The Impossibility of Television

There is nothing I can watch any more.

I lie on the couch, unable to concentrate on anything longer than a Billy Collins poem.  Novels are beyond my abilities.  Where once I was able to drift along with the story line, becoming the characters, feeling their slippery shoes on an icy path, now my mind begins to wander before I turn the first page.  Sometimes I just drift into a nothing-ness of hikes gone by, flowers photographed up close and personal, road trips with the Cuters.  Sometimes I wind up in a much darker space.  Either way, neither way is conducive to finishing something longer than a page and a half. Long blog posts are beyond me as well.  Anything which requires thinking is a major stretch.

There is music all around me.  Friends and teachers and strangers and relatives have sent cd's created just especially for me.  For weeks, they sat stacked one atop the other near the stereo (how dated is that?!) blending their mixes one to another.  TBG grew tired of the clutter and moved them somewhere.  I don't know where and it really doesn't matter.  Unless I was using a quiet one to help me drift off to nap-time, I was unable to go with their flow.  My mind took me places I didn't want to go.  I needed something more active.

Active is a relative term when your orthopedist forbids bearing any weight on the hip he so graciously allowed you to take home from the hospital.  Twelve weeks from the date of the surgery.... a day sometime during the week after January 8th.  My family knows precisely when it happened, but, for me, it's all a morphine blur.  I woke up and I was repaired and I hurt and I couldn't move my leg.  Now I can actually make my knee bend without a helping hand, and KiKi, the world's most wonderful physical therapist, assures me that soon I will be able to roll over without pain.  Ah, the little things that make life grand.  For now, though, active is my fingers flying over the keyboard and my bar-dips on the walker as I hop from couch to table to car.  It's a far cry from hiking Brown Mountain, but I am not complaining.  I am here and I am healing and those are good things.  Wonderful things.  Things for which I am grateful each and every day.  But they are not real distractions, at least not for long.

So, I am left with the television.  Daddooooo watched more tv after his hip replacement than he had in his entire existence previous to that surgery.  Daytime tv was new to me, and I would sit by his side on the living room couch, watching talk shows and wondering why anyone who didn't have to look at them would voluntarily do so.  Once the 4pm movie came on we were happier, but my memories of his recovery are of the two of being snarky at a non-responsive Motorola console.  Lying on the couch, recovering myself, I laugh.  Things aren't much better 40 some years later. 

But I am not writing to complain about the paucity of terrific television.  My issue is much more personal than that.  TV is scary these days.  Grey's Anatomy and House, two of the pillars of our viewing habits prior to January 8th, are un-watchable.  IV's, bloody organs, scalpels slicing into flesh.... they are all too real for us.  The Bride tried to watch Grey's three times on her laptop while she was staying with me in the hospital; I never saw her get as far as the first commercial.  TBG has never liked the blood and gore parts, and routinely covered his eyes when the patient was rolled into the operating room.  It never bothered me.  Not one bit.  I found it interesting in an impersonal kind of way.  Now, though...........  it is much too personal, much too close to home, much too been there done that to be allowed into our living room.  Scratch 2 hours of new shows and endless hours of repeats from my schedule.

Law'n Order is broadcast every hour of every day on one of the 1000's of channels on our super-duper-deluxe-cable package.  It used to be that I could watch an episode for the 15th time and enjoy the familiarity.  Lenny, Lupo, Cragin, Chris Noth, Mariska Hargitay (did you know that her mother was Jayne Mansfield and that she was in the back seat of the car when the decapitation occurred?  Just a bit of gory trivia for you to round out this post.) ...... they made me happy in a comfortable, old shoe kind of way.  Now, though....... the bullets fly and I flinch.  The Medical Examiner discusses entry and exit wounds (this is even hard to type) and I cower.  We have given it up entirely. 

So here I was, bored to tears, Heidi in a plane on her way back to the frigid north, all caught up on my thank you notes and phone calls, sitting on the couch and looking for amusement.  Chuck!  I am one episode behind.  The series is OnDemand.  It's 44 minutes of meaningless fluff that amuses without taxing the brain.  I could reach the remote with the handy grabby-dabber the occupational therapist left with me in the hospital.  Life was good. 

That is, until the opening scene devolved into the credits, which feature a bright red bullet zipping across the screen as the actors and directors and producers were named .  I'd never noticed it til right now.  I didn't like it.  Nope, didn't like it one little bit.  Didn't like it so much that I turned off the tube and came right here to The Burrow where such things are just not allowed. 

We are a weapon-free zone, visually and mentally.  We concentrate on healing and looking forward and on the strange and unusual things that make up our polity and our families and our day to day routine.  No guns .... no blood ... nope, not here.

Thanks, denizens, for joining me in my safe haven.  I love snuggling down with you, one and all.

An Update on My Leg

Apparently Little Cuter was not alone in wondering what the story is with my leg. 

Short answer - no one knows.

Long answer - I changed clothes after lunch at Tohono Chul Tea Room with Heidi and noticed splotchy red rashiness and swelling of my wounds and lots of heat in the thigh.  Nothing above or below the thigh, but the front of the thigh itself was interesting enough to warrant a call to the Home Care nurse.... who apparently doesn't exist on Sundays. Heidi said to call the ER and they told me to drive down.  TBG was out enjoying a carefree day..... well, I took care of that quickly enough :(

After quickly being triaged, we waited in the ER until I couldn't sit any longer and promoted myself into a space with a bed and doctors.  By that time - 2 hours after I first noticed it - there was nothing left but a small red line .  The ER docs were baffled.  They probed and pushed and prodded and nodded and finally said that maybe it was vascular (but then it probably wouldn't have resolved that quickly) or maybe it was allergies (TBG wondered if I'd starched just the right leg of my trousers) but they were able to agree that they had no idea and that I shouldn't worry.

Everyone agreed that it was a good thing that I'd come in... everyone but TBG who didn't like being in the waiting room again AT ALL.  The fact that the court case against He Who Should Be Slapped was all over the news on the wall tv's as we sat there didn't help at all.  Not one bit. 

I was discharged with instructions to "Keep doing what you've been doing.  Your leg looks very healthy now" and Heidi drove (slowly) home where foodstuffs and paperbacks were waiting by the front door.

Thanks for the concern, denizens.... and for the love.  Try not to worry about me; I'm doing just fine.

The Healing Power of Friends

Christina's mom sent me a message on Facebook this morning.  Chatty, news-filled, information sharing and lovely, it put a giant smile on my face which caused water to drip out the corner of my mouth as I was drinking.  Note to self : stop smiling before drinking.  But the dribs and drabs on my t-shirt are nothing but reminders of her caring nature and the strength of our friendship; there's not a bit of rancor in the 6 paragraphs she found the time and energy to type.  There are many remarkable people in this world; she and her husband are at the top of my list these days.

My wounded leg decided to become rashy and swollen and hot yesterday afternoon, and my current SuziSitter. Heidi, knew that I should call the ER and check it out.  "Come on down" was their recommendation so we piled into the car, called TBG and told him to meet us there, and off we went.  She's used to driving in upstate New York where, apparently, there are no other cars on the road and those that are there are going even more slowly than she is.  But, over the week she's been here, she's progressed from driving like my grandmother to driving like a snowbird and she's much more comfortable changing lanes and turning left across 4 lanes of traffic.  We were at the ER/Trauma Center in no time.  She rubbed my arm and spoke in calm and soothing tones, masking her distaste for driving in our "big city" all the while.  When the wait to be seen began to take its toll on my achy hip and leg, she was right there, glaring at the desk clerk who couldn't seem to get her head around the fact that I was in agony and could not sit for one more minute.  Luckily, one of the Emergency Room doctors recognized me ("You look much better than last time I saw you!") and we were ushered into a room within seconds.  All the while, Heidi was there, tending to TBG's discomfort at revisiting the waiting room and monitoring my leg and my emotions.  We've been friends for 41 years; she's as wonderful now as she was back in Ithaca. 

The weekend got even better, friendship-wise.  MTF is dealing with yet another horrific tragedy, cleaning up the mess of another person's life with kindness and thoughtfulness and a dedication to detail that puts her in an elite class of humans.  There were scraps of paper and emotional detritus strewn all over a landscape of crumminess and yet there she was, purposeful and organized and doing what needed to be done.  The fact that she was surrounded by fools and incompetents just made her work harder; what needed to be done was done, and she still took the time to send me an upbeat email describing the scene and wondering about my well-being.  She's a keeper, that's for sure.

My newest friend in the neighborhood, JenniJazz, dropped off pasta last night, and brought her handsome husband to meet mine.  I love women who take the initiative and make things happen - she's brought me lunch and stayed just long enough, she sat with me early one Sunday morning so TBG could make an airport run, she's told me funny stories and shared her perspective on my burgeoning spirituality and through it all she's never been more intrusive than my walls have allowed.  Tragedy has brought many things to my doorstep; her friendship is one of the most wonderful ones.

And then there was the knock on the door this morning - a friend of a friend delivering a Valentine's Day balloon and a hand inscribed heart cookie with my name in white frosting.  I don't know her and she didn't know me, yet there she was, bringing goodies filled with love.  She asked for a hug and how could I refuse?  I'm not sure what kind of special power my hugs have, but lots of people are asking for them lately.  It seems the least I can do to say yes.

Valentine's Day is one of those holidays which carry high expectations and leave dashed hopes in their wake.  People need to have a date .... people hide in their apartments, avoiding the whole scene ... people spend too much money on dinners and jewelry .... there's a pressure to feel the love that is overwhelming and somewhat tacky to my eye.  For many years, TBG wrote me a poem on Valentine's Day, recapping our year and pledging fealty and love.  Once we moved to Tucson, that tradition was replaced by a trip to J Gilbert where cowboy boots were purchased.  This year, my non-weight-bearing self can't try on the works of art in which one walks and poetry is beyond anyone's capabilities.  Instead, we'll sit on Douglas, the world's 2nd most comfortable couch*, and recognize the fact that we are alive, watching the sunshine and the blue skies and each other.

He's my bestest friend, my most intense friend, and I'm glad that he is here.


*Not-Kathy reminded me that there was a more comfortable couch in my life once before.  It's a good prompt for a post and the story will be told soon.  For now, I had to amend Douglas's appellation for the sake of accuracy.... Not-Kathy is a good friend, too, and I can't run the risk of annoying her.

A Consumer's Triumph

It's amazing what a short sentence in a personal blog can accomplish these days.

The Scene: Sitting at my desk (yes! sitting! in a chair! progress is being made!) yesterday morning, watching a coyote rub himself on something scrumptious in the middle of the road and feeling calm and comfortable for the first time in a long time.  No one else in the house - TBG having decided that I can be left alone for an hour while he goes to the gym - and feeling no pain.  Life was stable and almost good.

Then the phone rang.  I wasn't in the mood to be disturbed but I'm incapable of ignoring the pleading ringing.  Caller ID is my new best friend; I'm never surprised. 

CHASE was staring at me from the window.  Hmmmmmm....... what now? Had I missed another payment?  Was there another problem?  Semi-aggravated, I picked up the receiver and said hello.

Christine identified herself as a manager.  My anxiety began to rise; I must have done something really wrong this time.  But no, the more I listened the broader my smile became.  "Chase management had become aware of my situation" ..... someone on their staff is monitoring social media, it seems.  My comment in Wednesday's post , even without a label to alert them, had been found.  Management is aware.... this was sounding interesting.

Unusually for me, I didn't interrupt her.  I just let her talk.  They had reviewed the situation.  They had listened to the calls.  They were sorry.  They regretted the inconvenience and the unhappiness they had caused.  They were sorry that I was given bad information because I rely upon the company to tell me the truth and to be prompt in its responses.  They were apologetic that an agent had given me mis-information and they wanted me to know that steps were being taken to rectify the situation.

At that point I had to say something.  The lovely woman I spoke to first had, obviously, told me that the card would be available when in fact it wouldn't ... but she was kind and sympathetic and just a little teary and she raced around trying to solve the problem just as fast as she could.  The fact that she had mis-read a clock, or a protocol, was not behind my anger with the company.  She was wonderful, everyone makes mistakes, but her attitude was so thoughtful and filled with love that I had to insure that nothing untoward would happen to her,  It was the manager I spoke with the next day, the one who told me that my sad story was nothing more than a sad story and that there was no one else with whom I could speak, it was with her that my problems arose.

Christine understood.  She heard me.  She listened. She shared "upper management's concerns" that I be treated well, just as all their customers should be treated well.  They were so sorry to have added to my  burden, to have embarrassed my husband, to have put any stumbling blocks in my road to recovery.

And then there was the fun part.  "We'd like to offer you...." was how the sentence began and suddenly the interest charges and the late fees had vanished from the account.  A VISA gift card is on its way to my house.  Christine's business card with all her contact information was on its way, too, and if I ever have any problems of any kind with my account she is my go-to-girl.

Well, denizens, what can I say?  They searched me out and found the problem and I have this fabulous image of senior management sitting around a table wondering and pondering and furrowing their brows, all worrying about poor me and my credit card.  They managed to figure out that Ashleigh and Suzi are one and the same (one wonders how) and they chose the perfect person to convey their regrets and their solutions.  Christine was confident and concerned and connected to my pain; a young mother herself she was able to relate to Christina-Taylor and the day we had planned as if it had happened to her. She understood that I was insulted, she understood that her firm had made a mistake, and she seemed to be personally affronted that a Chase employee had mistreated me. 

I just kept going back to the image of the upper management of the bank spending the day worrying about what The Burrow was going to do next.  I liked the picture.  A lot.

So, I am going to keep paying my bills through the Chase VISA card.  Christine convinced me that they want to be my bank, and I cannot deny that this counts as extremely wonderful customer service.  I'll be using that Amex every once in a while, but it's nice to know that the number I've memorized for my VISA card does not have to be relegated to the trash bin.

If you haven't cut up your cards yet, why not hold off for a while.  And if you have any problems, let me know.  I'll see what Christine can do for you, too.

Does This Make Sense?

I am alive... and my friends' 9 year old is not.

I am achy and shattered and unable to get comfortable on Douglas, the world's most comfortable couch.

Friends and neighbors have brought us dinners and salads and desserts, and none of them have been chocolate.

There are no degrees at all in Chicago as Little Cuter waits for her bus in the gloom.

Big Cuter has a broken foot, TBG can't shake his cold, and I am perforated.

The sun comes up every morning and I am here to see it.... from a wheelchair, through a window, frightened to take the walker and cruise the backyard.

My bookshelves are full, JES has sent me an Amazon gift card, the library is around the corner and I cannot concentrate on anything longer than Dear Abby.

Billy Collins read a poem just for me, his fiancee commented in The Burrow, and I cannot come up with anything but whining and complaining and wondering to share with you.

Does it make any sense?  Not really.  Is it my reality?  Absolutely.  Can I alter any of it?  Perhaps. 

What do I know for sure?  I am surrounded by the most wonderful friends and family, strangers and acquaintances, organizations and emailers and letter writers and card senders and commenters and old friends who check in by phone. And I know that with that much support, with all this encouragement and enthusiasm, with the help of those who love me, things will, once again, begin to make sense.

For now, I stack my days one upon the other, tea cup on saucer, trying not to make a clink.

Strangeness

So much good... so much evil... so much confusion.  It's hard to sort it out.

For example:

• The nurse who told me that I wouldn't become addicted to the hydrocodone or the oxycodone the doctor preferred that I take over the ibuprofen because "You are too strong a person to allow that to happen.  You are motivated."  Is she the last person on the planet to understand that addiction is a disease and not something you choose?  Narcotics over analgesics...... strange.

• The restaurant which places the handicapped spots in the corner of the parking lot.... and puts the only curb cuts there, too.  Dropped off at the front door, my walker and I were confronted with an 18" high curb..... and blustery winds.... and the fear was tremendous.  Architecturally strange.

• The hospital bedside commode that accommodates patients who are 5'3" or taller.  The rest of us have our feet dangling, vainly searching for the comfort of the floor.   

• The young man delivering two heavy boxes of foodstuffs from the up-scale grocery store who refused to take a tip - "Not from that woman!"  Hearwarmingly strange.

• Keith, the representative from Verizon's sales department, who stayed on the phone with me as I was transferred, like the blip on Atari's Pong screen, from Customer Care (now there is an oxymoron) to Sales and back again, over and over and over.  No one seemed to understand nor have the authority to solve nor the willingness to listen to my problem but Keith, who works on commission and was making nothing by keeping me company, Keith stayed on one leg of the various conference calls for nearly an hour.  Handing me off to Cameron (who did manage to solve the problem) he said goodbye by thanking me for allowing him to learn about the systems in his new job.  Delightfully strange.

• Marilyn, my hiking buddy and personal shopper, who has made countless trips back and forth to the mall, selecting and sizing and putting together an outfit which would not constrict my sutures, which would be short enough so that I could stand up and not trip, which matched the earrings and bracelet I've been wearing like totems since I've been home, and who shared her personal history of loss and illness with a calm survivor's mien.  Not strange..... just wonderful.

• A casual acquaintance, a lunch partner from an alumni event, who offered to stop by and talk about God with this cynical heathen.  The Reverend Barb is one of the good ones; I really hope she has an answer or two for me this afternoon.  Strange?  Certainly.  Wonderful? Absolutely!

• The credit card company (okay, Chase Visa for those of you who might want to reconsider using them) which refused to release the hold they'd placed on my account because I had missed a payment.  The fact that I was lying in a hospital bed, perforated and drugged, when the payment was due made no difference to them.  The fact that it was the only card in TBG's wallet, the fact that we'd never missed a payment before, the fact that the entire world knew what had happened to me..... "Yes, ma'am, it is a sad story but there is nothing I can do."  Strange?  Oh, yes.  Solvable?  Definitely.... the card is in pieces and our new Costco Amex account will fill the bill nicely, thank you very much.  (be sure to read Chase VISA's response by clicking here.  Sometimes companies do "get it")

• Counselors who don't return phone calls.  Paperwork that is submitted but remains unacknowledged.  Officials who show up unannounced at the door and expect to be welcomed with open arms.  TV news producers who are surprised when their every wish is not gladly accommodated.   Reporters who want to sit on my couch and watch the State of the Union with me.  Strange.... for sure.  Unexpected?  Not really.

• Four page handwritten notes from total strangers.  A lengthy message on my answering machine from Slava in Latvia, including his phone number so that I could "return this call and continue this conversation."  Raggedy Ann dolls and crocheted angels and Texas blue bells....... does anyone want these outpourings of love?  I know that they come from the hearts of those who are trying to help, but how much of my house can become a shrine to the worst moment of my life?  Balancing their needs against my defenses.... strange indeed.

• And then there is the blogosphere, where The Burrow has 97 followers.  97 of you demanding that the interweb send you my ramblings every weekday.  On January 7th there were 12 of you - family and friends and Nance - and now there are 97 faithful readers.  Strange and wonderful, all at once.

With apologies for the lateness of this post today (sometimes I am just too tired to type), I thank you all for sharing this peek into the strangeness that has become my life.   It's nice to know that I am not alone.

A Love Note from My Little Brother

Brother was the latest in a series of marvelous SuziSitters who have come from far and wide to insure my safety and comfort.  The man hates to fly, never flies, G'ma even remembers that he doesn't fly, but bullet holes in his sister trumped his phobia and he allowed the FBI Victim's Compensation Fund to pay for his air travel.  He spent a week fixing and toting and caring and laughing.  He flew home through Dallas, which airport opened just so that he could make his connection to his girls back in Maryland.  After 5 days of home repairs and buttering toast all the way to the edges and filling G'ma's bowl with Kisses, he sent me this in an email.

Read on...... I think you'll see why I am the luckiest sibling in the world.

What I Learned This Week:

That getting perforated and filleted hurts.  A lot. 

That some nurses are much better than others.

 
That it is good to have “Chief” on your doctor’s name tag.

That you should write thank you notes to everybody.

That after imagining all the cruel and unusual and medically useful things you could do with a  madman, you still, afterwards, have to live with yourself.

That PTSD treatment is helpful for some things and not others.

That exit wounds are uglier than entry wounds.

That nerves regenerate and it is scary to watch..

That cardio exercise, weight bearing exercise, yoga and Pilates can save your life

That scissors are in Aisle 5.

That if you ask for help, people will.

That even the most patient loving person I know has limits.

That it hurts when you reach those limits with your mom.

That even in your 6^th decade, you need your mommy.

That some things make no sense.

That it hurts to lose a good friend.

That some people don’t like to fix things and some people do.

That assemble-at-home hospital potties should come with better instructions.

That it’s good to be on a great team.

That some friends are unimaginably wonderful.

That the First Lady has real class and respect for Americans.

That the First Grandmother should write a book so others can learn how to raise a girl with real class.

That the President knows how to make somebody in need feel really good.

That you will have nightmares and you will be very glad each day you see the sun rise.

That it’s wrong that somebody will write Christmas cards to a son while somebody else’s little girl is in the cold ground.

That when visiting in the high desert, you should check your shoes for scorpions.

That you’ll remember the name of the nurse who saved your sister’s life.

That you can drive the little red car if you want.

That nobody really knows what to do with a box of used sharps.

That everybody should take a first aid course.

That 3 years followed by 3 more years of trials is not the main focus of the future.

That some news teams are better than others.

That the Director of the FBI has lousy handwriting.

That a space ship pilot has my sister’s phone number in his cell phone.

That Bonnets and Stems does not sell flowers.

That taking over your mom’s business that’s been in the same location for 23 years is better than a computer job.

That zippy new sports cars are more fun to drive than old compact commuter cars.

That Arizona oranges are beautiful and tasty.

That hugs are good, but I already knew that.

That big sisters are special.  Especially mine.

*******

He's really quite wonderful, isn't he?

Lunch with Billy Collins (part 2)

Driving from the northwest side down to the Arizona Inn was an instant replay for TBG of the countless trips he made over the 10 days I was hospitalized.  Down First and over to Campbell, trying to avoid the traffic on Ft. Lowell and failing, as it moved ever westward, inexorably challenging buses and passenger cars alike, he railed at the bumps in the road as he looked anxiously to his right, worried beyond measure about his sweetie and her aches and pains.  

I tried to be brave, but the outside world is a scary place for me right now.  Unintended consequences do happen.... short Jewish girls do get shot.... the guy crossing the street could turn suddenly and ......  It was a struggle to stay focused on the big blue sky and the cold fresh air buffeting my fragile self.  Brother was in the back seat, on his way to the airport and the (other) women who love him and he kept up a steady patter of chatter designed to keep me distracted.  It almost worked.

Did I know where we were going?  Yes, turn left at the hospital and the hotel is on the right.  The hospital, looming large and frightening and comforting all at the same time.  My room, hidden behind the parking garage, a small safe sanctuary from the craziness outside... the urge to return was nearly overwhelming.  The nurses and doctors and security personnel would keep me safe, would keep the uncertainty of the real world at bay, and I could lie on my plastic mattress and pretend to sleep while I healed.  But retreat is not an option, and Elm Street is one of the prettiest roads in Tucson, and suddenly there was the curb cut and the bellman and the borrowed wheelchair and Beautiful Anne, my hostess, just waiting for me to arrive.  TBG and Brother argued over who would escort me to my seat and be sure that I was comfortable and unbroken between the sidewalk and the banquet room but wiser minds prevailed and, after promising that I would be returned "without so much as a hangnail"  I was rolled to the venue.

I left the wheelchair behind; if Tucson is seeing me as an icon of recovery I had to enter the room with my walker.  From the perspective of a wheelchair I am looking up at an unfamiliar world.  Doing bar-dips, hopping across the dining room to the Speaker's Table (the Speakers Table!!), I was closer to my old, independent, 5' self.  No one approached me, which was a good thing because balance and distance and exhaustion make for an interestingly unstable combination these days.  But their eyes were upon me and I could hear the whispers identifying me.  It's not intrusive so much as surprising, not invasive but definitely within my personal space.  I'm coming to terms with being the face of Tucson's recovery and "Oh, look, it's Suzi!" has become my new normal when I venture out into the world.  I have a new appreciation for movie stars who want to run out for a gallon of milk when they need a haircut and have no clean clothes.  Before I'd left home I'd examined my outfit from all directions, sitting and standing, and my hair came in for some serious mousse and fluffing.  It's not who I was, but it is who I am.

It took me a while to get over the excitement of sitting at the head table..... I wasn't the bride nor the speaker.... I'd just gone to the grocery store with a friend.... but there I was and then there was Billy Collins, quietly entering and approaching his table... our table... to sit next to me.  Lunch with Billy Collins.... I could barely catch my breath.

Little Cuter has been pretty jealous of this whole event.  It was she who introduced me to his poetry and cries of "Not Fair!" have never been far from our conversations.  I had The Apple That Astonished Paris in my purse, a token I'd ask him to inscribe for her as a means of assuaging my guilt that I and not she was sitting there, eating salad and warm rolls and drinking iced tea with the former poet laureate of the United States of America.  For the moment, though, all I could do was glow as he and his fiancee shook my hand and rubbed my back and told me how glad they were to meet me.

How glad they were to meet me..... I am still getting over that one, denizens.

Literary Society members approached with politeness and grace, offering books for autographs and sharing snippets of their lives.  Billy Collins sat with a stack of books and papers on his lap, rearranging and reorganizing as the meal progressed.  Then he was introduced and took the podium, appreciating the impromptu description of his life and career which was told from the heart instead of from a script by the organizer of the event.  He was gracious even before he began.

I scooted my chair around so that I could see, and I tried to ignore the throbbing in my hip and my quadricep and my lower back.  No way was I going to miss a second of this; the pain was relegated to its own little box and I was there, in the moment, as Billy (it's hard to call him Mr. Collins; though that seems more respectful it just doesn't ring true) talked about his influences and recited Bacon and Eggs by Howard Nemerov in its entirety:

The chicken contributes

But the pig gives its all.

The ice was broken and he was off and running, sharing little moments in time which he'd made into poetry.  "And that's what the poem turned out to be," he said, describing how a glance out the window had turned into a sonnet on another topic entirely.  All the while his fiancee was looking at him with adoration and amusement and love; I could feel the vibes bouncing off him and being deflected by the warmth of the crowd back at him again.  He was small and the opposite of bombastic and, as Beautiful Anne said "Not everyone can write and read... but he certainly can."  

There was one teenager in the room,  braces and barefoot sitting cross legged at the front table across from ours.  She was enthralled and smiling and then bright red and abashed and laughing as she heard

OH, MY GOD

Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days

Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk
like a bright thread of awe

Even at the pedestrian mall
outbursts of praise
spring unbidden from their glossy lips. 

She turned to her grown-up and cocked her head.  "YES, that's you!" came back to her in full force and those of us lucky enough to catch the encounter were entranced.  As I mentioned in part one of this story, he didn't come into the event with a pre-determined playlist of poems.  His selections were personalized to the audience; he was a self-described poetry jukebox.  His choices were impeccable.  

For a man with no work habits, who commits an act of literature as he describes mortality being able to italicize life, he was really quite incredible.  Like Audrey Hepburn spurning Cary Grant's offer of friendship in Charade, his brain is too full: 

(It's as if there is a) shelf in my head... when I read a new one the one at the other end falls off..... and the shelf is shrinking..... the memories have retired.

Or, as he said while commenting on the veracity of a poem:

It wasn't quite like that...

But it wasn't unlike that, either.

I wish you all could have been there.  It lifted my soul and my spirits and my brain was flickering in a way it had not since before the 8th of January.  Thank you, Beautiful Anne and Kim Nelson* and the Tucson Literary Society and the Northern Trust Bank, for a most wonderful afternoon.

*****

*see comments for the wonderfulness that she's bringing to The Burrow these days 

A Photo Which Little Cuter Says I Must Publish

The real, no longer anonymous, me sitting next to a famous poet.

or

Suzi Hileman and Billy Collins

at the Tucson Literary Society Luncheon

February 3, 2011

Lunch With Billy Collins (part 1)

There are some perks to being perforated.  People reach out and touch you in warm and wonderful ways.  Gifts are delivered, thoughtful soft warm and cozy gifts which show real thought and planning.  And invitations are extended.

A friend of Amster's is a member of the Tucson Literary Society.  While I was in the hospital she began reading The Burrow and noticed Billy Collins in the sidebar.  She sent me an email, wondering if I would like to join her at the TLS's luncheon where he would be the featured speaker.

Did I want to go?  Oh, yes.  Oh, yes yes yes yes yes  (to paraphrase Molly Bloom). 

Would I be able to go?  That was another matter entirely.  But suddenly I had a goal, an event, an occasion to strive toward.  I've been practicing sitting and riding in cars and dressing in more than sweats and a t-shirt and I've been encouraging TBG to consider letting me out of his sight for a few hours and today I had lunch with Billy Collins.

Now that is a sentence which makes me smile.  And it's not a sentence I'm likely to say very often.

The event was wonderful and deserves more than I have the energy tonight to invest in it.  Come back on Monday for the full report.  For now, I offer this poem.  It's what I have read every morning since I was shot (and that's a sentence that does not make me smile) and it's a poem he read today.  I cried like a baby, and my new friend rubbed my back, and Suzanne, Mr. Collins's fiancee, grabbed my hand and squeezed.  When his reading and question-answering was over he left the podium and came right to my chair.  As I was telling him that I read Days every morning he smiled and said "I read that for you"

Billy Collins selected a poem and read it for me.  For me.  I am still trying to get my head around that fact.  So, while I bask in the glow and create an appropriate post for Monday, I leave you with these words of gratitude and looking forward.

Days

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,
the ground heavy with snow
and the thick masonry of ice,
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window
everything is in its place
but so precariously
this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,
all the days of the past stacked high
like the impossible tower of dishes
entertainers used to build on stage.

No wonder you find yourself
perched on the top of a tall ladder
hoping to add one more.

Just another Wednesday
you whisper,
then holding your breath,
place this cup on yesterday's saucer
without the slightest clink.

by Billy Collins, US Poet Laureate 2001-2003

Have a wonderful weekend, denizens.  I'll tell you the story of my lunch on Monday.  For now, I am going to rest on the couch and heal.

Who Am I?

Am I the woman who organizes the meal deliveries and the transportation.... or the one who receives them?

Am I the person who devours a book at a single sitting.... or the one whose brain is taxed by Dear Abby?

Am I the one bringing laughter and adventure to G'ma.... or the one on the couch receiving her confused and surprised looks of bewilderment as she asks me what happened, again and again and again?

Am I the daughter who doesn't mind repeating the story because she is so grateful to have her mother asking the question over and over and over..... or the one who asks her brother to drive Mom back to the pod-castle because I just can't say it one more time?

Am I the girl in the gym, pushing the treadmill higher and faster.... or the one who looks at the distance between the couch and the table and opts to stay still?

Am I playing 12 games of wordscraper at the same time.... or wondering where my old opponents have gone?

Am I the person who sends hand-written thank you notes..... YES, that one is still around.

Am I the laundress-in-chief... or the person who sighs as the heavy dark clothes are washed with the delicate ones?

Do I fold or watch patiently as someone else wrestles my gym clothes into what passes for neat in his eyes?

Do I tough out the minor twinges which come from a hard workout..... or do I dive into the analgesics the  moment the physical therapist closes the door behind her?

Am I the cynical New Yorker who hasn't had faith in anything she can't see or touch for a very long time.... or do I really see my little angel, my Christina-Taylor, sitting in the niche above the television, encouraging me to let the smiles out, to be strong, to be glad that I was her friend?

Am I the woman who filled her days with flowers and long walks.... or the slug-a-bed who watches her brother fill a vase with Calyx and Corolla roses ... the too small vase.... with the leaves on the stems dipping into the water.... and who doesn't say a word because he is trying so very hard to fill in the gaps I've left behind as I recline on my throne and try to grin?

Am I the brave woman who vowed to be up and running and astonish the world with my progress... or the frail, broken old lady who hurts every time she moves just a little?

I'm just not sure anymore.  Not sure at all.

At My Desk

Sitting at my desk.  It's a mundane thing.  The view never changes, although the details come and go.  The mountains mark the edge, and today the clouds are pulled up like a blanket, like the soft gushy blanket old friends sent my way, the blanket TBG pulled over me that first night at home, the blanket that put me to sleep for the first time in days.  The blanket that marked the first night of the rest of my life.

But these clouds are angrier than that blanket will ever be.. They have grey spots and black spots and I know that they are leaving rain and snow and a cold cold wind on the people of Summerhaven, Summerhaven because it is cooler than our desert in the midst of summer's heat but which is now filled with people who wish they had my blanket.  It looks ominous and scary.

There are hummingbirds at this time of year, dashing and feasting and making me smile but the sun is behind those clouds and the birds have taken refuge wherever they go when the gray skies don't beckon them to strut their stuff.  There are no quail or mourning doves, no coyotes or bobcats or lizards to amuse me.  And I don't care.

The cacti stand stiff and still as the palo verde and mesquite and oleander (my neighbor's oleander, because mine is still stubbornly refusing to grow) take the wild swings of emotion TBG described at his first press conference.  His first press conference?  What is that?  Who was he?  Why were we suddenly in the public domain?  The plants don't care; they are relishing the escape from the relentless sun, reaching up to the moisture, the potential, the rain held in the the clouds which are refusing to share.  

It's tones of tints of hues of colors, except for the heavenly bamboo with its bright red leaves.  Everything else seems to be waiting.... for spring.... for the rain... for the sunshine.  The Nandina domestica is having a great time, though.  Each individual leaf and each stubby plant has a life of its own, and they are dancing to the music of the breeze.  I don't know if it's a cool wind or a harsh one, if it cossets or annoys.  I'm inside, safe behind my windows, protected from what is now a scary outdoors, a place of unexpected consequences.  

TBG stops in his car, home from mailing photos to family and friends, leaning out the window and collecting the mail from the box.  And then my heart stops, as the yellow school bus passes on his right.  The bus that carried Christina to and from her friends and constituents at Mesa Verde Elementary School, the bus that her brother rode with her, companionably watching her from a seat in the rear.  My tears are for both of us, for him alone on the bus and for me, alone in my house, watching the world go by.  

I need tending and caring and company.  TBG doesn't like me to be alone; he knows that bad things can happen and he is on a mission to protect me from them.  Hangnails be gone!  My guy is on the scene.  I know that my rastra-block-construction will keep me safe and secure, but it's hard not to imagine the three little pigs.  The first two must have thought that they were safe in their straw and stick enclosures, too.  No one voluntarily puts herself at risk.  But you can't protect yourself from everything from anything from something from someone from fury and madness and rage.  You can stand under a sunny sky and hold a little girl's hand and giggle at the thought of touching a Congresswoman and then BAM you are on the ground staring into her eyes and feeling incompetent. 

So, I sit at my desk, messy with the detritus of 3 weeks of ignored bills and insurance forms and recipes and notebooks, crossword puzzles and tops and lip balm and blank cd's and I look out the window at the clouds.  They are moving over the mountain and I can see blue sky peeking through and I am desperate, I am longing, I am willing a rainbow to appear.  But I ache and sitting is a chore so I wheel away, back to my throne on the love-seat end of the couch.  

Some days are better than others.

Everyone Keeps Asking….

From the Little Cuter. 

Everyone keeps asking how I’m doing. How we’re doing. There is absolutely no correct way to respond.

Do you really want to know? Are you interested in the glossed over version? The version we’ve concocted that is shiny, protective… the Teflon version that we’ve created so that we can keep breathing? Because that version I’ve got down pat.

We are doing great! Mom is incredible, a superhero, she is recovering at a rate that I can’t even keep track of. Emotionally, physically, spiritually… she is surpassing every expectation given to us from people who are properly educated in gauging their own opinions. 16 weeks of physical recovery? No way, she’ll be back walking in 10. Emotions? Yeah, this is unspeakable, but she’s got 24-hour access to therapists who are trained in walking you through these kinds of things…

..... These kinds of things … those are the kinds of phrases that keep coming out of my mouth, the kinds of phrases that, the second they enter the air in front of me, I feel like cringing, like hitting the quick rewind button on my “life DVR” because they feel so trite. There’s no way I said something that slight, something that glossed over.

But I did, I’ve had plenty of practice, I’ve gotten really good at it.

Do you really want to know how I am doing? They haven’t invented a word for it yet.

How do you describe a time in your life that has been simultaneously the most horrific, most unimaginable, and the most inspiring, the most encouraging, the most incredible that you’ve ever seen?

In one week I saw my mother, my totem pole for existence, my pillar of strength, my role model, my MODEL, my template, my third ear, my second brain, my MOM, riddled with BULLET WOUNDS.

Think about that for a second. BULLET WOUNDS. HOLES in her person. Passages in
her body that did not exist before someone inflicted them upon her.

That same week I hugged the president. Twice.

How would you describe that? How would you answer, in a sound bite, when someone asked you how you were?

I use the Teflon version of my reaction because I can’t begin to expect people to understand. They want to know if I am, if we are, surviving. Yes. If that is what we are doing right now then, YES, we are surviving.

But I also feel something that I’ve only recently been able to put my finger on. Stay with me for a second… Do you remember the first time someone described outer space to you? The first time you were able to conceive the fact that you, your body, your entire existence, live on Planet Earth. And Earth is part of a solar system, which is part of a galaxy, which is part of a universe, which is always expanding. Then you realize, WAIT, the universe, which contains ALL of existence, is expanding? WHAT is it expanding into?

Do you remember how it feels to try to wrap your head around the space that our universe is expanding into? That, that brain ache, that inconceivability… That is how I’m feeling.

I am trying to convince my brain that what I’m going through isn’t just an elaborate dream. I am trying to rationalize evil. I am trying to come to terms with that fact that I CAN’T. I am furious with people telling me to “try and find a new normal”, and realizing that they are absolutely right. I am the kind of woman who relishes the mundane. Ask me before how I would describe my ideal day, and I would say it was “blissfully dull”. I finally learned to love my reality, to accept what brought me peace, and be proud that I could find it, maintain it, and be proud of it.

And then someone SHOT my mother.

Shot her. Shot her. Shot her. Three times. SHOT my mother. How do you say that? How do I write it? How do I conceive of a nauseating “new normal” that consists of my mother as a “victim”? Suzi Hileman, my template, my role model, my MOTHER, is not a victim. I now know that I hate that word. Victim. Victim implies weakness, that someone is capable of DOING something to you.

I can’t think of her, of us, of the Hilemans that way. We are not victims. We survived that week: That first week of restoring my mom’s body so that her mind, her incredible, incalculable, incomparable mind could come back to us. I’ve never been one for spirituality, never done much praying of any kind. But if there is a higher being to thank for bringing that mind back to me, to us, I thank it. Good gravy do I thank it.

I thank the people from my past. People whom I have loved from every different point in my life, for reaching out to me and reminding me that the love is still there. I thank compassion and empathy. I think back on those nights in the hospital, reading notes from them and knowing that I could call on any one of them for strength.

I understand now, and thank Shock: An emotion I’ve feigned in the past when something unnatural has happened. I give Shock credit for the strength I was able to maintain in the hospital. I thank it for allowing me brief moments of terror, but then reminding me that there was a job to be done, a woman to remind to STAY THE HELL WITH US, and I got back to the task at hand.

I thank my Brian. SIR. I know no other human in this world that could have been with me at that time, and helped me to hold it together like I did. Whatever “it” was that got me through that week, has gotten me through the weeks since, he was one of the main reasons I was able to maintain it.

So….

So how am I doing? The Teflon version reads the same. The other version, the one I, we, have now to learn to live with every day, the nauseatingly necessary and “healthy” new normal, the most honest example of an “ugly truth” that I’ve ever lived through, is far more complicated.