January 19: "Flaubert," Sister's Surgery, Daughter's Friend

Billy Collins and Gustave Flaubert are word watchers . . .

Flaubert

by:  Billy Collins

As he looked for the right word,

several wrong words

appeared in his window.

Really, all writers are word watchers, from poets to novelists.  Haiku to Madame Bovary.  We all (yes, I include myself in this group) sit by our windows, waiting for just the right cardinal or bunting to appear.  Then we capture it on the page.

My apologies for being mostly absent this week (and probably in the coming days, as well).  I just started teaching again this past Tuesday, and I've also been working on a huge NEA grant for the library.  Between students and grant verbiage, I've not had a whole lot of headspace for much else.  It literally has felt like I went from riding a tricycle to a runaway train.

And then, this morning, I took my sister to the hospital for surgery.  You may remember that she fell last week in her driveway and fractured both of her wrists pretty severely.  Well, she was supposed to have plates and pins installed.  The procedure is called an open reduction and internal fixation.  (How's that for word watching?)  

Well, after waiting for about an hour because of technical issues, my sister found out that her surgery had to be postponed until Monday.  The reason?  All of the air handlers that control temperature and humidity in the operating rooms weren't functioning.  Because I worked in the healthcare field for over 20 years (most of those years in a surgical setting), I understand why this delay had to occur.  However, it was quite disappointing for my sister, who's been in quite a bit of pain for over a week.

So, instead, I ended up working at the library for quite a while today on details and language for that NEA grant.  Word watching again, if you will.  Sending out emails.  Drafting paragraphs.  Feeling overwhelmed.

That is the kind of week I've had.  Of course, compared to the week my sister has had, mine was, to use a cliché, a walk in the park.  

And now, to close out this week, my daughter just texted me late tonight to tell me that one of her friends--with whom she took dance classes through grade, middle, and high school--died yesterday.  "O" was a sweet, sweet girl who led a very troubled life.  She was living with her boyfriend, and the propane heater in their house malfunctioned.  Both died of carbon monoxide poisoning.  

Sometimes, it feels as if life/God/the universe does things to people that simply don't make a whole lot of sense.  Tragic accidents that harm and/or kill individuals I care about.  And it leaves me watching for words that will somehow explain it all.  Sometimes, though, no words seem adequate.

Writer Anne Lamott says that there are three prayers that people send up to the heavens:  Help, Thanks, Wow.  Those words perfectly express human reactions to almost any situation we may encounter. So . . .

Saint Marty says "help" for all his loved ones who are hurting; "thanks" for him making it through this shitty week, and "wow" for all the unnoticed blessings that have sustained him.

August 24: Pneumonia and Die, an Apology, an Appendix

Finally I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark.  Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice.  That worried me.  I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die...

Yes, Holden comes close to dying in Catcher.  By the end of the book, he's really sick, mentally and physically.  But he's a survivor.  You never doubt that.  He's going to pick up the pieces of his life and live it on his own terms, no matter what.  I think that's why Holden is such an iconic figure in American literature.  He speaks the truth, and he calls out people who are false in any way.

Well, I owe all of my disciples an apology for pulling a disappearing act these last couple of days.  I swear I haven't been in hiding or on some desert pilgrimage.  I have done a lot of praying, though.  A lot.  But it wasn't deep and theological.  It was more like, "Please, help me, God.  Help me.  Help.  Help."

I ended up in the ER last night after experiencing stomach pain all day.  I got there at 7 p.m., and I was in the operating room by a little after midnight.  I thought it was some kind of gallbladder attack, that I was going to get some pain medication and be sent home.  Instead, the ER doc came in after my CT scan and said, "Well, you have appendicitis."  Pretty soon, a surgeon was standing next to my bed, and within the hour, I was talking to an anesthesiologist.

Yes, I gave birth to a bouncing, pink, inflamed appendix.  I think I'm going to name her Pia, because she's given me quite a pain in the ass.  Hospitals don't keep patients very long anymore.  I was discharged around 11 a.m. today.

I'm sore.  Tired.  Hungry.  And in need of another pain pill pretty soon.  I'm going to try to get back in the saddle pretty soon, but, tonight, this little apology/explanation is all I can manage.  I'll try to be a little more creative tomorrow.

Right now, Saint Marty needs to get his little Pia to bed.

I think she has my eyes