Powder Blue Corduroys with Elastic Waistbands

She walked by my desk on her way to the front of the class for 'current events', and farted through her powder blue corduroys. They had an elastic waistband. She had long wavy dark blond hair, a flat butt, and a tracheotomy, though I didn't know the term for it at the time. I was in 5th grade - a fat blob of a girl with no clue about life's hardships, no aspirations to anything beyond my next snack or newest sticker for my collection that I'd buy at Simply Sondra, and no experience of having lived greater than 16 years with doctors in various stages of their training/ careers. In short, I was feeling no pain. I was feeling nothing at all.

Her name was Jennifer Salisbury. Maybe I should change that, but this story jolted me out of bed at 2:30 am and I just can't think of anything so flowing that's false.

I knew her peripherally. We shared a grade, a classroom. We shared little else, though I'd visited her home at one point...a birthday party? It smelled of steamed lunch meat. I was all about texture, sights, smells, and sounds then. Still am. Though now my temporal lobe epilepsy has evolved into frontal lobe dementia. I remember that the few friends I'd had in grade school who were neither Italian nor Jewish had homes with that particular odor of warm cold cuts. I've no idea why. One time I ate dinner at a friend of that category's house and was served rolled-up bologna with warm milk. I never ate dinner there again, even though her dog and my cat shared a name. (I probably copied her. I was that kind of child - afraid of my own shadow, ashamed of my own thoughts.)

On that weekend afternoon at the home of Jennifer Salisbury, I was accompanied by other kids of our class. We were shown the machine she was hooked up to at night which helped her breathe. I don't recall feeling sorry for her, or compassionate, or anything at all. I think she had a loving family, and may or may not have had a sibling. She seemed to matter little to my life then, as most things did. She was very kind, but I wasn't into kind. I liked dramatic and scary. I liked to cry and invent songs in my head.

I have not thought about those childhood moments in many years. I recently have become slightly more reflective - almost nostalgic. I think often of where it is I came from, and want to go back in time to that place. I miss my grandparents, my mother. I miss my potential. I recognize now that I had so much of it, and not everybody does. In my own way, I suppose I've developed into someone worthwhile to some, but it should have been more. Maybe there's still time. After all, I'm still breathing.

I used to believe there was a great distance between myself and people whose lives seem so gravely different from mine - people whose suffering seem so much greater. That gap has closed.

We are all suffering. As I get older, as my body aches more and more for reasons both self-imposed and organic, I see this with both increasing clarity and fog.

I used to think we were so different, Jennifer Salisbury and me. I used to believe I was the one who had more strength.

Insert pithy phrase here. (Thanks for that, Rémy Robert! http://twitter.com/passionfrtbuttr)

(With thanks and homage to Scott Turow, whose short story Loyalty sparked this mental vomitus of mine; Rémy Robert, whose Tweet sparked the pithy thing (and if you don't know what I mean by that you can go Google Twitter, pithy, Rémy Robert, and yourself); my lovely man, whose restless sleeping habits helped jostle me out of bed to write this in the wee and scary hours of morning; my man's mom, who has helped me to see that the world extends so far beyond the borders of my mind and body; my family, for having loved me (albeit sometimes too much); and my sore throat, which makes me appreciate better what feeling good feels like.)

And thank you, Jennifer Salisbury, wherever you may be now. You will always be held fondly in my heart.

Back in the High Life

I made this thing private because there is some issue with each picture in the posts which I've blogged directly from Flickr.
I thought I'd fix it and go public again, but then realized it's probably going to take more time than I have right now, and so I just went public again.

Gah!

(If you click the actual picture that says it's not available, it takes you to the real picture, which is available...wtf? Just read and click, read and click...)

I Love James Woods as Much as I Despise Kent County Hospital

There is a small article in today's Providence Journal announcing that James Woods has sued Kent County Hospital over the death of his brother in 2006. The lawsuit claims his brother received negligent medical care.

Here's the link to the article (from the Boston Herald - not the Projo link because their website SUCKS): http://tinyurl.com/yzg2f8o

I now love James Woods even more than ever, and I'm a longtime fan. Before you all start in on me with tales of how he's a douchebag (as happened when I last broadcast my love), let me say this - he's a Rhode Islander. That, in itself, explains it away. We are a little rough around the edges, and don't mince words.

He grew up in Warwick, and so did I. He's had surgery at Rhode Island Hospital, and so did I! I even had x-rays on the same day as he did one day in late July 2006.
Now we have even more in common. Kent County mistreated one of our family members.

While we did not pursue any legal action for various reasons, my mother was definitely the recipient of negligent medical care at KC Hospital back in 1997. She would have died anyway, but I firmly believe that had she been given appropriate attention and care she would have likely suffered less and perhaps lived a little bit longer. Botched care. That's what it was, plain and simple.

So, I am rooting for James Woods to prevail over Kent Hospital when the trial begins this coming Monday.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Setting: Urban condo, modern day. I am in the kitchen making dinner; my man is on the couch watching television and drinking Maker's.

My man: "I want a Lap Band."

Me: "Why do you want a lap dance? From who?"

My man (laughing): "Lap Band. Because I'm fat! Not lap dance!"

Me: "I've never given anyone a lap dance. You don't have much of a lap!"

My man: Lap Band. I just saw a commercial for the Lap Band!"

Me: "You want your black pants? You split the crotch when you bent over in that hotel room in Italy, remember?"

My man: "No! Not my black pants! Lap Band. Lap Band! I'm too fat! I split my black pants, and there's no room on my lap for a dance."

Me: "What's a Lap Band?"

We need either an open kitchen or hearing aids.


(In case you don't know what it is either, here's the website for the Lap Band system:
http://www.lapband.com/)

Goodbye to Grilling

Grilling - A Retrospective
Originally uploaded by whatstepheats

It's that time of year again - when the grill first gets gradually neglected, then altogether ignored, and finally just put away until spring.

This always saddens me, because grilling is probably my favorite method of cooking. And it's not so much an issue of the days being too cold, just too short!

Since we turned back the clocks, the sun has been shining so brightly with temps in the 60's most days this week.
Great! I think of what to grill...

But by the time our stomachs are rumbling for dinner, the sun has gone down. I know I'm pretty adept with a spatula and some tongs, but even I can't cook in the dark.

Farewell, my friend the grill. Have a restful winter's nap, because I'll be giving you quite the spring training workout!

Coping, as Daylight Saving Time Ends

Last night we had to turn the clocks back and turn the page on the calendars forward. Being the neurotic freak that I am, I did this all 12 hours earlier than necessary, confusing everyone in my midst.

I don't cope well with the annual slide down the slope to winter, but I'm getting better. Here's an example of how.

There was a time, after I had surgery on my leg in June of 2006, when I would use Bailey's Irish Creme as creamer in my coffee. Every morning.

(I didn't see anything wrong with this. I guess it just enhanced the effect of all the other meds I was on, and my doctor did tell me to 'snow myself' so I'd stay still enough to heal...)

That spring turned to summer, and summer into fall. As winter approached, my man would come home from work at times to find me under the covers with the heat turned up to nursing home levels and all the lights in the house off. I still don't know why he stuck around, but it's likely due to his generousity, kindness, and self-awareness. No one is perfect; we all are broken in some place.

I must remind myself - as the days grow shorter and colder and grayer, and things that should be resolved by now drag on and on with no resolution in sight - that my coping mechanisms have improved since those times 3 years ago, however marginally.

Though sometimes I still have a craving for Bailey's in my coffee.

Streams of Semi-consciousness...

1) I own a shirt that requires cufflinks, but my man does not.

2) I covet the iPhone. I knew this before my man came home with one, but it's all the more painful now.

3) My best pet ever was my tortie kitty Rascal. I still sometimes desperately miss her sleeping at the foot of my bed, and she's been gone since 1991.

4) The longer I live, the more I learn about loss.

5) My mom used to take us apple picking every fall, without fail. She introduced me to the Macoun, now my favorite apple. She also made one hell of an apple pie.