Year: 2004

Just before the KGB reading Felicia from Small Spiral Notebook handed me some packages; she said that a fellow named Bryan had dropped them off earlier. I peered at the bundles – they were labeled in Gabriel’s handwriting and I closed my eyes.

It could not possibly be true that Gabriel had an artist friend hand-carry packages from Portland to New York City, to be dropped off in a bar in a vague hope they would find me, right?

Beyond that, he absolutely would not send all the original art for the book via that route, right?

Hmm. Well, wrong. Gabriel is such an interesting young man.

After the reading someone tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to look the man said Do you recognize me?

It was a breathtaking shock, but yes, of course always, anywhere: I would have known him in a second.

It was Byron Number One, misplaced since the 1980’s – what an amazing surprise and welcome reunion!

During a tour layover Pam and Jeroen took us to Brighton Beach, where we visited a Russian grocery store and a Japanese dollar store. I hustled through grabbing as many pencils, chopsticks, and character bags as could reasonably be stuffed in my suitcase.

We ate pastries stuffed with cherries and cabbage and walked down to Coney Island, which although closed for the season was still thrilling. I forgot to take my camera or would offer a picture of me in front of the Shoot a Live Freak game.

On the way home we stopped to browse in a series of flea market stalls, and I found a genius holiday gift for my small boy: sword fighting puppets (shh, don’t tell him). One of my companions bargained with a Russian guy to get $15 off the asking price; I am capable of haggling for steep discounts on cars and houses but lose the skill entirely when it comes to antique toys.

I’m on tour to support Mamaphonic for the next few weeks. Baltimore, DC, CT, NY, multiple events in each location.

Look for updated dates and venues on the Soft Skull site.

This morning I had an appointment in yet another special section of the Medical Oncology Clinic. There is zero chance that the variety of cancer that went marauding through my neck will recur so this particular annual check-up is never worrisome.

In fact, I generally avoid it whenever possible. But the drugs that replace my lost organ are not yet widely used in this country, and I had to go to the specialist to receive authorization.

Except it was more like a tribunal, or a court-martial. The appointment was conducted at a round table in a conference room, with five doctors staring silently as I reeled off all the facts one more time.

I am really bored with this whole narrative. Now that my new scar has settled into a dull red glow I can smack some makeup over it and proceed with life.

We can all go back to pretending that I am healthy.

Now I need to pack, and I am not at all prepared for this trip. My wool coat lost a few buttons and this town is so small I was not able to find adequate replacements; it was easier to go buy a new coat. But the only reasonably warm option that I could find is quite frumpy and rather huge, which is at least somewhat amusing.

I feel like that kid who falls in the snowbank in A Christmas Story. Now I need to find a shirt or two and throw them in a suitcase. Or something.

I was halfway convinced that the whole surgery was a mistake, that I was a fool to let them cut me. But today I received a letter from the doctor verifying that the lesion was in fact cancerous.

In Seattle I had the best private health insurance available, and access to the finest medical centers and physicians. In Portland I went to a perfectly adequate HMO.

The thing on my face was large enough that it must have been there for at least four years, if not longer, and no doctor of any specialty noticed it.

I haven’t had a tumor that large since I was first diagnosed in 1983, and there is absolutely no acceptable reason that it was allowed to grow. I trusted my doctors to exercise their professional skills and look after me, but it took a move to a nationalized health care system for anyone to notice that I needed surgery.

The system here has many faults, including appalling wait lists and incomprehensible scheduling systems. But the actual care I have received has been of a much higher standard than what I encountered back home.

Byron managed to get my mother to the airport with plenty of time to spare, managed to make it to his train for the other airport with no worries even after the morning muddle. But in what we might call The Continuing Misadventures of Mathboy he realized that he had been relieved of some of his luggage. To be precise: the portion containing his extra clothes, money, and passport.

It is not possible to travel to Cyprus without a passport, no matter how important the journey might be. He had to turn around and head back to Cambridge and spend hours on the phone trying to sort out a solution. In the end he gave his conference presentation via speaker phone.

I observed from a distance, receiving text messages about his trials as I walked around town with the children getting ready for school to start and preparing for my own trip. It was all quite stressful, until I realized that the unexpected presence of a second parent would give me the time I need to make my deadline.

Last night we walked across Midsummer Common, staring up at the enormous orange harvest moon framed by the flash and sparkle of early fireworks. I turned toward the boat and Byron walked on to take the children to see the circus.

I was not disappointed to defer this task; the children are often less than happy when presented with such treats, because they know too many circus performers. If an act is not, in their opinion, as good as Feather’s mom, they scoff openly.

Which I find embarrassing and rude, and then we have to have lots of long boring conversations about supporting artists.

I worked for hours by the light of an oil lamp and about the time I was ready to stop heard them shouting and scampering across the common. They came running up with flashing electric swords and tiger painted faces.

The boat was filled with laughter and mock sword fights well into the night.

The other night I was walking across Jesus Green in the dark. I could see a group of people sitting next to the Lock in a circle, and then fire, a brilliant illumination against the backdrop of water coursing over the weir. A few puzzled swans had stopped to watch the spectacle.

I kept walking along the water toward my boat and started to think about the notion of home. When Sarah-Jane visited we talked about the towns we live in, and I told her that I am mystified not to feel more homesick since the latest move.

She shrugged and pointed out that I am a traveler; this surprised me because I have always imagined myself belonging in one place. But I suppose my former geographic stability had more to do with the limits imposed by the illness than any particular desire to live where I grew up.

But seeing the fire made me miss my friends. I thought about Bob and the Palace, with the trapeze in the living room and skate ramp in the backyard. I wondered what my friends might be doing this week.

When I got home there was email from both Bob and Marisa telling me about travels and adventures and plans. My friends never stay in one place either. I’m sure that I will see more people on this tour than I would if I tried to visit my old home.

When I booked the trip for my mother I arranged her departure time to coincide with Byron’s flight to Cyprus so he could escort her to the airport. They left this morning, and when I called to check on their progress Byron reported that he put them on the wrong train.

Lucky I left enough time in the schedule for these adventures.

The visit was lots of fun, though she arrived with a virus and spent most of her holiday sleeping. We all caught variations of the bug but managed to persevere and show Grandma a bit of England.

We walked around many of the colleges, attended Evensong, went punting, walked to Grantchester for tea at The Orchard, and visited the Fitzwilliam.

Just as we all felt well again it was time for half-term holiday for the children and we set off on a series of trips to London. We went to the Tower of London, and the British Museum, and the youngest and oldest to the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang musical (managing to snag the last two tickets for all of half-term).

We wandered through the Food Halls at Harrods, bought Lego at Hamleys, walked down the  Portobello Road and found a little shop called where the children ordered kitty and hedgehog hats. The nice woman at the counter said that her mother is going on the British Antarctic Survey trip in a few weeks; we meet an extraordinary number of people connected with that organization.

While we were away in Ely visiting the Cathedral the wind came in off the Fens and blew my boat off her mooring. Luckily another boater caught the line and tied her down, and later had her boyfriend find me via the internet to explain what happened. We met near the boat later and had a lovely time talking to both of them.

Now it’s time to work again. I need to get my stuff organized for the book tour, set up places to stay, figure out how to acquire the champagne for the party, and do sundry promotional work.

Not to mention the fact that I have exactly five days to finish writing the next book – and it is still missing three chapters.

Since my mother was here to hang out with the children (and they often have more fun without me to censor their activities) I went to Zurich for the weekend to hang out with Byron.

He was there on one of his work junkets. His normal schedule during these trips (and at home) involves writing papers all day, taking a dinner break, going back to work until four in the morning, crashing, then going back to work at seven.

I do not understand the concept of leisure travel, though I do make a diligent effort to engage in the designated activities. I wandered around the city, found the Lindenhof, had hot chocolate at an enchanted cafe, visited the church where Felix and Regula are buried, stared at the statue of Charlemagne.

I picked up some enlightening facts about the Zwingli aspect of the Reformation, and the fact that Swiss catholicism is a splinter that does not recognize the doctrine of infallibility. I was sickened by some incredibly sinister facts about the Swiss eugenics program. I remembered too late that one of the contributors to the new anthology lives in Zurich, and wished I had arranged to meet her.

But inevitably I spent most of my time in medical museums, doing research, taking notes.

My favorite part of the whole trip was the public transportation: the funicular system is gorgeous, the trams are punctual and pleasant, and the ferry around the lake reminded me of home.

Eight years ago I was languishing in the hospital bed that had been my home for over a month. I had argued successfully against a planned surgery, but this meant that we were all waiting for the crisis. That morning it finally happened; the baby flipped and I started to bleed. I asked to wait, asked for tests, and a quick evaluation showed that my infant was in fact not ready to be taken. But the risk was too severe, and I was too ill, and the baby was drowning in the blood.

They cut me fast, without surgical dressings to capture the blood, without appropriate anesthesia, slicing upward toward my belly button to save him.

It took an entire year for him to catch up and become the strapping fellow that he should have been at birth. It took another four years for the exquisite sensitivity of his premature arrival to fade.

Now he is eight. He stands as tall as my shoulder. He speaks in full vivid paragraphs. He rides his bicycle, reads books, creates fabulous structures with Lego, spends hours each day drawing in his journals. He is one of the most eccentric and interesting people I have had the privilege to know.

We celebrated the day with sushi for lunch and salmon for dinner. He opened a vast array of presents from family members far away and the visiting grandmother.

I gave him a proper bowler hat because he is obsessed with P. G. Wodehouse. He ran off to his closet to find a suit to wear. We all sat at the table laughing and eating chocolate cake and ice cream.

My mother arrived today. After a brief greeting at Heathrow she squinted at my face and asked about the scar. I told her the story as we rode the tube to Kings Cross and she blinked and said that it is better than losing half your nose to cancer. 

This is a good point; I would not enjoy a nose amputation.

If you ever wondered exactly where I get my skewed sensibilities, now you know. She is such a tonic. The whole world makes sense when she is around to sort the important from the nonsensical.

Tomorrow I get the stitches out, which means that the wound is healed well enough to venture forth without bandages. The trouble is, I don’t want to look at it. When I glance in the mirror I see not only my adult self but also the little kid with bleeding sores; the twelve year old with a lacerated neck; the seventeen year old with a smashed face.

When I look in the mirror I would like to put my fist through the image reflected back at me. But that is a childish impulse and not worth dwelling on. Instead I will revert to practical matters, like finishing the next book before I go on tour in a few weeks.

I am not yet willing to reveal the title but the cover (courtesy of Gabriel) is simply beautiful.

There are still two missing chapters and one long section needs to be spliced and moved around a bit. This is the hard part of the work – the details, the adjustments, the tedious editing tasks that can lead to doubt and despair if one is not careful to block out such thoughts.

I keep ranting that I either must go work on the book now or that I never want to work on the book again and my family members just nod with glazed expressions.

I’m sure they wish that I could go out and rubberneck with my pals. But I haven’t lived here long enough to find those people. My only local writer friend is away on a book tour right now and thus unavailable to trade tormented tales.