Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser McAlpin

Grey Matters

Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me. I mean, really, what kind of person loves Grey’s Anatomy re-runs so much that she feels she must hide that fact from her husband, who pretty much knows anyway?  I sneak into my bedroom, turn on my computer, attach the headphones, go into Amazon.com, click right to Instant Video and voila! There in my video library is Grey’s Anatomy, seasons 1-8.

At some point during real-tv season 7, I got sick of the preposterousness of the situations, and stopped watching; but last week, I pushed through my misplaced disdain and kept going. I worked through seasons 6 and 7, and am in the throes of season 8.

My diagnosis? The situations are still preposterous, but I simply cannot resist them. Examples, taken from the last couple of shows in season 7 and the first two of season 8, are as follows. 1. Chief of Surgery Dr. Weber figures out a way to arrest or even cure diabetes by replacing the old pancreas with a new one. 2. After a bar fight, one drunk, with a knife stuck in his skull, with the handle sticking out, is taken to our beloved Seattle Grace Mercy West by a second drunk. There, the knife is removed, so the drunks can return to the bar. 3. A man is so obese that he is driven to the ER in the back of a truck instead of an ambulance. 4. Doctors slip into the on-call room for intimate moments, and all sorts of naughtiness and uncomfortable conversations occur in the elevator, the slowest one in the world. 5. Every time someone is rushed into the ER, that patient gets a blood workup, CT scans, 5 ccs of epi, paddle shocks and the attention of at least five doctors. 6. Every time someone undergoes surgery, the surgeon calls for “a number 10 scalpel,” “More suction!” and “Clamp!” 7. If I had a dime for every time I heard one of the doctors yell, “Someone, get a crash cart in here!” I’d be a rich lady indeed. And yet still, I watch.

I can't help it. I’m a little in love with the characters. There’s “the nazi,” Miranda Bailey, a softy at heart, who loves to scare the residents, Dr. McDreamy, who is just that, Dr. McSteamy, who is also just that, and the twisted sisters, Meredith Grey and Christina Yang, best friends and surgical competitors. Meredith’s little sister, Lexi, of whom she knew nothing, shows up at the hospital one day, out of the blue, as a new resident. My favorite character is Dr. Karev, who looks like a thug taken off the streets because he basically is a thug taken off the streets, a testimony to what a little hard work and determination can do.

However, I must say, I think the real reason why I love Grey’s Anatomy is that out of all the folks at UPMC Presbyterian, with whom I talked, for the five days following my back surgery a year-and-a-half ago, 100% of them watched Grey’s Anatomy religiously and couldn’t wait to talk to me about it. This endorsement is enough for me.  I'm in.  Even if I think I have to hide.

 

The Problem With Art

The sight took my breath away. I jammed on the brakes before making sure there was no one behind me, which, fortunately, there wasn’t. Finding a nearby driveway, I turned into it, backed up and drove back to the pasture, trying to get a good vantage point from which to take a picture. I had seen these horses in this pasture many times before. But I had never seen them covered with such a spectacular array of color. Usually their blankets were brown or gray. Today they were fastened to the dark brown and red horses with black understraps, showing off a flashing bright teal, a hunter green edged in pumpkin orange and a dazzling, deep purple. All this amid white spots and blazes divided by dark halter straps and black manes blowing in the autumn wind. I drove around, trying to get the best iPhone picture position. If only I had my paints, I thought. But it wouldn’t have mattered. With my oil or my water colors or a camera, I would never be able to capture the image planted in my mind of the bright, gloomy and placid, of the horses munching on the grass beneath a turbulent sky. So, after a few lame attempts, I put my iPhone back in my purse, memorized the sight and headed home. I was late anyway.

 

 

Dawn

I shook myself awake, trying to leave the dream. My pillow stuck to my cheek, wet with tears. I had forgotten Sophie had died. And then, I remembered. But it was way too close, like it happened yesterday, so I had to get up and splash water on my face.

When Winston died, Sophie sniffed all over the yard, tail and ears drooping like Eeyore's, and walked over to the front fence, where she stood, searching the sidewalk, up and down. We sat in the middle of the lawn, staring at the front gate, waiting. The next night was the Fourth of July, so we sat on the front porch, top step, side by side, with my arm around her, fireworks in surround-sound, watching to see if he would trot around the corner. But Winston never came back, and neither will my sweet Sophie.

All loss feels a little like this, the loss of a friend, the loss of a pet, the loss of a book. There's that sinking that comes with something not being right, coupled with restless waiting. I think we are waiting to stop waiting, but some waitings feel like black holes that drag on forever.

 

 

The Auto Fix-It Store

My husband asked me if I would do him a favor and take the car to the auto fix-it place to get the oil changed. I was happy to help him out.

Once I told the man what I wanted, he asked, "Maam, would you like super-duper or regular?"

Isn't super-duper always better than regular?

"I'll take the super-duper please. "

Five minutes later, "Maam, would you like a new filter?"

He held my filter up for me to see. Icky poo. Caked with gradu on the entire left side. For comparison, he raised a sparkling clean filter and positioned them side by side. I studied them carefully. Of course we needed a nice, bright, new one. He got to work right away.

"Ma'am," he said, interrupting my attempt to send a text message to my husband, to tell him I was doing a good job, taking care of the car. I looked up in annoyance.

"When was the last time you changed your coolant?"

What is coolant?

"I don't know, " I said.

What he held up for me to examine was quite pretty.

"Did that come out of my car?" I asked.

"Yep."

It was a sparkling, clean, plastic container filled with what looked like distilled pink lemonade mixed with water, with rainbow-colored disks, or markers of some sort, lining the left side. I wanted to hang it in my window at home.

"No, thank you," I said.

Too new, too pink. I would not be fooled.

I texted K.C. before heading home.

"Oil changed! I bought everything they recommended, except the coolant. If we need new coolant, you'll have to do it yourself later."

"Oh, no!" he texted back. "Next time I'll take it myself."

 

 

Sunday Drivers

Whenever KC and I drive around the lake, which is often, since we live two miles up the road from it, we marvel at its colors. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes teal, turquoise, gray, sometimes glassy, sometimes full of chop and whitecaps. Every time we look, it’s different.

Sunday, on our way to church, the lake was a light celery color, dramatically marbled with steel grays and murky browns. The water was quite smooth, but not glassy, and it was pocked with tiny splotches of shadow, which was odd because the sun shone directly on it.

“That’s weird,” I said. “The water should be sparkly. The sun is shining all over it, but instead of making sparkles, it’s making dark spots that look like itty speckles of sand.”

“That is weird,” KC agreed. “I wonder why it’s making shadows?”

“I don't know. It's making anti-sparkles,” I said. “The opposite of sparkles.”

“Interesting. Now all we need is a word for them. You can’t just call them ‘anti-sparkles.’”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because,” he replied.

“Oh,” I said.

"So what would be the opposite of sparkles?” he asked.

I spent a moment in deep, relevant thought.

"I know!” I cried. “We’ll call them ‘Narkles!’”

"Good job, Wease,” he said.

'Why thank you,” I replied. “Being clever is one of my many talents."

"Give me narkles or give me death!” I said. “To err is human; to narkle divine!”

KC rolled his eyes and we finally arrived at church.

"Get thee to a narkery!”

KC ignored me.

“Get behind me, Narkles?”

We got out of the car and the conversation ended.

I guess that’s the way the narkles crumble. You narkle some, you lose some.

 

 

Serious Writing, Schmerious Schmriting

Good intentions paved the way to, well, to somewhere that is fortunately outside my area of expertise. Regardless, it appears I’m back.

“Why?” you may ask.

Because two men passed me on the sidewalk the other day. I had just left a favorite bookstore and emerged into a clear Indian summer day, with a cloudless, deep blue sky spread out above and around me. One of the men was tall with a light blue shirt and a cane, the other was rather hefty and wore a gray sweatshirt, and both had shocking white hair that positively gleamed in the sunshine. They wore sunglasses. Quite the studs, for two old guys.

“Here comes trouble,” the tall one said.

Was he talking to me?

They stopped and stared at me.

“Did you hear me? I was talking to you. I said, ‘Here comes trouble!’”

Wow.

“I am trouble,” I said and stepped onto the grass to maneuver around them. We all laughed.

I kept walking without looking back and I can honestly say that this silly snapshot of one of life's weird, little vignettes totally made my day, and possibly my entire week. I simply had to blog about it.

And that. Is. Why. I’m. Back!

From Louise

 

 

New Year's in Naples

Sitting at the window, watching the cold turn to warm in the noonday sun, I am doing what I think everyone else is doing at the end of December, which is, pondering the new year ahead.

In about a week, I will click into the Manuscript Phase of my MFA program.  No more residencies, lectures or classes, and no more deadlines every four weeks.  Instead, I will pursue the independent writing/study phase of the program with the mentor of my own choosing, who graciously agreed to hang in there with me to the bitter end, which may be one year from now, or even two.

To finish my MFA, I need at least one hundred fifty pages of publishable material.  To date, I have one hundred pages of non-publishable, rough material, first and second drafts galore.  There is much to do, so obviously, it's time for me to write, write, write in all earnestness.  No messing around, every day, no excuses.  And I don't mean write on my blog.  I mean, write my manuscript.  It's time to shut down “Sneak Peeks.”

I want to thank friends and family, who have read my blog over their morning coffee, or who have read my blog during their lunch break, or who have read my blog just to tell me they did, and to encourage me.  I've had a blast learning not only more about writing, but also about computers, html and web pages.  And the more I've learned, the more I've known how much more I need to learn.  But that's always the way it is, isn't it?

Thank you and have a Happy New Year!

 

 

From Louise

 

 

The Difference Between KC and Me

Yesterday, KC and I drove two different vehicles in two different directions for different reasons.  KC delivered our belongings, loaded into a U-Haul truck, to Michigan, and I delivered my mastiffs to friend Carrie's place in upstate PA, where they will stay until my back is strong enough to weather the jostles they inadvertently give.  Before we hit the road, we sat down to breakfast and said Grace.

“Heavenly Father, thank You for the meal sitting before us,” KC prayed, eyes closed, head bowed.  “Thank You for nourishing our bodies and keeping us well.  Please watch over me as I drive the truck back to Michigan and protect Weasie and the mastiffs as....”

I didn’t hear the rest.  I was too busy praying my own prayer.

“Dear God, if anything happens to KC, You and I will have issues.  Big, serious issues.  So don’t even think about it.”

When you consider my demeanor toward the Almighty, it is a wonder He didn't strike me dead years ago.  Why does He have anything to do with me?  Why does anyone, for that matter?

As I head into the final stretch of preparedness before surgery, my world is getting smaller.  The to-do list with all its unchecked items is irrelevant; people outside my immediate sphere are becoming less distinct, like shadows on the periphery.  The worries I had about moving?  I’m not sure what they were.  I expect the move to kind of take care of itself.

What is clear and solid are those things directly in front of me that must get done as part of my preparation process, part of keeping things afloat while I am indisposed, and making sure I’m indisposed as comfortably as possible.  I don’t know how long my recovery is going to be.  I’m told it will depend on me, on my body, on my reaction to the surgery, on my reaction to all sorts of things.

At this stage of the game, my expectations have basically flown out the window.  I didn’t realize how heavy they were until I noticed they were gone.  I'd like to feel their absence on an ongoing basis.  I’ll have to work on that.

Maybe I could also work on being a little nicer to God, having a more humble attitude, instead of throwing my weight around, threatening Him and carrying on.  I doubt it affects Him one way or the other how much I shake my fist and stomp my foot.  The only person being affected by it is me.  What kind of person do I really want to be?  How do I want to treat others?  Maybe I could be a little more pleasant and cooperative, asking for help and then accepting and working within reality.  A favorite quote from the movie, 28 Days, starring Sandra Bullock, reminds me, “I can control the little things, and then I have to let go and it's up to somebody else.”

That said, my issues and I will be back as soon as we can after surgery.  Thank you for reading my silly rambling.

From Louise

This Week's Bests and Worsts

Best Surprise

Three mastiffs being easily demoted from the couch to three cushy beds on the floor, who quickly learned the meaning of, "Go to your place."  KC will thank me later.

Worst Surprise

The impact of going off meds as part of pre-op.  Ouch, already!  I had no idea I was in all this pain.  It's been very distracting and I'm all preoccupied, as you can clearly see by the next item on this list.

Worst Consequence of Worst Surprise

An encounter with a curb.  In my Subaru wagon that I've been driving for seven years, seven, I cut a corner, hit the curb and blew out my back tire.  I knew I blew the tire the second after it happened.  Hit that curb like I had no idea where the car began or ended.  Hit it hard.  Bang.  Tilt and thump.  That telling drag on the steering wheel.  Limped to a neighborhood gas station, left the car at one of the pumps, slipped a note with my phone number on it under the station door and walked home.  They know my car.  They'll probably think it's funny.  Maybe someday I will too.  Thank goodness it was just a curb.

Best News

Positive feedback from Irish mentor Brian Leyden on my last writing packet, which, I might add, was on time, despite every, little, turbulent thing going on in my life right now.  On time, plus he was much happier with my writing.  My last packet was due two weeks after I got married and he did not permit me any time extention.  I get it.  This is grad school, after all.  "Flimsy," I think he called my book review, which I spent maybe five minutes writing.  Ah, well.  He was much happier with packet 2, the world is in its place and he and I are friends again.

Worst News

Auto accident involving friend and singer, Eddie Garcia, who suffered a concussion and sprained wrist.  Bandmate Bryan's injuries were even more severe and I'm not sure if he's been released from the hospital as of this posting.  I've got them both on my prayer list.

Strongest Wish for Next Week

That my hospital experience will look just like Grey's Anatomy, except for the Season 6 there's-a-shooter-on-the-loose-in-the-hospital finale.  That was a mean way to dispose of characters whose contracts were not renewed for Season 7.  Anyway, I choose Christina and Meredith to assist Dr. Kanter with my surgery, and I intend to surprise the entire surgical team, as well as those watching from the balcony, by not v-fibbing in the middle of the procedure, like everybody else on the show.

Have yourself a strong, rewarding weekend!

From Louise

The Wedding's Over

My back surgery is less than a week away.  “You must be so stressed out,” everyone keeps saying.  Truth is, I'm much more bothered about being away from my husband than I am about this surgery.

We have been married for sixty-one whole days and have lived together for, maybe, half of that time, if we're lucky―five days here, a week there.  For the most part, I wake up alone, except for a mastiff or two sprawled on the floor, in the same single-mom bed that I’ve enjoyed for the last thirteen years.  This makes it rather challenging to feel like a newlywed.

Why are we separated?  For now, I need to be in Pittsburgh because my property is for sale and even though I have three huge, drooly English mastiffs, everything must stay neat and tidy for showings.  Then, after my surgery, I have to stay put, being quiet and super careful, until my back “sets.”  Once it sets, I am free to join my husband in Michigan.  Meanwhile, except for during, and immediately after, surgery, KC needs to be Up North because that is where his new job is.  It's all so confusing.

Sometimes I think I made the whole marriage thing up.  My life's the same, nothing's changed, ho hum.  That's the time I need to twirl my engagement and wedding rings around my finger, or take them off to study the shiny, white bands they leave on my skin that I didn't think was tan.  Plus, I have wedding and mini-moon pictures, a marriage certificate, a new drivers license, credit card, social security card, and, coming soon, a new voters' card.  They all say McAlpin.  Louise Yeiser McAlpin.  Plus, I have a husband who calls, emails and texts me sporadically throughout the day, plus a phone call at dinner and one at bedtime.

So, okay.  We've been married sixty-one days and don't quite live together yet.  No biggy.  We've got other stuff to do at the moment.  This too shall pass.

Model Monday

It was all Brenda's fault.  She got me hooked on America's Next Top Model, with Tyra Banks and a host of mannequin-like models, who desperately needed to eat a few cheeseburgers with fries, cole slaw and a couple of shakes.  Saturday morning, I went to her house because someone was coming to look at mine (remember, it's for sale?) and I wanted to avoid overhearing people's comments.  Yes, I know there's some mastiff slobber on the walls and not enough upstairs closet-space.  Okay?

Anyway, I fled to Brenda's house, thinking we could sit quietly together and, like, write!  We've had writing dates before, the most memorable one being the day we decided to walk the mastiffs around the block, which we figured would clear our heads and make us brilliant.  She took Charlie (217 lbs.) and I had Webster (170 lbs.).  We left the house in warm, sunshiny weather and walked down the street only to get caught in a torrential downpour that came out of nowhere, complete with lightning, thunder and a small tree to hide under, which was no help whatsoever.  My neighbor drove by and offered his dry porch to us, but I was laughing so hard, I was unable to respond, so I waved the car on.  When we got back to the house, we had to wrap ourselves in bathrobes and wait for our clothes to come out of the dryer.  I guess you could say Brenda's and my writing dates haven't always been that successful.

This was no exception.  I parked my car across the street from her house and texted her, asking if I could come up.

“I have so much writing to do,” Brenda said, once we had settled in her living room, across from the tv, which was on.  Her laptop sat open on the table in front of her and mine was on my lap.

“Me too.  Let's turn off the tv and get to it.”

But no.  Brenda had to watch one last rerun of America’s Next Top Model before she would off the tv, which I thought was fine.  After all, it was just one.  What harm could it do?

Once the show ended, Brenda tried to press the power button on her computer.  I'll give her that.  She really tried.  But these re-runs were running back-to-back all afternoon and I thought it would be fun to watch the next one, just one more, before we settled down to business.  That one more ended up being another one more and another, and another, and so on, until we had watched every single show, down to the bitter end.  Within hours, the six competing models of the first show I watched were reduced to three, then two.  The grand winner: CariDee.

Brenda said she needed to watch America's Next Top Model for deep-seated, psychological reasons.  My excuse?  I was putting off till tomorrow what I should have been doing that day.  I gave in.  I chose to be weak and bad.  Sometimes it's fun to be weak and bad.

Today is Monday and I'm still thinking about America's Next Top Model.  What happened to Melrose, Eugena and Anchal, three of the losers?  Or the twins?  Are they strolling down catwalks or posing in front of cameras somewhere, or are they wasting away (even more) while they sit in front of their tvs, wondering what went wrong?  I've lost two nights' sleep over this, so I have to ask: is there a 12-step program for people addicted to dumb reality shows?  If so, I have to find a meeting right away.  And if I have to go, I'm dragging Brenda along with me.  Because, as everyone knows, it was all Brenda's fault.

Better Rusty Than Never

Today's Friday List of four was brought to you by Unconscious Mutterings, Week no. 397.  Thank you, Nina!

Prompt no. 1: Surprisingly

It's an adverb.  I like adverbs, although, when I was an undergrad in English Writing at Pitt, my classmates, who had just finished Journalism 101 to join me in Creative Nonfiction I, considered an adverb to be something akin to an unpardonable sin, punishable by death.  In small group work, as soon as an adverb appeared, the offending writer, usually me, became the most wretched of all condemned souls.  However, I think a well-chosen adverb modifying an emotion-packed adjective can do wonders for a sentence.  Dresses it up in finery it didn’t know it had.  Hauntingly heartbreaking or luridly luscious.  Can't you just hear those petticoats swishing under those gorgeous, full skirts?

Prompt no. 2: Penciled

My eyebrows are surprisingly strange.  Thick and dark on the upswing, they disappear into sun-bleached blondness on the downswing.  They have to be plucked near the bridge of my nose and painted on in other places.  This may not make any sense, nor be a terribly brilliant subject to write about, but this is the way it is, just the same.

Prompt no. 3: Ignore

“Just ignore it,” my husband tells me.  Why should I ignore something, when stewing over it can set me spinning into a nice, steamy resentment, fueled by self-righteous anger, which I can stir from time to time and cook to utter perfection?

Prompt no. 4: Let’s go!

The Pittsburgh Penguins.  Man, do I love ice hockey.  Anyway, I am selling my house right now, which is a big surprise to those who know how much time and money I have put into it, but this is the sort of thing that happens when a home-owning female falls in love with, and marries, the apartment-dwelling love of her life.  The couple can either move into her house, or the woman can sell it, so they can live in a totally new place.

I am selling my house.  Our new place is in Harbor Springs, Michigan, which means that some time in November, after back surgery and a 6-week recovery period, I’m moving Up North to live with my new husband.  One small problem.  Harbor Springs is overflowing with Detroit Redwings fans.  I mean, they're everywhere!  The encroachment of these guys into my Pittsburgh Penguins lifestyle is pretty nauseating, but I promise to do my best to keep it under check.  After all, throwing up, especially in public, is not at all polite.  Nor would it give me any brownie points with my new neighbors.

 

Have a safe, healthy weekend!

From Louise

One.... Two....Two and a Half....

Date Night.  Tina Fey and Steve Carell.  The white, expensive sports car stolen by our heroic couple has hooked front bumpers with the yellow, every-day taxi driven by our totally freaked-out cab driver and they are trying to figure out how to unlock the cars.  Plan 1 is to floor both cars in reverse.  No luck.  I can't remember what Plan 2 is, but they are prepping for it.

"On the count of three!" Steve Carell hollers.  "One!"

The camera pans from face to determined face in each car.  Not really.  The cab driver is still scared half to death. 

Two!  The tension mounts.  The cars are revving.  Camera shows two feet on two pedals, ready now.  Steady now....

Three!

My lights go off!  Really.  They do.  The lights, the air conditioner, the clocks on the microwave and oven, the overhead fan upstairs.  The lights and everything else.  All out.  The hum of appliances and electricity and who-knows-what-else winds down and disappears, and I am enveloped in silence and darkness.

Someone has cut the lines and must be in the house!  No house can lose its power accidentally on the count of 3.  Not possible, I think.

Quickly.  Decision time.  What should I get first, the mastiffs or my flashlight?  I opt for the mastiffs and feel along the wall to their crates in the back of the house.  They make no noise, which is freaky.  My heart is in my throat.

They're dead!  The same person who cut the power lines has killed my mastiffs, I think, struggling with the lock on Winston II's crate.  Finally, his tail starts banging across the back of his crate.

You're alive! I whisper.  I have to be very quiet so the burglar can't hear me.  I don't want him to know my whereabouts.

Both Charlie and Primo start to stir, alerting me to their aliveness, as well as causing me to wonder if I am being a little silly.  That's all it takes.  One thought.

I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders.  I let the dogs outside, feel my way through the house and upstairs to the hall closet to fetch my flashlight.  On the way back down, I look out the window to see several neighbors congregating across the street in front of dark houses. 

I AM being silly, I think.  It was just a creepy coincidence.  Very creepy.

No need to drag this story out.  Of course I join the neighbors outside and learn that a tree limb has knocked down a transformer in our neighborhood, which should be fixed in a few hours, which is exactly what happens.  Right around my bedtime, electricity is restored.  I set my coffee maker for the next morning, climb the stairs, forcing the mastiffs to come up with me, lock us all into my room, in case the non-existent burglar comes back, turn off my lights and settle into bed.  Although I like to listen to Art Garfunkel's Breakaway CD to lull me to sleep, tonight I want to be able to hear all the night noises and be at the ready, flashlight close at hand.  I may be silly, but it's never a bad idea to be cautious, right?

My last thought before drifting off to sleep is, Weasie, you totally watch too much tv.

This may or may not be true, but even so, allow me to be the first to admit that possessing this knowledge hasn't, and won't, change a single, solitary thing.

My Favorite Fifteen Months

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From Louise

Happy Independence Day, Late!

 

Have a wonderful Fourth of July, remembering the spirit of our country and silently thanking all who have sacrificed to make our country the wonderful place that it is!

Crooked

The last time I was in Michigan, I was on my way to a restaurant for dinner, when I spied an older gentleman who was at least ten times more bent than I.  I guessed him to be in his late seventies or early eighties, with white hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders and flat waistline, and a sharp lean to his left.  If my scoliosis was measured to be at a thirty degree variance, then his had to be at least sixty.

He must be in so much pain, I thought, before watching him jog across the street, while holding up his hand to stop traffic.  He hobbled from side to side, but that didn't slow him down at all.  He was obviously in a rush to get somewhere and whisked around the corner, before disappearing from view.

Two weeks later, I sat in Dr. Hawaii's office, asking why someone ten to twenty years older could be twice as bent as I, but move just as well.

"The degree of variance doesn't matter as much as the speed of shift," he said.  "The people who move one degree per year are the ones that won't have problems later in life.  The folks who move over four degrees a year are likely to have problems, oftentimes serious ones, and, when there's a fifteen degree shift in fourteen months, such as yours, there will most certainly be problems."

He even threw the word "dangerous" in there somewhere, which I chose to ignore.

Thanks to an aggressive, three-month long pain management regime that consisted of a series of spinal steroid shots and one selective nerve root block, I participated in a two-week MFA residency in Ireland, where I carried heavy suitcases, walked up and down thousands of steps on our hillside campus, and sat for hours at a desk and on planes and buses.  Today I walked two and half miles.  Without a limp. 

So, two months from now, if I face Dr. Hawaii again after my next set of x-rays, and feel that familiar fist of air rush into my throat after being informed that I'm still shifting too fast, I want to remember how much I was able to do in spite of it all, and stay focused on the positive.  This is a manageable condition.  It is not life-threatening.  Dangerous schmangerous!

Inane Interlude

I wonder what happened to my yellow legal pad, the first page of which I've filled with important financial information.  I wonder why I got lost twice driving to my doctor's appt. at UPMC Presby this morning, when I spent two years driving to the Univ. of Pittsburgh and have been to Presby at least half a dozen times in the last six months.  I wonder why I'm so tired today, when I know I slept like a log last night and got seven hours.  I wonder why my taster is off, making my favorite pbj combination taste like sawdust.  I wonder why I'm writing this silly blog entry instead of searching for my yellow legal pad.  KC gave it to me, you know.

SOS

Good heavens!  If I'm getting ready to do another Ireland residency, without having written one word since the end of my last practicum, which ended May 1, then how can I possibly expect myself to be in the groove, in the mood, in the know, once my residency begins?  I can't.  I've been so preoccupied with marrying my guy KC and moving to Michigan, I haven't even thought about school.  Or writing.  Or any of it.  This is not good.  My mood, as charming as it is, as I wallow in the throes of oh-my-god-what-do-I-keep-what-do-I-sell-what-do-I-give-away-what-do-I-throw-away-and-when-is-all-this-happening-anyway, is not good.  Quite simply, without being melodramatic about it, if I don't start writing again, I shall die.  A slow, painful death, filled with unimaginable emotional suffering, just the way the Irish mentors, readers, guests and lecturers like it.  But, being American, I know how preoccupied I am with life and longevity, compared to my Irish friends.  So, hello again, blog.  Didja miss me?

Yippee! Woo hoo!

Two weekends ago, at Nine on Nine, at a corner table, next to two huge windows with the best people-watching views, my boyfriend of one year, KC, plopped down on one knee before our drinks and bread basket arrived, and asked me to marry him.  So astounded that I couldn't speak, I made the poor man remain kneeling on the floor like that for much too long before giving him my answer.  I think he's been limping ever since, but he’s got a sure thing in his pocket.  Me.

“When do you want to get married?” I asked, expecting to be engaged for a year, while we sorted out the fact that we both will be leaving our respective cities and moving to a brand new city, Petoskey, Michigan, a career move for KC.  Our new digs must have room for all five of our kids, to thus encourage frequent visits, plus a studio/writing corner for me and a den for him.  Plus, my three mastiffs will be moving with us.

"September or October,” he said.

“Of this year?”

He nodded.  My mouth dropped open.  The waiter arrived with my diet coke, his glass of wine, a bread basket and a tiny, yellow bowl of ironed butter.   Realizing how silly I must have looked, I closed my mouth.

“How are we going to pull that off?” I asked.

I have no idea how he replied.  All I could think was, He asked me to marry him!  He asked me to marry him!

I had finally coaxed myself into a grudging acceptance of the possibility that he might not ever ask.  That would affect only the summers, when he vacations with family, of which I was not.  I didn’t know if he’d ever be ready and I had adjusted my hopes accordingly.  I was flabbergasted by his proposal.  I was stunned at the time and I remain stunned today.

Talking about a fall ceremony is delightful, but we have no idea how it's going to work.  He starts his new job on July 1 and I will be in Ireland for two weeks during June for my last MFA residency, followed by four months of intense writing, with twenty pages plus book reviews due the first of every month, through November 1.  I can’t imagine getting married, renting or selling my house, finding another house with KC, who is in a brand, new job, and moving to Michigan, while submitting work worthy of graduate school.  This may be the practicum semester where I end up with a PR (Pass with Reservation), as opposed to my usual P or the long yearned-for, but illusive PD (Pass with Distinction).  Not to worry:  P’s get degrees, a pearl of wisdom given me by one of my favorite nieces, who surprised herself by graduating from college with Honors.  Surprises seem to pop up everywhere, don't they?  And aren't the happy ones the best?

Oh, Dear

“What are you doing right now, Louise?” you may ask.  The answer is simple.  I am trying to fly to LA for a small family reunion with my grown children and my sister.  But instead, I am temporarily grounded in the Atlanta Airport with hundreds of other poor, lost souls, whose flights, for some reason not yet clear, have all been delayed for at least one hour.  After boarding my first flight in Pittsburgh an hour late and sitting on the ground for another hour, with two hundred of my new best friends, including one baby two rows behind me and one in the row ahead of me, who miraculously slept through most of the flight, I jounced around through the bumpy clouds, clutching my arm rest, while pretending to read (The Liars’ Club, Mary Karr) with a cool, calm, collected exterior, and landed at ATL two hours late.  Even though I zipped and zagged quite efficiently through anxious, bleary-eyed travelers, I missed my connecting flight to LAX and was re-routed to this convenient 10:15 pm flight, which morphed into an 11:15 flight, which fell apart completely when it slid into the 12:30 am category, which will put me into LAX at around 2:35 am, which is 5:35 am Pittsburgh time, and I left home at 3 pm.  Please do your own math.  I’m in denial.

My lesson for the day: if you are not careful to move out of a frantic traveler’s path, as he careens through the concourse, yelling, “Excuse me!  Excuse me!” you’re going down.  My blessing for the day: I’m not traveling with two little boys, two and three.  My quote for the day: My, how time flies.

My Myelogram Lesson Learned

“This is absolutely no big deal, nothing scarier than any other standard, everyday procedure,” the nurse said.

I rounded the corner behind her and stepped into a recovery room.  Eight hospital beds jutted out from the walls, with curtains pulled back, a semi-circle of beds, heads in, feet sticking out toward the center where we stood.  Next to each, some kind of computer-machine showing blood pressure and heart rate.  Other tubes were wound in hoops and fastened to the walls.

“If this is so routine, why does it need its own recovery room?” I asked.

“No big deal, we just need to keep you here for four hours after the test.”  Her smile was still glued to its place under her nose and above her chin.

Four hours?  Seriously?

“Plus, we make sure you can eat, and then we keep you until you can urinate.  It’s very important that you be able to urinate on your own.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “No IV?  No sedative?”

“Not necessary,” she said.

Oh, good Lord.

I was glad my sister was there to look out for me.

With all of this behind me, I can honestly say how much I would have appreciated the truth.  For example: "Yeah, this test is a little grueling and can be somewhat painful, but you'll have four whole hours and this nice, quiet recovery room in which to pull yourself back together.  When the procedure is over, your back will feel like it's been hammered and nailed to the gurney.  That feeling will be gone by the time you leave, and you will probably sleep all day tomorrow.  By the day after tomorrow, this whole ordeal will have faded into the past, where it's best to leave it, and your doctor will have all the information he could possibly want from the results of this test." 

Amen.

8/11 and 2 Groans

Last time I saw Dr. Al, he was my new best friend.

"I think your scoliosis is a non-issue," he said.  "Your x-rays and MRI indicate that your arthritis has basically fused these two disks together," he pointed his pen at a jumble of white and dark images on my x-ray, "making further scoliosis advancement impossible."

No way!  Did I hear right? I thought.

"But since scoliosis isn't my specialty, I'm going to send you over to UPMC Presbyterian to a specialist named Dr. Hawaii.  We'll see what he thinks."

I was flabbergasted.  He scribbled a long name on the top of his prescription pad, underlined the phone number twice, tore it off and handed it to me.

I left smiling, imagining myself skipping down the hall, maybe doing a little twirl as I let myself out into the gray cold. 

The following week, I had my first appointment with Dr. Hawaii.  I couldn't wait to tell him how my arthritis had saved the day.

"Not really," he said.  "Your scoliosis is at 30 degrees, the tipping point.  Some cases stop there, some cases move on.  The ones that stop have no more than 4 degrees of variance per year.  Your change in the last fourteen months was 15 degrees, which tells me we have to get in there and stop the scoliosis for you, or it'll keep wreaking havoc on your disks and nerves."

I groaned.  All of a sudden, I didn't like Dr. Hawaii very much, even though he was young and handsome, with short, black curls, high cheekbones, freckles and hazel eyes.

On the way out the door, I stopped by the receptionist's desk to see Kathleen, who told me to return for a Myelogram, a test where a radiologist shoots dye into my spine, turns me this way and that, like a pancake that needs to be perfectly round, and takes a ton of pictures.  She would set up the appointment for me, and all I had to do was show up, lie still and bring someone with me who could drive me home. 

The next day, Kathleen left a message on my answering machine.  "You have to be back here on Thursday, February 25 at 8 am, but not in this office.  You have to report to Radiology downstairs.  And don't forget that someone has to be here with you for the entire test, or else they won't do it."

I groaned, thinking of my poor sister, who volunteered to fly in from California to be with me.  She likes to sleep in, especially after a whole day of travel.

But wait!  Confusion and a contradiction!   Last evening, I received another message on my machine, this one from Nurse Karen in Radiology.

"You have to be here at 11:00," she said, speaking slowly into her mouthpiece, annunciating each syllable.

I groaned, thinking that now I had two conflicting check-in times, which would necessitate how many additional phone calls to determine which one was correct?

Hmmm.  Personally, I bet I could straighten it out with only one phone call.  But which woman was right?  I'll lay $10 on Karen in Radiology.  Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion!

Fits and Starts

My son Jeffrey flew in for a four-day visit a couple of weeks ago, right after my boyfriend KC left and drove back to DC, arriving home for The Great Blizzard of 2010 that slammed our nation's Capitol with snow, shutting down the Federal Government for several days, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Jeffrey and I spent our time making note-cards and hand-binding a book.  Glue on a paintbrush, sewing needle, scissors, exacto knife and awl.  Yarn, string, raffia and linen thread, waxed.  I told Jeffrey he hasn’t lived until he’s ironed paper.  He thought that was funny, so we ironed his canvas, a mosaic, mixed-media study of sneakers on a blue background.  The heat and pressure gave it a firmer texture and eye-popping colors.  He cut pieces out to use as the front cover for his note-cards, exquisite work.  After he left, the house felt jarringly still.

I am looking forward to my next two visitors, sister Linda from San Francisco who will hold my hand during a Myelogram on Thursday.  And then KC, whose return will overlap with my sister.  This weekend, if I do well from Thursday, we'll party.  If I don't do well, I'll have company till I'm better, win/win.

Once my doctor has checked out my Myelogram, we'll know exactly what's up with my scoliosis, my bulging, herniated disk, my pinched nerves and all this ridiculous pain; but even better, by this weekend, I'll have a surgical date and a recovery plan in place, which should keep me busy for the next six months or so.  After that, I'll go on dates with my honey and refuse to come home until we've danced the night away and I can see the sun peeking up over its eastern horizon.  Oh, yeah, I definitely think that's the way to go.

Oh, Happy Day

“No you don't!” I yelled, causing my three mastiffs to jerk their heads and peer around the room, instantly awake.  I sat up and looked into the darkness.

Oh.  It was just a dream.

I groaned, flopped back down onto the bed, and covered my face with my pillow.

Woman suffocates self with pillow, I thought, imagining the headlines that would cause friends and neighbors to say, “Aaaww, she was such a nice person,” and go back to their coffee.

Tossing the pillow aside, I reached for the clock on the table to see what time it was.  The black digits stood out clearly from the fluorescent blue back-lights.  5:12 am.

I spent the next twenty minutes trying to turn off the noise spinning inside my head.  Deadlines for grad school, my cat Sassy, who spent the last two nights at the vet’s, my desire to be a better mom to the mastiffs by cleaning their ears every day and clipping their toenails once a week, my need to send two baby gifts to my new-mom friends, and the gifts I owe to my niece and nephew, birthday and Christmas money for the year 2009.

Around 5:30, I gave up, pulled on a sweatshirt, padded downstairs, turned on the coffee maker and waited, leaning against the counter to watch the slow drip, drip, drip.

Nothing smells better than coffee in the morning, I thought, pouring myself a cup, adding six lumps of sugar―yeah, yeah, I know it’s too much―and a splash of milk.  I sank down onto my step-stool, conveniently located under the coffee maker, thanks to last night's salad bowl that had to be returned to its place of residence, top shelf.

Leaning into my elbows, I slipped my hands around the steaming cup, savoring its warmth before taking my first sip.

Mmmm, I thought.   Today is going to be a good day.

Happy Birthday, Dear Louise, Happy Birthday To Me!

I’m not posting tomorrow (Monday, Jan. 11) for two reasons.  One, it is my birthday, which really has nothing to do with anything.  I just wanted to put it out there.  And two, once I’ve spent an entire day in workshops, seminars, lectures and readings, I have to drive home for an hour and lie down for at least two.  I’m not used to leaving my home in the morning, with its gentle mastiffs, warm fireplace and quiet artist studio, where I am my own boss, and then coming back twelve hours later, after an intense day.  In rush-hour traffic and frigid, snowy conditions, the usual twenty-minute drive takes an hour, with something strange happening right about mid-way.  That is the moment the car heat smacks my face in strong, hot blasts, burning my nostrils and closing my throat, my scarf feels like a noose tightening around my neck, my jeans and shirt start to melt into my skin, clogging my pores, and my coat suddenly weighs more than I do.  All I want to do is jump out of the car, throw off all my clothes and hurl myself into a snow drift, where I will lie still and take deep breaths.  This is not my usual inclination.  School may be inspiring my writing, but it comes with a certain amount of rigor.  So, instead of celebrating the start of my last year in my fifties, I will be in bed, trying to cajole wave after wave of nausea into fading and disappearing, which is fine with me, as long as it does.

S'Up

I tried not to slouch or think about how I had to leave early to get my driver's license renewed.  This was the fourth day of our ten-day winter residency for grad school.  My classmates were scattered around the room, many looking withered from last night's festivities, where they went out on the town and blew off some steam.  We were sitting in on a panel of speakers who drifted in late at different times, the result of bad winter roads and some miscommunication or other.  I was tuned in one minute and out the next, exhausted from early morning workshops, late afternoon readings and long drives home in rush hour traffic.

The woman speaking was the last to arrive, and, shunning a seat beside the other panelists, she stood at the podium behind them to deliver a well-planned summary of her online publishing endeavor.

"The more you publish, the more the search engines pick you up, the more hits you get and the more you are promoted," she said.

Uh oh, I thought, sitting up in my chair and staring straight ahead, eyes wide.

Uh oh, indeed.  That one sentence may be the only sentence I retained during the entire afternoon and is the sole reason why I am posting on my blog today.  This is my first post since Thanksgiving weekend.  I hadn't thought about it much until now.  I've been busy. 

Either post or shut it down, I thought.

I decided to post, and then I renewed my driver's license.

Getting Ready

KC left yesterday, so he missed the scene outside my window.  The mirror-smooth ocean rustles and sighs as it leaves behind the bubbles that the sandpipers scour for food, while a crowd of gulls watches and waits.  The water is so clear I can see the layers of sandbars that stretch out and finally disappear into the light blue-green.  Sail boats and early morning swimmers.  Every day I think the buoy is something else, like a man in a kayak or a floating pelican who never strays from one spot.  But it isn’t.  It’s just a buoy that sometimes stands up straight and sometimes tips sideways.

I suppose I am looking forward to flying home this afternoon to dive into my Christmas tasks and parties.  But for the moment, for the tranquil right now, where I sit, looking out my window, peering around the palm trees that lean toward the Gulf, the holidays seem like dots on the horizon.

Lost

As the nurse led me toward the examining room, the overhead fluorescent lights cast blue over us, even though the hallway was stark white over a white-and-maroon flecked tile floor.  Exam Room 1 the label on the wall said.  I sat in the chair tucked in the corner and wondered whose x-ray was clipped onto the light-box. Whose spinal cord was it that hooked at the ends and bowed in the middle?

I was answering the nurse’s questions, when Dr. Al rushed in, slid around her, charged over to the small desk, picked up a pen, plopped it into his front lab-coat pocket and hesitated slightly before accelerating back toward the door.

“Good morning, Dr. Al,” I said as he passed by.

“I’m not ready for you yet,” he said, his back disappearing around the corner. 

“Good morning anyway,” I said.

The nurse never looked up.

MRI, MD and Misconception

It took me a whole hour to get there.  When I finally hobbled into the pain management office, I understood that I had moderate scoliosis and stenosis of the spine and that I needed a steroid shot to trick me into not hurting.  Not yet tricked, but open to the possibility, I emerged from the building, still hobbling, with the two conditions I already knew about.  Plus a few more.  My surprise bonuses included two bulging disks, a third bulging disk that was herniated, two spinal cysts, multiple bone spurs, other conditions I pretended to understand, and the need for two additional steroid shots because one wasn’t enough.  I felt ridiculous repeating “What?” ad nauseum, and asking Dr. No, the pain management anesthesiologist, to repeat his answer, slower this time.  Of course, once it was over, shot and all, and I sat in the car, gripping the steering wheel and staring out at the grey and rusty fall day, I burst into tears.

Why hadn’t my neurosurgeon, Dr. Al, gone over these details with me, explaining what a sagittal image was and spondylosis and facet arthropathy and foraminal stenosis and ligamentous thickening?  What is a perineural cyst, and why do I have two?  Are they benign?

The week before, during my neurosurgeon's appointment in which I provided him a brand new x-ray, I barely sat down in the waiting room before being spirited away to Exam Room 1.  Then, with my MRI report flapping in his hand, Dr. Al burst into the room, whooshed over to the x-ray on the wall, clipped to a light-box, paused, made two red circles in a couple of places and blew back out again.  He had more to say to the nurse than to me.  I assumed there was nothing to talk about, rather than assume my doctor was a Tazmanian devil with ADD, boosted by a coffee high and zooming through a triple-booked appointment schedule as fast as his legs could carry him, so he would be on time for his afternoon appointment with his personal trainer followed by a quick visit home to shower and take the wife out to dinner.  Or maybe talking to patients isn't his thing.

Regardless, today I have a general idea of my spine and its issues, although I still don’t know what every piece of the report means.  How can I?  Its medical terms threaten to crush me with their deadly four syllables, osis's and pathy's.  So I’ve solved the language barrier by clicking into my impatient, quick-fix mindset that has given me this plan: get out the hammer, bolts, steel rods, super-sized exacto knives, saw, nails and all the needles you want, put me out, and clean up this mess before it gets worse. Yeah.  That’s what I want.

I hope your weekend brings you what you want and is filled with happy surprises, not the kind that make you cry.

From Louise

In the Bag

My “reBag,” shown at left, is a palatable replacement for those nasty, little grocery-store bags that are so flimsy they cannot hold a dozen eggs, a small box of laundry detergent and a bottle of cranberry juice without splitting up the side, creating an embarrassing, jagged mess either on the sidewalk outside the grocery store, in its parking lot, in my driveway or on my kitchen floor.  I bought four reBags, used a permanent, black marker to print my last name legibly across their tops above the dark outline of a tree, and tied an appropriate green raffia bow around one of the bag handles for easy identification.  By using these at the grocery store checkout, I am not only saving myself the trouble of having to deal with those nasty, little grocery-store bags, but I am saving the Planet Earth from having to deal with those nasty, little grocery-store bags.  Therefore, my little green reBags are of cataclysmic importance in the grand scheme of things, so I have strategically placed them neatly across the passenger seat of my station wagon, where they are poised and ready to march inside the grocery store with me to valiantly deliver the earth from ruin. With all this careful effort, why is it that my reBags do not move from their perch, while I grab my purse, hobble out of the car (a back problem creates this hobble) go inside, claim my grocery cart, carefully choosing one that rolls in a straight line and doesn’t squeak, execute my grocery list with laser-like precision, go to the check-out line, and watch the check-out people load my groceries into those demonic, little, plastic bags.  Only then do I realize that I left my reBags in the car.  But it is too late.  I am too embarrassed and too achy (from the same back problem that created the hobble earlier) to rush back to my car, grab my reBags and return in time to save Mother Earth, while the check out lady and everyone in line beam their hearty approval.  Instead, I wait, humbled, and feel my cheeks warm and turn crimson, while I watch my groceries disappear, one by one, into those horrible, white bags.  I imagine my reBags, sitting in the car, comfy and cozy and completely inactive, while I destroy the planet despite my good intentions.  I will do better.  I have to do better.  I know I do.  I just don’t know when it will become second nature to grab the reBags on the way out the door, or when I will be free of this awful hobble so I can sprint to and fro, and make up for my proclivity to destroy the earth.  Hm.  It would seem that the end to this story is up in the air and not in the bag.  Not in the bag at all.  Oh, well.  While I may forget my reBags, at least I will remember to vote today.  Of that much I am certain.  And so will you.  Get out and vote!