I have a short list, and you do too. The people you can call and tell funny and horrifying and completely absurd things to who will make something that was just really great in your head become transcendent because now its both in your head and out in the world. The people who will equally enjoy the nuttiness you're telling them, as much as you're enjoying the nuttiness. The people you can hang up with and either a. never speak of it again or b. sit on it for a really long time and then bring it up in a very funny way at an inappropriate time or place. The people you talk to in your head when you're not together.
I can call my brother with lots of very obscure and wistful impersonations of foreign men with indiscriminate accents consumed with longing. I can call my friend D. with any observations regarding female anatomy, mine and others. She knows and teaches me all the good nicknames. Cookie! I never would have thought of cookie, and its perfect. I can call C. and egg her into a tirade and then just relax and enjoy the phenomenal show of wit and sarcasm (hers, not mine) that ensues. I can call D. and report just about anything in a Bill Cosby voice and be understood: why it needed to be said, and why it needed to be said in a Bill Cosby voice. Just about 20 years of the Bill Cosby calls in the Bill Cosby voice. Honestly, it makes me know the world is good and my life, if it ends today, has been blessed, lucky, full, and plenty. Plenty.
I was thinking all this because I was noticing this evening in the shower that my breasts are having the best day of their life. This day, 5/28/2013, at 10:25pm. They are at a particular kind of fullness due to impending hormonal events that must be interacting with a certain kind of moon or tide because they are glorious. Glorious! Perfect melons, peaches, every fruity cliche. I want to take a picture of them, and I want to go downtown and take them out because they are so magnificent this evening that they should be seen in the moonlight, reverently touched, gently kissed with the most feathering of kisses. Is it just me? Is this happening all over the city, like werewolves, only better? For one night, can we all take our fantastic breasts out of their hiding places and congregate out in the dewy air and stay up all night and just love them?
Its too late to call D., who is my short list person for this kind of thing (as teenagers, we did a certain amount of naked dancing in the rain). This could all be over by the morning, but I don't want to forget it. I have never had these breasts before, and I may never have them again. Its a beautiful visitation and a lovely reminder of just how wonderful the human body is, particularly the female form, and mine included. I'll write it here, to remember, to come back and visit. To maybe remember to remember and call D. about it tomorrow. Or maybe not.
The short list, I think, brings out your best voice. Your honest voice that says the truth. Candid, honest, authentic. How and who you really are. The gift is not in the personal liberation or the freedom of that, but rather something more modest: the simple opportunity to enjoy yourself. A funny side effect of AA, I think, is things just like this. When in my life have I ever had the pleasure of consistently hearing so many different people say so many different kinds of things, but all from the heart, honest and true? You can wait months to find your next great book that has a voice you want to keep talking after the last page. Go to an AA meeting and you're going to hear someone saying something at some point that you just don't want to stop.
You can also not go to AA, ever. I went to the playground today, and had a conversation with my friend K., who has very large and lovely breasts. Its a defining feature for her, and she mentions things about them in conversations the way you would about how your kids are doing in sports and in school. They have a presence and a life a little bit of their own. She was meant to bake brownies this afternoon, and made mention of the fact that for the past 25 years she has softened every stick of butter she's ever used to bake something by sticking it in her cleavage. And that brought me joy, to know that, for her to say it, and to share it with me. And it inspires me to follow her example and share my own breast joy tonight, out loud, without edit or particular caution, in my own honest voice. Just this night, while its here. It may be long gone by the morning.
I let K. know that I have had to settle for putting sticks of butter and occasionally baby bottles in my armpit. Nothing to be advertised to the recipients of my baked goods or mothering.
A good day is a chance to experience something, narrated in my own voice in my own head, that is worthy of expression to any one of the individuals on my short list. A good day is a day with even one thing that was really, really funny. Or joyful. Or absurd. Or simply honest. A good day is when I notice something great, and get to tell the story to someone who understands it and likes it too. Or even when I just get to tell the story at all.
Like about my breasts. My one-day-only, rounded, luminous and lovely breasts. Because saying that one, out loud, or just here, might also be one-day-only. Its honest and absurd and funny and true and on this day that works great for me.
Today was a good day.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
Trash
I have tissue packed up my nose here. My shoulder hurts like a bastard from the shoulder freeze, and I imagine the headache and sore throat and joint pain is from the lupus. THE LUPUS. That's how I think of it in my head.
So I rested my head against the stall like everyone does when they're sick in public places. And then I thought it was so miserable that I better get a picture of it. And then I thought, that looks really stupid, me taking a picture of me with my cell phone being pathetic. And then I cracked up and said to my self (out loud, its always out loud, for me): Bitch! Get your candy-ass back out there!
And I did and it was a great rest of the day. And now I love this photo. Melodrama! I do it really, really well. I am talented. Here's my bloody tissue that I saved from yesterday as proof. Just in case the doctor wants to see it when they let me know its THE LEUKEMIA and not THE LUPUS as I'd thought from the diagnostic criteria on Google.
Bitch! Get up off the floor! Break's over. We have work to do!
Off Night (from 12/2008)
No bad poetry tonight. Two of my patients died yesterday and I'm just sitting with it tonight. I remember all my patients and some always stay with me more than others. These two were something more though I don't know why just yet.
They were both 51. I "met" T. during staff meeting two Mondays ago. The nurses started passing around photos of T.'s wounds - eight stage 4 wounds, the worst any of them had seen. They loved it, literally. A lot of the nurses will say they just love wounds. And they do. Most of the chaplains and social workers declined to look at the pictures as they went around, but T. was assigned to be my patient, so I thought I should look. This was a major piece of his reality, so if its my job to understand and support him in his reality, I thought I ought to look. So I did. And it was bad. I had to concentrate on nothing but suppressing the gag reflex for a few minutes. Slough, tunneling, green drainage. Right to the bone. His body, literally, rotting off of him.
I saw him three times on three different days and he was in excruciating pain despite the huge doses of morphine Deb, the nurse, put him on. He had a tremendous quiet dignity. Each wound was colonized with MRSA and VRE and so no touching allowed. He wanted to see the Atlantic again. I had it lined up to take him by ambulance to Plum Island with Deb and Heather, his hospice aide. I got permission to drive the ambulance onto the beach from the wildlife refuge rangers and we were going to back on, open the bay doors, crank him up, and - Atlantic. I knew it wouldn't happen because he was going to die too fast but I made the calls anyway and got the funding. It just felt right to do that. In the end I sat beside him and talked him there instead. He was just a truly lovely guy and he had really nice friends and family who all came to see him. I last saw him Monday as he was dying and I touched his hands and kept my hand on his forehead for a long time. Totally not supposed to do that, a little stupid to do that and likely got the second viral pneumonia because of it but I had to. It was the right thing, for me at least, to do.
J. was also 51. Mother in this unbelievably gracious Lebanese family in this tiny apartment in the junky part of Methuen. Breast cancer for 13 years that when we came along had metastasized to her brain and liver and probably lots of other places too. She had this very calm, peaceful and luminous quality to her. And an extremely cute little funny giggle. She loved us and we loved her. The Monday before Thanksgiving the family made us a Lebanese feast - the chaplain Jim, Beth the nurse, and me. Their kitchen table moved into the living room and overflowing with homemade everything - beautiful, fresh vegetables, grains, pomegranate seeds, avacado, beets, tabouleh, grapes, pears, apples. I had to tell them the whole thing about not giving us gifts and just leting us come and be of service - the whole office policy speech, but we ate with them and said we would never tell if they didn't just don't do it again because how can you refuse an offering of self like that? And they understood, though G., the husband, took to kissing me on top of the head and telling me and Beth that we were his daughters and that he was going to buy us homes in Lebanon. That afternoon was the last time J. got out of bed. Jim led a prayer and we all held hands in a circle and I'm not a praying sort but I will say it was one of those moments and in my memory we all did sort of float up in a circle for a little while, it was so light, and joyful. And J. died yesterday morning and Beth was there and she said the sunlight was streaming in the windows. She called me right afterwards at 8:30 in the morning even though it was my day off. And sunlight was streaming in my windows too. So that was good.
They were both 51. I "met" T. during staff meeting two Mondays ago. The nurses started passing around photos of T.'s wounds - eight stage 4 wounds, the worst any of them had seen. They loved it, literally. A lot of the nurses will say they just love wounds. And they do. Most of the chaplains and social workers declined to look at the pictures as they went around, but T. was assigned to be my patient, so I thought I should look. This was a major piece of his reality, so if its my job to understand and support him in his reality, I thought I ought to look. So I did. And it was bad. I had to concentrate on nothing but suppressing the gag reflex for a few minutes. Slough, tunneling, green drainage. Right to the bone. His body, literally, rotting off of him.
I saw him three times on three different days and he was in excruciating pain despite the huge doses of morphine Deb, the nurse, put him on. He had a tremendous quiet dignity. Each wound was colonized with MRSA and VRE and so no touching allowed. He wanted to see the Atlantic again. I had it lined up to take him by ambulance to Plum Island with Deb and Heather, his hospice aide. I got permission to drive the ambulance onto the beach from the wildlife refuge rangers and we were going to back on, open the bay doors, crank him up, and - Atlantic. I knew it wouldn't happen because he was going to die too fast but I made the calls anyway and got the funding. It just felt right to do that. In the end I sat beside him and talked him there instead. He was just a truly lovely guy and he had really nice friends and family who all came to see him. I last saw him Monday as he was dying and I touched his hands and kept my hand on his forehead for a long time. Totally not supposed to do that, a little stupid to do that and likely got the second viral pneumonia because of it but I had to. It was the right thing, for me at least, to do.
J. was also 51. Mother in this unbelievably gracious Lebanese family in this tiny apartment in the junky part of Methuen. Breast cancer for 13 years that when we came along had metastasized to her brain and liver and probably lots of other places too. She had this very calm, peaceful and luminous quality to her. And an extremely cute little funny giggle. She loved us and we loved her. The Monday before Thanksgiving the family made us a Lebanese feast - the chaplain Jim, Beth the nurse, and me. Their kitchen table moved into the living room and overflowing with homemade everything - beautiful, fresh vegetables, grains, pomegranate seeds, avacado, beets, tabouleh, grapes, pears, apples. I had to tell them the whole thing about not giving us gifts and just leting us come and be of service - the whole office policy speech, but we ate with them and said we would never tell if they didn't just don't do it again because how can you refuse an offering of self like that? And they understood, though G., the husband, took to kissing me on top of the head and telling me and Beth that we were his daughters and that he was going to buy us homes in Lebanon. That afternoon was the last time J. got out of bed. Jim led a prayer and we all held hands in a circle and I'm not a praying sort but I will say it was one of those moments and in my memory we all did sort of float up in a circle for a little while, it was so light, and joyful. And J. died yesterday morning and Beth was there and she said the sunlight was streaming in the windows. She called me right afterwards at 8:30 in the morning even though it was my day off. And sunlight was streaming in my windows too. So that was good.
Assorted Candies (from 12/2008)
For 10 hours of hospice, today was a sexy day. This is why.
1.
One of the nurses I work with just stood up from her cube out of nowhere today and smiled this very radiant smile at M., the other social worker, and me, and you could immediately see that she was just completely all there and in herself at that moment, just totally present, and she said
I just want to tell you that I love you guys. I really do. You're always there for me and you're always so awesome and I'm having endogenous opioids today and its a fresh start and a new day and I love you both.
And she really meant it. And I looked at M., who is not demonstrative in this sort of a way, and I considered my own feelings, because though while generally in favor of loving and positive feelings and the free expression of these kinds of things I also have boundaries and am a little bit sensible too. But I tell you, M. and I got up and it was like we were all just a little more there, instantly, like color saturated or something, and we told her we loved her too and we hugged all together and it was electric and gorgeous and totally true. And that was at about 8:45am this morning, half an hour into my work day.
2.
Also to do with R., this particular nurse, was a patient we both saw over at my favorite nursing home today. This lady is really pretty demented but is content in her reality and mostly looks off into space except when you directly address her, in which case she looks at you with this big smile with her two remaining teeth, and says a few related words, and then checks right back out into pleasantland. And its great that she is in pleasantland because she mostly doesn't eat anymore and doesn't get up anymore and has a really, really awful wound that she's on a lot of medication to control the pain from.
And so today R. had to change her dressing on that wound and I was down the hall finishing up and when I came by I couldn't hear the words R. was saying but I caught her tone and I thought, uh-oh and so I went in. R. was clearly shaken up and who wouldn't be because this poor lady was just hanging on the bedrail with all her might and sobbing the saddest sob I have ever heard. And I know this lady went to Hawaii once and so I got down on my knees and I just started recalling in as much detail as I could every single thing, smell, taste, feel anything at all of Hawaii and using all the Hawaiian names I could think of too, talking about plumeria and hibiscus and hummingbirds so tiny disappearing into the hibiscus and on and on and she stopped crying and R. stopped looking shaken up and suddenly we were all, I think, in Hawaii together, and it was so lush and verdant and sensual and just sexy and I thought, and I know we all felt it, how did we all just get to sexy after a thing like that? And it was an amazing gorgeous electric moment, and we all looked in each other's eyes and it was all there and true and part of me still can't believe it except I know it because even now close to 12 hours later I can feel it inside.
3.
There's this Italian aide at this same favorite nursing home and I don't even know his name but he's about my age and has a long ponytail and he sings in Italian all the time and though he isn't empirically speaking half-bad looking that is not the thing about him. The thing about him is that he is so incredibly genuinely kind. I watch him with the various patients while I'm doing my charting at the nurses' station and I see the way he really, truly, loves all these old and not so good smelling and sometimes very unhappy patients. He is so tender and gentle and respectful and lovely with them and he smiles at them and sings to them and sometimes he just holds them and lets them be however they are and I really see him and I get embarrassed because I think he catches me watching sometimes and I don't want him to think its a flirty thing because it isn't, its just so beautiful, and I catch him watching me sometimes with my patients because, honestly, I really do love my patients too.
And so its like we're two lighthouses crossing beams sometimes although we never speak or really acknowledge each other, except for one time a couple of weeks ago. I was leaning against the wall waiting for the elevator after a very long and sad day with a few deaths, two while I was in the room, and one that was really awful with a lot of pain and moaning and suffering that we never were able to make better. And I'm sure my hair was up in a mess the way it usually is after a day like that, and I'm sure I looked like leftovers, the way I usually do after a day like that. And what he did is walk up to me and briefly hold my shoulders and looked at me and then kissed me very gently on the cheek and then walked away and I was stunned and blushed I'm sure. But then by the time the elevator came I got it and stopped blushing and just smiled and we never spoke of it or even to each other instantly back to our usual silent mutual appreciation society at every subsequent visit. And I saw him today wiping the drool from someone and he saw me doing the Hawaii thing and afterwards as I was waiting for the elevator he just smiled at me as he does and I smiled back as I do and it was quiet and gorgeous and true and lovely.
4.
This evening I was driving just at dusk to go admit a new home patient a few towns over. The air was just unbelievable. Sixtyish, a little humid, a little breezy, a warm breeze, not a chilly one. In December. It did something to me. All I could think of was, this is sexy, sexy air. And it was sexy. I could not think of anything but the urge to go skinnydipping in the Merrimack as I drove along its banks, and I thought, I should really be thinking about this patient, and going over what not to forget to check into (funeral plans, DNR in place, don't smoke ciggies next to the O2 tank) and what I wanted to do was be naked in the air and then naked in the water. Except that it would be frigid and so I didn't do that. But I still kind of wish I'd found a good thick stand of trees and not been running 15 minutes late because I might have taken care of the first bit. I am still thinking about it tonight and I am wishing I could figure out where this particular air mass is from because I don't think its from generally just south of here. I think this is a magical air mass from some place kind of unusual and special and a little sexy, and someone out there has the technology to track it and know it and I wish they would put it on the news because I bet I'm not the only one who noticed it today. I bet Prince was on vacation somewhere, and slept in this air mass, and then it travelled on up to Haverhill, MA and got tangled up with me and that is probably the case because Prince is the kind of guy who can pull off stuff like that. But that's the truth. There was something in the air today and it was lovely and sexy all day today and I tell you, it was really pretty pleasant and enjoyable and I'm pretty grateful to have had a sensual sexy day in the middle of December on a Monday at work in a bunch of nursing homes. Thank you Prince, wherever you are.
1.
One of the nurses I work with just stood up from her cube out of nowhere today and smiled this very radiant smile at M., the other social worker, and me, and you could immediately see that she was just completely all there and in herself at that moment, just totally present, and she said
I just want to tell you that I love you guys. I really do. You're always there for me and you're always so awesome and I'm having endogenous opioids today and its a fresh start and a new day and I love you both.
And she really meant it. And I looked at M., who is not demonstrative in this sort of a way, and I considered my own feelings, because though while generally in favor of loving and positive feelings and the free expression of these kinds of things I also have boundaries and am a little bit sensible too. But I tell you, M. and I got up and it was like we were all just a little more there, instantly, like color saturated or something, and we told her we loved her too and we hugged all together and it was electric and gorgeous and totally true. And that was at about 8:45am this morning, half an hour into my work day.
2.
Also to do with R., this particular nurse, was a patient we both saw over at my favorite nursing home today. This lady is really pretty demented but is content in her reality and mostly looks off into space except when you directly address her, in which case she looks at you with this big smile with her two remaining teeth, and says a few related words, and then checks right back out into pleasantland. And its great that she is in pleasantland because she mostly doesn't eat anymore and doesn't get up anymore and has a really, really awful wound that she's on a lot of medication to control the pain from.
And so today R. had to change her dressing on that wound and I was down the hall finishing up and when I came by I couldn't hear the words R. was saying but I caught her tone and I thought, uh-oh and so I went in. R. was clearly shaken up and who wouldn't be because this poor lady was just hanging on the bedrail with all her might and sobbing the saddest sob I have ever heard. And I know this lady went to Hawaii once and so I got down on my knees and I just started recalling in as much detail as I could every single thing, smell, taste, feel anything at all of Hawaii and using all the Hawaiian names I could think of too, talking about plumeria and hibiscus and hummingbirds so tiny disappearing into the hibiscus and on and on and she stopped crying and R. stopped looking shaken up and suddenly we were all, I think, in Hawaii together, and it was so lush and verdant and sensual and just sexy and I thought, and I know we all felt it, how did we all just get to sexy after a thing like that? And it was an amazing gorgeous electric moment, and we all looked in each other's eyes and it was all there and true and part of me still can't believe it except I know it because even now close to 12 hours later I can feel it inside.
3.
There's this Italian aide at this same favorite nursing home and I don't even know his name but he's about my age and has a long ponytail and he sings in Italian all the time and though he isn't empirically speaking half-bad looking that is not the thing about him. The thing about him is that he is so incredibly genuinely kind. I watch him with the various patients while I'm doing my charting at the nurses' station and I see the way he really, truly, loves all these old and not so good smelling and sometimes very unhappy patients. He is so tender and gentle and respectful and lovely with them and he smiles at them and sings to them and sometimes he just holds them and lets them be however they are and I really see him and I get embarrassed because I think he catches me watching sometimes and I don't want him to think its a flirty thing because it isn't, its just so beautiful, and I catch him watching me sometimes with my patients because, honestly, I really do love my patients too.
And so its like we're two lighthouses crossing beams sometimes although we never speak or really acknowledge each other, except for one time a couple of weeks ago. I was leaning against the wall waiting for the elevator after a very long and sad day with a few deaths, two while I was in the room, and one that was really awful with a lot of pain and moaning and suffering that we never were able to make better. And I'm sure my hair was up in a mess the way it usually is after a day like that, and I'm sure I looked like leftovers, the way I usually do after a day like that. And what he did is walk up to me and briefly hold my shoulders and looked at me and then kissed me very gently on the cheek and then walked away and I was stunned and blushed I'm sure. But then by the time the elevator came I got it and stopped blushing and just smiled and we never spoke of it or even to each other instantly back to our usual silent mutual appreciation society at every subsequent visit. And I saw him today wiping the drool from someone and he saw me doing the Hawaii thing and afterwards as I was waiting for the elevator he just smiled at me as he does and I smiled back as I do and it was quiet and gorgeous and true and lovely.
4.
This evening I was driving just at dusk to go admit a new home patient a few towns over. The air was just unbelievable. Sixtyish, a little humid, a little breezy, a warm breeze, not a chilly one. In December. It did something to me. All I could think of was, this is sexy, sexy air. And it was sexy. I could not think of anything but the urge to go skinnydipping in the Merrimack as I drove along its banks, and I thought, I should really be thinking about this patient, and going over what not to forget to check into (funeral plans, DNR in place, don't smoke ciggies next to the O2 tank) and what I wanted to do was be naked in the air and then naked in the water. Except that it would be frigid and so I didn't do that. But I still kind of wish I'd found a good thick stand of trees and not been running 15 minutes late because I might have taken care of the first bit. I am still thinking about it tonight and I am wishing I could figure out where this particular air mass is from because I don't think its from generally just south of here. I think this is a magical air mass from some place kind of unusual and special and a little sexy, and someone out there has the technology to track it and know it and I wish they would put it on the news because I bet I'm not the only one who noticed it today. I bet Prince was on vacation somewhere, and slept in this air mass, and then it travelled on up to Haverhill, MA and got tangled up with me and that is probably the case because Prince is the kind of guy who can pull off stuff like that. But that's the truth. There was something in the air today and it was lovely and sexy all day today and I tell you, it was really pretty pleasant and enjoyable and I'm pretty grateful to have had a sensual sexy day in the middle of December on a Monday at work in a bunch of nursing homes. Thank you Prince, wherever you are.
Untitled
the sky is slanted
the sky is soft
I made a body of work
I hunch
I hunker
I squat down over it
I pack things back in
dirty
dry and tacky
was it packed with mud
what if it becomes infectious, purulent
what becomes of it
do I miss you
do I miss the way you make me feel
is it you
or is it me
I slice
nice and clean
slivers
I slice through
debride and flush
pack it
wrap it
and mail it to you.
the sky is soft
I made a body of work
I hunch
I hunker
I squat down over it
I pack things back in
dirty
dry and tacky
was it packed with mud
what if it becomes infectious, purulent
what becomes of it
do I miss you
do I miss the way you make me feel
is it you
or is it me
I slice
nice and clean
slivers
I slice through
debride and flush
pack it
wrap it
and mail it to you.
Hemingway, Fitzgerald and I: Drinking and Writing
So sick, so sick.
I can barely see. I can barely
hear what you say. you keep saying. You
keep not saying.
good bye. why not. why not. what's 40 years or
one in billions. what's the point. what was
the point. what was
so fucking important. I ask you that.
I ask you that and you will
never, ever, answer. He was
sobbing at the foot of the stairs. Did you
ever see him sobbing before? No
you did not. Drive around the block,
drive around, drive around shorter or longer or
not at all not as you'd admit
as you meant to. What we miss. Oh I miss you though
we never meet. But we're here all the time. Listen.
We're here all the time.
We're not alone. You.
You are not alone.
I love you. You know I do. I love you
whatever. Fuck you too.
These are minutes. These are
all we have. Be sure. Be so sure,
Here they go. Here I go. I'm not sick.
I'm well. Its going well. Thank fucking god.
Thank god. Its god you know, in the air, what it is
its god
its God.
I can barely see. I can barely
hear what you say. you keep saying. You
keep not saying.
good bye. why not. why not. what's 40 years or
one in billions. what's the point. what was
the point. what was
so fucking important. I ask you that.
I ask you that and you will
never, ever, answer. He was
sobbing at the foot of the stairs. Did you
ever see him sobbing before? No
you did not. Drive around the block,
drive around, drive around shorter or longer or
not at all not as you'd admit
as you meant to. What we miss. Oh I miss you though
we never meet. But we're here all the time. Listen.
We're here all the time.
We're not alone. You.
You are not alone.
I love you. You know I do. I love you
whatever. Fuck you too.
These are minutes. These are
all we have. Be sure. Be so sure,
Here they go. Here I go. I'm not sick.
I'm well. Its going well. Thank fucking god.
Thank god. Its god you know, in the air, what it is
its god
its God.
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