She tried to set us up for one of those coffee joints. Like hell, I don’t need that overpriced crap. So then I’m sitting waiting for her at Long’s, my favorite dive. I’m sitting there, hoping a real Baby Girl shows up, someone maybe I’ll be able to whisper sweet nothings to and, instead, in walks this Allanis Morrisette-type with wild, kinky hair, no bra and sandals. Seriously, are there no real girls out there who wear the stilettos? Is that too much to ask?
Well, I’m gonna try, of course. Whaddo I have to lose? We’re in paradise after all. Even if she’s not much of a bet for down the road, she might end up a decent drive-by.
So she sits. I can tell she’s already thinking this is not so good. She’s nervous and tries to order some stupid thing Long’s wouldn’t be caught dead having. I try to pull her out a little asking her about her job, if she has kids. I say, Baby girl, whaddya do to bring in the bacon? She looks at me like I’m talking Martian then launches into what sounds like a sermon or a speech about some save-the-whales or dolphins or snails thing. Are there actual jobs like that? It doesn’t make any sense to me so I tell her what I do: front-end loader driver. Well, not right now cuz I was laid off but normally that’s what I do. Unemployment’s good enough for me right now. Gives me time to set up some uh these meet and greets. Christ, I have run into some doozies doing this.
Anyways she has nothin’ more to say, I guess, except that she’s not a girl or a baby or my dear. I can see she’s not even gonna end up a driveby so I kick back and let her squirm. It’s too bad, she’s not bad lookin’. I mean, if I can find the right Baby Girl, I’ll be loyal as a dog. But I can see she’s one of those who thinks most men have fleas. I wonder why she even came.
I did really crappy at this. I did pick out someone I would never go out with and had a hard time empathizing. I'll probably try again when I don't have a deadline.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Heroes, part two
OK, I have to add this one because I’m just that weird. It’s not so much heroism as it is stubbornness and foolhardiness.
I had necrosis in both hips due to years of high-dose steroid therapy to treat lupus. No matter how eloquent I wax, I can never describe the pain to you. I will attempt it by telling you that it is literally the bone (the ball part of the joint) dying and slowly collapsing over years. It burned like it was on fire…it reminds me now of what of I’ve heard of certain types of weapons that will go into a human body and continue to burn. I was burning and rotting from the inside out.
One night I decided to go to a ballet at the O’Shaughnessy auditorium at St. Kate’s. One of the pieces was by a famous violinist who contracted MS. She composed the piece to describe her struggle with it. James Sewell had choreographed something to her music. She had since died.
I stopped at a grocery store on the way to pick up something or other. The store was right next door to a liquor store and it was Saturday night. Two handicapped spots sit outside the store. I do have the appropriate sticker. But some asshole had not only parked in handicapped; they had come in sideways taking up almost the entire two spaces. I was barely able to squeak in, with maybe an inch or two to spare. Three Asian guys sat in the idling car and gazed at me with their mouths open. A fourth guy came out of the liquor store. He looked at my car. He looked me.
“Lady, you’re gonna have to move your car.”
“No,” I said and I stood there waiting to see what would happen. I figured if he decided to ram my car or something I should at least get his license number.
“Lady, you have to move your car. I can’t get out if you don’t”
“Sure you can, you’ll just have to go back and forth a bit.”
He got in his car. They all glared at me. I continued to stand there watching them. He moved forward slightly then back slightly. He did that a few more times and got out of the car again.
“Lady, I can’t get out. You have to move your car.”
I said, “No. You can do it.”
It took a while but he eventually was able to get out of his tight, sideways parking spot. Again I waited to see what they would do. I knew they wanted to do something. I had nothing to lose. There was nothing they could do that would cause me more pain.
Anticlimax. One of them said, “Aw, it’s just an old rust bucket anyway.”
I chuckled as they drove away because I couldn’t argue with that. It was true.
OK, I have to add this one because I’m just that weird. It’s not so much heroism as it is stubbornness and foolhardiness.
I had necrosis in both hips due to years of high-dose steroid therapy to treat lupus. No matter how eloquent I wax, I can never describe the pain to you. I will attempt it by telling you that it is literally the bone (the ball part of the joint) dying and slowly collapsing over years. It burned like it was on fire…it reminds me now of what of I’ve heard of certain types of weapons that will go into a human body and continue to burn. I was burning and rotting from the inside out.
One night I decided to go to a ballet at the O’Shaughnessy auditorium at St. Kate’s. One of the pieces was by a famous violinist who contracted MS. She composed the piece to describe her struggle with it. James Sewell had choreographed something to her music. She had since died.
I stopped at a grocery store on the way to pick up something or other. The store was right next door to a liquor store and it was Saturday night. Two handicapped spots sit outside the store. I do have the appropriate sticker. But some asshole had not only parked in handicapped; they had come in sideways taking up almost the entire two spaces. I was barely able to squeak in, with maybe an inch or two to spare. Three Asian guys sat in the idling car and gazed at me with their mouths open. A fourth guy came out of the liquor store. He looked at my car. He looked me.
“Lady, you’re gonna have to move your car.”
“No,” I said and I stood there waiting to see what would happen. I figured if he decided to ram my car or something I should at least get his license number.
“Lady, you have to move your car. I can’t get out if you don’t”
“Sure you can, you’ll just have to go back and forth a bit.”
He got in his car. They all glared at me. I continued to stand there watching them. He moved forward slightly then back slightly. He did that a few more times and got out of the car again.
“Lady, I can’t get out. You have to move your car.”
I said, “No. You can do it.”
It took a while but he eventually was able to get out of his tight, sideways parking spot. Again I waited to see what they would do. I knew they wanted to do something. I had nothing to lose. There was nothing they could do that would cause me more pain.
Anticlimax. One of them said, “Aw, it’s just an old rust bucket anyway.”
I chuckled as they drove away because I couldn’t argue with that. It was true.
Heroes
This is a story that is not a moment in time. It was just under a year of struggle and joy.
It was a sunny day late in June and I had been trying to reach my mother who lived in Michigan. After an hour of repeated busy signals, I knew something was wrong. My mother hated to talk on the phone.
I called her next door neighbors, Les and Eleanor for help. Les removed the window screen from one of the bedroom windows and was in the midst of climbing in when he heard my mother, Donna, say from another room, “It’s OK, I’m alright.”
Hearing this from Eleanor, I said, “Do you mean to tell me he didn’t go all the way in and actually see her?”
“No, he didn’t. She said she was alright.”
“If someone does not go into that house and personally see my mother soon I am going to call the police.”
“No, no! Please don’t call the police. My heart can’t take it.”
The police were eventually called. I called the emergency room and spoke to her sister, Joan, to see what her condition was. To see if she was even alive. Joan wouldn’t tell me anything but just kept repeating over and over how terrible it was that we, her kids, hadn’t made sure our mother had a housecoat. There she was taken out on a stretcher in her short nightgown and Joan had looked high and low for a housecoat, it’s ridiculous, what’s the matter with you kids.
“Joan, fuck the housecoat. Is my mother alive?”
Finally, she told tell me Mom was alive, that she had collapsed sometime the night before behind an easy chair and couldn’t get back up. To this day I wonder how long she sat there. The doctors had no idea what was going on yet. Mother was not in her right mind. She didn’t what year it was, who was president or where she was but her feistiness was intact. She kept telling everyone she was just fine.
I shook from head to foot. I couldn’t stop the tremors. The information would not penetrate my brain yet my body got it. I was terrified to a depth I had never experienced. A friend drove me to the airport and I was in Escanaba by nightfall. I repeated over and over in my head: Please don’t let her die before I get there; please don’t let her die before I get there; please, please, please, please, please.
She was alive and in intensive care. I sat with her as she slept for several hours then drove down to the lake (Michigan). I hadn’t seen it in some years due to my own illness. The winds came in strong and steady from the southeast. It brought large swells. The white of the wild wave caps crashing to the shore glowed against the dark night and the darker water. The power of the lake and the wind and the night was immense. So immense it seemed I should be wiped out of existence; yet there I stood. The lake felt like a dear, powerful friend and a part of my soul with which I was being reunited. I laid down on the sand and looked up at a sky of soft black velvet strewn with glittering diamonds. The planet had tilted and nothing looked or felt the same.
The heroism? I stayed with my mother. I stayed through radiation and chemo and dry heaves and vomiting. I stayed through seeming recovery and then metastasis to the brain. I stayed in order to give my sweet mom the care and dignity she deserved. I stayed through one sibling telling me I couldn’t stay (“we can’t have one handicapped person taking care of another handicapped person, Jodi.” [I walk with a cane.] Mind you, she didn’t want to stay with Mom – she just didn’t want me staying) and another accusing me of torturing our mother (“chemo is just a form of torture, everybody knows that, she does pretty much what you tell her to do;” I told him I did not care if she took chemo or not, that I told her before every appointment that we could just cancel and not go if she wanted. He simply didn’t believe me.).
Most of all, I stayed in spite of the fact that the job at which I’d worked eighteen years declined my request for a leave of absence. I stayed not knowing if I would lose my job and then my home. I have never once regretted it. My mother did not die alone or in a hospital but in her own home. It was a year of impossible difficulties but also of great joy and depth.
This is a story that is not a moment in time. It was just under a year of struggle and joy.
It was a sunny day late in June and I had been trying to reach my mother who lived in Michigan. After an hour of repeated busy signals, I knew something was wrong. My mother hated to talk on the phone.
I called her next door neighbors, Les and Eleanor for help. Les removed the window screen from one of the bedroom windows and was in the midst of climbing in when he heard my mother, Donna, say from another room, “It’s OK, I’m alright.”
Hearing this from Eleanor, I said, “Do you mean to tell me he didn’t go all the way in and actually see her?”
“No, he didn’t. She said she was alright.”
“If someone does not go into that house and personally see my mother soon I am going to call the police.”
“No, no! Please don’t call the police. My heart can’t take it.”
The police were eventually called. I called the emergency room and spoke to her sister, Joan, to see what her condition was. To see if she was even alive. Joan wouldn’t tell me anything but just kept repeating over and over how terrible it was that we, her kids, hadn’t made sure our mother had a housecoat. There she was taken out on a stretcher in her short nightgown and Joan had looked high and low for a housecoat, it’s ridiculous, what’s the matter with you kids.
“Joan, fuck the housecoat. Is my mother alive?”
Finally, she told tell me Mom was alive, that she had collapsed sometime the night before behind an easy chair and couldn’t get back up. To this day I wonder how long she sat there. The doctors had no idea what was going on yet. Mother was not in her right mind. She didn’t what year it was, who was president or where she was but her feistiness was intact. She kept telling everyone she was just fine.
I shook from head to foot. I couldn’t stop the tremors. The information would not penetrate my brain yet my body got it. I was terrified to a depth I had never experienced. A friend drove me to the airport and I was in Escanaba by nightfall. I repeated over and over in my head: Please don’t let her die before I get there; please don’t let her die before I get there; please, please, please, please, please.
She was alive and in intensive care. I sat with her as she slept for several hours then drove down to the lake (Michigan). I hadn’t seen it in some years due to my own illness. The winds came in strong and steady from the southeast. It brought large swells. The white of the wild wave caps crashing to the shore glowed against the dark night and the darker water. The power of the lake and the wind and the night was immense. So immense it seemed I should be wiped out of existence; yet there I stood. The lake felt like a dear, powerful friend and a part of my soul with which I was being reunited. I laid down on the sand and looked up at a sky of soft black velvet strewn with glittering diamonds. The planet had tilted and nothing looked or felt the same.
The heroism? I stayed with my mother. I stayed through radiation and chemo and dry heaves and vomiting. I stayed through seeming recovery and then metastasis to the brain. I stayed in order to give my sweet mom the care and dignity she deserved. I stayed through one sibling telling me I couldn’t stay (“we can’t have one handicapped person taking care of another handicapped person, Jodi.” [I walk with a cane.] Mind you, she didn’t want to stay with Mom – she just didn’t want me staying) and another accusing me of torturing our mother (“chemo is just a form of torture, everybody knows that, she does pretty much what you tell her to do;” I told him I did not care if she took chemo or not, that I told her before every appointment that we could just cancel and not go if she wanted. He simply didn’t believe me.).
Most of all, I stayed in spite of the fact that the job at which I’d worked eighteen years declined my request for a leave of absence. I stayed not knowing if I would lose my job and then my home. I have never once regretted it. My mother did not die alone or in a hospital but in her own home. It was a year of impossible difficulties but also of great joy and depth.
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