Lila ~ May 31

 

I have another friend of mine who is involved with the deaf world.  My friend T.  

I first met T when I started nursing school at DCC.  I remember sitting down next to her husband, R. in class.  We struck up a conversation and got to know each other.  He was a Christian, and I was a new believer, too.  He wanted to introduce me to his wife, and so he invited me to his church one morning. 

He could tell that I was a little lost.  I’d been attending a Mainline Protestant Church in town, one with a female pastor.  He felt that I’d benefit form a more Biblically sound church, so he invited me to meet him and his family at CC. 

R and T had been through a lot in their life.  T had grown up in the Bronx. Her parents divorced with she was a child.  Her father remarried quite quickly, and her mother had a boyfriend. 

She experienced sexual abuse at the hands of her mother’s boyfriend, and later, was almost gang raped by a bunch of guys on the streets.  As a young adult she jumped into a terribly abusive first marriage, and also became involved in the occult.  

She’d been a devout Catholic and always wanted to live a good Catholic life, but was easily drawn into the occult, because of the parallels between Catholicism and paganism.  

After leaving a terribly abusive first marriage she met R in an online chatroom.  They got to know each other, and she drove to Alabama to meet him.  Her first divorce was barely finalized.  But R was a good man.  He believed that women should be treated with kindness and respect.  They eventually married and had children of their own.  T left the occult and became devout Christians. 

Like me, T had OCD.  Much of it was trauma related.  But T's OCD simply latched on to her Christianity.  Her intentions were good.  Zeal for God’s house consumed her, and really the both of us.  One of her dreams was to reach deaf people with the Gospel.  She hoped to bring the gospel to them.  She’d had a deaf friend when she was a child, and knew some sign language.  She always had a heart for deaf people, and to reach into their world. 

For a while, she searched for opportunities to do this with local churches, possibly as an interpreter in a church service.  But she was very concerned about this.  If the pastor taught in error or said something unbiblical, she would be complicit in transmitting false teaching to a deaf person.  Or, even if the pastor did teach correctly, she might mistranslate it and be guilty of falsehood.  

Obviously the JW’s were a no-go as they are not technically Christian and preach false doctrine.  

The Catholics were a no-go because, well, it’s Catholic, and while they do ascribe to the central doctrines of the Christian faith, there’s lot of extra- biblical traditions and superstitions there. 

I suggested that she try some local Bible based churches that have deaf ministries and interpreters.  She looked into one church, Grace community Church, But when she researched them, found that there was a co-ed Bible study, led by a woman. 

T is very against women in any form of church leadership, even as lay person leading a Bible study with men.  This church couldn’t be Biblically sound.  

I suggested that if she wants to do deaf ministry, she should be certified as an interpreter.  

“No, but that’s trusting in man’s credentials, not God’s.”

“But if you get certified, if will give you more credibility within the community.”  

“Oh, yeah, you’re right, I see.”

I find this to be a common trend amongst evangelicals and charismatics.  They want to avoid “The system” and human institutions and depend solely on God.  Rather, than seeing God work through the system, through the formal pathways of doing things. 

I had to wash my hands of this.

I loved my friend.  But her excessive scrupulosity about everything having to be “Biblical” has really hurt her faith and the faith of those around her.  Worse yet, her scrupulosity rubbed off on me.  

 

 

Joe ~ May 31

 

May 31st

 

This month has passed by so fast. I am so grateful to fulfill the thirty one days of writing. Of the 31 days,  I wanted to stop on 15 of them. I’ve written a good deal on personal change going happening in my life. It is a noble effort. I’ve probably should of thought twice about doing it during the month I turn 70 years old. Change is difficult to face. In my case, loneliness, low self-esteem and a boost to my usual levels of depression. I bring up the depression subject because I take my medication and I am very conscious of my feelings, but, still. It can make a tough situation that much tougher. I must tell you that the anchor to my shaky emotional state has been this writing group. When faced with letting it go because I was down in the dumps it was the one point in my day where I could rally and detach myself from the negativity that rears it’s ugly head at the most inconvenient times. I rarely made comments on your writings….at least on the blog….but, plenty of gratitude and amazement was being experienced when reading your insights and experiences. So well done and I could not have continued on without them. I have attended many recovery meetings in my life and most of the time I would sit on the periphery and just listen and take it all in and do my best to relate on what others were going through. As you can see, I tend to hide in this same fashion. Especially now that I’m opening myself up to what’s inside  making me tick. Allowing me to explore and get beyond the characteristics that I’ve maintained for a lifetime. I know that the baby can’t be thrown out with the bath water. So, I’m filtering the real me from the crusty exoskeleton that has served me well but has become heavy and cumbersome and constantly has me playing catch-up….along with the other 56 varieties of dysfunction….ba..dump…bump…..So please know that your wonderful expressions have made a profound mark on my soul…I hope we can do this again….very soon…and Thanks for keeping me in the ballgame.

 

Tirza ~ May 31

 

Well it’s now or never…the zoom will take up a much needed evening to pack and prepare for the trip early tomorrow.

It’s been a good month, and I want to thank everyone for creating such a tightknit group of fellow writers and readers.  Being read and reading others’ pieces was far more important to me than I had expected. Thank you.

I’m wondering whether I’ll be able to keep it up in June.  I expect that I will falter some days, and other days really try and overdo.  But we shall see. There are always either good reasons or excuses we know for not doing what we aim to do, and the accountability, the need to show up is so important.

I’ll see if I can show up for myself.  Whether I can use some time for retooling old writing too, freshening it up, finishing the unfinished, deciding what I want to focus on.  There’s a freedom in not being read daily too.  Finding the balance between prior writing and new writing.  Watching what emerges. Being more playful and adventurous.  Zany and deep. Surround all writing with a glow, a reverberation of aliveness. Like a flower that waves after the hummingbird feeds from it, or my heart after B.’s embrace.

That’s all I have time for.

 

Gloria ~ May 31

 

SIGNS

 

Went out to the backyard this morning and heard the new and improved neighbour's dog barking behind the fence. Took a peek through the slats and saw two pretty white fluffy puppies and one spotted black and white cutie. 

 

Came in to tell Ron and I signed “dog” to him, and he asked if I had learned that from my father…if he had ever signed that to me. And I said no…I learned that sign in my ASL class. Ron asked again…as he has asked many times…did my father ever sign anything to me…did my mother ever sign anything to me.

 

The only sign I learned from my father was when he pointed to his watch and said: Time…Time short. I think he signed “short.” That was when he was trying to get us up because we were leaving for vacation and my parents had been up since before sunrise and my mother was in her usual pre-home-leaving panic mode.

 

I  know I learned some signs just watching them when I could catch a word that went with the sign. 

 

But my brother and I never signed back to them.

 

I didn’t realise till I met Ron how astonishng that would be to someone raised with deaf parents. Especially someone like Ron who is on the far edge the other way…with parents who only signed and were not verbal.

 

He will ask with astonishment while giving me a sign…not even this little sign at the end of a sentence?!?…. So natural to him and so incomprehensible to me.

 

Today we are going to a graduation party for Jack Moore, the hearing son of two deaf parents…good friends of Ron. 

 

The TEDx talk I wrote was all about that family. How when we all had lunch together I watched as Jack signed and easily communicated with his parents and spoke intelligently and easily to myself and to Ron.  He is graduating high school  with honours and accolades, his education assured early by his deaf mother who not only taught him to sign but took him to the children’s library where they read stories to them.  So he both signed and learned how to read and heard the stories  so he knew how words sounded.

 

He really had it all. And to his credit and to his parents credit…made good use of it all.

 

And he and his older brothers and sisters and their parents…and someday all the grandchildren…they will form a true family unit. United in both love and most important to hold that all together…a common language.

 

That is both beautiful for me to see…and at the same time painful and difficult.  

 

What could so easily have been…and because of circumstances at the time …was denied.

 

All I can do now is to write about it…and educate as best I can through my story and my show.  

 

And the gift I get back is to have a life companion with the blessing of both sign and speech. A truly common language not only of love...but understanding.

 

 

Marta ~ May 31

 

Early morning. Favorite time. Especially when air so clear, greens lit with sun, sky as blue as a picture book. 

 

I am back from the walk with Bird who insisted, as usual in the morning, that instead of the woods we peruse the streets, bounded only by the two bridges she will no longer cross. She used to cross them, but no more. They house hidden spirits with whom she will not dally, making us turn back when before we used to keep going. Still, we twist and turn and find a new path each day. 

 

We passed Lauren and Rosie, Lauren happy about yesterday's conviction, Rosie, at the end of her leash, indifferent. 

 

Coming home, I feed Bird by hand because she has been almost refusing to eat the last few days, and I am sure it's because she's over-upset with cat presence. Earlier, I shooed Patrick off her bed, and will keep an eye out and not allow cats on her bed anymore. She is such a bundle of nerves, my little Bird, always has been, but at least, after 9 years, I begin to understand. 

 

Yesterday in the city accompanied by a small headache that popped up in the train going down, so unexpected on such an otherwise up-tilted day. The train had been late and I had not minded at all, sitting on the platform in the cool sun, facing the river, listening to the lap of its waves, munching cheese and apples. "Bring snacks!" my sister had reminded me and so I had crammed in one more activity into those last few minutes of dashing "I'm going to be late!" minutes, packing a couple of plastic bags instead of the nicer papery ones because it was faster, leaving the dishes, dishes that are still there, not many, it doesn't matter. I'll catch up. 

 

Today I go slow. Headache in the back seat, purring but not shouting. Mostly, I can just let the day take its own beautiful course. 

 

 

Gary ~ May 31

 

Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man

 

"...the artist can fashion a beautiful thing; and if he does not do it solely for his own pleasure, he is not an artist at all."  - Oscar Wilde

 

 

I've come a long way, baby, or at least I think I have anyway.  From the March Minuet (was that what it was called?) to the May Mazurka, I think I have been transformed into a real artist, at least from Oscar Wilde's perspective anyway.

 

In March, I was new to the 30-Day writing workshop game.  I was young, artistically speaking, and eager for applause and hot to please my audience.  I succeeded in gaining some kudos and some enthusiastic thumbs up and it went straight to my head.  I soon found myself crafting my pieces to appeal to my new audience and eagerly waited for the returns to come in.  The rave reviews, or at least good reviews, came pouring in and I was riding high and mighty and ready to go out and conquer the writing world, not knowing I was a second-rate Don Quixote at best.

 

It was a trap. While I was elated by the good reviews and enthusiastic comments, my mood would plunge on days when my submission only garnered one comment, even if it was very complimentary one. Though I am certainly no Buddhist, nevertheless I know full well just how "evil" and destructive attachment can be.

 

I fell into a trap that I never want to fall into ever again: the snare of attachment to, and dependence upon,  other people's opinions, judgements, preferences, and biases.  This is the road to perdition if there ever was one, imo.

 

March was a very heady month for writing, and I came away feeling that I scored well and made a good impression on the 30 day group, but I didn't realize that I was setting myself up for a fall.

 

And I'm glad it came in May and not in December or next January.  The May Mazurka has been a real wake up call for me and now I think I am on my way to becoming the artist of Oscar Wilde's dreams.

 

My recent 5 minute stand up comedy routine at Open Mic Night at the Phoenicia Playhouse is a good illustration of what I am talking about, and highlights the very point I am trying to drive home.

 

I leaped up on the stage when my name was called and wanted to KILL, just like all comedians want to slay the audience and leaving them "rolling in the aisles" and wanting more.  But fortunately for me, I realized within the first two minutes or so that I wasn't attached to it.

 

I think my routine was mediocre at best, and certainly didn't knock anybody out and was received with polite applause at best.  I got not one big laugh and logged perhaps 2 or 3 snickers.

 

But the good news, while I was up there, was that it really didn't matter how my shtick landed with the audience because I knew that I wanted and needed that experience, no matter how it played out.

 

It was the experience of  getting up there before a strange audience that was the main thing, and not how my performance was received.  I felt I took a big step forward that night on my journey to true artistry, in the Wildean sense at least.

 

It's the same with the May Mazurka.  I no longer submit my piece and then eagerly look for kudos and applause. If they should come, that's great, but I am not in the least dependent on rave reviews to enhance my sense of fundamental well-being, or my self-esteem and feelings of self-worth.  I don't need approval and encouragement to be a real artist.

 

What I do is now mainly  for my own enjoyment, my own satisfaction, and that is the main thing and my #1 concern.  How my writing or my comedy act lands with others is out of my control, so I can't really get too worked up about one way or another.

 

The main thing is to forge ahead, without attachment or clinging or striving to please any particular person or persons.

 

Now that the May Mazurka draws to a close I am definitely looking forward to the July Jungle Boogie, if that's what it will be called.

 

No matter what it's called I think I'll be an even better artist by then.

 

Christina ~ May 31

 

Finally. Finally, piece number 31, the end of my sixth month of writing these everyday pieces for Marta’s blog. I never think I can make it through the month at some point (at many points, actually), but then I do. This piece is a bit of cheat I suppose since I’m writing about feeling like I can’t write. As I have mentioned at least once during these six (non-consecutive) months, writing every day isn’t new for me. I’ve kept a journal in a Word file since 2006, one file for each year, so I’m on my 19th year of daily journal writing. I wrote in journals before 2006, but by hand, in bound blank journal books, but they were very hit and miss. I’d write for a few days, then stop for months, then write a bit more. Most of the paper journals are only half, at best, full. But (and again, I’ve written this before in an entry in some other month), my journals are very different from the writing I do here, full of notes for things to do, obsessions about my weight and health, accounts of difficulties with my son, financial worries, that sort of thing. They are very private and I would never show them to anyone. I actually don’t even consider them writing, more a kind of morning ritual, like reading the New York Times or doing the crossword puzzle. The writing I do here for this blog is written to be read, wouldn’t exist without you all, my fellow writers and readers.  

Heidi ~ May 31

 

So much on my mind, the conviction and what will happen, the memorial I missed but listened to last night, aging, where I stand in relation to all things.  That is the meaning of Hakomi, a counseling process I use and I don’t know where I am going with this. What am I trying to avoid, not write?  I am sad that the month of writing is over.  I love how we share the nitty gritty, no small talk. It has enriched me, enriched my day.  I could read The Lowland sitting ignored on my bedstand, and now I will but I don’t know that author.  I would rather read every single entry by authors Gloria, Marta, Tirza, Gary, Lila, Joe, Christina every day, mull on it and comment here and there. I would rather set my soul to word every day and send it out to our little group and be received, to know you are out there doing the same thing. I have honed my skill and explored where I stand in relation to all things. Off and running.  Thank you. 

Joe ~ May 30

 

Taking A Break

 

For the past month I’ve been staying away from social media. I give it a quick check every now and then just to soothe my fear of missing something important. But, I find it’s OK. I was never one to post about my trials and tribulations and on the few occasions I did, I usually felt bad about it. My sensitivity in picking up certain vibes from people, is that a number of folks don’t really want to know about how good you’re doing or how many chatychkes you’ve collected and are gathering dust on the piano. I Don’t bang the drum of success when all those relatives and friends still remember you as a quiet unassuming lump of flesh of no particular importance to anyone in particular, or just someone to ridicule to make oneself feel better about oneself. Those attitudes have been left behind me as I’ve become an official senior citizen. I know that for sure because I get a $1.50 off at the movies and a roundtrip ticket into Penn Station is only $4. The accompanying arthritis and various maladies are always playing one of my favorite songs, “Everybody Hurts”. But, I hang on. Next week I will go to my high school reunion and will have a few drinks and dance too much to the point where I think I’m doing it really well and I get cocky and do it more and more until the DJ says TH…TH..TH….TH….THAT’S ALL FOLKS!!!! And find myself not being able to get my body out of bed in the morning because every muscle, bone and joint are hurting so much and I have neglected to bring the leftover Oxycontin pills from my last surgery, So I suffer and rightly so. I’m mean really….does anyone really give a crap that this 6’3”. 290 lb. Boo-bon spent the night before trying to prove he’s another John Travolta. I have trouble filtering out the good and the absurd in my behavior sometimes. I could chalk it up to alcohol in the past, but not anymore….I hardly drink at all. So, I continue to beg off the Happy Birthdays and Many Happy returns in responding to my fellow friends and followers in the never-ending story of media expectations. Sickness, death and just my immediate concerns for the nearest  of the nearest is enough for now. I’ll slowly make a list and try to reestablish ties that have been left to loosen if not go away completely. Is it the right path to take. Perhaps.  Am I doing the upstanding and responsible action or am I do I just need the reinforcing feeling that I am not pissing people off or they might not like me anymore. We shall see or we won’t … we’ll see…I’m painting again…that’s a good thing…I’m still contemplating taking my writings and crafting them into a one person show or possibly a more than one person show…I want to sing in a concert one more time because God is telling me, GET OFF YOUR ARSE AND JUST DO IT ALREADY!!! I want to walk a pilgrimage across the north of Spain before my body will not let me….right now it’s still in the WILL NOT LET ME stage, but hope springs eternal. Yes, It sounds like a bucket list and more and more that’s what it is becoming. But an ancient Chinese philosopher wisely said at one time, “ The Journey of a Thousand Miles starts with taking two Tylenol and a shot of Tullamore Dew”.

 

Tirza ~ May 30

 

Late start today, with all the goings on. 

First let me congratulate everyone, and myself most of all, for writing every single day, hell or high water.

This, during days as spectacular as today, imagine, sitting to write instead of facing the sun and breeze and birds and freshly planted calendulas, daisies and zinnias.

 

Very late start today, since I was interrupted for the length of the afternoon.  It’s almost the deadline time, and to gather thoughts, after forgetting to eat lunch and not yet having had dinner, may be difficult.

 

Today a lot of conflict happened and yet I was able to hold my own. I was able to sidestep the blame hurled at me, and be neutral, with my eye on the proverbial ball.  Well, this is what needs to happen. I didn’t apologize, that’s a big one. Huge, in fact. Historically, even when it’s not my fault, I was made to feel like I’ve done something wrong.  Regardless, I would say, I’m sorry but  ….  just to mollify.  This time the word sorry did not pass my lips.  Despite the meltdown on the other side of the phone call.

 

Even knowing that I may not have made sure they fully understood what had to happen this week, I had moved forward with the information I had and accomplished our goal.  That they had changed their goal, or hadn’t taken the time all these months to think about the logistics on their end was not something I could be sorry for, or judge them for.  But I sidestepped the pingpong of blame, and stayed neutral.  

I am not responsible either for what they think of me or will think of me.  This is family, and they have grown accustomed to my moving obstacles for them, dealing with the boring details as well as the gunfire, and lastly, restoring the family fortunes.  But they see me as forgetful, with a bad or just mediocre business mind.  That’s ok.  It is this mediocre forgetful person that wants to be done with the burden of serving this family.

 

So have I devolved into a form of complaining?  Perhaps.  But in doing so, my hope is that I am congratulating myself on this too, for my commitment towards freeing myself from the need to always make everyone happy.  I now rely on my own sense of what’s important.  The value of spending each day doing what is right for me, my priorities, my life.

 

Lila ~ May 30

 

As we close out for the May Mazurka, I will share a few other encounters I have had with the deaf world. 

 

In elementary school, our music teacher, Mrs. Flanagan, taught us the sign language alphabet. 

 

My mother was once a teacher for the deaf. 

 

She and all her sisters went away to college.

Granddaddy wanted to make sure all of his children got a college education the education that he didn't get to have. 

 She majored in home economics at the University of North Carolina and Greensboro. Of course he was also expecting his daughters to graduate with their Mrs degree, so that their husbands could pay for any further education. 

 

My mom was the only one to not marry right out of college. She came back home to Mom and Dad at 206 Rose Hill circle. 

 

There, she was expected to help run the family business. 

 

My mom had worked as a volunteer at the local Western State hospital. She worked with autistic and mentally ill people. She realized that with the right kind of help, some of these people could be rehabilitated and helped to live in the real world. So she started looking into programs and special education. 

 

One day, she was at home by herself. Mother and Daddy were out, when the phone rang. She picked it up.  It was Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. They wanted to offer her a fellowship to the graduate program in education of the hearing impaired. Someone else had turned it down and she was next on the list to receive it. But she had to accept it right there on the spot or else it would just go to the next person. She didn't have time to consult mother and Daddy. 

 

She said yes. That whole summer, granddaddy made her life very miserable. He was very upset that his daughter was going to leave home without his permission. 

 

After graduation my mom took her first job in Connecticut at a school for deaf and autistic children. 

 

Sadly, her job didn't last long. They consolidated their staff, and gave her position away to her coworker, who was deaf. She was heartbroken. 

 

I wondered why my mom never used her sign language skills.  Why couldn't she have worked as an interpreter, or been closer with Lauren's mom? 

 

Maybe it reminded her of that first job. Or maybe, she just didn't want to deal with it. 

 

Gloria ~ May 30

 

MUG SHOTS

 

Had three distinctly different issues to write about…maybe four… and two days left. Trying to decide while washing up breakfast dishes which includes all of our various mugs…each one distinct in itself and relevant to our lives and our travels and our ever unfolding late life totally surprising relationship.

 

Among others are:

 

CODA  - "Let Your Light Shine"  was the theme of the Conference

   That was my first Coda Conference before I met Ron. I was terrified because I don’t sign and was sure  I wouldn’t fit in and it would be awful. Decided that since I was already uneasy…to say the least…why not volunteer to do part of my show and be totally freaked out. Turned out to be a wonderful experience…and I was invited by a fellow Coda to come to Canada to do the entire show. First time the show went international.

 

I didn’t order far enough in advance to get this mug, but it was auctioned off at another Coda retreat and I kept bidding till I got it!!

 

CODA- 40 Years

Ron won this mug at a Coda gathering.That gathering was a story in itself  - my history from the beginning with the Coda community. Definitely a chapter in my book. 

 

 

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

A Coda retreat…I did part of my show and brought Ron up to do part of the TEDx.  

 

MUSTANG 

 Ron’s beautiful black convertible. This car is helping  me relearn how to drive.

 

BIDEN/HARRIS

 Self explanatory nail biter…

 

OHIO 

   My home away from home

 

COLUMBUS, OH

   Where we live, my second home

     

TOLEDO, OHIO - Packos

  A memory for Ron

 

HOCKING HILLS, OHIO

   One of the first places I went with Ron. Beautiful setting. Was also the location of another Coda retreat.

 

HELL’S KITCHEN ( my contribution) 

   My NYC world!!

 

WASHINGTON STATE and OREGON

   Ron once lived on the West Coast and loves it - hopefully we will go there someday

 

ALASKA

  Ron has been there…I would love to go.

 

 

RABBIT HASH, KENTUCKY 

   We were just there! A beautifully maintained old southern village…I wore my NY hat although Ron was hesitant about this...concerned about what reception I would get...but everyone asked questions about it and were very welcoming.

 

 

SUBARU

 Our all paid up grand conveyance…we go everywhere in this listening to  music (his…mine waiting to be installed!) and politics and podcasts…Sometimes nothing…just quiet. Just being together.

 

And then there are the magnets…on the fridge…from everywhere Ron has been…at last count close to 125.

I have been to some of them…I who never traveled. 

 

He wants to show me the world.

And now…I want to see it. 

With him.  

 

 

Marta ~ May 30

 

I am hopeful that the very nice AirBnB guest leaves well before noon today because I have to prep the space for an incoming and also catch a train. I saw her out on the grass this morning and was tempted to go out, make a little conversation, and work in the question about approximately what time might you be departing? But there is no way to make that question anything but unwelcoming so instead I enjoyed that she was out there, digging the beauty, listening to birdsong, appreciating how beautiful this patch of land is. 

 

So it's a rushy morning. I am making a list to destress the intensity of what needs to happen before I depart. Valerie, bless her, will give everyone dinner and see if Bird will walk with her. I think Bird will. Bird doesn't go for walks with just anyone, even sometimes with people she knows well she will refuse. But Valerie is pretty special, even if she is a cat person. 

 

Bird didn't eat her dinner and only ate half her breakfast. But she was fine going through the woods this morning. So I think it's nerves, but I am not sure why. I've left the house for the day before. And she's been upset by the cats before. Regularly, actually. Last night I could hear her pacing, I think because the cats were on one of her beds. I thought about moving them, but chose to let them duke this one out. She yells at them randomly, but not if they are on her bed or if they are honing in on her food. In those cases, she stands aside, confused it seems. 

 

And now to ponder the question: will it be warm enough to wear sandals in the city today? 

Christina ~ May 30

 

I found myself yesterday unexpectedly, unwillingly reliving the end, really the climax of my memoir, as I was lying on a gurney at Mount Sinai (having a routine test, nothing serious), talking to an anesthesiologist who had come into my curtained cubby to take my history with anesthesia. And when he asked me about allergies, I told him that I was allergic to barbiturates, as I always do. He looked at me, surprised, asked how I knew that. I said that in my early 20s I was given sodium pentothal during an operation at Bellevue Hospital and was told as I was coming out of anesthesia that I had stopped breathing, that I had almost died, that they thought they had lost me. Why sodium pentothal, he asked, did you have a – and I can’t remember what he suggested I was being treated for – but I said No, it was back in 1966, a long time ago when sodium pentothal was routine, was the drug of choice to put you out during an operation. And he said, Oh, yes, that’s what they used to use it for. Then I added, I was in Bellevue because of a botched illegal abortion, and then I said, all of this gratuitous at this point, but I couldn’t stop myself, I said, And you can imagine how much what’s going on now with abortions upsets me, and I burst into tears, the emotion of that day in Bellevue in July1966 suddenly back in my mind, in that place it hides, the place where I’ve kept it for so many years, just a story to tell, the feelings carefully sealed, packed away.

Heidi ~ May 30

 

The cardiologist blows into the room like a wisp of fresh air.  The minute he sees our masks he retreats:

 

“I will get a mask.”  Kelly is already sold. 

 

Back he comes, a bouncy short guy with spiky hair.  He is 55 according to the internet, younger than my daughter who is here for a long list of issues associated with long covid. While we were waiting, just the walk across the hall to the bathroom and back set her to breathing heavy.  Noted: I must be sure to let the doctor know that.

 

Kelly’s weight has been increasing substantially since lymphoma, chemo and covid all of which have kept her virtually immobile for over a year now.  Once neat and dressed to flatter her shape no matter what her size, she now wears baggy pants and a worn hoodie.  There is a creak when she sits on the exam table, her 190 pounds making a dent.  All that weight must be adding to her heart stress, I think.  Another stone in the worry bucket for me.  I so want to say something about it to her, as if she hasn’t noticed, as if that were the worst of her concerns, as if she could exercise her weight away when research has shown those little energy cells, mitochondria, misbehave with LC and give out with the slightest exertion.  If only I could fix her by telling her the obvious.  So, I hold back.  

 

The Good Doctor is interacting with Kelly.  This is going well. He is very cheery, almost too cheery.  He repeats himself a lot, but is totally supportive and validating of Kelly’s complaints, self-diagnosis and efforts so far.  Especially when it comes to POTS, sending him off into stories about patients with POTS who suddenly fall down in a variety of circumstances and there is one young girl he can’t her get to do what she needs to do and he clearly cares about her and is frustrated that she doesn’t comply and therefore keeps falling down.  With each patient story his voice rises and his face flushes.  

 

Back to Kelly.  

 

“You are doing a great job addressing POTS” he repeats as Kelly hands him a salt supplement she is taking.  “You are doing all the things I would tell you to do.”  Kelly, doesn’t mention the naturopath, and neither do I. This is all going so well why introduce a thorn in the medical system. 

 

Kelly will get an ECHO heart test to check for underlying heart issues.  As cheerful and caring as the bouncy doctor is, that is all he has to offer so far.  

 

 

Gary ~ May 30

 

Summertime, And The Livin' Is Easy

 

Fish are jumpin', and the cotton is high.

 

I'm high as a kite too, and really beginning to rock and roll and settle into my new place

and I am eagerly looking forward to all the new adventures that I instinctively know await me.

 

And I am going to be in very good shape to take them all on, I can tell you that much, since I am about to start my personal training sessions with Jessica at her Upstate Workout Studio which is right next to the Fierce Grizzly bistro, just as soon as she comes back from her honeymoon trip to the Bahamas in just about a week's time.

 

I think Jessica is gay, she certainly has a very butch vibe to her, which I like, because she comes off as being very hardcore, no nonsense, and so I think she's going to be very instrumental in my finally, finally, finally getting back into at least some semblance of the great shape I was in way back in the old days when I was working out, lifting weights, and running marathons in the Tri-State area.

 

I've grown old and lazy and not only do I have lovely dark aging spots on my hands--well Elizabeth thought they were pretty hot anyway, at least until she found out that I was married-- but I notice that my skin is starting to look wrinkled, especially where my firm and bulging biceps used to be.

 

I'm looking to Jessica to be my physical fitness savior and when she comes back from her gay honeymoon in Bermuda I am signing up for 8 30-minute session for $360 and see. how it goes from there.

 

"What are you looking for?" said Jessica, giving me a good looking over, up and down, perhaps with a bit of skepticism, it was hard to tell.

 

"I want to get in good shape for the pool," I told her.  We have a great big gigantic pool here at Roxbury Village Run with a big wooden deck with lots of lounge chairs and umbrellas and I've been told that that is where all the action is in the summertime, with the tennis courts next door coming in a very distant second place when it comes to hanging out, meeting people and simply having fun.

 

I didn't tell Jessica, because I didn't think she'd give a shit,  that I just bought a really sexy bathing suit at the gay men's clothing store in Woodstock this past Tuesday when I was down there to do a two hour session with Dencarlo, my acting coach. At least I think it's sexy, and so does Anne, who marveled at it when I modeled it for her when I came home.

 

I love the gay men's clothing store in Woodstock because they charge so much money for everything.  The bathing suit was $79 and the reading glasses I bought there were also $79, which is a real hoot because just a few days earlier I bought a pair of reading glasses at the Dollar General in Margaretville for $6 and I noticed that the very same  reading glasses that they sell in Barnes & Noble for $20 go for a whopping $50 at Changes, which is the name of the gay men's clothing store in Woodstock, which is hands down, my favorite place to shop.  I bought a thin cotton jacked for $299 there before my trip to Boulder CO because they told me it might be chilly out there, but it never was, and so I never had the chance to put on my new jacket and have no idea if I or when I will ever put it on.  Maybe next Spring, who knows?

 

"OK," Jessica said in a very no-nonsense fashion, "I'm pretty sure I can help you with that.  Let me show you what we have.  She showed me her big treadmill.  I hate fucking treadmills. "No," I told her.

She showed me her rowing machine.  "I can't stand rowing machines, " I told her.  "Look," I said, "getting right to the point. I don't care about the cardio.  All I want is muscles.  I want to tighten my glutes and have a real nice ass, and I want to lose some of this belly fat, although I know 6-pack abs are out of the question, and I want lift weights and do bench presses and really develop my pecs, and get back that old vee shape I used to have."

 

"Good, goood," she said, starting to perk up a little. "I like your attitude."

 

"Yeah, I'm gonna really go for it.  I can't hang out at the pool with a big belly and wrinkly skin.  Even my sexy new bathing suit will be of no avail unless I can get back to where I once belonged. Physically that is.

 

"OK," Jessica said, "We'll get right to it as soon as I come back from my honeymoon."

 

Jessica is so butch.  I know I'm going to love her.  In fact I do already.

 

Joe ~ May 29

 

Reach Out

 

On this particular writing journey I have had a variety of everyday occurrences that has me isolating and and feeling on the verge of being an anti-socialite. I have been giving myself the opportunity to heal and change to make me a better and more responsible and responsive person. Still, I find reverie in my quietude. After willingly acquiescing to conform to societies expected norms I am now sitting alone, praying, meditating and trying to embrace the change that is at hand in order to move beyond this state of empty contemplation. I must accept the fact that I must accept myself. Casting off the costumes of past pretenses puts all that I’ve encountered along the way in question. Why? Did I have to? What good did it do?…..These emotional quagmires are to be expected and never minimized. Somewhere in the Bible it infers that we must be born again every day. Fresh eyes are needed to rally and transit to the next present moment. The old me is fighting and screaming and putting up a fight. How dare I threaten the battle scars and wounds that have provided the curtain of false security which surely allowed me to survive the world around me. To pursue the person that I may have become if nurtured and treated with acceptance is tantamount to changing my name, address and hair color….It’s like driving down a one way street into oncoming traffic. The other drivers have already made up their minds that I’m the idiot who is going against the grain. Yet, I must drive on….carefully, avoiding collisions with folks who know for sure that they are victims of your disregarding behavior. I know it’s a pretty far fetched example of trying to change who you are by becoming who you think you were meant to be….There should be a mountain retreat in some far away exotic place for people like myself to go and be allowed to wallow, scream, smile, laugh and sing and dance…the way a child would in a world of unconditional love and acceptance. I had a friend in college who had a wonderful therapeutic response to the little bumps in the road that one encounters in our day-to-day existence…..

He would emphatically recite with a smile on his face….

“Fuck’em If They Can’t Take A Joke”.

Sure enough, keeps me in the ballgame!!!!

 

Lila ~ May 29

 

In my 20’s, I was constantly numbed out.  SSRI’s, SNRI’s, SGA’s.  I couldn’t go without 8-10 hours of sleep per night, and I was a deep sleeper.  

I’d drink coffee, laden with cream or artificial sweeteners, or black tea or green tea, anything to try to perk myself up.  

I looked around at other of my peers, unfettered with grief and anxiety and mental illness.  They move through life much more smoothly and have a clear path and sense of direction.  

In church, I saw moms who were having babies, up all night with kids.  Their lives are governed by the endless cycles of weight loss and weight gain that accompany pregnancy, and their sleep cycles are governed by these hormones, too.  These are the women to whom the church primarily ministers to.  

My boyfriend’s mom had 4 grown children, and smiles with joy as she looks back on that season of life, being up all night with children, catching little winks in the middle of the day while nursing a baby.  

One day, my mom and I were in the health food store looking at alternatives to coffee and tea. A kind young man, a store clerk, with long curly hair and hemp clothing recommended Yerba Mate.  “It’s from South America!  It really give me the jolt that I need!  Moreso than coffee or tea. “  

I bought some and tried it.  It did nothing more for me than coffee or tea.  

 

 

Marta ~ May 29

 

It's not the plumber's fault that I haven't written yet. Though it is kind of. He arrived three hours ago and it's still not done, what we both thought would be a snap. But I've only got an hour left so I'll have to write even though I don't like the idea of being interrupted any minute. 

 

I had a meltdown this afternoon. Canceled my meeting with two friends to talk over the things we are all studying. In a way, I hadn't wanted to go. They had wanted to look at my papers, but asked me to come to their place, which is 20 minutes away. Far. I didn't argue. After all, they're good friends. And that wasn't why I had the meltdown. 

 

It's just that I sat down one more time to study the material, and it did not make sense. So my emotions hit the roof. It's been happening for months. I say, okay, I'm going to do this, and I settle right in with full determination, and then the way it is presented drives me around the bend. I mean, way round the bend. Like zero to sixty in one second. So, there I was around the bend, and I texted my friends and said I was in no state to meet and they said okay though I kind of wanted them to say, oh, can we help? What's wrong? But they just said okay, so I was on my own. Which within minutes felt just fine. 

 

I went into the cottage and finished prepping it for the guests, and then I remembered I had a wonderful experiential recording to listen to and since I'd canceled the afternoon meeting, I had time for it. By now, I was feeling calm. I still had some big challenges to surmount, but my mind had started to breathe again. 

 

And as I sat in the quiet room with the view of the mountain one of the things that I thought of was that it was time to see if I could get out of the rest of the course that was driving me crazy. It's been a few months. The last time I squawked, the teachers had sympathetically suggested that I give it a little more time, and they had been so nice, that I did. But I was fed up now. No more time. Even if it meant they would insist on their full payment. I just wasn't going to participate anymore. 

 

I wrote to them and sent the email. I looked at what I had sent an hour or two later. Maybe it was too abrupt. I tried to keep out any attitude, any criticism of them. I just want to quit and get released from my agreement to keep paying for another few months. I've already found another way to study the same material, but chose not to mention this. I'm curious how they will respond. They're not very good at keeping up with their correspondence. I might have to nudge them.