am not one. I even know more than all this, I know the brain's limbic system plays a crucial role in mood and, therefore, in depression. I know that when a patient's depression is treated, their frontal lobe changes.
I know that, in many ways, I possess a quite good brain, but I also know that my brain has what I call "gaps" in the arena of mechanics, directions, visual-deduction or figuring things out and lower level mathematics. I know that these gaps have been both a blessing and a curse. They certainly keep me human. I have spent years, for instance, watering extremely life-like but artificial plants, to the great amusement of family members who kept it a secret from me and would roll around in their chairs and muffle their considerable laughter. I know I once told a job interviewer that I most certainly could type at least one thousand words per minute. Seemed reasonable to me AND I got the job, so go figure. My friends know tons of stories about my gaps, no need to embarrass myself here.
"The evolution of the brain not only overshot the needs of prehistoric man, it is the only example of evolution providing a species with an organ which it does not know how to use."
- Arthur Koestler
'If the human brain were so simple that we could understand it, we would be so simple that we wouldn't."
I must go now. My brain is tired.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Bainbridge Conversations
From HEART:"I've come in to buy a pair of underpants. I think the ones I have show through my dress." Three ladies surround her for a look-see. They walk carefully, cautiously around her as if she is a precious Chinese vase. "I don't see a thing," says one of the ladies. "Are they striped?" says another. "I think I see - - no, that's a shadow, it's not - - what color are they?" "Black," says the young woman. "Black lace, to be exact." "Turn around one more time," says the tall lady. "Walk over there by the window. Now stop and stay." Finally, the ladies all agree the panties can not be seen.
From PAPER PRODUCTS:
"I am slowly developing a relationship with the color copy machine. It still doesn't like me but I send it good vibes and I say little prayers."
Me: "You say little prayers?"
Employee Girl: "Yes, I pray to it as if it were a kind of God. Like, 'Please, please, dear Copy Machine, don't embarrass me in front of Kay.' I pray like that underneath my breath as I approach the thing."
Me: "Oh, don't bother with prayers involving me, I'm easily satisfied."
Employee Girl: "I know you are, but everyone isn't, and if I need to practice praying, I'd rather practice with you in mind."
Me: "Okay, I'll pray, too. Surely it can't flub up on both of us if we are sending out so many prayers."
From BANK OF AMERICA: "So, you and your husband have been members forever."
Me: "Yes."
"Does he have an account elsewhere now?"
Me: "No."
"Just doesn't use checks anymore, huh?"
Me: "That's about it."
FROM EAGLE HARBOR BOOKS:
"You must be a fast reader!"
"I am, but I'm not a thorough reader. If I love a book I need to read it four or five times."
"Really?"
"Yup. I've read WAR AND PEACE six times."
"Wow!"
"Well, I've read the PEACE parts six times. I've read the WAR part only once."
Overheard at The Pub:
"So my Dad and I were talking on the phone and he was being really nice, truly unusually nice, you know, and then he said 'I've got to take a piss' and he must have pissed out all his compassion because when he returned to the phone he was the same old mean, sarcastic asshole he's always been."
Aleister at the ICE CREAMERY:
"I want one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of.....no, wait, I want two scoops of raspberry swirl with...aw, gee!....Okay, start again. Sorry. Mama Kay, can I have one scoop or two scoops?"
"One, Aleister."
"Okay, then, I've got to get my mind WORKING here. How do I do that?"
Just a few small conversations like this can make my day. Just people going through the events of their lives. I have a tendency to stand around and just listen. Yesterday I overheard a man at a Poulsbo restaurant say, "Well, I've never done it but I've heard it's as good as the real thing!"
Wonder what THAT was about?
From PAPER PRODUCTS:
"I am slowly developing a relationship with the color copy machine. It still doesn't like me but I send it good vibes and I say little prayers."
Me: "You say little prayers?"
Employee Girl: "Yes, I pray to it as if it were a kind of God. Like, 'Please, please, dear Copy Machine, don't embarrass me in front of Kay.' I pray like that underneath my breath as I approach the thing."
Me: "Oh, don't bother with prayers involving me, I'm easily satisfied."
Employee Girl: "I know you are, but everyone isn't, and if I need to practice praying, I'd rather practice with you in mind."
Me: "Okay, I'll pray, too. Surely it can't flub up on both of us if we are sending out so many prayers."
From BANK OF AMERICA: "So, you and your husband have been members forever."
Me: "Yes."
"Does he have an account elsewhere now?"
Me: "No."
"Just doesn't use checks anymore, huh?"
Me: "That's about it."
FROM EAGLE HARBOR BOOKS:
"You must be a fast reader!"
"I am, but I'm not a thorough reader. If I love a book I need to read it four or five times."
"Really?"
"Yup. I've read WAR AND PEACE six times."
"Wow!"
"Well, I've read the PEACE parts six times. I've read the WAR part only once."
Overheard at The Pub:
"So my Dad and I were talking on the phone and he was being really nice, truly unusually nice, you know, and then he said 'I've got to take a piss' and he must have pissed out all his compassion because when he returned to the phone he was the same old mean, sarcastic asshole he's always been."
Aleister at the ICE CREAMERY:
"I want one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of.....no, wait, I want two scoops of raspberry swirl with...aw, gee!....Okay, start again. Sorry. Mama Kay, can I have one scoop or two scoops?"
"One, Aleister."
"Okay, then, I've got to get my mind WORKING here. How do I do that?"
Just a few small conversations like this can make my day. Just people going through the events of their lives. I have a tendency to stand around and just listen. Yesterday I overheard a man at a Poulsbo restaurant say, "Well, I've never done it but I've heard it's as good as the real thing!"
Wonder what THAT was about?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Fun, Loving NOT Funny
The noise is always overwhelming at the Bainbridge swimming pool. if you commit to go, as I do, with Aleister, one to two times per month, you must commit to being bonked on the head, kicked in the side and the shins, having loads of water splashed on your face and in your eyes, oggled by men wearing goggles underwater (oh, baby!) and, most importantly of all, you must arrive in a staunch sort of mood. You are a soldier in the Army You are teaching your child something, you just don't know what.
This is what being on safari must be like, I tell myself. This is hideous, I tell myself.
We swim for an hour and then leave. I swim hard, my face down in the water, my arms trying to emulate whatever/however it was my father taught me, so many years ago. I count the strokes Twelve from this side to this side. Side-stroke. Overhand. Backfloat. Dog paddle. Count how many seconds Allie can remain under water. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-five!
Finally, bored and with twenty minutes to go, I dip a foot into the hot pool and nearly crumple onto the white hard ledge. Hot, hot, hot! Instead, I open the door to the sauna and walk in. Nothing can be seen. Is it empty? I can't tell. Anyone in here? I don't breath a word. I sit on the top step, head down, feel the sweat pour off me. Suddenly a male voice is seeing an Indian song, Aaaiiieee- wanka-takka, aaaiiieee, wanka-tonka, he goes on and o. There are more words but I couldn'd catch them. Instead, I thought of the Mexican taxi driver who drove me away from L.A.'s Terminal Island and the "saddest love song" he sang to me, the saddest, he said, he could find. He was a wonderful singer; it was a beautiful song. And so was this insivible young man a wonderful singer and so was this a wonderful song. I felt blessed, I tell you. I mean, I WAS blessed. These things happen to me sometimes - out of the blue, out of the ordinary, my life takes off in a totally different direction and it begins with a stranger's song.
Then young Indian man opens the door and begins to leave. "That was nice," I said. "Thank you," he said, "you are beautiful."
"You can't see me," I said.
"That's why everyone is beautiful in here," he replied.
The steamroom looked like what coming out of anesthesia looks like. It looks like you might see God.
On the way home, Aleister said he is a "Hippie but without hippiness." He says he wories a lot about the environment and about the fact that politicans do not worry about endangered animals. I tell him about Al Gore, who won the Nobel prize for carig about the environment and who even wrote a book. "But does anybody read it? Does anybody listen?" Aleiser asks. "I think so," I reply, and then, "I don't know."
Aleister informs me that he has a very good imagination (duh) and that, therefore, he intends to become a specialized kind of security guard when he grows up. "Let's just say there will be a lot of high grade protection going on," he says. "How about becoming a scientist?" I ask. "Or a movie animimater or writer?"
"Nope," he replies, "the Security Guard's life is the life for me."
As we turn into the Kitsap Mall where we plan to meet Aleister's mother Angela, he informs me that he finds me "fun, loving and funny" - - and then he takes the "funny" back. He says, actually, I am NOT funny. Not funny at all. "But," he insists," two out of three aren't bad." I beg to differ. "I am TOO funny!" I disagree. "I am TOO!" He looks at me with a straight sad face and shakes his head, No. "You're not," he said. "I don't know why I ever said it in the first place. Actually, you're just not."
On this note we go into Barnes and Nobles to find his mama. She looks for books while Aleister and I wander off to get our beloved pretzel-dogs. We can hardly believe how lucky we are, we not only manage to find a place all to ourselves - but we each have our own pretzeldog and our own diet drink. "You know," Aleister says, after taking large gulps of his Diet Pepsi, "these are very bad for you." "I know," I say. We look at each other. We smile.
The love is overwhelming.
This is what being on safari must be like, I tell myself. This is hideous, I tell myself.
We swim for an hour and then leave. I swim hard, my face down in the water, my arms trying to emulate whatever/however it was my father taught me, so many years ago. I count the strokes Twelve from this side to this side. Side-stroke. Overhand. Backfloat. Dog paddle. Count how many seconds Allie can remain under water. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-five!
Finally, bored and with twenty minutes to go, I dip a foot into the hot pool and nearly crumple onto the white hard ledge. Hot, hot, hot! Instead, I open the door to the sauna and walk in. Nothing can be seen. Is it empty? I can't tell. Anyone in here? I don't breath a word. I sit on the top step, head down, feel the sweat pour off me. Suddenly a male voice is seeing an Indian song, Aaaiiieee- wanka-takka, aaaiiieee, wanka-tonka, he goes on and o. There are more words but I couldn'd catch them. Instead, I thought of the Mexican taxi driver who drove me away from L.A.'s Terminal Island and the "saddest love song" he sang to me, the saddest, he said, he could find. He was a wonderful singer; it was a beautiful song. And so was this insivible young man a wonderful singer and so was this a wonderful song. I felt blessed, I tell you. I mean, I WAS blessed. These things happen to me sometimes - out of the blue, out of the ordinary, my life takes off in a totally different direction and it begins with a stranger's song.
Then young Indian man opens the door and begins to leave. "That was nice," I said. "Thank you," he said, "you are beautiful."
"You can't see me," I said.
"That's why everyone is beautiful in here," he replied.
The steamroom looked like what coming out of anesthesia looks like. It looks like you might see God.
On the way home, Aleister said he is a "Hippie but without hippiness." He says he wories a lot about the environment and about the fact that politicans do not worry about endangered animals. I tell him about Al Gore, who won the Nobel prize for carig about the environment and who even wrote a book. "But does anybody read it? Does anybody listen?" Aleiser asks. "I think so," I reply, and then, "I don't know."
Aleister informs me that he has a very good imagination (duh) and that, therefore, he intends to become a specialized kind of security guard when he grows up. "Let's just say there will be a lot of high grade protection going on," he says. "How about becoming a scientist?" I ask. "Or a movie animimater or writer?"
"Nope," he replies, "the Security Guard's life is the life for me."
As we turn into the Kitsap Mall where we plan to meet Aleister's mother Angela, he informs me that he finds me "fun, loving and funny" - - and then he takes the "funny" back. He says, actually, I am NOT funny. Not funny at all. "But," he insists," two out of three aren't bad." I beg to differ. "I am TOO funny!" I disagree. "I am TOO!" He looks at me with a straight sad face and shakes his head, No. "You're not," he said. "I don't know why I ever said it in the first place. Actually, you're just not."
On this note we go into Barnes and Nobles to find his mama. She looks for books while Aleister and I wander off to get our beloved pretzel-dogs. We can hardly believe how lucky we are, we not only manage to find a place all to ourselves - but we each have our own pretzeldog and our own diet drink. "You know," Aleister says, after taking large gulps of his Diet Pepsi, "these are very bad for you." "I know," I say. We look at each other. We smile.
The love is overwhelming.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Magic Mountain
This morning the first patient of the day (but never believe a word I say about my patients, it could be a woman, it could be a man, it could be someoneI met years ago) brought up Thomas Mann's THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. Her husband was once a literature professor at Columbia and she was having a hard time staying awake long enough to listen to him read to her about our dear friend Hans Castorp. "Have you read it?" she asked me. "I have," I said. "After much anguish and personal turmoil, I have been able for the past fifteen years to say that I have read THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN."
"Did it take you long?" she asked.
"It took me forty-eight years," I said.
"Forty eight years of reading THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN?" she asked.
"Forty eight years of TRYING, once every FIVE years, to read THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN," I responded. "It was not an easy process. I started at eighteen."
It was at a fancy party in Olympia that I first even heard of Mann's book. I was speaking with a book editor who wore a mustache and was drinking a martini. First, he spoke of Wittgenstein. His remarks were unimpeachable. He was, he told me, not only an intellectual but an existentialist. He told me how to pronounce Sartre. He told me how to pronounce Proust. He put his drink down on a small table and pushed me backwards into a closet. "Oh boy," I commented to myself, "I am going to be kissed by an existential intellectual editor."
What happened inside the closet was this. He pushed away some of the hanging coats so he could move freely enough to take me by the shoulders. He kissed my forehead and then spoke. He said, "My dear. If there is one book - and one book only - that you absolutly MUST read during this long life you have before you, make certain the book is Thomas Mann's THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN."
That was it. I felt as if I had just been pushed out of the womb. It was quite a tip he had given me, I thought, perhaps a tip that could change the course of my life forever. One book I MUST read! In my entire life! Indeed, I went out and bought it the next day.
And then I began on one of the most difficult reading experiences of my life. I have just run down into my office to locate the book but I was afraid the blog would eat itself up or something if I left for too long and in my large array of books, THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN would not be on the top of any pile. It would be submerged. Buried. Hidden.
I read a few chapters at eighteen, then put it down and decided I would read it again later. Five years later. Which I did. At twenty-two, now married to Jim, I announced that I would soon be reading the rest (ha! The REST!) of THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. I took it out of its hiding place and began where I left off. I tried. I had not been to college yet, but my literary experience was rich. Even so, I could do not it. I could not even make it to the half way point. At twenty-six I began again. At thirty, again. Finally, at age fifty, I had managed to read the entire goddamned book. I owned the copy of the book where, by book's end, Mann implores the Reader to go back and start all over again. I threw the book across the room. Jim raised his eyebrows. I ran towards it and gave the book a good hard kick. Jim sat down in a chair to watch.
That was it. I read THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. In increments of five years. From eighteen to fifty. It had become to seem like some symptom of some kind, a dark symptom where incompetence and the lack of understanding appeared at every stage, every sentence, every paragraph, every page. At one point I vowed to look that editor man's name up and scream at him through the telephone. I did ask around a bit, but nobody seemed to remember him at all. I was not well during those years, perhaps he was some kind of apparition.
Really, today I have nothing much of anything else to say. I have made three birthday cards for three of my dearest friends, friends who HAVE formed and informed my entire life: Bob Dietz, Mel Dietz and Bill Harvey. Without them, who would I be? Without them, what would my life have been like? Friends can do that for you.
Here is part of a poem by Rumi, I send it out to all my friends:
Whatever gives pleasure is the fragrance
of the Friend. Whatever makes us wonder
comes from the light. What's inside
the ground begins to sprout because you spilled
wine there. What dies in autumn comes up
in spring becaue this way of saying no
becomes in spring your praise song YES.
"Did it take you long?" she asked.
"It took me forty-eight years," I said.
"Forty eight years of reading THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN?" she asked.
"Forty eight years of TRYING, once every FIVE years, to read THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN," I responded. "It was not an easy process. I started at eighteen."
It was at a fancy party in Olympia that I first even heard of Mann's book. I was speaking with a book editor who wore a mustache and was drinking a martini. First, he spoke of Wittgenstein. His remarks were unimpeachable. He was, he told me, not only an intellectual but an existentialist. He told me how to pronounce Sartre. He told me how to pronounce Proust. He put his drink down on a small table and pushed me backwards into a closet. "Oh boy," I commented to myself, "I am going to be kissed by an existential intellectual editor."
What happened inside the closet was this. He pushed away some of the hanging coats so he could move freely enough to take me by the shoulders. He kissed my forehead and then spoke. He said, "My dear. If there is one book - and one book only - that you absolutly MUST read during this long life you have before you, make certain the book is Thomas Mann's THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN."
That was it. I felt as if I had just been pushed out of the womb. It was quite a tip he had given me, I thought, perhaps a tip that could change the course of my life forever. One book I MUST read! In my entire life! Indeed, I went out and bought it the next day.
And then I began on one of the most difficult reading experiences of my life. I have just run down into my office to locate the book but I was afraid the blog would eat itself up or something if I left for too long and in my large array of books, THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN would not be on the top of any pile. It would be submerged. Buried. Hidden.
I read a few chapters at eighteen, then put it down and decided I would read it again later. Five years later. Which I did. At twenty-two, now married to Jim, I announced that I would soon be reading the rest (ha! The REST!) of THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. I took it out of its hiding place and began where I left off. I tried. I had not been to college yet, but my literary experience was rich. Even so, I could do not it. I could not even make it to the half way point. At twenty-six I began again. At thirty, again. Finally, at age fifty, I had managed to read the entire goddamned book. I owned the copy of the book where, by book's end, Mann implores the Reader to go back and start all over again. I threw the book across the room. Jim raised his eyebrows. I ran towards it and gave the book a good hard kick. Jim sat down in a chair to watch.
That was it. I read THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN. In increments of five years. From eighteen to fifty. It had become to seem like some symptom of some kind, a dark symptom where incompetence and the lack of understanding appeared at every stage, every sentence, every paragraph, every page. At one point I vowed to look that editor man's name up and scream at him through the telephone. I did ask around a bit, but nobody seemed to remember him at all. I was not well during those years, perhaps he was some kind of apparition.
Really, today I have nothing much of anything else to say. I have made three birthday cards for three of my dearest friends, friends who HAVE formed and informed my entire life: Bob Dietz, Mel Dietz and Bill Harvey. Without them, who would I be? Without them, what would my life have been like? Friends can do that for you.
Here is part of a poem by Rumi, I send it out to all my friends:
Whatever gives pleasure is the fragrance
of the Friend. Whatever makes us wonder
comes from the light. What's inside
the ground begins to sprout because you spilled
wine there. What dies in autumn comes up
in spring becaue this way of saying no
becomes in spring your praise song YES.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
EEK, MEN! EEK, WOMEN!
"Why do women have so much power over me? I am so pissed that I was raised as a liberal male with role models like Allen Alda and Garrison Keiler. God. What can you do with models like those? Dribble and walk away? Walk away and dribble? Don't you get tired of hearing this crap? I get tired of saying this crap. Listen, I know part of the problem is simply that I wasn't given the correct mating strategy. In agricultural societies it was like, "Ok, you know the deal", but in our society it's just death. Whenever I meet a woman I treat her like an equal and then when that doesn't work I treat her like she's superior. If you're going to date a feminist you've got to learn how to give things up. Ok, thanks, I'm not going to kill myself today, I'm going to lie down in the street and apologize and go way past dribbling. I'm going to drool."
"I keep getting these good-but-no-cigar responses from girls. This time I took my new dance partner up on her lukewarm response and asked if she had any suggestions as to where I might improve my dance moves. Know what she said? "On the dance floor," is what she said. I think I need something going for me that nobody else has, like personal background music. Maybe it's my big flat Karl Malden nose. Maybe it's my weight. But the right background music could definitely let women know I'm safe and, when the right time comes, maybe even sexy. Or maybe I need a backdrop, something that anchors me to some great place like Mazatlan. I dunno. A guy's gotta either be Arthur Murry or own Hollywood."
"I'm just like any other teenager," a seventeen year old girl I"ll call Miranda said during a preliminary phone call. "We're all pretty much the same except for the major differences and no, I do NOT mean men. I don't care about men. My actual experience with men is nil. Once my Dad walked in front of my bedroom door from the bathroom and he was naked and I saw it and wished I hadn't, but now it's there for life, I know it is. I mean THERE, inside my head. I don't know how my mother stands it. Because it's gotta be inside HER head, too."
"When I grow up I"m going to find a wife who I can love like a bear."
- seven year old patient
"I keep getting these good-but-no-cigar responses from girls. This time I took my new dance partner up on her lukewarm response and asked if she had any suggestions as to where I might improve my dance moves. Know what she said? "On the dance floor," is what she said. I think I need something going for me that nobody else has, like personal background music. Maybe it's my big flat Karl Malden nose. Maybe it's my weight. But the right background music could definitely let women know I'm safe and, when the right time comes, maybe even sexy. Or maybe I need a backdrop, something that anchors me to some great place like Mazatlan. I dunno. A guy's gotta either be Arthur Murry or own Hollywood."
"I'm just like any other teenager," a seventeen year old girl I"ll call Miranda said during a preliminary phone call. "We're all pretty much the same except for the major differences and no, I do NOT mean men. I don't care about men. My actual experience with men is nil. Once my Dad walked in front of my bedroom door from the bathroom and he was naked and I saw it and wished I hadn't, but now it's there for life, I know it is. I mean THERE, inside my head. I don't know how my mother stands it. Because it's gotta be inside HER head, too."
"When I grow up I"m going to find a wife who I can love like a bear."
- seven year old patient
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