October 25: "Genesis," Surgery, Crazy Numbering

It has been a long couple days. The kind of days that make you reevaluate your life--its priorities and joys. I've had a lot of time to just sit and think, which is a luxury.

Billy Collins takes some time to think, too . . . 

Genesis

by: Billy Collins

It was late, of course,
just the two of us still at the table
working on a second bottle of wine

when you speculated that maybe Eve came first
and Adam began as a rib
that leaped out of her side one paradisal afternoon.

Could be, I remember saying,
because much was possible back then,
and I mentioned the talking snake
and the giraffes sticking their necks out of the ark,
their noses up in the pouring Old Testament rain.

I like a man with a flexible mind, you said then,
lifting your candle-lit glass to me
and I raised mine to you and began to wonder

what life would be like as one of your ribs--
to be with you all the time,
riding under your blouse and skin,
caged under the soft weight of your breasts,

your favorite rib, I am assuming,
if you ever bothered to stop and count them

which is just what I did later that night
after you had fallen asleep
and we were fitted tightly back to front,
your long legs against the length of mine,
my fingers doing the crazy numbering that comes of love.

Yes, my wife had her surgery.  At 10 a.m., they rolled her into the OR.  An hour or so later, she was in recovery.  I sat in the waiting area, writing, reading, thinking about the crazy numbering that comes of love, as Collins says.

My wife and I have been together 34 years.

We have been married 29 years.

During our time together, I earned a BA, and Master's Degree, and an MFA, and my wife earned a BS, for a total of four college degrees.  (If you throw my daughter's BA into the mix, that's five.)

Five years after we got married, our daughter was born in the year 2000.

Eight years later, our son was born.

Almost five years ago, we got our puppy--a mini-Aussie who has become our third baby.

During the time we've been together, I have lost one brother, two sisters, my mother, and my father.

Also during the time we've been together, I served as U.P. Poet Laureate for two two-year terms.

I've published three books during our married life, the most recent just one month ago.

We've seen six different Presidents of the United States during our time together and lived through one global pandemic.

Tonight, my wife has one less organ in her body, and I still have the one and only person I've truly loved.

No matter how you do the math, Saint Marty has been infinitely blessed.

March 29: "I Own a House," Things, Dog Attack

Mary Oliver on owning things . . . 

I Own a House

by:  Mary Oliver

I own a house, small but comfortable.  In it is a bed, a desk, a kitchen, a closet, a telephone.  And so forth--you know how it is:  things collect.

Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them with vague and beautiful faces.  And there are the pines that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not even know their names.  And there is the mockingbird; over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances--he actually dances, in the air.  And there are days I wish I owned nothing, like the grass.

Ownership ties you down.  That's what Mary Oliver is saying here.  If you own a lot of "things," you will spend a lot of time worrying about caring for, breaking, or losing them.  Things can weigh you down, not allow you to dance in the air like the mockingbird in Oliver's poem.

It has been a while since I wrote a blog post.  I apologize for that.  As most of you know, I've been struggling with sadness a great deal.  Most days, my energies are monopolized by work and teaching.  By the time I get home, I don't have much fuel left in my tank.  I just want to sleep.

This past weekend, however, something happened that reminded me of my preoccupation with things that, for the most part, don't mean a whole lot.  Most of my life is a rush from one obligation to another--from the library to the classroom to the library to meetings to events.  In order to survive on a day-to-day basis, I have developed a tunnel vision.  I move forward, eyes on the prize all the time.  It's how I have been able to function for about a year.

So, this past Saturday morning, my wife texted me.  She'd forgotten her computer glasses, and she needed them for work.  About 9 a.m., I packed up our little puppy, Juno, and drove the 20 miles to deliver my wife's glasses.  When I arrived, I called my wife to let her know I was at the back door of the business, and she should come out.  

As my wife opened the door, our puppy did what she normally does when she sees someone she loves:  butt wagging, she pulled on her leash to get to my wife.  Just as Juno got to my wife, another dog came charging out of the door.  A very big, 80-pound Black Mouth Cur.

To be honest, things happened so fast, it's difficult for me to remember the order of events.  The other dog grabbed Juno by the neck and began shaking her violently.  Juno started making sounds that were terrible to hear--part howl, part cry of pain and shock.  I threw myself on the dog and grabbed at its jaws, trying to free Juno.  I knew that if I didn't get Juno away, the dog was going to shake her to death.  I jammed my hands in the dog's mouth and pulled.

Juno fell from the dog's mouth.  She started running away, but then rolled on her belly to show submission.  The other dog started mauling and chewing at Juno's abdomen.  Juno kept making those sounds--pain, fear, desperation.   I was pulling on the dog, trying to put myself in front of Juno to protect her.  The dog was huge, muscular, and impossible to stop.

Eventually, someone somehow pulled the dog off and back into the building.  I didn't see who it was.  And Juno just lay on the ground, bleeding, whimpering, white-eyed.  There was so much blood.  My hands were covered in it.  I reached down to try to pick Juno up, but she snarled when I touched her leg, which was at a strange angle to her body.

My wife called our vet's office, told them about the attack.  Juno started going into shock, so I wrapped her in a towel, got her in the car, and drove the 20 miles to the vet in about ten minutes.  On the way, Juno started to lose consciousness, and we kept talking to her, keeping her awake.

When we arrived, the vet went into action quickly.  Juno was bleeding from her belly and neck, couldn't stand on her back leg.  X-rays were taken.  Her leg was out of joint at the hip.  Her belly wound was large, but it didn't look like the other dog had punctured the stomach.  Lots of muscles and ligaments were torn.  She needed surgery.

While Juno went to surgery, I went to the ER.  My hands were really chewed up.  Deep punctures in both of my palms.  The dog bit through one of my nails, as well.  The doctor cleaned up the wounds, gave me a tetanus shot, and a prescription for antibiotics.  My hands were throbbing.  (They still are sometimes, and it's been almost four days since the attack.)

Juno was in surgery for a couple hours.  The vet was able to manipulate her hip back into place and sew up her muscles, ligaments, belly, and neck.  By the evening, Juno was able to walk for a short distance outside to pee.  But she was in a lot of pain.

Juno spent the night at the vet's office.  We picked her up late the following morning.  She has drains in her wounds, to relieve swelling and bleeding.  Juno has always been a very active little dog, fearless in climbing snowbanks, jumping on the back of the couch to bark at passing cars.  She can't do that right now.  She wants to, but can't.  The most walking she does is short strolls around the house to go to the bathroom.  

Before, you ask--yes, we filed a police report.  Yes, we have made it very clear to the owner of the other dog that she is responsible for the vet bills.  Yes, we are talking to an attorney.  

The other dog was supposedly and emotional support animal.  That is why she was allowed to be in the office where my wife works.  However, the dog hasn't gone through the classes or training to be an emotional support animal.  The owner was planning to have her properly trained later.

Am I mad?  Yes.  The owner of the other dog was irresponsible, to say the least.  Another of my wife's coworkers told my wife that someone is blaming my wife for what happened, that my wife "shouldn't have opened the door."  That makes me even angrier.  Juno was under control, leashed, and simply greeting my wife with kisses and butt wags.  However, we live in a society that loves to blame victims for things that happen to them.  Women who dress provocatively are "asking for it."  And, I guess, dogs that are happy to see their family members deserve to be almost eviscerated by uncontrolled emotional support animals.

These last days, I've had a hard time sleeping.  More than once, I've woken up with the sound of Juno's cries in my head.  I've had dreams of that dog attacking Juno and me.  I'm tired and sore.

What does all this have to do with the Mary Oliver poem for today?  That poem reinforces a lesson I've learned over the last five or so days.  All the things that clutter our days--houses, cars, jobs, lost keys, diets, bad drivers, bad grades, whatever--are pretty insignificant.  In the midst of that dog attack, as I was fighting to get Juno free and safe, all that went through my mind was this:  "Please, don't let her die.  Please, don't let her die.  Please don't let her die."  

"Things" aren't important.  

For Saint Marty, tonight, what is important is this little dog, lying on her pillow on the floor, staring up at him with eyes full or trust and love.

May 28: Festively Enough, Book Club Meeting, Photos

That evening passed festively enough.  The tree had been decorated with great aplomb and by ten thirty everyone had left and the children were in bed...

Ives throws a tree decorating party every Christmas, where family and friends come together, eat, drink, and listen to Bing Crosby records.  The kids tinsel the tree, and the adults get mildly drunk.

This evening, my book club met at my house.  Our monthly gatherings are full of food and drink and conversation.  We talk about the month's reading selection (this month--We Are Not Ourselves by Matthew Thomas), and we catch up on gossip and family news.  As I've said in previous posts, it's one of my favorite evenings of the month.

Tonight, I had great news to share at book club.  My sister, who has been in the nursing home since February, flew down to the University of Michigan Hospital this morning to have her parathyroid removed.  The surgery went very well.  Before she was even out of the operating room, my sister had her calcium level checked, and it was in the normal range.

I received several pictures from my sister's hospital room.  My sister was sitting up in bed, eating potato chips.  There are two things in that statement that are remarkable.  First, my sister was sitting up--she has been flat on her back for almost four months, too weak to move.  Second, my sister was eating potato chips--my sister hasn't really eaten in almost four months either, throwing up everything.  So, two miracles in one picture.

It was a good evening.  Good book.  Good news.  Good friends.

One of the ladies in book club recently returned from a trip to Ireland.  She visited W. B. Yeats' grave and showed me a picture.  I just sort of sat there, staring at the photo.  Dumbstruck. 

Saint Marty has had a really good day.

P. S. Sorry about not posting last night.  I had a plumbing emergency at 11 p.m.  A plumber had to be called to unclog the only toilet in my house.  It was not a good scene.

Thanks to my friend for sharing this photo

April 1: A Worry, God's Love Number Forty-Three, My Sister

If they had a worry, it was about Carmen, who seemed not long for the world, but she felt insulted at the notion that she would "suddenly" die after having coped with one thing or the other for the past seven years and had practically gotten out of bed to run out around the block to make sure that her American friends had some happiness, by way of their late-life journey.  And they left sadly, reluctantly, feeling as if they might never see her alive again.

Carmen is dying.  Ives and his wife know it.  They have a trip to England planned, but they know that, if they go, they will never see her again.  She is that ill.  Like any good friend, Carmen insists that her friends go on their journey.  It's important to her.  So, Ives and Annie leave.

It's difficult having a close friend or family member who's gravely ill.  The world seems to stop, waiting for the inevitable.  Trips are canceled.  Holidays are ignored.  Happiness takes a holiday.  Carmen knows this, but she refuses to let her loved ones stop living.

My sister is still in a nursing home.  She's not getting any better.  All she does, all day long, is lie in her bed, stare at the ceiling, and cry.  My sister is tough.  Really tough.  A friend visited her this weekend in the nursing home, and my sister told her, "They might as well just throw me in a hole and bury me."

Yesterday, however, we got some promising news.  A doctor did an ultrasound of my sister's parathyroid.  It seems that it has been spewing out calcium at unbelievable levels, which, among other things, results in loss of muscle tone.  The doctor believes this condition explains my sister's current state.  No strength.  Excruciating pain.  Long story short, my sister is having another surgery next week to remove her parathyroid.  While the recovery is still going to be long and hard, there is now hope for recovery.

That's God's love number forty-three:  hope for my sister.  She will get better.  She will walk out of that nursing home.  She will come home.  Of course, her life will be drastically different than what it was, but she will have a life.

That's what Saint Marty is holding onto tonight.

Who knew such a little thing could cause so much misery?

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