Growing Pains

It's crazy time for me.

I'm back in grad school, Nick is on a college trip with his grandfather. He's going to visit Sewanee. One of my favorite people at church went to Sewanee. George Holleran. He's a retired history teacher. He has a daughter that looks and talks like Gracie Allen. He has a wife who is one of the most beautiful fat women I have ever seen in my life. She radiates purity and goodness. I don't know how else to put this. Her skin is translucent and she has short grey curly hair and when I see her I always feel like the world isn't so bad after all.

When I was putting myself through nursing school, I worked as math grader for standardized tests. George had fought a winning battle with terminal liver cancer (ha! they were wrong!), had quit his job as a history teacher at a local boarding school, and was grading tests with me. It was a great job. Everyone I worked with was really smart, but they were all screwy in some way. Some of them were leftist activists who were trying to support their ummm...activities, some were bored housewives, some were students, some were retired, some were zen monks, some were working on their novels...an eclectic, smart bunch. Multi-racial, multi-aged. Since there was no hope for promotion, there were no politics. We were all there only because we were all smart. When there are no politics, no one is careful about what they say, and the lunchtime discussions would get pretty heated and interesting. It was interesting! It was like being in my freshman dorm in college again. I brought a badminton set and set that up in the empty field behind the warehouse where we all worked, and we would play that, too, and yell at each other. That's where I heard all about Sewanee and decided it might do for Nick.

Maybe if we're all poverty stricken, our national conversations will get liberated. Maybe that's a good thing.

So he and my dad set off yesterday. I got a call at Lilly's tennis match (she won--don't ask me how. Lilly plays tennis like the ball has just appeared like a magical object in front of her--Poof! Look! A fairy! Boink!) My mom showed up and watched her. "She looks exactly like Jackie Kennedy in her tennis whites--that is until she starts to play. Then I don't know what the hell she looks like." Lilly joined the tennis team expressly for the dress, and, I hate to say this, but it really shows. "Why are you both giggling?" she asks us, midway through the match. "No reason."

So, off Nick goes. Raising kids is hard. We watched Elena last night, Jay and I. It was fun, but then we had to drop her off with Hali, who was sitting in the organic restaurant, looking beautiful. She ignored me, talked to Jay about the photographs on the wall, which are by some mutual friend of theirs from their couple days, quizzed him extensively about what Elena had eaten (christ) and then looked at me, "Hello, Haley, how are you doing?" like I'm the fucking nanny.

She's in the pretty mommy/nice little girl accessory phase of motherhood. Just wait. Maybe she'll never get out of it. Dangerous.

What do you raise children for? What is the purpose of education? You raise them to function in their society, to be productive and responsible in the most quotidian sense. They can't find happiness unless they can participate to some extent in the goals of the culture to which they are born, but you also raise them with an eye to the eternal. You also try to find that seed of soul, that part of the heart that is beyond parents and city blocks and homework assignments, and clear space for it and say--this is outside of it all. This will save you. I want my children to be carpenters with the soul and consolations of the artist. I want them to be able to lose all their money, step outside the bank, and still love the turning leaf on the tree. I want them to succeed at it all in some measure, but I want them to know that it is not really important if they do or don't.

I try to give them the tools to do this. I think a liberal arts education is key, and then, I don't care what they do after that. You grow the spirit, open the mind, then your labor is informed.

Money, money, money, money.

If only it didn't buy so god damn much.

What's that funny movie, Our Man Godfrey. "Money, money, money, money, money," Don't let it get you down. WAMU just folded. Of course, that's credit card I actually paid off. Why can't Chase collapse? Lose my debt....fantasies.

OK. This post was pretty random. Got to get back to my research proposal.

Doctors and Nurses

It's the most beautiful fall day.

School started three weeks ago. I went back to graduate school. I have discovered that the best way to be at peace about my messy house is simply not to be in it.

This works on 2 levels: 1)If you're not in it, you don't see the fuzz and cat hair on the rugs or smell the dogs. Since you're not in it, you can't do anything with your precious study time--like vacuum or do laundry. 2)If you're not in it, you also can't mess it up.

We'll see how this works. I don't know. I've been getting up early in the morning and running while the kids are getting ready for school. Lilly is making peanut butter and yogurt and fruit smoothies (these are a lot better than they sound) for breakfast. Then, if we're running early, we take the bus into town and Lilly goes to school and I go to the library. All day. If there's a yoga class in the middle of the day, I hit that, but pretty much I'm just parking myself there for 8-9 hours. So far, I'm not behind on anything...but I don't really feel on top of anything either. After school, I belong to the family and the schoolwork can just go hang itself. Except for Tuesday. Tuesday, my instructor has scheduled some god damn mandatory class chat, which is a huge fucking pain in the ass. There was also no help from the school in finding preceptors, so I've spent a lot of precious study time cold calling--something I thought I left behind when I went from PR/sales to nursing.

Don't tell me we're all salespeople. Sales culture sucks. It's so desperate and grinning and anti-intellectual. Sales culture has ruined this country. It's dulled our senses and veiled our hearts. There's a place for the market--sure--but the market shouldn't be in your heart or psyche.

I finally found two preceptors. One is my doctor. She's from Belize. Her name is Dr. Pitney. The other is Elizabeth Crane, a nurse practitioner. You can't imagine two more different women...doing basically the same tasks.

Dr. Pitney is small, black, with a British accent, and a little bit of a lisp. (Thywoid for thyroid, for example). She is absolutely correct, all the time. Correct in the social sense--she doesn't always have to be right. The limits of our relationship are very clearly delineated. I arrive in her waiting room and she comes and gets me when she's ready. When she has paperwork, that is my tacit signal to go someplace out of the way and study. I can only come during the morning one day a week. If a medical student needs her, they will have priority. She doesn't talk very much to me, and she seems unsure of my training. For example, she taught me about bowel sounds today. I felt like laughing. I mean, I'm a trauma nurse. I assess patients all the time. That's okay. She was kind enough to give me clinical hours. She never talks about the patients outside the room to either her staff or to me unless it's to discuss their clinical picture. That's it. No judgement. Bad or good. She's also imperturbable. While she was assessing a two year-old today, his four year-old brother kept hitting her leg with his coloring book. She utterly ignored it. She listens impassively, stays clinically focused. Lets the patient talk. Doesn't interrupt. Dresses conservatively, but with a little "african" touch--she always has something--today she wore a black and white skirt with a tribal print. Last week she had hair extension dreds. A cowrie shell necklass with a St. John suit. It's interesting--it's her only sort of personal touch. I like it. No make-up. Why don't female doctors wear make-up?
Elizabeth Crane, on the other hand, is a whole different story. She's my age, maybe a year older, and she's pretty but she's really let the sun do a number on her skin. She looks like Kim Basinger, only 40 pounds heavier and with bad feet. She's a little stooped (because, Christ, she's been laboring as a nurse all these years) and she has short frosted hair--frosted the way we all frosted our hair in 1983. She wears scrubs--the pants and the jacket--not the tunic top--generally over a grey ribbed tank top that shows her slightly leathered, but still generous and attractive cleavage. Like most nurses (like me) she's got a saint's medal resting there. Her mascara's a little clotted and she talks and moves non-stop. Fast. She tells me every part of her reasoning process, pulling things out from patient's charts at a dizzying speed--("See? back in July, she had another UTI--and there was blood in the urine, but it was her period--so big whoop--oh christ. Delbert's out in the waiting room? Tell him he needs to make an appointment like everybody else--so now she's back UTI blood in the pee--way bigger deal--find a lot of bladder tumors that way--No, Claire! I'm not coming out! Jesus Christ....) Dr. Pitney saw 8 patients. Elizabeth saw 15. Elizabeth let me eat lunch--called me ahead of time and told me not to bother bringing it ("pharmaceutical reps bring us lunch almost every day") There was lunch at Dr. Pitney's office, but I was very firmly dismissed to my own reconnaissance.

Interesting.

Well, that's my 1/2 hour.

Craving

I'm wrestling with craving. I lost.

It's the library's fault. No, it's not. It's Jay's fault. No,not him, either. It's Hali's fault. Jay's ex. It's her fault.

I was at the library waiting for Jay and Elena. Why was I waiting for Jay and Elena? Well, who knows. That's for me and my shrink. I really hope my shrink doesn't take that job at the VA. I still need him.

While I was waiting, I read this great book on perfume. In it was a review of Mitsouko by Lucas Turin. To paraphrase, he said that if he ever ended up on a desert island and could only have one fragrance to take with him, that it would be Mitsouko. Intrigued, I got on ebay, found a vintage mini bottle and bought it.

I loved it. I walked around smelling myself constantly. I tried using my other perfumes--it made them all smell like crap. Like dog piss. I started noticing how bad everything smelled in comparison--how horrible and cheap and chemical and coarse--my fabric softener, for instance, my Ecco Bella vanilla lotion. I started looking for more information about it on the internet and found that the formula had been changed. Panicked, I went back on ebay and started bidding on more vintage bottles. I went crazy. I checked ebay constantly. (This whole auction thing, it will take over your life). I thought about acquiring this stuff all the time. I stopped worrying about whether Jay was screwing around on me or sending books of poetry to the other Halie (the other ex, not the one with the little girl. It sure would have been easier if he'd picked people with different names--I mean--not for him, I guess, since he can just shout out whoever's name he wants and I'll never be the wiser. You know, honestly, I don't think he is. I think he's true.) I thought about it when I was having sex. I just go everwhere with this stuff on and sit happily, thinking, "Wow, I smell really good." Even when I sit, I think about it. I worry about it.

Lilly turned sixteen yesterday. I thought about Mitsouko. I mean--I covered all the bases. But I was still focused on perfume. Expensive perfume. We're taking the bus I knew I was being irrational. I just couldn't stop.

I thought about Our Town. Why is it that it is so hard to live up to a day? My parents came over early in the morning with presents and woke us up. I had been out with Jay the night before and had a little too much wine--so I had a headache. Lilly had crawled in bed with me. They bought her an immense emerald ring. Too much for her at this age, I think, but, oh well. It's expensive but it's ugly as hell. Maybe I could pawn it for a bottle of Mitsouko. But then I would have to share the Mitsouko with Lilly.

I bought her a computer I found on ebay for $250. She loved it. But then, after presents, we had nothing to do until the evening. We were just planning a family party with maybe one friend. We drifted through the day. Taking naps, going for short bike rides. I baked a cake from scratch. Black Forest, Lilly's favorite. Me checking ebay. I kept thinking: this is Lilly's birthday. 16! I gave birth to her during a hurricane. Surely we should be doing something else. We kept suggesting things to each other and then dropping back into our books.

"I feel like we're screwing up." Lilly said at one point.

She went downtown for a little bit with her friends from public school (the ones who were arrested for arson last year. Wonderful.) They just came by the house and collected her. Then Nick and I met up with her and her best friend and my parents at our local Indian restaurant. We ate until our stomachs hurt.

"You smell incredible," my mother informed me.

My parents had a fight during the birthday party, as usual. They always fight when there are friends around. At least now they're old and funny. When they were 40 it was really disturbing to guests. My father spent the rest of the evening with his arms crossed, pouting. They get really shrill. People at other tables turn around and look at us.

"Stop it. Now."

But they don't care. It's their agenda. It's always their party.

Afterward, Nick went to a party of his own and Lilly's friend, Anne, went home. (She's been grounded). Lilly and I drifted over to the Rotogravure (our local independent movie theater) and sat on the terrace, waiting for Jay. Lilly wanted to see Brideshead Revisited. Which was very long, but wonderfully faithful to the book. They didn't give enough screen time to Anthony Blarge, though. And the book is really funny in places and they didn't capture that at all, which was too bad. But Jarrold really teased out the important themes and actually illuminated parts of the story I'd sort of glossed over when I read it. The whole family read it last year. I didn't think this when I read the book--but after seeing the movie, I think Brideshead Revisited is as important a book as Anna Karenina. I mean, Evelyn Waugh tackled some heavy shit.

At the movie, we ran into our beautiful young friend Miriam. Miriam works at the Dakota and she sort of adopted us as a college student. She became friends with all of us--big sister to Lilly, object of desire to Nick, little sister to me, I guess. We weren't sure why she picked us. She just liked our family and started showing up. "Wanna go to a movie?" she'd call and say. "Okay," we'd respond, bemused. She's another anthropology major. She looks like Natalie Portman and is trying to start her own clothing line.

She tells me she's moving to San Francisco. "I just wanted to tell you," she says, "how much I love your family. And how sometimes I'm just happy thinking about you guys and how you just walk around living your life. How special you all are. I want you to know that I think of all three of you as the true friends of my heart and that I really love you all."
We exchanged email addresses and I wished her well. She's taking a train out west tomorrow! Isn't that romantic. I've taken that train. I made Lilly on that train, in fact.

We went home after the movie. Lilly talking nonstop about Italy (Jay gave her a passport case and a book on writing). Nick was back from the party and we had cake. Another year, another birthday. The three of us gathered over the firefly glow of the candles singing our wishes.

After Nick and Lilly were asleep, I got up, checked ebay, and just went ahead and bought a damn bottle of Mitsouko. I'll just keep taking the bus. My shrink's probably quitting--that'll be $300 I'll save--and perhaps my wonderful scent will mitigate my crazy aura. It's only perfume, after all.

That's my 1/2 hour

Interruptions

Please remember, dear reader, this blog is entirely fictional.

We are taking the bus everywhere to save money. I just refuse to pay these ridiculous prices for gasoline. And the more I'm on my bike or the bus or hoofing it, I realize how much of the ugliness around us we can lay at the door of the cars--look at the asphalt where the fields used to be, breathe the clotted air--look at the traumas! Of course, a lot of people screwed themselves up on horses back then, too. Lilly's balking a bit, but, you know, I'm much more relaxed on the bus and we get to eavesdrop on some funny conversations, plus we have more time to talk to each other, which is nice. $2.50 gets you a pass to go anywhere you want in Paloma. Pretty good, huh? I've gone 10 days without filling up. Last time was 12 days between fill-ups. Plus, navigating the the bus routes in Paloma sharpens my brain--forces me to plan--it will stave off alzheimers. Of couse, last night she realized she'd left her history textbook at school and Nick drove her back in the Thunderbird which gets like, 2 mpg or something--so that pretty much obviated whatever we'd saved that day by taking the bus. Oh, well. And this morning, she left her saxophone at home. Nitwit.

Anyways, yesterday it rained, and I took the bus with Lilly into town, to her school and dropped her off. Then I went about my day. I've decided that I only need to plan 4 steps ahead. That's all you really have to do in chess, after all. I usually plan the entire day, but I think this is keeping me from living life. It's funny how you set out to accomplish things, but it is the interruptions that make life interesting. My goal yesterday was to 1)go to the library and print off the instructions for getting my drug test to begin clinicals. 2)Then I was going to go get tested. 3)Bank--to get cash to give to Judy for Wiz's 27th anniversary celebration at the hospital. 4)Hospital--to give her the cash. Then, whee! I could sit down and plan 4 more things.
So, at the library, I'm sitting there at the computer (for some reason, I can't get my printer to work with my computer) and Jay and Elena come in. "Chase me!" Elena says. She is on a Jungle Book kick lately. "Rowwrr!" I say, and get up and start chasing her through the stacks. Then she wants to play with puppets. On the way to the puppets she noticed the elevator, so we had to go up and down in the elevator a few times. We grabbed some coffee and juice and scones all together at the little cafe there and sat looking at the fish while we nibbled. I pointed out things of interest, "See--he's pooping!" Just like my kids at that age, Elena finds pooping fascinating because she's just now learning to do it in the right place at the right time. As we're watching the fish in the tank, I see the bus pull up in front of the library.
"Heck, missed the bus." I fret.
"We'll give you a ride into town." Jay offers, as well he should, since I regularly provide kissing and food, etc. I take him up on it. I land downtown in time for Shalimar's vigorous yoga class and decide my trip to the bank can be postponed for an hour, then, afterwards, I walk to the University. An old lady with a crewcut and a Hawaiian shirt waves at me frantically and crosses the street. Ellen Fetzel. My german teacher and my parents neighbor. Her son once stole my dog--but that's a story for another time. Being face blind can get a little dicey sometimes. I solve this by smiling at everyone. "I think your parent's car got towed!" She huffs. "I didn't know how to get ahold of you--you're not listed. They re-surfaced the street and towed your dad's truck."
"What are you doing on campus?" I ask.
"I'm working here full-time now--coo rdinating the german t.a.'s. Ach. Warum? Well, Haley Patton, let me tell you , I had too much fun and didn't set aside anything for retirement--so now look at me. 70 and working like a dog."
Some dog. She looks wonderful.
"Jay's in the same boat--"
She waves her hand dismissively. "I know all about that scene (she uses words like "scene") Hali's my massage therapist, remember?"
"Still?"
"Twice a week for the last 30 years." (hmmm....some insight into where all the retirement might have gone....) "I would die without her. She just loves you, thinks you're doing wonderful things with Jay."
"Well, isn't that nice."
"I think she was a little concerned about the age difference and the fact that, well, let's face it, you're not exactly known as 'nature girl', but she's happy now."
"Well, that's so nice!" I say again, brightly.
She launches into a long monologue on forgiveness and change and the meaning of life--you know all these things, so I won't bore you. We talk for 20 minutes. I really do like her. Then we part.
I decide to get my official form from Sinclair for the drug testing (apparently, I need this in addition to the other one from the net). I have to get it from Hester, the masters students secretary. Hester helped cook for Jerry, too, while he was dying. She has a good heart, but, God, she's grumpy.
"Look--" she snaps, the second I walk in the door. Before I open my mouth. "I know what you want and I'm busy right this second. Go sit down and I'll be with you in a few minutes."
I meekly retire to the front office.
Harrold, the big gay receptionist at the front desk--whom I've known for 30 years--he used to be the receptionist at my hair salon--shakes his head. "She's so goddam cranky" he hisses.
"I know. Like she's missing some essential organ of good humor or something." I hiss back.
He hands me some chocolate from his secret stash. He's been handing me chocolate since I've been nine years old. There's a picture of Harrold in a carriage in central park with a very young, mildly plump, but very handsome young man.
"New man?" I ask.
"Oh, yes. And, Haley Patton, this is the real thing."
Hester comes out, panting for some reason. She's wearing an immense polka-dot sleeveless dress. Which she can wear, even with her poofy arms. She's one of those fat but firm people. She looks like a little baked muffin. Kind of firm and sugar dusted--you know what I mean?
"Okay, come in."
"How has your summer been, Hester?" I ask.
"Oh, Haley Patton, (everyone used my first and last name yesterday, trend?) just awful. One thing after another. My precious Joey died, and then Norma had to have a few teeth out and started having back trouble." (Joey and Norma are her two dachsunds). I sit and listen sympathetically to her talk about her dogs. She has new pictures, which I look at and coo over. They've been professionally done.
"And then," she concludes, "if that weren't enough--my cousin's son, who's in Iraq came down with some life-threatening virus. He became septic from a gun-shot wound to his abdomen and had to be flown to Germany. He's recovering, but I think he might be a little brain-damaged. Keep him in your prayers!"
I assure her I will do so, pick up my drug test form and leave. She hands me some chocolate. "One for the road." She says.
I put it in my pocket.
Finally, I get to the hospital. I go to the bank and cash a check without incident, but as I am starting to open the door to the stairwell, Soupy, our coroner, walks by. Soupy's been acting strange lately, I think I mentioned, not greeting me, so I accost him.
"Soupy--what's up? Are you all right?"
He looks worse than usual. He's wearing a blood spattered beige guayabera, his fly is unzipped and his hair is standing up on end.
"Just get done with a case?" I ask.
"Oh, God, yes, a messy one. No, I'm fine. Except my son's somehow managed to piss off the Japanese mafia."
"How did he manage to come to the attention of the Yakuza? Or is it yazuka?" I think in Cowboy Bebop they say yakuza...but I'm not sure. "You need to wash your hands, "I point out.
"Oh, oops."
He walks over to the water fountain, rinses them off. I make a mental note not to take a drink from that water fountain, ever again.
"He broke a story about a liver transplant in LA for one of their big guys--and now they've threatened to kill him and everyone in his family--you know what that means, right? I mean--hello! I'm part of his family. I'm his father. That makes me a target."
He finishes rinsing his hands. Dries them on the guayabera.
"I bought a gun. I went to the gun store and said, 'give me a gun.' They said, 'Soupy, why do you want a gun?' I said, 'Because I'm going to probably have to kill someone with it.' So now I have a gun. What an idiot." Then he smiles. "But it is a wonderful article."
"I'll check it out." I tell him. "See you at Ernie's!"
I go upstairs, hand Judy the money. She shows me the presents. She bought Wiz a thermos. Had it engraved. I look at the Thermos. He loves his stanley, and this one isn't nearly as good a thermos. But I can't tell her that. Poor Wiz. Now he'll have to carry this thing around. It won't fit on his bike, either. Oh well, one of the things we all have to learn is to accept the gifts we don't look for. Can't choose gifts. It may be the only big lesson Wiz has left to learn.
I look at my watch. Somehow, it has turned into 4:30. Time to collect Lilly from tennis. Where did the day go?
That's my 1/2 hour.
btw--here's the article that this whole flight of fancy might be based on...
http://www.wnd.com/index.php?fa=PAGE.view&pageId=65759

Church Stuff

Lilly is doing better. She got her hair cut and dyed it red and I took her shopping. We read the bible a few nights--just went through the proscribed lessons for the daily evening prayer. One from the old testament last Thursday was pretty frightening--"destroy their altars and put their sons to the sword" (!)
"It says that?"
"Oh, yeah."
Well, Christianity, the way it's practised here, has very violent tendencies. Back to Shambhala Sun--there's a GREAT interview with Tom Robbins--to quote "...I'd completey rejected my Southern Baptist faith on the grounds that it was a bastion of fascist-tinged hypocrisy, based on misinterpretation of Levantine myth and watered-down compromises of the teachings of Jesus." Then he goes on to say that "U.S. foreign policy is now based on the apocalyptic Book of Revelation, which is to say, based on the ravings of a long-dead misogynistic madman." And: "As sentient beings, as a part of the One, the fundamentalist spawn of John deserve our compassion, but because they increasingly imperil all life on the planet, they must also be vigorously opposed."
I'm not sure about that comment about U.S. policy--I think U.S. policy is mainly about taking care of the interests of the rich. But what's new about that? The world's the world. Render unto Ceasar and all that. I think that certainly fundamentalist symbols and ideals have been rather cynically employed to get the people behind the effort.
Basically, I trust those from all faiths who serve. If they serve, if they give, if their primary motivation is to alleviate the suffering of all mankind, I find everything in common with them. It's when people become removed from basic ministry that hypocrisy sets in. There is one true religion--compassion. All the rest is just gabble gabble.
That said, I love my church.
Alice and I are knitting our friendship together again. We had an argument in May. She invited me to meditate with her this morning. We had coffee at the Dakota after we dropped the kids off at school. She's on the vestry, so she has a key. After our coffee, we walked down the street to our little stone church and opened the door.
"It's just terrible they keep it closed all the time," she says, fishing for her key in her purse.
This is always a process with Alice. Alice is a doctor. God knows how she got through medical school. She now practices plant spirit medicine, but she's good for a course of amoxicillin if you need it, and does the occasional basketball physical for my kids. The plant spirit stuff must be working, however, because Alice actually seems to be getting younger. Or else she's taken a lover, which was my suggestion. She's looking reallly, really good lately. She's lost about 30 pounds and gotten a haircut and instead of these sort of shapeless smocks with big buttons, she's been wearing long gypsy skirts and black t-shirts. Her hair, which is very thick and gray, seems shinier and she has it cut right above her shoulders so that it swings when she walks.
They used to keep the church open all the time--all night. When we were teens and would be out late downtown drinking, we'd go into the church and crash in the lounge, rather than drive home drunk and face our parents. It was a safe way to be wild. I think that's an attitude sort of missing in our society these days--giving our kids safe ways to be wild. Now we just crush the wildness out of their little hearts.
We go into the sanctuary, the lovely cool dark cherry wood sanctuary, with the needlepoint cushions lovingly made by generations of church ladies and sit. Alice has brough an egg timer. She's hard to sit with, because she fidgets a lot, but it's okay. I sit, think mostly about work.
The timer goes off.
"I don't think that was very successful." She muses.
"Supposedly," I offer, "if you can manage to concentrate on 12 breaths in a row, you will instantly achieve enlightenment."
"That's doable. I'm glad you told me that. Have you done that?"
"Do I seem enlightened to you? All I do is think about work."
She's having some regrets, I think. She tells me about an old boyfriend of hers whom she dumped because of his lack of ambition.
"All he did was collect coffee percolators."
Seems useful to me. Better than irons.
Apparently, he had come to visit them last week. He amassed the definitive collection of coffee percolators in the world and has sold the collection for $2,000,000 (in this economy!) and published a beautiful coffee table book--all about coffee percolators. Sigh. Finally, a book you can set your coffee on top of. Haha.
"No ambition, indeed!" I say, laughing.
We wander out into the foyer. The church staff has come in now, and the building is properly open. Ancient bent Beth Fritz is at the desk. She's the receptionist. For awhile, she was the town's only anti-war activist. She would stand outside the post-office every Saturday with her little sign, protesting whatever military action our country was involved in. Everybody would stop by--"Hello, Beth!" We're pretty friendly about our divisions in Little Dixie. Now there are more, and they protest on the corner of Providence every Wednesday. But, I mean, that takes some gumption, getting out there by the post-office every Saturday morning. She also was the first white person in our state to adopt a black child.
The big news going on in our town is that a woman killed herself and her children, afraid of going to a foster home, tried to keep her death a secret. They were naturally caught, then initially accused of killing her. Apparently, they didn't. How frightened they must have been. How grief stricken and terrified.
We all discuss this a moment. I knew the woman vaguely (well, you grow up here, you end up knowing every one).
Beth shakes her head, "Those poor kids. Hiding a body is a lot more difficult than you think it's going to be...they get stiff and heavy so fast"
Alice and I nod sympathetically, not daring to look at each other, pick up our church directories and leave.
Outside, we start giggling.
"You heard that, right?"
"I don't even want to know..."
That's my 1/2 hour.

Our Lady of Sorrows

I think I might be able to quit therapy, which is good, because my shrink is taking a job at the VA.

I've had this weird feeling the past two weeks or so that I've finally identified as contentment with occasional bursts of silly happiness. I'm not sure why this has happened. Perhaps 22 years of yoga, zen and therapy have finally produced results.

God, I hope so.

Do you want to know something funny? When you're happy and you go to see your shrink, all you do is sit on the couch and talk about his kids. Then you pay him $135 and feel stupid. I was going to keep going to therapy until I got married--but now I'm rethinking that goal.

Hmmmmm.

Lilly's back from Florida--cautious hooray. She got off the plane looking brittle and too thin. We drove into a little chichi neighborhood in the city and had lunch at this strange little place. There were all these cute, expensive cafes which I would have been perfectly happy in, but Lilly picked this odd little place with a bit POW flag--the one with the bent head, a shadow on the white background. We got Oranginas. Lilly got an egg salad sandwich. I ordered a Reuben. I always get a Reuben. I'm on the hunt for the perfect Reuben. So far, that would have to be at Lou's in Hanover, New Hampshire. So we sat there, me eating my reuben approximation (it was a good sandwich, but not a reuben). I had made her change into something decent at the airport--she arrived in leggings and an old t-shirt. I mean, honestly, what was her father thinking? Lilly is 5'9". She is a 34D and has long red hair. She is 15. The t-shirt barely covered her butt. No pants or skirt. Just leggings--not the thick ones. The tights. Cheap. Joy's (her stepmother) hand-me downs. Joy had also sent her home with a huge suitcase filled with old clothes. The clothes she's been able to buy with the money that should be Nick and Lilly's child support probably. Oh well, guess we'll take what coin we can get. Hmmmm.......I'm sounding bitter. But, christ, some financial support over the years would have sure made our lives better. Maybe I'm not ready to quit therapy after all.

At lunch, Lilly says, "Mom, can I talk to you about something and can you just listen and not get snarky? I mean, don't say anything funny. Just listen."

I nodded mutely.

Then she tells me about her summer. Rob and Joy have recently been saved (yet again. I wasn't snarky to Lilly but I get to be snarky here, 'k?) and they have joined a very fundamentalist, pentecostal church. The kind where people shake and start speaking in tongues and fall on the ground. And they put Lilly under a lot of pressure and bashed her anglicanism (our gay bishop). Lilly has two stepbrothers--they are Joy's children from two previous marriages. She has a third son from another marriage but that child was raised by his father. The oldest, Derek, was graduating from college. It was a big deal. It had taken him 7 years. The youngest, Kyle, a champion long distance runner, and perfect student took this opportunity to have a crisis of faith at this event, necessitating intervention by the pastor and a special meeting at the church where there was a lot of praying over him--even at Derek's graduation party. Kyle has pulled a lot of this kind of thing over the years.

I suggest to Lilly that this is sort of interesting--"It made the weekend about Kyle, didn't it?"

Lilly gets mad. "It wasn't like that! You don't know!" She adores Kyle. Adores him. "I guess, it just made me question my faith, and wonder if maybe they're right. I mean, it's confusing, the preacher says these horrible things--like all muslims are going to hell--but then he says things I agree with. And I don't know. I feel all pure when I pray, but then I start thinking about things, and I don't feel pure any more. I want to feel pure."

So dangerous. That drive for purity. The other side of purity is fascism. Yucky muddy reason, messing up those feel-good irrational mental states.

And here am I, on a cushion every morning trying to stop my thoughts.

I don't fuck with faith, though. My parents did it to me and I hated them for it. But I can deliver religious experiences, too. Gentler ones.

I drove her to the shrine of Our Lady of Sorrows. We sat in cool darkness of the little german chapel--it smells German--I don't know what I mean by this--and lit candles for each person in our family. We sat and looked at the tiles, "Mit danken Maria" inscribed through the years, the agnus dei in painted script behind the altar, the little child's shoe on the altar to Mary, always in the same place. Now there's a hat--a soldier's hat. Lilly started crying.

"You have been raised in a tradition of sensitivity. " I started--at a loss for words. "It's hard sometimes to be able to defend it, when people seem so adamant and certain. I guess you have to ask yourself, are they being as respectful to my traditions as I am being to theirs? And if they aren't--then it's not the real thing. They aren't being kind or good to you. They're working out their own agendas."

"But they're so sure."

"No one is sure. Was Jesus sure at Gethsemane? Even on the cross, Jesus was not sure. No one human is sure. We don't know. Because we're humans. We do our best. You just do your best. You may never know the whole story. Certainty is usually only experienced by stupid or delusional people. I mean, sometimes you'll get a flash--I don't mean that kind of thing. But doubt is just part of it. It means you're thinking. It means you're experiencing things as they are, and that's almost never comfortable. She is Our Lady of Sorrows. Grace and sorrow are not mutually exclusive"

Then it started to rain, and we drove home, taking the river road.

I used to have dreams in Miami of driving black top country roads through fields in high summer, on and on over the rolling fields of green. I told a priest friend about these dreams and he told me I was really dreaming about Mary.

That's my 1/2 hour.

Imaginary Conversations

All about the hospital. Too much about the hospital. Talk too much about it. I am the hospital. The hospital is me.

Just finished playing a game of chess with Nick. He beat me. I did something unbelievably stupid in the end game.

Chess is too stressful for me. I always invest too much in it. My shrink would say, "It's only a game. It doesn't give any particular insight into your life. Just because you screw up the endgame doesn't mean you always screw up. It just means that you need to play more chess. Read a book or two on end games, if it really means that much to you."

That's what he would say.

And he's right.

This weekend was horrible at the hospital.

I was late on Friday, and for some reason, all the other supervisors were out, unbeknownst to me. So Regina had taken over and was charging. Actually, even though she's insufferable, she did okay, and I was simply not in the mood.

I had this funny, crazy patient, an eighth grade algebra teacher who had been in a motorcycle crash and was healing up just fine on the floor, but who ended up back with us because he just decided to have a complete psychotic break.

It wasn't a bad one, and he wasn't a mean guy. He just decided, I think, "O.K. Too much reality for me! Bye for now!" and out he's gone. He reminded me of Xavier when he had his break. Nice and sweet and utterly shattered.

"Where do you teach?" I asked him.

"In the parking lot." He tells me serenely. "I have 17 cars."

"You do?"

"Yes. Have you noticed I am a man?"

"I have."

"Do you know what that means?"

"What?"

"It means I have a man's parts and therefore need a man's underwear."

"Very true."

He was very anxious most of the time. Man, teachers. Even crazy, he couldn't let go of his duty, bless his heart.

"Do you know what the date is?"

He did. "School starts in 3 weeks! I have to get ready. I have to get the parking lot ready."

"It's okay. You need to stay here and get better."

"No one can do what I do!" He said. "You don't understand. No one but me can do it!"

"Do you know who the president is?" I ask.

"Denise Watson. And she is pretty."

Wiz liked him, because even crazy, he was so full of care for the people he was responsble to. Wiz pretty much thinks you're useless unless you're serving. Man, my poor driven little Wiz. One of the things Wiz can do is catch flies in mid air--just like Lilly.

"I dare you to eat it." I told him. He had just caught one over the salsa dip. (The EKG lady brings us snacks on the weekends. We don't know why. She's just an amazingly kind person. "How do you find time for this?" I ask her. "How do you find time to work 12 hour shifts, then go home and cook? Do you do anything else?" She looks puzzled. "Well, " she says after a pause. "I helped Leopold [our maintenance man] move last night." Little birds should follow her around. The hospital is just filled with people like this. Happy nerdy, dear, do-goody funny ones.)

"How much?"

"One Dollar."

"Five."

"Okay. Five."

He eats it.

"Ughh! I can't believe you did that!"

"Pay up."

"Fuck that. I'm not going to encourage you. Acck."

"They're not bad for you. Just a little crunchy." He smiles at me with his little round brown teeth.

"You've done this before? What, were you a prisoner of war?"

"Yep."

Hello. I'm Haley Patton. And I'm a piece of shit.

That's my 1/2 hour.