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. 

I met Richard for the first time at the Soft Skull offices and he was surprisingly enthusiastic; he even hugged me. It is a good thing I took lessons in the subject because the trip would involve many more friendly embraces.

Later I was hanging out with Justin in Brooklyn. We lounged around his apartment, converted from a warehouse, where he lives with other Colorado expatriates. The apartment is the only residence I’ve visited in the city that actually looks like my juvenile fantasy of a NYC life.

We talked about the books we are doing for Soft Skull (how strange is it that so many of my friends sold books to the same press, when none of us ever discussed our plans? Very strange is the answer). On the way out the door I passed Jon (last seen at the naked snow party in Colorado) coming in – and we goggled and smiled and then said goodbye.

Another night I had dinner with KTS. His ex-wife Max showed up unexpectedly and we had been chatting for all of two minutes when it came out that she is roommates with Tennessee from Soft Skull.

I know these dinner companions from the NW in general and Olympia in particular. Not from shows,  or the fact that we went to the same college, or indeed anything fun or youthful. Instead, I press-ganged a teenage KTS into my plans to start a nonprofit. During my incarnation as a government employee I once hired Max to do temp office work.

We caught up on news about mutual acquaintances, intricately connected groups of people who have been on the periphery of my life since the mid-eighties. I never thought I had much in common with them but now that we are grown up this appears to have been more about fashion than facts.

During a long subway ride to a borrowed apartment I lamented the fate of my cancer book. AEM (another Soft Skull writer) pointed out that if I publish it I will become the patron saint of all pariahs.

She didn’t seem to think that would be the best career move.

I always pack with fiendish precision and take more stuff than anyone could possibly need – and always find myself stranded without something necessary to deal with the weather.

Ayun advised me to bring my fuzzy hat (she says that it looks like a knitted toilet seat cover) but I couldn’t find it.

The wind kept picking up my crispy hair and whipping it straight up and across my head, where it decided to stick to my lips and then drag bright red lipstick lines across my face.

So: most important stop of the day – buying a black hat and gloves at Filene’s Basement, which is actually upstairs in a mall sort of building and looks nothing like my 1964 era daydreams. Anne claimed that my new hat was cute but it gave me a sort of exiled-to-Siberia look for the rest of the trip.

The Utne showed up on newsstands and I opened it to see a picture of myself. Then I spent the better part of a day fighting off a panic attack that was hard to trace in origin but has to do with the notion of identity.

I grew up mutilated, ugly. The fact that I have learned to manipulate my public image is a political choice. I’m not attractive by mainstream standards, but I photograph well – and it seems important to cultivate that dichotomy.

Though I could be wrong.

I am both pragmatic and idealistic and when people do favors for me I reciprocate, even if I’m not inclined to do whatever they would like. Byron will be watching the kids while I go to New York. He also has a research paper due while I’m gone.

This means that I am sitting here reading a Latex document with tiny script, squinting at terms like Boolean function and Cartesian approximation. I don’t have a vague clue what I’m reading, which isn’t a huge problem since I like to read esoteric things.

Phrases like automatic iterative abstraction refinement do not scare me.

But I’m reading for word choice. And you know what? Computer scientists do not share a common language – the people Byron works with grew up speaking a dozen human languages and they program in scores of other mechanical languages.

If they don’t know how to describe something, they don’t go to a thesaurus. They just make stuff up. Need a new word? Add a prefix! Still not clear? Add a suffix, or maybe two!

I spend most of my time red-lining words that I am later informed are common usage even though they do not exist in any other academic field.

Dinner conversation:

Son (age six): What is a lackey?

Daughter (age thirteen): Kind of like a minion.

Son nods and goes back to playing with chopsticks.

Gabriel writes:

Have been missing Rome. Must be the fall. Missing both Rome and that feeling of visiting different places. I enjoyed the light as much as the food, coffee, and company. Yes, the paintings, architecture, and history were lovely as well. Miss Palestrina’s wicked butterfly. The narrow darkness inside the buildings offset by the light stone stairways.

Last year as we settled in this new home I also missed the quality of light in Italy and wondered when I would be able to go back. I have not been able to plan another trip; it seems that I am always too busy these days.

Gabriel also wondered about Thanksgiving plans. It looks like we will have a full house again; I’ll have to turn the zine laboratory back into a kitchen.

Yesterday Byron spilled a tasty beverage on my keyboard. We unplugged it and cleaned it up but now the keys are sticky. I may never be able to type a parentheses again.

A couple of hours later he was innocently working on his laptop when it flashed the blue screen of death.

Obviously not his night for technology.