Year: 2003

Anna Ruby, Stevie, Marisa, Maki, AEM, Byron, Stella, Al, Erin Scarum with a chainsaw, an assortment of happy kids. Good food, slide shows, shadow puppets, laughter. How could a holiday get much better?

From my kitchen to yours, happy thanksgiving.

This weekend I learned that it is possible to leave the Bremerton Value Village at closing and still make the 9:45 Winslow ferry to Seattle. How cool is that?

Thrift scores included an assortment of garments that appear to have been tailored just for my quirky body: a black checked polyester blazer, yellow skirt, red and white floral hostess outfit, and a dress best described as demented majorette.

On Sunday we had breakfast with AEM and Mark. Upon hearing that we lived in Olympia at the same time (and did in fact live near him on Cooper Point for awhile) he said but But I don’t remember you.

I replied I had different glasses then.

We had quite an interesting discussion about ghost towns in New Mexico before saying goodbye and departing to pick up and drop off various children.

Later Mark objected to appearing in this journal, which is hilarious. I replied via AEM: welcome to the twentieth century.

Our adorable old fridge broke! Or rather, the handle did. We have no idea what to do. Call a repairman? But who? Seems like a job for a welder; but maybe there are specialized beloved old object repair people nowadays?

Alternet picked up my essay The Rest of Us and it has been syndicated all over the place:

The continuing economic slide and disintegration of social programs will only make the split between poor women and rich women more pronounced and cause deep anxiety for those of us who live somewhere in the middle.

Our insurance covers a new pair of glasses each year. I’ve used the benefit because I like to have an heir and a spare on hand at all times. Byron could not be persuaded that he needed to upgrade even though his old glasses never fit in the first place and lack of care has ruined the frames.

Then he watched a video of his presentation from the conference last week and realized exactly how disheveled he looks.

Yesterday as we were driving to a bookstore he said maybe I should consider getting new glasses and I blinked and immediately started issuing directives to drive toward Fremont.

We were almost turned away from the mission when we saw an old drunken man fall down a wooded slope, but after parking and hiking down to extract him from the blackberry bushes, dusting him off, and guiding him to a sidewalk, we went back to what I knew was an urgent task.

When Byron mentions even a glimmer of interest in consumer goods it is necessary to act quickly; coaxing him into a store is more difficult than caging a woodland creature.

Byron of course experienced the adventure as acutely painful. I helped him select spectacles that actually fit his face, inquired for the correct color, and examined the stock of vintage frames for additional options. While he paced and fretted, stopping occasionally to stare at himself in the mirror, I also picked out a new set for myself.

It took exactly forty-five minutes to choose, pay the deposit, and figure out how to get the old prescriptions from Portland.

This brings up a whole new problem for me. I may need to change my hair color.

I had my final check-up and clean bill of health this week. The surgeon said that the organ and debris pulled out of my belly passed pathology – no cancer.

During the most severe period of illness I kept an accurate count of my scars, but stopped at 300. My best estimate is that this new set of five brings me… close to 400.

Best of all, I now have an even number of surgical scars on my belly. I was bothered by having three; it seemed so untidy.

I told Ayun about my joy at having eight scars instead of three and she replied:

I was going to get all Schoolhouse Rocky on you and say place it on its side and it’s a figure meaning innnnnfinnnnnnnnnnity! But that would have to be a numeral eight and I bet the last thing you want is a trip to the plastic surgeon to make that one happen.

11.13.03 sympathy

I was sitting here merrily typing away when I smelled blood – not unusual when I’m working – but then I tasted it. So I went and looked in the mirror and the gums near my front teeth were gushing. Blood was bubbling around the base of my teeth and pouring into my mouth.

This would not be strange if I had been eating something hot, or flossing with extreme vigor. But I was just sitting here, typing. I had a glass of water before going back to my tasks.

A few minutes later I checked the phone messages.

The school nurse had called to say that my sweet little boy had an “accident” 

What she actually meant was: some other kid smashed his face into a brick wall.

His front teeth were broken, destroyed, he was bleeding copiously, and I needed to pick him up faster than the long drive could get me there.

I rushed across town to collect him, then rushed downtown to the only dentist who could see us in an emergency, the fulminating horror of the situation worsening with every second. My child was assaulted. 

It wasn’t the moment to wonder if the school would address the situation (or if his protective older sister would extract vengeance before I could pick her up). It was not the right time to flinch or falter as I drove fast down the roads I associate with my own childhood medical trauma.

I just needed to get him to an emergency appointment, fast. Which did not mean a nice pediatric dentist with clowns on the walls and a treasure box and stickers at the end. Instead, it meant whoever could see us.

And the clinic offered no pretense of kindness or courtesy: three staff members held my sensitive baby down as he screamed and writhed, then painfully extracted three wrecked teeth.

The dentist said the damage may be permanent. There is no way to know, until his adult teeth grow in – if they ever do.

Afterward we walked to the car, tears and blood drying on his face, a plastic box of shattered tooth fragments in his hand. I promised the Tooth Fairy would be extra nice. I helped him settle in his booster seat, put on his walkman, and start a new book on tape.

Then I drove home, crying silently.

After I came home from the hospital Byron admitted that he was afraid that I would die during the whole ordeal.

This is not an unrealistic concern. My first cancer diagnosis was the improbable outcome of an appointment to check an ear infection. The skin cancer was discovered by my dentist. I am an oddity and rarely have normal experiences with medical problems other people experience as routine.

During the days of uncertainty Byron remained in good humor. He was courteous, kind, amusing, and helpful – everything that I could have hoped for. I didn’t have to worry about the kids or, most importantly, render assurances that I was fine. He would have helped me if I had fallen apart. He didn’t criticize the fact that I remained steady and calm.

He is, to say this another way, simply the best friend I’ve ever had. It is a piece of extraordinary good luck that he is also my one true love.

While I wondered whether to go on with the surgery (this was not an option in the eyes of the doctors, but I like to maintain a facade of control) Byron kept saying that the timing was convenient because he had a conference coming up and wouldn’t be around later.

I wasn’t really paying attention but he has been putting in fourteen hour days for a big company-wide event in which he is one of the experts and will present his latest tech innovation to many thousands of people.

My bespectacled sweetheart is so smart, I have no idea what he actually does at work – but he always comes home with funny stories.

Another interesting thing – the Ask Adrian portion of the conference refers to someone I went to grade school with. Life is full of startling coincidences.

Last night I went out on my first excursion since the surgery. The affair was unexpectedly complicated due to the following:

1. I cannot yet wear clothes that come into contact with the incisions.

-and-

2. I do not own any clothes that do not come into contact with the incisions.

I gave Ariel my own beloved hoodie after I weaned my final baby. Most of my wardrobe was purged during the move. I have only the bare essentials – perhaps even a bit less than most people. For instance, I don’t own any socks.

So I edged into the world dressed in old tattered yoga pants (the voluminous variety with drawstring waist), a Breeder shirt, and Byron’s black hoodie. I had to borrow socks from my daughter, who owns no hosiery that is not brightly striped and knee-high.

I helped the kids pick out birthday presents for friends and rode along while Byron dropped various girls at a slumber party, then we ate soup and watched the lunar eclipse. I was exhausted by the time we came back, but that just meant that I slept well.

In fact, I was able to sleep on my side for the first time in over a week.

Tonight I was feeling even more ambitious and drove myself to the co-op. The ride was fine but I had forgotten about the Utne thing.

My daughter kept announcing to passerby that we are in the current issue. She even opened a copy to show the checkout clerk. I closed my eyes and hummed and pretended that I was somewhere else.

My tummy is settled enough that I think I can tolerate some normal foods. I am really looking forward to opening my black sesame rice crackers.

Last night I ate a sandwich and took a shower! I can chew and swallow again, and I don’t smell like a hospital any longer! Small things are beautiful.

One stray hospital memory: after the surgery, as they wheeled me up to the room, my main thought was I wish I had asked to keep the organ. 

I felt an enormous chasm of regret opening in my brain. Then I remembered I’m not twelve years old.

Later when I confided these thoughts to Byron he said I had the same thought process. Plus it wouldn’t be very attractive if they were using words like “sludge” to describe what they took out of you.

Over the weekend the scar tissue in my abdomen strangled various organs, one of which ruptured, leading to a massive infection and requiring a four exploratory emergency surgery.

I’m home now. Thanks in advance for all wishes contributing to a speedy recovery.

CMJ is enormous, with scores of shows scattered across the city, and I knew that the likelihood that I would get to see anything on purpose was low. It is better not to fixate and be disappointed; I enjoy myself more when I have no expectations.

Years of performing forced me to develop a basic strategy for surviving festivals: I decided not to care.

However, the payment for performers is an all-access pass so, in between frolics with friends and meetings with my publisher, I dropped into whichever random array of sets happened to be nearby.

The only full showcase I made it to was the K records session. This seemed rather redundant since I go to K shows all the time, but on the other hand, I was feeling awfully homesick (for what, who can say).

When I walked in the the door a boy in a pilot’s cap shouted Bee! It was Kenneth, last seen on an Oregon beach.

My panel went well, although I’m sure I said many disturbing and controversial things – but there is no recording so who cares!

At some point I went to a private CMJ party and hung out with an assortment of writers and musicians until closing. When it was time to leave the bouncer stood with his arms crossed, barring my exit from the venue. He said the price to pass was a kiss.

He was perhaps a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me but you know what? Nobody. Ever. Does. That. To. Me.

I’ve taken down scarier men in my time. Not quite as large as this one, but definitely more dangerous.

One strategy would have been to break his fingers, but I reckoned that was not strictly necessary.

Since we were at a fun happy party and he didn’t know that he had just violated a huge Bee rule I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

I reached out with both hands, grasped him under the arms, and… moved him out of my way. Like you might move a fractious toddler.

The big scary bouncer was completely shocked. He stumbled back, then stood, mouth open, staring after me as I stomped down the street.