It's hard to look around this house and think that I can really pull any of this out of the hat.
It rains. The water comes in the basement. The dogs get out of the laundry room, pee on the carpet. They pee on the carpet whether they've been out or not. They need to be bathed. They need to be groomed. Nothing in this house is the way I want it. It's not a shelter, it's a burden.
It rains, the water comes in the basement. We put down towels. We think we've got it, but then we find where we missed it, where something has come through--soaked the christmas wrapping paper I was saving, soaked one of the window curtains. Dirty water. Filtered through the soil. I know there are things I need to do to the house to keep this from happening, but I can't. That's the money for Nick's college.
Money, money, money, money. I wish I could stop minding about it, but I can't.
Money, money, money, money. Time, time, time, time. It's 8:24. The day's lost already. I spent yesterday in the City. I went to see a doctor there about my thyroid. He practices energy medicine. He had me hold two copper wands hooked up to some sort of machine that looked like an old HAM radio and told me from this that I had parasites. Okay, he did more than that. 500 dollars. Which I don't have. I felt like I did when that fortune teller in Phoenix told me there was a shadow on my life, created by someone who should have wished me well, but in actuality didn't (my mother?) and that it would cost $350 for her to go into the mountains and burn candles for me for 10 days. You know you've entered crazy land, but you can't get out in case they're right.
I'm going back in 3 weeks. They wanted to do a hair test and an ELISA, which was actually the only reasonable diagnostic in there. I said, "next time." I'm mad at myself. I was finally getting out of debt.
I also didn't go to my Dartmouth reunion. I went to Jay's video premiere instead--so I couldn't take off two weeks in a row. And now he's probably in Springfield running around with that 28 year-old bartender who gave him her phone number right in front of me. (I love it when women do that. Bitch. What are you supposed to do? They do it all friendly-like. And they fake-include you in the invitation--except they don't give their phone number to you, do they? They give it to your boyfriend! "Hey--good to see you guys--call me next time you guys are down here, we can hang out. Here's my phone number." Amazing. And if you say something like, "umm, did you just give my BOYFRIEND your PHONE NUMBER?" you're like, a jealous bitch.)
So, here's where I'm at: Nick's going to college. I'm paying for it with grad school loans, essentially. It's either that or work overtime. I could just work a shit load of overtime and do it, but then I won't have anything to show for it. I work as hard (though, admittedly, not physically) at school. But if I get my masters, I can get a better, higher paying job (I think, I hope. Probably yes.) Since I'm working so hard, I can't clean the house. Because, literally, I get up in the morning, siz zazen, and then sit at my computer, with a break for yoga or swimming. My children sort of clean the house. But not really.
It might be easier if I could get married. Financially. But Jay is not ready to get married because Jay is all busy regretting his youth and screwed up over his crazy daughter and, too, his ex is too involved in his life. He's abandoning pets and forgetting to pay utility bills and I think he's about maxed.
I'm also worried about getting sick. My thyroid is still doing it's business, but my antibodies have tripled. I'm getting tired more easily. If my energy goes, the whole edifice crumbles. So I have to spend the money to figure this out. Because the regular doctors aren't fixing it.
Oh, well. I guess I'll figure it out somehow. I'm going to go sit zazen now. As you can probably tell from this entry, I skipped it this morning.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Red Potato Salad Recipe
Oh, they're all gone...thank goodness. Back to normal old stress. Money worries, boy/girl stuff, school....hooray!
Nick's father and his wife came for the graduation. I didn't let them in the house. It's not as bad as it sounds. I took them out to dinner and stuff, but I couldn't open up my house to them for some reason. Well, for one thing, I hadn't cleaned it, and Joy's a clean freak. One of the big issues in our marriage was my slovenliness, and I just couldn't stand the idea of them being in my little nest exchanging glances with each other. So they never got to come in. I think it's fair: no child support, no entry over the threshhold.
Jay came through like a trooper. He hosted a picnic at his house for EVERYBODY. Ex, Nick's girlfriend, her parents, Lilly's friends and their parents. He stood at the grill, valiantly serving up burgers. We cooked an unbelievable amount of food--and I came up with a wonderful impromptu potato salad recipe:
Here it is:
5 pounds of red potatoes
2 tablespoons of minced garlic
Garlic salt
4 hard boiled eggs
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup vegetable oil (don't use olive)
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Fresh thyme--generous handful-chopped
Fresh oregano-1/4 cup--chopped
a few leaves of basil.
Cut the potatoes into quarters, leave the skins on. Boil in salted water until cooked but not mushy (10-15 minutes)
Drain the potatoes, put in a big bowl.
Chop the eggs and add to the potatoes, mix together.
Mix the oil and vinegar together with the minced garlic, whisk, pour over potatoes and eggs and toss.
Add the herbs last and toss. Sprinkle with garlic salt. You're done! Every last bit of it was consumed.
It was a little awkward, but I kept everybody liquored up. My yoga teacher, Sierra,showed up, channeling the chaotic righteous and bawdy aspects of the goddess. She's lost a lot of weight, has managed to tan to a dark caramel, and brought her own plastic bottle filled with gin and lemonade. She said "fuck" a lot, which shocked Joy and my ex, but not too much. I think Joy really had a good time. She told me she wants to become a nurse. She's recently had her breasts enlarged. She ran through the fields like a child, picking chamomile and chasing fireflies. She really seemed relaxed and happy to be here. Well, bless her. My ex sat there like the dark little child he is, embattled, controlling himself. Forever controlling himself. Emanating displeasure. I remember when that would make me just quake. Does that happen to Joy? What on earth made him so mad? What on earth has been so bad for him? Jay made only one little dig which I think went unnoticed.
But we started talking, late in the evening, all of us, about our children when they were babies--and we started talking about Nick's first pediatrician, Dr. Chastain. Patrick got up and did a perfect imitation of him, which had the table rocking in their seats with laughter. Dr. Chastain was from New Orleans, class of '35. And a wonderful doctor--hardly ever used antibiotics, believed in enemas and nasal cleansing--had his own patent on something you hooked up to your faucet. Kept Nick well, until Lilly came along and we had to go into the network in order to get the correct referrals for all her surgeries. And I realized something--I think I've mentioned that I've always had trouble remembering my children when they were little. I remember almost nothing from that period of their life, but Sunday night, it all came rushing back to me and I realized that the reason I couldn't remember was because I'd shut off my memories of the pain of my marriage. And I realized that, you know, I think I did love my husband, and losing him wasn't easy. He was mean, and after a lot of therapy, I realized that he was bad for me, and I think I thought that meant that all the warm feelings I felt for him were wrong. But they weren't. They were real. They just were. It's just what it was.
The children ran through the fields, putting fireflies in a jar, and we all sat under the stars telling stories about the children we'd reared to adulthood, linked in love. Love we'd given and made, children conceived, born and raised in love. However fragmented and imperfect. Still the same water.
Nick's father and his wife came for the graduation. I didn't let them in the house. It's not as bad as it sounds. I took them out to dinner and stuff, but I couldn't open up my house to them for some reason. Well, for one thing, I hadn't cleaned it, and Joy's a clean freak. One of the big issues in our marriage was my slovenliness, and I just couldn't stand the idea of them being in my little nest exchanging glances with each other. So they never got to come in. I think it's fair: no child support, no entry over the threshhold.
Jay came through like a trooper. He hosted a picnic at his house for EVERYBODY. Ex, Nick's girlfriend, her parents, Lilly's friends and their parents. He stood at the grill, valiantly serving up burgers. We cooked an unbelievable amount of food--and I came up with a wonderful impromptu potato salad recipe:
Here it is:
5 pounds of red potatoes
2 tablespoons of minced garlic
Garlic salt
4 hard boiled eggs
1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup vegetable oil (don't use olive)
1/4 cup mayonnaise
Fresh thyme--generous handful-chopped
Fresh oregano-1/4 cup--chopped
a few leaves of basil.
Cut the potatoes into quarters, leave the skins on. Boil in salted water until cooked but not mushy (10-15 minutes)
Drain the potatoes, put in a big bowl.
Chop the eggs and add to the potatoes, mix together.
Mix the oil and vinegar together with the minced garlic, whisk, pour over potatoes and eggs and toss.
Add the herbs last and toss. Sprinkle with garlic salt. You're done! Every last bit of it was consumed.
It was a little awkward, but I kept everybody liquored up. My yoga teacher, Sierra,showed up, channeling the chaotic righteous and bawdy aspects of the goddess. She's lost a lot of weight, has managed to tan to a dark caramel, and brought her own plastic bottle filled with gin and lemonade. She said "fuck" a lot, which shocked Joy and my ex, but not too much. I think Joy really had a good time. She told me she wants to become a nurse. She's recently had her breasts enlarged. She ran through the fields like a child, picking chamomile and chasing fireflies. She really seemed relaxed and happy to be here. Well, bless her. My ex sat there like the dark little child he is, embattled, controlling himself. Forever controlling himself. Emanating displeasure. I remember when that would make me just quake. Does that happen to Joy? What on earth made him so mad? What on earth has been so bad for him? Jay made only one little dig which I think went unnoticed.
But we started talking, late in the evening, all of us, about our children when they were babies--and we started talking about Nick's first pediatrician, Dr. Chastain. Patrick got up and did a perfect imitation of him, which had the table rocking in their seats with laughter. Dr. Chastain was from New Orleans, class of '35. And a wonderful doctor--hardly ever used antibiotics, believed in enemas and nasal cleansing--had his own patent on something you hooked up to your faucet. Kept Nick well, until Lilly came along and we had to go into the network in order to get the correct referrals for all her surgeries. And I realized something--I think I've mentioned that I've always had trouble remembering my children when they were little. I remember almost nothing from that period of their life, but Sunday night, it all came rushing back to me and I realized that the reason I couldn't remember was because I'd shut off my memories of the pain of my marriage. And I realized that, you know, I think I did love my husband, and losing him wasn't easy. He was mean, and after a lot of therapy, I realized that he was bad for me, and I think I thought that meant that all the warm feelings I felt for him were wrong. But they weren't. They were real. They just were. It's just what it was.
The children ran through the fields, putting fireflies in a jar, and we all sat under the stars telling stories about the children we'd reared to adulthood, linked in love. Love we'd given and made, children conceived, born and raised in love. However fragmented and imperfect. Still the same water.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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.
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?"
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
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.
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