Accidental Companions

You never know what you're going to wake up to.

I woke up to the sound of a helicopter, flying low. I wasn't even aware at first that it had woken me up, you know how you just weave things into your dreams. Jay and I had gone back to his house after going to my friend, Lucy's wedding. It was nice. I got there at the last minute, rushed straight from work in my blood spattered scrubs. She had called me earlier in the week--"Just rush over. Don't change. At least you'll get to some of the mass." We arrived as Lucy and her groom (one of our city's aldermen) were facing the audience and the priest was pronouncing them man and wife. Lucy chose adulthood and stability. She's the youngest child of an Italian conductor. I've known her since we were five. She had long golden curls then, and was plump. A plump, bossy, pink and white and yellow little girl. Tossing her hair. "I'll tell! I get to be the mommy! You have to be my slave." She had bright, close set blue eyes. Still does. Sometimes you grow up with people with whom you are not entirely friendly, but who are more than friends and less than family. That's Lucy. She still has golden curls, and she's kind of plump. And she's the boss of her own ad agency. So I guess that it's good she was bossy when young. Everyone who was anyone in town was there. Jay traded flirty quips with this married local artist who always tries to pick him up, two of my old high school boyfriends were there. I had changed into a dress by the time we got to the reception. Everyone seemed so darn...old. Oh well. Nice night. We went back to his place, slightly tipsy from all the champagne. The farm has a lot of wild chamomile growing in the fields for some reason, and it smelled wonderful. We made slow, meandering, love and fell asleep listening to the frogs and smelling the rain and chamomile and honeysuckle.

And were woken up by the helicopter.

"Aren't there FAA rules about this?" grumbled Jay.

I stood out on the lawn in front of the house, watching the chopper. It circled, almost brushing the tops of the trees. It was a medivac. From my hospital. "They must be looking for someone." I said. I think I see someone wave.

We made some coffee, the chopper kept circling. We got into the saab for the drive back to town.

The road that leads from Jay's place to the blacktop county road to Route L into town is gravel. One lane in places, like over the little bridge that crosses La Belle creek. There are few houses on it. As we got into the valley, near the postmaster's house on the creek, we had to slow down. Crockett County Fire and Rescue. A university hospital ambulance. And Courtney. One of the nurses I work with.

Courtney used to be a supervisor. She's about 27. Very east coast. Not really pretty--but she doesn't need to be. Narrow aristocratic nose, dirty blonde hair. Slender to fault. Great nurse. One of the popular girls. Dated a lot of doctors. Dumped them. Fearless in a way. A little selfish. Always has a $2000 purse. She's getting married now. To a contractor named Mike with a daughter from a previous marriage. Quit her job to stay home and be a mom.

And here she is. By the side of the road, looking like a wet cat.

I roll down the window. "What are you doing here? You working?"

"That's Mike's truck," she says reasonably, pointing at the vehicle almost completely submerged in the water. The place is crawling with search and rescue people, sheriff's deputies, dogs and horses.

"Where's Mike?" I ask.

"We're trying to find that out. It doesn't look good. They're dragging the creek." She says this in the most conversational, pleasant way imaginable. Like how we all talk at work. "They've brought in the cadaver dogs. Don't worry. I can't believe how well I'm handling this. You must be Jay."

"Hello..." says Jay doubtfully. We look at each other. Jay pulls the car into the postmaster's driveway. We look around. Courtney is shrunken into her coat. Her face is all bony nose, hair skinned back.

"We heard the helicopter," I offer.

"Brad's on it!" As if on cue. Brad comes walking across the yard in his little flight suit. He puts his arm around me.

"Have you told him about us?" he asks, "Or should I?"

"It's over. When will you let it go?"

Courtney goes off to make a phone call.

"Is there anyone else here?" I ask.

"No. Just me. And she won't call any family. You live close--could you make us a pot of coffee?"

Jay and I turn around, drive back to his house and make a pot of coffee. It takes two hundred years. 1st because Jay has to grind the beans. Then because he has this stinky little walmart pot that takes forever. We make two pots, pour them in the Stanley and head back to the site. Jay drops me off and heads into town to his babysitting date with Elena.

"Jesus," Courtney says, "that took forever. What were you doing?"

"Well, we had to grind the beans..."

Courtney and Brad both start cackling. "I told you so." Brad says. "I told you Haley was grinding the beans."

Brad goes off, and Courtney and I lean against the car, talking about nothing important. Every time one of the dogs bark, she stops talking and turns white. After a few hours of this, I start thinking that there's no way anyone's coming out of this situation alive. I want to gently encourage her to get some family involved, or closer friends, but she's adamant. I give up.

"Do you want to come back to the house? I'll cook you some breakfast."

"I can't leave." She says. "Could you bring me something? I don't eat eggs."

I take Brad's car back to Jay's house. There's nothing there. Old moldy bagels, an almost empty box of stale triscuits, a can of cranberry sauce. One dubious looking egg. But in the freezer, there's pizza dough! What a find! I dig up a can of tomato sauce, a lump of queso fresco, capers, an onion, tomatoes, fresh garlic, some parmesan cheese--stick it in the oven. Then I go down to the garden and pick some greens. I can't tell which is arugula and which is poison ivy. I hope I'm not making a mistake. The whole thing's ready in ten minutes. I take it back down to the site.

"Let me guess, you had to pick the food out of the garden."

"Only partly correct."

She takes a piece of the pizza, then a few more. "Oh my God, this pizza is amazing." I take a slice. It is amazing. I kid you not, it's just about the best pizza I have ever had in my life. Brad takes a slice. "This is unbelievable." We sit together, leaning against the truck, scarfing pizza.

The radio crackles. Reception's bad in the bottom. "...white male....barefoot......walking Jones Hatchery Road..."

We stop eating.

Brad gets on the radio. Walks away.

Comes back. "It's him, Court." 2 miles away. Confused. Courtney, who's shown almost nothing all these hours, looks like she might possibly cry. "They're bringing him here."

My cue to go. I take the empty pizza pan, kiss her on the forehead, and walk back to Jay's. The sky is crystal and blue, the sun came up. The world smells like early summer. I think, I feel like a buddha. I feel transparent, and endless.

Jay's back with Elena.

"You look awful," he tells me.

"Thank you."

Elena and I paint watercolor portraits of the cat for the rest of the afternoon.

You never know what's going to happen, do you?

That's my 1/2 hour.

Rescues

We've been busy. Nick is graduating. I seem to not be able to do anything I'm supposed to do. I've spent the last two days baking cookies, reading Dorothy Dunnett, and cleaning.

I guess it needs to be done. But I still have a textbook to review, a research proposal to finish and a final exam to prepare for. It's like I can't make myself do anything. The only thing I can do is make myself sit zazen and exercise. After that, I just fall to pieces.

My ex is coming, with his teensy weensy little wife. They'll do things like be all smiley and hale-fellow-well met-and pray and shit and look stable and everyone will wonder what all the fuss was about and how I could possible leave such a great guy. rarrrgh.

Jay is doing his part by having a nervous breakdown. The signal pattern in my life with my significant others has been that, when the shit is coming down particularly hard on me, my partners all have nervous breakdowns, so we can all focus on them.

Last week, he took his dog to the pound and had his cat put to sleep.

"You did what?"

"Don't judge me. I just couldn't handle the dog any more. It was too much. I can't handle anything or anyone making demands on me or requiring any sort of commitment at all. I can't do it. Don't worry. I'm not breaking up with you."

I tell Nick about it. Nick shakes his head, and says with surprising cynicism, "Well, if you decide to marry him after we leave, just be sure not to give him power of attorney."

How do you take a four year old lab to a pound? Who adopts an old dog?

I went out to visit her. She was, coincidentally, in a kennel sponsored by a friend of mine. She rubbed up against the chain link when she saw me, ducking her head and whimpering. "It's okay, Ellie bellie," I told her. "I won't let anything bad happen to you." I saw a note taped to the door. It said, "Hi! I'm Ellie! You just saw me on the Sam Salt Show." Sam Salt is a local personality around here. He used to be the weatherman, but they tried to fire him because he was gay (this was back in the seventies). Our town had a letter writing campaign. SAVE SAM SALT! He's very tall and completely hairless, but he's ours. He barely even has eyebrows. He is our gay, hairless weatherman here in Little Dixie, and we love him. Now he has a talk show. And one of the things he does is have the pet plaza, where he features a dog or cat from the humane society. Good, I thought. Sam Salt will save her.

I made the mistake of telling him this while we were sitting in our bar. I tell him I saw her on tv.

He started crying.

I sat there, watching him, sipping my white wine. Well, at least he's not a total bastard, but he still took her there.

I told my dad about it. He was quiet. "I don't think it's a deal breaker, Haley." He said finally. Then he told me about how when everything was falling apart for him when I was a teenager, he took our border collie out into the country and abandoned her. "I just couldn't handle things anymore." Then he went to Pakistan. For three months. "I felt terrible about the dog the whole time I was over there, and when I came back, one of the first things I did was drive out to where I had left her. I got out of the car, left it running and looked around, and she came running out from the woods and jumped into the back seat of the car. As if I'd never been gone."

I went back again on Monday, but Ellie was gone. She'd been adopted. So good. I would have taken her, but I really didn't want to. And I was angry. For being put in the position of saving the dog.

"You don't have to rescue me," Jay said.

"You're not the one who needs rescuing."

That night, Jays says--"Guess what. Ellie got adopted. Did you do it?"

"No. I know."

"How do you know?"

"I went out there to see her."

"Me, too. I went out there to get her back."

"Well, good." I said. "All's well that ends well." Maybe he does need to be rescued. I'm still never giving him power of attorney.

Windmills

I'm supposed to go to Summerton with Jay today. He's got a film opening tonight. I decided not to go to the library this morning. I'm trying to download software (unsuccessfully so far) for my printer. It's taking forever.

One of the effects of the synthroid I just started taking is that at 5am I wake up wholly. No sleepiness, no cuddling the pillow. Up and out. I feel like I'm on fire. Bam. So up I went, took the damn little pill and, since I have to wait 30 minutes after taking it before I put anything in my stomach, sat zazen.

The sun rose while I was sitting. Purple and wine and gold. "Oh my goodness," I said, staring at it through the cobwebs framing my kitchen window, slurping my cafe con leche.

"I know!" Lilly yells from her bedroom. "It's wonderful."

"You're up?"

"I have to get to school early to finish my lab. I need every minute, mom. So we have to get out of here on time." She admonishes.

Back home, I decide to take a walk. I walk through the meandering black-topped streets of our neighborhood. It's overcast, but it's beautiful. The dogwoods are in bloom, they float like laughter. The redwoods line the streets, armfuls of lilacs. I love lilacs. When I was little, I used to climb out of the bathroom window at the lab school and sneak out and sit under the big lilac bushes in front and read. Hello, you've arrived, the lilacs say. You're on shore. You're safe. Welcome to life. Summer's coming. School will be out soon.

I walk through my old neighborhood, where I grew up. Down by the creek and over onto the trail they made out of the railroad tracks. It's the same walk I've taken for 35 years, rails or no. During my walk, on the way home, I become convinced that Jay is going to blow me off. He won't show up. What a bastard! I think. Four years and he just blows me off like this. I want to cry. But I won't, I tell myself. I'll just never ever speak to him again. I feel so wronged, so scorned as I walk. This beautiful spring--how could he treat me like this? The lilacs smell like regret now and betrayal.


April 23rd's a hard day for me. 3 years ago, Jay did break up with me on April 23rd. He just stopped calling. I didn't do anything. Just stopped speaking to him. "We need to talk" he said finally, after not calling for seven days. He left a message on my voicemail. "I'm just not ready for a relationship. When can we meet?" But I wouldn't meet him. Wouldn't return his calls Why talk about it? It was done. Then we ran into each other a few weeks later and started dating again as if nothing had ever happened. We never mentioned it. But, man, that was a hard three weeks.


That same day, an ex of mine, Lewis, someone I'd fallen really hard for, called. Out of the blue. "I have a new bike," he told me. "Want to try it out?" Well, of course. I'd been lying face down on the bed crying. It was colder on that April 23rd. But still just as beautiful. He showed up on this beautiful cherry red Victory motorcycle. I hadn't seen him in two years. I'd grown up with him. He's a few years younger than me. The fat kid. He's a detective now. We rode around all afternoon, barely speaking. Over the blacktops throughout the county. My fingers were numb after the ride. We sat on the rickety bench in my front yard under the redbud with him rubbing my hands between his, still not talking. While we were sitting there, my cat came running across the yard with a baby rabbit in its mouth. I yelped and rescued it. "What do I do?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "It's not going to make it." He said.

"It might make it."

"Always taking in strays, Haley," he said, shaking his head. Then he left. Last time I ever saw him.

On my walk today, I found a whole robin's egg in the gutter. I picked it up very carefully, cradling it in my hands to keep warm. Maybe there's a baby bird still in it! The rest of the walk was about the egg, warming it, wondering about whether it was possible to hatch it, worrying about not dropping it or breaking it. I stopped thinking about Jay, I just wanted to get the egg home. I stopped smelling the flowers or listening to the creek or noticing the spring.

Home, I found some old pantyhose, made a nest out of it, and put it on top of my Baldwin Acrosonic under a lamp.

Jay walked in the door. "What is that?"

"It's a robin's egg! I found it on my walk. Do you think it will hatch?"

"It might...what on earth are you going to do with a baby bird if it does? You have to feed them like every three minutes."

"I haven't thought that far. Carry it in my scrubs?"

He just laughs. "Did you know it's Cervantes' birthday today?"

Zazen on Wednesday

Seido Ronci says today, "One of my students has been blogging about me--called me the aged poet." He laughs. I mentally run through whatever entries I've made regarding Seido--and I don't think I've called him aged.

Nice to roost for a moment up there in the room, with the other students, hands in the mudra. This thing I do every day (almost) that is always the same.

I've pretty much given up.

Seido said something today--he quoted someone (I'm such a bad zen student--I can never remember who's who)--that when you do become enlightened, you will realize that you've been enlightened the whole time. That everything is and has been perfect just the way it is.

He is so scoured by Zen. He shines like coals in an alabaster bowl. I realize that I'm a little jealous of him, haven't really appreciated the gifts he brings to us. I show up, but I'm cranky and recalcitrant. I want attention. 26 years. It's still like library story hour when I was three. I can't sit still and I want to switch cushions and be the teacher's favorite. Teacher, teacher!

When he says this, I think about my patient with his brains on the pillow and his daughters weeping over him and don't think life is so perfect.

Life can be a horror, even for the good.

Lilly's back from her meeting at church. So...that's my 6 minutes.

Choices

It's Monday. I feel scourged.

Nick is trying to choose a college. He's narrowed down his choices to Sewanee and Loyola New Orleans. My father has sent me 7 emails encouraging me to help him pick a college. Duh. My parents have called three times today.

I had 4 patients over the weekend. One was a suicide. His family was mystified. Beautiful family. It came as a complete surprise. Hard not to hope. Fine line to walk. Sometimes he had responses, some times he didn't. His daughter would grasp onto these--"He's in there. Do you think he can hear me? Do you think there's hope? What would you do?"

I cop out of these questions when I can. When I can't, I stick to the truth.

"Have you seen injuries like this get better?"

"Yes." Well, I have. I had a patient whose brains would come out of his nose when I turned him. Unbelievably, he recovered. It's always amazing how much of your brain you can actually do without and not really notice. We would joke when we suctioned him and find grey matter on the pillow--"Oh, look at that...graduation..."

His sister takes me aside. "Please try not to give these girls any hope."

You try to keep yourself clear, open, present. It's hard.

"I'm so sorry," his sister told me at one point. "I'm sorry I tried to take over."

"Designer death," snorts Wiz. "Everyone wants control over everything. "

Wiz has taken a second job, he won't say where. He is clenched like a fist. Short. Exhausted. Noncommunicative and brutal when he is. No joking, no singing, no weird aphorisms or flights of philosophical soap-boxing. Work. He's checking off his tasks. He acts like a prisoner, like a cart horse.

"You have limits, too," I say to him, after Friday's shift.

"Thank you for your opinion." He says, giving me his back as he walks down the hall.

"Sauce for the goose."

"Go tell aunt Rhodie." He can't resist.

"Don't forget your medication tomorrow!" I call after him cheerfully.

He's a little better Saturday. At least he engages in banter. And he's nice to Marcy. I am submerged with my suicide.

Sunday, we have a care conference to discuss palliative and withdrawal of care. It's perfectly awful. I had a flat tire on the way to work, didn't get my cafe con leche. I also found out this week that I have some sort of growth on my thyroid I have to get biopsied. I worry about telling this to Jay. Somehow, I don't think he's the type for the long haul through sickness. My shrink disagreed with me on this point. "Look at his history," he pointed out. "the more screwed up you are, the better."

"How are you holding up?" Wiz asks me, Sunday.

Oh, good. He's back.

Someone leaves a funeral wreath in the ICU waiting room. One of our crazier family members goes screaming about this all the way to the CEO. It's our fault some lunatic leaves a funeral wreath? Now we're supposed to police the waiting room?

I admit a patient from a car accident. Miraculously all right. His buddy who was in the car with him walks out of the emergency room AMA and up into the unit. He has a gash on his head pouring blood and as he walks, you can see that his right leg is clearly broken, because the bone is torquing the skin. "I want to see Ed!" He screams. "I got to see Ed right fucking now."

"Could you please go back to the waiting room. You also might want to go back to the ER."

"I'm fine. Those fucking doctors don't know what they're doing. I want to see Ed." The same woman who screamed about the wreath screams about this, too. "He's upsetting people!" she tells Wiz. "Make him go to the doctor."

"I can't," Wiz tells her, holding her hands, "it's his choice. People make their own choices. He's not threatening anyone, and he has a friend here. If he becomes disruptive, we can call security, but otherwise, there's really nothing we can do."

"He's disrupting me!" She says.

The family decides to withdraw care. We page the palliative team. Everyone wants a piece of this death. The wife and daughters are under siege. Is there anyone out there who knows what it means to really support someone? There's a doctor in the family who goes on and on about what will happen when they remove the vent. There's a friend who keeps interrupting the wife and saying "What she's trying to say is..."

I'm so glad to get out of there. Finally the shift is over. And then at the end, one of the daughters says, "Will you be there, with him when they withdraw care?"

"I'm not working tomorrow." I tell them.

"Oh, that's too bad. Do you know who it will be?"

"No." Shit. So I went today. Put on my twin set and rode my bicycle over. The bike lock's rusted. Couldn't find socks. Is there anything that makes you feel more poverty stricken than not wearing socks? The crazy wife notices. "You're not wearing socks!" She says, pointing at my feet. I wonder if she'll complain about this, too.

"I know. My kids did the wash."

She laughs. "I have socks if you want them," she tells me.

That's my 1/2 hour.

Happy Tax Day

Tomorrow is tax day. I sent my cousin Sara a DVD of Milo and Otis.

Sara is a year younger than me. She's apparently having a nervous breakdown. My Aunt Esther, who lives in Seal Beach, in a house on beach tells my dad that this is worse than when she (Esther) had cancer and didn't know whether she would live or die. She says that Sara stands in the middle of the living room and sobs, for hours.

Esther is really an amazing person. After getting kicked out of Stephens College for inappropriate behavior, my nana, never one to admit defeat, pronounced her educated and sent her on a world tour. While circumnavigating, she met Stuart, a marine. They got married. Stuart was really good looking but a complete hick--from the Tennessee backwoods. Grew up without electricity and running water. My family, being the sniping pretentious pretenders they are predictably treated him like crap.

Stuart got even.

The only job he could get was as a gas station attendant. He worked and worked and worked. He bought the gas station. Then he worked and worked and worked. And bought another gas station. And another and another. He became a tycoon. He wore loose net shirts with big gold medallions nestled in his curly black chest hairs. He was a complete embarrassment and he could buy and sell every one of us. He and Esther had a good time, but unfortunately, Stuart was also having a good time at his office at the top of some LA High Rise. He hired pretty girls just to walk around naked and have sex with him--while he was at work! Then he fired his accountant--big mistake, because she drove right over to the house and told Esther all about it. Esther, distraught, took off to Kansas City to stay with me for a few days (I was 21). She took me out on the town--unfortunately, when it came time to pay the tab, we discovered Stuart had canceled all her credit cards and I had to pay our ginormous bill with the traveler's checks my mother had sewn into the waistband of my 501's.

They got divorced. Esther got 14 million dollars, which is ok. She married Ted, a sober decidedly unglamorous mechanical engineer who used to fly missions in Viet Nam. She finished her mental health degree and takes in disadvantaged children to foster. She also ran the guardian ad litem program. She became a mennonite. She is the most tanned, surgically altered, millionaire California girl mennonite ever. But she's so sincere and good.

So Sara. Her daughter. My cousin.

Sara was a physical therapist. She made great money. She was good at it. She has the best sense of humor--sly and dark. When I got divorced, she came down to Florida to keep me company. Worked as a traveler. Went to kickboxing with me when I was in love with my teacher and he'd rejected me and I was too proud to stop going (what an idiot. I should have stopped going. I didn't want him to think I had feelings for him.) Drove all the way from Fort Lauderdale every Saturday afternoon to do this! Then we had a fight over something silly. I can't remember what it was, and we stopped speaking. Xavier. She wasn't very nice to Xavier. Some other stuff,too, I think. I guess if I can't remember, it must not have been that important.

She went back to LA. Had a bad relationship. Quit physical therapy and became a teacher in an inner city junior high. She won best teacher her first year there. She was a great teacher, but she wanted to get married. She joined an online dating service, met a geologist and married and had three kids with him. They live in a house by the redwoods. Except something went wrong, and she packed up and left him and the kids and is now standing in my aunt's living room, sobbing. She says she doesn't know how to be a mother.

When we had our fight, after not speaking for a few months, I sent her a happy tax day card and we started getting along again. So, for the next 10 years or so, instead of a Christmas card, we would send each other Happy Tax Day cards. Then our lives got crazy--well, then she got married. She bought the kids a VHS of Milo and Otis, so, there it was at Gerbes--that's my 1/2 hour.

Gifts

Nick didn't get into Dartmouth.

But he got into Sewanee! And Loyola New Orleans! Big stuff. Unimaginable changes. What will we do without him? He's happy. He has a girlfriend who loves him and he's the district champion in Lincoln/Douglas Debate.

I'm not really surprised. He had the scores but not the grades.

Lilly went to Italy over spring break. She took 1029 pictures. She showed me all of them. They are all good. It's funny about Italy--any shot which includes the Pantheon is automatically a good shot. Very few pictures of her. 4 or 5 of her, standing in front of a fountain, looking out to the sea in Capri, hands in the pocket of her navy raincoat, auburn hair blowing around her face. Looking solemn and bemused and happy. A traveler. She told me people kept thinking she was Italian, and that only one Italian boy flirted with her. She sounded a little disappointed.

She brought us all presents--spent all the Euros, which she wasn't supposed to do--they were for emergencies, but, oh well. I now have beautiful red kid leather driving gloves and a cameo.

The cameo is of a mother and two little children standing by the sea. The mother is wearing a big hat. "See," Lilly said, "It's supposed to be you."

She also gained 4 pounds. Which made me ecstatic. "Maybe" I said, "you'll have to keep taking regular trips to Italy! Can they write a prescription for that?"

She didn't think it was funny. I always screw up. Now that the weight is finally coming back on, she's getting nervous again.

"Don't tell me I look healthy," she tells me in the car on the way back from the doctor's office. "Healthy means fat. Don't tell me anything. Are they going to let me get fat? How do we stop if we gain too much?"

We.

"Okay, Lilly," I tell her. "By healthy, I mean that hospitalization is not imminent. Is that okay?"

"Better."

But she does look healthy. All that pasta and gelato!

Thank you, Italy.

I had a dream while she was gone. I dreamt that Lilly was about 11 again. For some reason, we were in the hospital, in our Sunday best. This housekeeper, Jan, was also in the dream. She was wearing church clothes, too, along with a little sky blue hat with a veil and a round gold pin on a matching blue skirt suit. The place was flooding--the whole town was flooding. And we were trying to escape. "We need to pray the rosary," Jan said. So, in the dream, I started praying the rosary. Jan and Lilly joined me. We took turns saying hail marys. Then I woke up.

One of the things I don't even try to reconcile with my zen practice is my love of the Virgin Mary. My practice has been constant for the last 26 years, my marianism is sporadic, like a rain storm. I go a few weeks or months lighting candles and praying the rosary, then it dies down.
Our Lady of Charity is the Mary I got to know in Miami. Cobre de caridad. I used to have a candle lit to her all the time.

I think she appeared to me once. But I'm not sure. That's another story. That's my 1/2 hour.