Sunday, June 14, 2015

Why I Cut My Hair

If you have ever seen me or met me, or if you’ve ever seen a picture of me, you know that my hair has always been long.  That might not be the first adjective that comes to your mind, but it’s probably one of them.  In recent years, more colorful adjectives have been used to describe my hair, such as “stringy” and “coarse”.  I complained of this texture to my doctor—what a difficult job this woman has, keeping me healthy—and she patted my knee.  “The hormones are leaving your body,” she said sympathetically.

I have no memory of hair care before the age of ten; up to that time, my mother was in charge, and she kept my hair short.  After that, however, one of us decided that my hair should be long, so my fourth grade picture shows me in barrettes, and my fifth grade picture features my first ponytail.  In sixth grade—1980 to be exact—all the girls were getting “layers”.  I had no understanding of “layers” as they pertained to hair; I knew we sometimes wore layers of clothing, I knew about chocolate layer cake, but beyond that, everything in my world was apparently solid and indivisible.  As for hair, it was either long or short, straight or curly, and sometimes someone would have “bangs”, but bangs just came down over your forehead, and then the rest of your hair was either short or long.  There was also talk of “feathered hair”, which I understood that Scott Baio and Farrah Fawcett had, and that made sense because I could definitely see the “feathers”.  But how hair ended up looking like that was beyond me—I had never used a curling iron or hair spray, my older sisters were grown and gone, and my mother got perms.  Nevertheless, I  clearly remember the day I walked across town from our house to the hair salon with my mother’s money in my pocket for an appointment to get my hair cut like everybody else’s.  I didn’t know what kind of magic the haircut lady was going to do, and I was both excited and nervous.

I did not know what to ask for when I got to the salon that day.  My dark brown hair was long and straight, all the wave weighed down.  When the lady asked me how I wanted it, I’m sure I said something like, “Long in back, shorter in front.”  I probably said something about bangs, but probably not “layered” because again, since I could not see any layers on anybody’s head—wasn’t hair just hair?  A bunch of hair growing all at once out of your head?—I probably didn’t ask for them, or feathers either.  In truth, I don’t remember what I said or what I asked for.  I only remember trying to fix it the next day and ending up with what looked like two different hairstyles: short, parted down the middle and curled back in the front and on the sides, with two feet of long straight hair hanging down my back. 

This absolutely did not look like my friends’ hair at all.  Everybody else’s hair matched: the front blended into the back.  Nobody had sausage rolls of hair on their forehead, certainly not clumps over their ears like Bozo.  Even Bozo’s hair was at least uniform; mine was short and wavy in the front and on the sides, but long and straight in the back.  I was using a curling iron for the first time in my life; this was obvious to anyone who saw me.  No matter what I did, time and again I went to school with big floppy wings of hair coming off the front sides of my head, and a sheet of glossy dark hair hanging down my back.  I remember going downhill skiing with my sixth-grade class that year, and wearing a beanie hat pulled down over my forehead and ears.  When I took that hat off after coming inside the chalet the first time, my hair exploded—except for the two feet of long, shiny hair I’d kept in a ponytail.

I could write forever about trying to fix that particular haircut, how my hair finally grew or was cut so that the front blended into the back, how I finally got it right in time for my own perms and big hair and high school.  I could talk about being given a free zig-zag perm in college by a local chain salon in exchange for posing like a mannequin in the window, motionless, for four hours one Saturday afternoon at the mall.  That perm fried my hair so badly down to the roots that I took to snipping the crusty parts off the back, essentially reversing the first bad 6th grade haircut so that my hair grew long and glossy in front, but cropped and jagged in back.  I was about 21 when I finally developed a smooth cap of dark, shiny hair again—my mother’s long-lost Mexican boy-child returned from third grade—but this recovery was short-lived.  Soon I would move to Arizona where in 1991, the top layer of my hair started to burn off naturally.

And there was that word again: “layer”.  I knew by looking and could not deny that the top layer of my hair—the one that everybody could see—was light brown and crunchy, while the rest of my hair, the hair underneath, was soft and dark.  I felt that the sun must be doing this to me, but I couldn’t figure out how to fix it.  I kept my hair long and trimmed the ends constantly, in hopes that the icky outer stuff would grow out.  I conditioned the outside of my hair with expensive products, then with beer and eggs.  I slimed my hair with leave-in products, leaving it falsely shiny.  At home, I would gather together all the damaged hair on top and in the back and hold it to the side, just for a minute, to gaze upon the healthier, glossier hair underneath, always wondering why I couldn’t get all of my hair to grow like that, most especially on the outside.

And yes, there were times when people tried to help me.  My best friend from high school has tried to reason with me for thirty years to get a haircut—do something—but I always refused, saying I would when I could grow a full head of healthy hair.  Hair stylists have made suggestions and asked me what I wanted, but I’ve always said I like it long, so just a trim.  In this way, with some days better than others, years turned to decades and I continued to sport a dry, fuzzy, light-brown coating of outer hair on my head, hiding the fresh, wavy, dark-brown hair underneath.

But something changed this year.  Turning 47—the sketchy prime number between the evenness of 46 and 48—has made me bolder.  I had promised myself before the summer started that if my hair situation did not improve by summer’s end, all the unhealthy stuff was getting cut off before fall.  But 47 has also made me more impatient—there is no time to waste because the hormones are leaving my body—so out came the scissors again, the snip-snip of dead hair.  This time I wasn’t trying to remove 45 degree lightning bolts permed into two feet of long hair, a geometric afro; I was removing what amounted to a large worn-down Brillo pad.  I didn’t grab it and cut it off like one of my sisters kindly suggested I do a couple months ago back in Minnesota, right after she asked me if my feet could get any bigger; rather, I cut small pieces off the outside wherever I noticed crusty parts sticking out, much like if a child tried to cut a thousand splendid wads of gum from her hair.

Interestingly, I remained calm through this process, even optimistic, because I could see that underneath my pale, frizzy outer coating of hair there was quite a bit of smooth, dark, healthy hair.  This had always been the case, all the way through my life, but I had never figured out how to make it look like that on the outside.  I was determined not to give up or retreat this time, and I obviously wasn’t going to be able to wait until fall. 

Over the course of two days, I cut my own hair.  I would cut some in the morning, go about my day, then perch on the sink in the bathroom before bed, and cut some more.  At first, the hair that fell from my head was brittle and dry—the icky stuff—but soon, the hair I was cutting off was dark and rich.  I knew that was the good stuff, and I wanted to retain as much of that as possible.  It was time to see a professional.

The first hairdresser I saw was aghast.  “There are so many short layers!” she said.  I had no idea what she was talking about, so I asked her what she meant.  “Look,” she said, lifting a piece of hair off the top of my head with her thumb and index finger, like it was poop.  “This is so short, and this,” she picked up another piece of hair, “is twice as long.  It’s all different lengths.”  I still didn’t know if this was decidedly bad, or if I might still be commended for taking such a naughty risk.

“I just want my hair to look healthy,” I said.  “Do what you can to even it up.”

That first day at the salon, I learned what it means to have layered hair: you just get the top layer trimmed short and blended into the rest.  I learned that you shouldn’t try to cut the bumps out yourself because those bumps are where your curls curl and your waves wave.  I finally understood that for my first 46 years, what I wanted was long, layered hair, which nobody could ever give me because I always insisted that I didn’t want layers.  My personality is such that I’m sure I put the fear into hair cutters across America, sitting confident and smug in their chairs, laying down the law: cut my hair, but don’t cut it.  I had given stylists permission to trim the ends of my hair, but demanded they not touch the careful nest of tortured fibers on top and in back, for which I was forever waiting to grow out.  I owe apologies at Great Clips across the western states, and thanks to those stylists who I assume took the plunge and gave me layers anyway when I had insisted they not, leaving me with the two or three good hair months I’ve had in my lifetime.

I made four trips to the salon last week, interspersed between the little trims I continued to give myself at home, still oblivious to the physics of hair.  When all was said and done, I had a pixie, and I loved it. 

While there is a certain security in having long hair, like a baby with her blanket, unless you are a pilgrim baby who prefers coarse rugs made from buffalo hide, you would not have kept my long hair for as long as I did.  Why did I keep it that way?  Ignorance, stubbornness, and fear.  If someone ever suggested I cut my hair to frame my face, I paid no attention because obviously they didn’t realize how much my low-maintenance natural hairdo meant to me, even though it routinely took fifteen minutes every morning to simply get it under control.  A “frame” of hair would most certainly get in my eyes, too, so it was always out of the question.  I was loath to blow-dry, curl, or straighten my hair; I had to be steeled for a week with no electricity at a moment’s notice.  I could not risk having a hair style that looked funny when I removed my astronaut’s helmet.  I had to be Ms. Natural Hair U.S.A. even if it meant having the suckiest natural hair in the world.

So why did I finally cut it? 

I wanted hair that I could run my fingers through, like a man does when he’s frustrated.  I wanted to rake my hand through tousled locks and look rakish, not homeless.  I wanted to go to the gym and lift weights without having to look left or right every time I put my head against the bench because my hair clip was back there.  I wanted to do everything a regular guy does.

But the main reason I cut my hair is that I wanted my outsides to match my insides.  It was time.  I have long walked this planet looking disheveled, not quite sober, not quite insane.  I have tried to look presentable—to simply pass as someone who takes care of herself, who basically knows what she’s doing—knowing full well that if anyone could see my guts, they would be about as inspired as my surgeon was when my fatty liver photo-bombed my gall bladder during emergency surgery a few years back.

The hair I had—in all its scraggly length, hiding the shiny happy hair underneath—was a perfect match for feeling very messy on the inside. The bad hair was more tolerable when I was feeling dispirited, but now with my spirit up—floating midair, untethered, like a little girl at a magic show—only good hair will do.

And it’s not an illusion; it’s real.





Monday, May 25, 2015

Home for Good

It is morning time, just getting light; I’m still in bed.  My eyes are still closed when I hear a thud and the tinkling of glass close to my head.  I imagine that one of my cats must have knocked over a picture frame on the dresser, but since it’s over there and I’m over here, spooning with my oldest cat Sara, I don’t get up; we fall back asleep.  A short time later I wake again and look around: sure enough, there’s a broken glass on the carpet next to my bed and water pooled on the nightstand.  I move Sara, still in full-spoon position, to the other side of me, but before I can sit up and get all the covers off, a sharp pain stings my foot.  I yell and move my leg, but it seems like something is biting me—something that won’t let go.  What could be in my bed?  I rip back the covers and bring my foot as close to my nose as possible: there, sticking out of my heel, is a dagger of glass, a miniature icicle buried deep in the sand of my skin.  I howl a little more, then slide the glass out; I look at the mess of broken glass on the carpet, hoping my other cats had the sense to stay away from it.  I half-sit on my mattress, leaning down to pick up the larger pieces when I notice dark spots on the carpet nearby.  I finally turn on a light and see that blood is dripping down my foot and pooling on the carpet underneath.  I grab a t-shirt as a compress and hop into the bathroom, where I am soon cleaned up and bandaged.  I return to the bedroom, blot the blood and spray the stains, pick up the rest of the glass, throw it out, vacuum, then strip the bed and take the sheets out front to shake them.  It is 6 a.m. 

I make coffee and wonder if my foot injury will prevent me from working outside later; I have ten tons of crushed granite piled in the driveway that needs to be spread evenly over my 4000 square foot yard.  The whack I gave myself across the forearm a couple weeks ago with the sharp side of my saw resulted in a trip to Urgent Care and a tetanus shot, so at least I don’t have to worry about lockjaw.  I stand at the open front door, looking out; I bounce up and down a few times on my toes, coming down firmly on my heels, especially the punctured one; it doesn’t hurt that much.  I’m sure that many people far worse off than me practically forget about smaller aches and pains when really big ones come along.  Slaves come to mind, then soldiers, then I turn to something else before I make too big of a deal out of nothing again.

Four hours later I am standing in my back yard surrounded by mounds of crushed granite.  I have worked out a deal with my neighbor, Nabe: for a reasonable sum, he will use a shovel and a wheelbarrow to dismantle the huge pile of rock in my driveway, distributing it throughout my property.  My job is spreading the rock with my hoe.  Nabe is wearing ear buds and singing, hardly breaking a sweat and not getting dirty.  He occasionally switches from listening to music to chatting with friends, responding kindly to questions and gently offering his wisdoms as he dumps load after load and returns for more.  I am smudged with red dust and streaks of sweat where I have scratched at new mosquito bites; I’m sunburned and bruised; there are ants on my ankles and rocks in my shoes.  I suck down warm water from a plastic bottle covered in bits of gravel; Nabe’s roommate drives to Circle K to get them each a fountain drink.  I am asked if I would like one, but I stick with the warm water; it’s more in keeping with my pioneer mania.  I veer in and out of foliage, spreading the granite with my hoe and feet, occasionally washed over with waves of remorse for chopping down my oleanders an entire month after prime pruning time.  If they were children, they would be taken from me.  I push gravel up next to a flower bed and notice a beautiful moth I raked to death last week, its body still perfect, its wings crushed and bent.

The idea of living in this house for the rest of my life—as in, not planning to move anywhere else and calling this house and this yard my home for good—is finally sounding right to me.  That’s my mailbox out front where the IRS can always find me; that’s my female Brazilian Pepper, considered a nuisance tree in Florida; that’s my fruitless olive, the one with all the fruit.  This is my tenth year here, and on my sentimental days, when life seems better than good, I start feeling like I should commit to this place, like we’ve been together for so long that we might as well make it official.  I dally in one of the far corners of my yard where a bush I neglected for years is now high-fiveing the breeze with a few red blooms.  I admire the way the small bushy part sits on top of the many bare stalks, a green afro with delicate red blossoms.  This is not in any way what the bush is supposed to look like, but this is what it has become under my care, the sun and the water I was able to arrange for it when the need crossed my mind.

My back begins to send out warning signals, so I prop my hoe against the house, brush off, and head to the patio door.  I’ve locked myself out again, so I walk around to the front, where the garage door stands open.  Nabe is in the driveway, shoveling more rock into the wheelbarrow.  He has noticed that the piles he was making for me earlier were too big, necessitating my use of another shovel to break them down further before using my hoe.  I watch as he pushes what must be 200 pounds of gravel across the yard, tips the wheelbarrow, and makes his initial deposit.  Then he pulls it back and tilts it again; he repeats this three times to make three easily spreadable small mounds.  He smiles at me on his way back for another load.  “Teamwork, right?”  he says.  I smile and nod.  Nabe has been on my team for ten years.  We’ve seen each other at our worst.  We are finally at our best.


I tell him I’m hanging it up for the day; he stays to work a little longer.  I head inside and close the front blinds so I can peel my clothes off immediately.  I dump them all in the washer on my way down the hall, including one bloody sock.  I’d forgotten about the glass.  I’d forgotten about hurting myself at all.


Monday, May 11, 2015

When a Semester Ends


A colleague retires and I talk to a guy at the party who I haven’t seen in forever, who mentions the name of another guy who used to be married to an old friend of mine who committed suicide about twenty years ago.  She was a teacher too, and one of the last things we talked about on the phone was getting our cars fixed over the summer with new used tires before all the driving we’d have to do in the fall.  
 
In the morning I start spring cleaning and find a four and a half month old piece of cat poop under the cats’ bed—sorry about that—and notice I must be in better shape because I spring up from the floor, poop in hand, in about one second, as compared to the many seconds it might have taken me in January.  I do a couple pull-ups on the Iron Gym bar I’ve been hanging laundry on.  

I listen to voice messages on my home phone for the first time in weeks.  A woman named Christy tells me I’m in trouble with the IRS.  I call Christy’s number and someone picks up immediately, a man with a thick accent.  He says something about a felony; I tell him I can’t understand what he’s saying. He gets upset and warns me about the trouble I’m in; I tell him to mail me something official.  He starts telling me that this is business that can’t be conducted through the mail. I hang up on him, and turn around to open other bills in envelopes.

I drive to meet a former student for coffee and wish I could be friends with all my former students, that my existence did not mean something negative for six thousand people.  I give myself the drive to think about yesterday, the last day of school, when I finally talked to that girl.  I should have talked to her sooner.  I need to order new business cards.  I need to buy candy.  My 2001 Hyundai Sonata moans its way into the parking lot in front of Starbucks, groaning like a wounded elephant as I turn the wheel.  It’s on the list.

I go home and put my winter shoes away, keeping the sandals and heels out.  One of my sisters tried to wear my shoes when I went home last month. “Oh, that’s right,” she said as she slipped one of them on, and then quickly slipped it off, “you have big feet.”  La la la.

I make my bed and stand back, eyeing the bloodstains here and there, the one jagged rip I have folded together and stapled.  My cats and I have been living much of our lives on this bed for twelve years, a fact that I conveyed to my brother on the telephone yesterday, to which he responded with several horror stories about why mattresses weigh so much more after you’ve owned them for a few years.  I will buy a new mattress this summer, and new pillows too, but for now I will put these fresh sheets onto my five million pound teeming bed. I glance out the window and am reminded that my decorative gravel needs to be replenished.  On the phone with my brother again, he advises me against moving 20 tons of crushed granite from the street into my yard with my wheel barrow.  I’ll be on the phone with him a lot this summer.  I’ll go to see him.

I end the day with a sunburn across my shoulders, a new tetanus shot and a saw bite out of my left arm from the saw I was using to remove a mesquite limb.  Urgent Care isn’t busy on Mother’s Day, so I am in and out.  I go to the gym and walk on the treadmill, my usual workout truncated.  I punish myself by only buying sugar-free ice cream at the health food store; I feel sorry for myself and buy pistachios too.

I watch the sun set through the leaves and branches of the trees that I have planted on my own land here in my own neighborhood, noticing now that the mesquite limb is gone that one of my other trees is leaning precariously close to the neighbor’s house, and another limb is growing precariously towards my own roof.  

I have no excuse for not calling somebody to come and take a look at all this, somebody professional.






Sunday, May 3, 2015

Convalescence

The neighbors’ dog had been barking for hours, through supper and kitchen clean-up, through the pictures we took of my nephew and his prom date, through the opening of my mother’s birthday presents, the sharing of her birthday cake, and the massaging of parental feet. Nighttime medications had been consumed and nightclothes donned—my father happy with his potpourri of sherbet, chocolate brownie and pumpkin bar in a bowl, my mother with her black jellybeans—and still the dog barked, all the way through the world news.  The dog barked as I helped my parents to their separate beds, as I pulled their doors closed behind me, but not all the way—and kept barking as I pulled out the sleeper couch, made my bed for the night, and opened the front door for some fresh air.  Of course, then the barking was louder.

If I would have been at my own house in Arizona and this was my own neighbors’ dog, I probably would have gone to investigate.  I might have left a nice note, in hopes for a better tomorrow, then I would have walked backed home, stuck in my ear plugs, and gone to sleep.  I might have ignored the situation altogether if I only had four and a half hours to sleep anyway before getting up at 3:30 a.m. to catch a flight.  But since I was in Minnesota and my parents had complained about this dog before, I pushed the screen door open and walked in my bare feet down their front walk, across the boulevard, across the street, and up to the neighbors’ house, where a very nice dog was tied to the porch railing, barking.

“Hi,” I said, and we played together in the front yard for a few minutes before I climbed the front steps and knocked.  There were lights on inside and other signs of life, so I hoped I would have the opportunity to let the owners know in a cheerful way that their dog had been barking all evening and all night, and while I hated to complain, I was hoping that they could take the dog in so my elderly parents could get some rest, thank you so much.  That was my plan.

I knocked on the door and waited, but nobody came.  I tried the bell, but it didn’t work.  I knocked again, a little more assertively, but there was still no movement in the house—I could see that plainly through the front windows.  I balled up my fist and banged on the front door like a police officer might.  I did that twice.  Nothing was happening, so I turned around and looked at the dog.  I glanced across the street to my parents’ house, glowing its peaceful glow. Then I untied the dog’s rope from the railing, opened the front door, and put him inside, rope and all.

I walked quickly down the porch steps and across the neighbors’ lawn, already wondering what I could do to make the situation right if the dog decided to defecate inside the house, or worse, pee and poop everywhere, and then rip all the furniture to shreds.  That’s what dogs do, right?  I mean, that dog was outside for a reason while his owners were gone.  What if he ate something out of the garbage and got sick?  What if his rope got tangled and he choked to death?  Where were all the coping skills I had learned in rehab?  My left thumbnail was still growing out from where another patient’s seeing-eye dog had accidentally bit me when I was roughhousing with him on the basketball court, the black spot a constant reminder of where I had been, and why, and why life was going so well now.  I knew better than to act on impulse like that, had known it was wrong as I was doing it.  I thought briefly about going back and at least taking the dog’s rope off, but it was too late.  I would only make it worse by returning and getting more fingerprints everywhere. 

I brushed off my feet before opening the screen door to my parents’ house, and stepped inside.  My mother stood on the other side of the pull-out couch in her floral nighty.  This could easily have been a Saturday night thirty years ago: me tumbling in drunk with mud on my shoes, her waiting for me on the couch before turning on all the lights with one flip of a switch.  Tonight, though, I wasn’t drunk, and she wasn’t in the dark.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“At the neighbors’,” I said.  “Their dog was barking.”

“Well, I certainly hope you didn’t raise a ruckus because we have to live here,” she said.

“No, it was fine,” I said. “I just asked if they could take the dog in because he was barking, and they said okay.  Don’t worry, we do this all the time in Arizona.  People are always nice about it.”

This lie made itself up and came out of my mouth without any effort on my part.  When she asked who answered the door, I hesitated only slightly before answering, “A young man.”  She nodded and said a man’s name.  I nodded too.

I got my mother’s walker—she is forever without it because she’s not used to having it yet—and helped her back to bed.  I walked through my parents’ little house and triple-checked all the windows and doors.  I stood by my dad’s bed for a minute, making sure he was breathing, and finally slipped under the covers on the pull-out.  In three hours I would be up and gone, long before my parents awoke.  What would they do without me, I worried.  How would I protect them?






Sunday, February 22, 2015

The Nausea Diaries


I have never liked the word “nausea” because I can never remember how to pronounce it.  When I first learned that “nauseous” could be pronounced two different ways, I assumed that all the nausea words were like that.  Of course I was wrong, as I discovered in my ensuing life of mispronouncement, so when I was in my twenties, I stopped using “nausea” and all of its derivatives except “nauseated”.  Nauseated I could remember.  I’m very good at using “nauseated” in spoken sentences that I intentionally structure to accommodate it.  “I’m feeling nauseated,” I will say, never nauseous, nor do I ever simply have nausea.  I am always nauseated.

I sit in an exam room at my doctor’s office, thinking these thoughts as I wait for her to come in.  I wonder if I should mention the most recent waves of ickiness that have been roiling invisibly under my rib cage, but decide that various inflammations, the exodus of my hormones, and weak blood is enough for this time.  I decide not to bring up the urge to tiny-vomit in the shower before work, or the same feeling at the gym after hummus for lunch.  I don’t mention feeling nauseated on an empty stomach before dinner, or waking up at night desirous of retching, but physically not being ready.  I am sure that everyone must feel like I do at least some of the time.

Later at the gym, I am lifting weights when an unsettling squeamish feeling wafts through my abdomen.  After sitting on the bench for awhile, I know I’m not going to puke because my mouth isn’t watering, but still the feeling grips my jaw and sends yellow signals up my throat, a warning.  I leave the weight room and go to the treadmills to walk out one more calorie than yesterday, my own private challenge.

It’s Silver Sneakers Day and there are elderly people here and there.  There’s an older gentleman walking on a treadmill to my left, an older gentleman on a weight machine in front of me, and another man down the right on a cycle.  There are younger men and of course several women around too, but the three older men stand out because they are all regulars, and they are all so different.  One always reminds me of my dad because he has two big tattoos, one on each forearm.  So does my dad; he got them in the Navy sixty years ago.  I remember when I was a kid, I would see sleeveless men without tattoos and think less of them—their arms weren’t finished yet.

I look up at the overhanging TVs and it’s news time.  Images from the Syrian beheadings video are being broadcasted again, with newscasters talking, but the sound is muted.  I see the spoken words show up on the screen all garbled; if there was ever a profession that needed me, closed-captioning is it.  I try to understand what is really being said.  I know that these men were mainly in Syria looking for work.  In one shot from the video, they are standing in a line on the beach, some pushed halfway onto their knees.  A thought crosses my mind: They don’t look too thin.

I look down the line of men, at the ones in orange jumpsuits already kneeling in the sand.  I wonder what could have been going through their minds, and what would go through mine.  Would the mother who lives inside me tell me I was going to be fine, that I would be free in just minutes?  That I just had to hang on?  Would the insides of me scream so that the mother inside would become frightened too?  The lingering yellow feeling swirls in my belly and presses against my throat, causing a new wave of sweat.  I give up trying to walk.

In my car on the way home, I chastise myself for wondering what the beheaded men in orange jumpsuits were being fed during their captivity.  I decide to start keeping a nausea diary.  I will force myself to remember how “nausea” is pronounced so I can take my diary to the doctor next time and tell her exactly what was happening before each episode hit.  I can at least do that. 

I want to be able to communicate intelligently about what makes me sick.


Tuesday, December 16, 2014

A Story Runs Through It


I lost my brother-in-law in September, a few weeks after Robin Williams in approximately the same way.  For me, that caused a lot of turned-down glances, some grabbing of the face, the cutting of my hair.  It was like everything slowed down and I wanted to avert my eyes from my own life, like it couldn’t have happened at all.  Noises became too loud.

From then to now, there has been a spiral in my spirits, but I have plans to fix myself.  “My biggest apprehension,” I say to a sibling over the phone, “is spending time working on myself, and not getting any better.”

“I totally understand,” she says. “Why go through all the damn work if you’re doomed from the start.”

In this lively, supportive, and convivial manner, my sister and I catch up.  We exchange and compare our news items as they have come to us over the week: our moods, our other siblings, our parents, the newest grandchild, the weather.

“Well, you sound more up,” my sister finally says, after an hour.

“Thanks,” I say. “Happy birthday, a day late.”

*

If one more person dies or another relationship blows up in the near vicinity of me this year, I’m not sure I would be able to take that.  My mom e-mails that my oldest cousin is in the hospital with intestinal blockage.  I get my brother on the phone and we talk about how rotten it would be if another one of us gets cancer.  But that’s all there’s left to do, if we’re counting numbers and keeping track.  It’s going to be one after the other, one thing after the next.

I talk to a high school girlfriend I haven’t seen in months, since I’m going away soon myself and want to keep in touch.  I tell her the story of my brother-in-law’s death, me still sitting catatonically on the couch like it happened yesterday, her on the phone like it couldn’t have happened at all. 

“No, no, no,” she says.  I imagine her eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s what I thought,” I say.  We sit in steady silence, telepathically understanding one another.  It is the most relief I’ve gotten out of life in a year.

I sit with my eyes swimming in tears, taking those deep breaths you take before jumping out of a plane, or saying a permanent goodbye.  There isn’t anyone to talk to because I have talked to everyone already.  



Thursday, December 4, 2014

Kill Me Softly


Now that so many bad things have happened, all my good jokes have been taken away from me.  Can’t talk about death anymore.  Can’t talk about loss.  Can’t sound too negative.  This would make the entire situation worse.

My sister says to me on the phone, “Write something funny!  You always sound so sad or drunk!”  I Elmo myself on the couch with my phone in my hand, once again wishing that someone somewhere would recognize my speech impediment. 

"Well there’s nothing funny to write about anymore,” I burp, slurping down my ninth martini and eating pot like it was Kellogg’s.  “And I personally don’t want to slip up anymore.”

My sister does her dangling-love thing through the phone wires and I respond accordingly.  We kind of know how to deal with one another, but she has more experience than I do because she’s older.  The last thing we want to do is upset our parents.  We would not want to do that.  It is an idea that is drummed into my mind.

I try to think of a funny thing.  I can’t.

*
I sit around and abuse my cats with too much photography.  When the youngest was maybe 12 hours old and I had no idea how to raise or feed him, the shelter-lady who came over for free said, “They don’t like it when you take pictures.  Wait for his eyes to open.”

I hate to be cautioned. 

I pretty much knew I could get my kitten through the early stages.  I ordered the shelter-lady out of my house and proceeded to nipple-feed for two years.  I took wildly flagrant photos of my baby, despite the ill will it would bring to his health. 

I couldn't help myself.

*
Good things are happening, but who wants to hear about the good things.  Who wants to know that my garden is growing.  Who wants to hear the story of when and how I learned to type.  Who needs to be reminded of the heavy strength of a big dog sleeping next to you in the night.

I continue to search for something funny, mining my best Steve Martin lines, my best David Sedaris impersonations.  I cannot find the humor within me.  “Let me try this one on you,” I say to my patient sister on the phone.

“Go ahead,” she says.

“It’s more like a poem,” I say.

“Just read it,” she says.  I already feel arrested.

I love you so much and I have never stopped loving you
not through the spring of absence, not through the summer of wine,
not through the fall of another man. Seeing you now makes me sit up taller,
but my spine straightens and my shoulders go back like this is round four
and I have to win. I check my collar bone to see if I have enough meat on it.
I pull up my sleeves, but I end up taking off my dress.

I finish reading and we wait for a few kindly moments.

“Is that it?” my sister says.

“Yup,” I say.

“Are you alright?” she says.

“Yes.”


We sit there and resonate with one another over the great losses.  We agree that these things can’t bring us down.