Looking for Magic

In the old days, it was known as Charity Hospital. It was where you went if you were poor or without insurance. No one was turned away and, it was said, if you didn't die waiting to be seen, you had access to some of the best medical care in the state.

Now, it's known as Louisiana State University Medical Center, a sprawling complex of old and new buildings, a cancer care and research center, an ambulatory rehabilitation facility, trauma center. It's still some of the best care in the state and still where you go if you're poor or insurance-less. This is where the firemen took my friend Henry - kicking and screaming - after the 911 call, and where I spent most of yesterday and last evening. It was the 3rd of 4th in a series of mini-strokes, this one far more serious, resulting in paralysis of his left side, impaired vision and speech, and a general overall sense of confusion. A fast acting medical team wired him up to monitors and heart machines, placed electrodes on his chest and inserted iv's, scheduled an MRI. The doctors spoke of clots and cranial bleeds, even a possible tumor. I sat by his side and watched him struggle with the pain and the slurred speech, the inability to shift position, the helplessness. I was encouraged that he was still lucid, still able to make a joke despite his surroundings. His wife of some thirty five years wavered between hysteria and calm and ridiculously enough I was reminded of a tennis match - in one moment she smiled and told him not to worry, reassured him that the car hadn't been towed away and the animals were in good hands. In the next, she dissolved into helpless sobs and began wailing like a fishwife, begging him, for her sake, not to die. The scene went from horrific to comic to tragic to cartoonish and then began all over again.

Day Two
It's a game of watch and wait. The MRI has been tried again without success and is now scheduled for Monday - it will be accomplished with the aid of anaesthesia and can't be done earlier due to the holiday. There's little improvement or decline but there are some small signs of hope - he's resting a little more easily and has shown signs of some feeling in his left leg. His daughter, a voice of reason and maturity and level headedness, is here and just her presence makes a difference. She is calm,
quiet, with a remarkable mixture of compassion and objectivity, able to prioritize and ask intelligent questions. With her mother, she is firm but kind, brutally but gently honest, optimistic but not blinded, capable but not overbearing. Slowly and carefully but absolutely unswayed by tears, pleas for pity, anger or guilt, she leads her mother away from illusion and unrealistic expectations. She refuses to be drawn into the net of hysteria, will not engage in an argument, is clear that she will not neglect her own needs even during this. I watch and listen and am stunned by her maturity and ability to diffuse and redirect her mother's melt down. She looks for solutions, strategies, aftercare and reality while her mother looks for mercy and magic.

Day Three
There is talk of lifestyle changes to be made, a reassessment of responsibilities and caregiving, a major shifting of balance in who cares for who. Daughter lays out the most probably outcome, mother resists. She wants him home, she wants him the way he was, she wants this is to be a bad memory that she can push away and never think about again. She listens to talk of recovery through therapy and rehabilitation but her eyes glaze at the prospect of a lengthy separation. She has to be led one step at a time through the process - it has to pointed out that she will not be able to care for him at home, that she has to work, that therapy requires trained professionals, that he cannot be left alone in a house full of dogs and cats, that in the beginning he will likely not be able to walk, much less cook and clean and shop. His days of step'n'fetch it are over, daughter says clearly, with a bluntness that hurts my ears. Mother winces at this cruel truth, begins to sob against the bed rail and appeal to God. Daughter sighs but doesn't relent, telling her it's time to put on her big girl panties and face the music - her life is never going to be the same again and for everyone's sake, this is something she must accept. But the MRI, her mother protests, after that they can treat him and give him blood thinners or medication. They'll fix him! She grips my hand with surprising power, begging me to say she is right, unable to give up her hope. I meet her panicky eyes and slowly shake my head, Medicine isn't going to bring him back, I tell her, Therapy and rehab are and it's likely to be a long process, weeks, maybe months. She glares at me then at her daughter, her face a ruined mask of tears and denial and outright terror. I can't do this! she wails and her daughter stands firm. You can and you will, she says clearly and adamantly, There isn't any other choice.

The man sleeping restlessly in the hospital bed, tosses and turns, mumbles incoherently, jerks his muscles and with his one good hand massages his jaw and paws at the IV on the back of his hand.
Everything fall quiets. We are weary of this stroke watch, him most of all.

Day Four
The doctors say it's time to exercise his swallowing reflex - as many sips of water as he will take,
some clear broth, some tasteless mash potatoes. His wife tries this and he resists, she instantly falls to pieces and begins to cry. I try the water and get him to take about a half cup over the next few hours. He is clearer, more aware of where he is and why, and he sleeps. She is overwhelmed and distraught, not able to think clearly, not sure what to do - her body, aging and overweight with back and knee problems and now in constant pain, is betraying her, all these responsibilities and things that must be done are more than she can organize or bear.

The doctors arrive with news that they have located someone who can deliver anaesthesia and they have scheduled the long awaited MRI for later that evening. This news brings a fresh wave of tears and she collapses on the small leather couch, shoulders heaving. I tell her to make me a list of what she needs from the grocery, warn her that I will beat her senseless if she doesn't eat and get some rest, and then prepare to return to my own life. Is there no one you can call to help out? I ask her quietly, and she shakes her head almost violently. We have no friends, she says. Her sadness and loneliness are mostly self inflicted, I remind myself, over the years her behavior has often bordered on mental illness and driven away anyone who might have wanted to care. Her dependence on him is total and all consuming - I've often thought of him as more a servant than a partner, emotionally battered to the point of helplessness and alcohol. Still, I can't bring myself to feel anything but pity for them both. It may be that we are never fully prepared to face our faults and make amends - her desperate struggle for control, her isolation and jealousy, her temper - all have come home to roost.
Her random madness, whether real or manufactured, has left her bitter and rejected, exhausted and frantic - there are no get well cards, no flowers, no called in well wishes. There have been no visitors to this small and sterile room with its one small window, no one has dropped in or brought books or magazines or milkshakes. And it's only the beginning of a very long road.

Day Five
The MRI has disclosed a blocked cranial artery and the relief of having an actual diagnosis and a plan of attack - surgery scheduled for two weeks out - has changed things drastically. There is cause for optimism and hope and a real chance at recovery. As I fed him apple sauce and mashed potatoes, I reminded him to chew and swallow with each bite and he nodded and followed instructions, washing it all down with a milkshake. His wife has come to terms with the issue of caregiving, understanding at last that he will not be coming home next week and making peace with the idea of a rehabilitation hospital for the immediate future.

I will keep in close touch, visit as often as I can, provide them with as much help and support as I can give but it's time I get back to my own life. It wasn't the Thanksgiving Week I had planned or hoped for yet oddly and ironically it brought me closer to a woman I have despised from a distance for years and gave me a new appreciation of what it means to be thankful.

Maybe there is a little magic to be found after all.

Portraits

Faces speak volumes.

Shooting a music show recently, I was unexpectedly made aware of how expressive we can be and how we interpret those facial expressions. Some faces welcome and invite you in, others are guarded, some are downright hostile. A smile lights up almost anyone save the most disagreeable among us. A musician on stage and performing, lost in his or her art, is hardly aware of what his or her face is saying - we are treated to grins and grimaces, to struggle and rock hard determination, to ecstasy and exhaustion - all accented by light and color, shadow and sound, impossible to capture. Next to these expressions, talent can almost become secondary. The lens sees what it sees, no more, no less - and it records as best it can, hoping for one magical moment when everything comes together to make a portrait. Only rarely am I truly satisfied with the result - magical moments are intense and fleeting, angles change quickly, microphones rear their heads like weeds, musicians move as unpredictably as the music, light is altered and lost at what proves to be a critical instant. No one ever told me it would be easy.

These same faces - off stage and out of the limelight - can often be just as provocative. Some tell stories of sleepless nights and too much tequila, of rehabs and too many nights on the road, of long hours and misspent middle age. Others are like road maps of one night stands and bars with forgotten names, dime-a-dance gin joints and after hour jams, always on the way to somewhere else. But some are young, fresh faced and innocent with major talent and dreams beyond measure, drawn to the music like moths to flame, filled with ambition, hope and an inexplicable need to perform.

Most, however young or old, whether just starting out or having seen it all, just want to make music. They have day jobs, wives, kids, parents, dogs, ordinary lives. Their eyes are clear, their smiles genuine and their faces shine with the pure joy of being able to perform. As musicians and individuals, each of their lives is a portrait.
So it is with us all.

Why Me?

Few things in life are as entertaining as watching a kitten at play.

The new kitten, growing like a weed with a sweet side, flies through the house at high speed, a small, black blur as stealthy as a guided missile and just as accurate. He leaps over sleeping dogs and other obstacles with ease, never slowing or hesitating. If the black dog should wake and show any interest, he simply rises up on his back feet, delivers a brazen and stinging swat to her muzzle, then takes off like a shot - he's long gone before she's had time to react and she gives me a bewildered and faintly resentful look, a long suffering look, as if to ask, Why me? I know the feeling and I gently remind her that once upon a time I got the same looks about her but empathy is not one of her stronger virtues and this attempt at reason produces the usual results - a yawn and an exquisitely bored expression. She lays down and puts her head on her paws, her eyes flutter and close and she drifts back to sleep. A few minutes later the kitten returns, strolling by and pretending not to notice her, as kittens will, but I can almost see the mischief in his eyes - he is full of long term plans to provoke her and lure her into a scolding. Her eyes open and narrow, she bares her teeth slightly and I speak both their names - the moment passes. She shifts position and moves a little distance away while he plays the unjustly accused, looking at me with wide and innocent eyes. He is then distracted by the arrival of the young black and white cat who unexpectedly emerges from under the bed - she sees him and immediately slinks down into attack mode and it becomes a question of who will initiate the first strike. The smart money is on him and true to form, after one obligatory circling, he leaps at her but she's played this part before and is ready for him. They go down together in a tangle of tails and whiskers and playful meows, interwoven so tightly that I can barely tell where one ends and the other begins. To an onlooker, the rules of the game are complicated and they appear to vary depending on who breaks away first. I intervene only if it takes a serious turn, which rarely happens, or if a bystander is threatened by all this commotion, which also rarely happens since the other cats want no part of this juvenile display and both dogs have learned that it's their best interest not to interfere. We all understand collateral damage and the laws of unintended consequences.

I leave them for the day, the dogs safely kenneled, and the cats scattered about here and there. I sometimes wonder what happens while I'm gone, whether they go their separate ways and mind their business or whether chaos breaks loose the moment the door closes behind me. Those beloved and innocent faces never tell.

Willie & Mrs. Jones

The mid June morning promised a perfect day - I knew the sky would be a brilliant blue with masses of drifting white clouds, that there would be dew on the blackberry patch, that sunlight would be making sparkles on the water. Even before I smelled the fresh biscuits and heard Nana call me, I knew it would be the kind of day that might never come again, the kind of day that would make you weep when it ended. I scrambled into my overalls and sneakers, gave the old feather bed a lick and a promise, and raced downstairs.

My daddy was smoking and drinking coffee on the sunporch while Nana laid out slabs of bacon in an iron skillet and set it to sizzling. I ran to the door and pulled it open, anxious to be outside until breakfast and it was then that I saw the cow - she was standing with her nose just inches from the screen, tail swishing at flies and impassively chewing her cud. Nana, I said a little hesitantly, There's a cow at the back door.

Ayuh, my grandmother answered distractedly as she piled a platter high with biscuits and covered it with a warm dishtowel, and chickens in the chimney, I imagine. Go outside and play.

No, Nana, it's a real cow, I protested, She has a bell and everything.

Scat before I tan your hide, missy, my grandmother snapped, I'm busy!

Alice, my daddy said mildly from the doorway behind me, Did you know there's a cow at the back door?

Nana turned sharply and glared at him, about to grab her broom and I was sure, give us both a proper swat, when her eyes met those of the cow and widened in surprise. Good Lord, she muttered, There's a cow at the back door.

The animal in question, as if to confirm the obvious, raised her head and emitted a plaintive, sustained and ear shattering moo then nudged the screen door. It appears, my daddy commented, that we have two choices. We can ask her in or escort her home. Nana scowled at him, wiped her glasses on her apron and took a closer look. The cow looked back steadily.

I think, Nana finally said, It's Mrs. Jones. At this, the cow seemed to perk up, flicking her ears briskly and tossing her head, causing her bell to jangle. It did seem to look like Mrs. Jones, Uncle Willie's old milk cow from across the road, but it was a cow after all, and to the untrained eye, not remarkable or in any way distinctive. How can you tell? my daddy asked reasonably enough and Nana frowned, Just a feeling, she admitted, but I'm pretty sure. I was dispatched through the strawberry field, over the ditch and across the road to rouse Uncle Willie and ask if he was missing a cow - as indeed he was. Great ugly beast, he muttered as he led her away, Can't think why I still bother with you. Mrs. Jones followed, docile as a lamb and taking no offense at this verbal abuse. At the top of the driveway, she gave him an encouraging nudge and he hugged her neck before leading her across the dirt road and into the pasture.

The morning air was crisp and clear and we could hear him singing to her, a weary old man serenading an over the hill old milk cow and finding their way home together in the warm sunshine of a perfect day.

,

Grinch-ness

Another Thanksgiving nears and with it a flood of memories, some good and some bad.

Family dinners at my grandmother's, my in laws, in restaurants - everything from turkey and all the trimmings to tuna fish sandwiches on white bread. After so many years of forced participation, I'm grateful for the opportunity to retreat and sleep late. When it comes to holidays, especially those of the traditional family variety, I am an unapologetic grinch. I appreciate all the invitations and the thoughtfulness of friends who worry about my being alone but I take a pass - I am, by nature, a solitary person and alone is a gift I give myself - it's almost impossible to find such time anymore.

Like sinking into a good novel, I bury myself beneath the covers and let my dreams take over. The animals come and go and without deadlines and obligations, sleep comes easily and often. I may read or watch old movies, may pack my camera gear and take a drive or do nothing at all. Time slows just a bit and there's no need to watch the clock -there's nothing I have to do and nowhere I have to be - these few hours are mine alone, to be productive, to
by pass regular routines, even to waste if I choose. This is strategically planned and serious grinch-ness.

In the long run, trying to please anyone but yourself is an exercise in futility. It's good to be nice, to be thoughtful, to take the needs and wants of others into consideration, to be kind and lend a helping hand, even to sacrifice when it truly matters but we all choose which road we travel and who we travel with. After a certain age, your dues are paid, your priorities change, you can wear funny hats as well as purple, you can not answer the door or the telephone. You can even write what you really think and not be bothered if someone disagrees.

Be kind to your inner grinch and set it free.

In Other Words

Confrontation : Synonyms: battle, combat, competition, conflict, contest, contention, dogfight, duel, face-off, grapple, match, rivalry, strife, struggle, tug-of-war, war, warfare

Just confronting the word gives me the jitters. Odd, after growing up in an alcoholic household where the fighting never seemed to end and moving on to an alcoholic marriage where it was everyday fact. Now I find that a raised voice sets my every nerve on edge in anticipation of a scolding, that I almost expect every reprimand - no matter how mild or well meant - to be followed by a blow. Tension takes hold and a swarm of butterflies invade my belly, every instinct for self preservation comes fully alert and I have to grip something real and physical to keep from running. The doctor calls me into his office and I go lead-footed only to face no more threatening a question than where is the latest end of day report or would I like a half day on Friday. Despite these small reprieves and rewards, Nana's woodshed voice is never far away and it rarely if ever occurs to me that something good might happen behind a closed door.

I am quite capable of temper, of yelling, of threatening, of digging in until the cows come home, of biting sarcasm and a nasty turn of phrase when I think it's called for - but only when it constitutes self defense. The idea of initiating a conflict turns me cold and cowardly. I rationalize it all, of course, telling myself that acceptance is a better and saner path, that I need to change rather than try and change someone else, but it's mostly window dressing, designed to keep reality at arms length.

My friend Tricia likes to remind me that confrontation can be a positive force - a candid exchange of ideas in pursuit of solutions, that it need not be hostile or antagonistic. Honesty and directness can be tools in the search for better understanding and empathy, all of which I have no doubt is true, provided I can stay on the sidelines. I detest the cowardly side of my nature, the side that shrugs its shoulders and swallows the anger, allowing it to smoke and smolder until it turns into a three alarm fire, out of control and burning everything in its path. I hate the side of my nature that wants to remain a victim and I despise not being able to fight back without putting my job in jeopardy - but there it is. Today I asked a question and was impatiently lectured on change resistance and adaptability, on being a team player, of learning to go with the flow. I have come to a point where I feel excluded and invisible and it was only a question. Nothing more than fear of overdue bills kept me from quitting on the spot and that's not a good enough reason to stay. Honesty would have led to my being fired - may still yet.

When I am given the news that paychecks are to be delayed - again - my fists curl up, my belly knots and my throat closes against the urge to scream. The morning is filled with apologies although no explanation is offered and the depression and anger I feel begin to turn into a seething, vindictive rage. I have always thought of the workplace as a kind of contract in good faith - it's my obligation to show up on time and do the work to the best of my ability. It's my employer's obligation to compensate me fairly and when promised. A violation on either side is a breach of trust. I would expect no slack if I were to routinely and cavalierly dishonor this contract but it seems to have turned into a one way street - I am supposed to accept this news objectively and make do. If, as the old rape joke goes, it can't be helped, then lie back and enjoy it.

Not this time, I finally decide and with my heart pounding, I head for the doctor's office. I explain that I am not prepared to be humiliated and borrow money or beg catfood again. Neither am I willing to put one more dime on my credit card to cover up payroll's incompetence. So, I say, I will go the grocery store as planned and write a check which I fully expect to bounce and if it does, I will demand that the practice pay the overdraft charge. If they refuse, I tell him, he may expect my notice. This is met with a glare than turns to a so-be-it look when he realizes that this time I will stand my ground. You feel targeted, he tells me. No, I answer, I just work in an office that's being targeted. He reminds me that this latest screw up was across the board and that all employees were affected. The checks are cut in the other office, I reply, and by yesterday afternoon they had checks, not in the bank as promised, but at least in their hands, and they had time to go to the bank and cash them. There's a difference between being paid a little later on the right day and being paid a day late. With all due respect, if you work there you get inconvenienced. If you work here, you get penalized.

He is cool to me the rest of the day but I don't apologize and I don't back down. Remarkably, I have provoked a confrontation and survived. I wonder if I will remember this feeling the next time.

The Comfort of Cats

I don't think of it as having five cats, I explain to the check out girl at the grocery store, I think of it as not having seven. She gives me a big smile but there's a touch of knowing better in it, as if she thinks I might be completely off my rocker but is too polite to say so. I get this a lot.

This love of cats is a mystery to me. The things that attract me - their independence and aloofness, self confidence and agile minds - are things that attract all cat lovers. I look at their heart shaped faces and their eyes full of curiosity and mischief, and think that this must be God's favorite animal. I drag them off each other and think that I may strangle them. Each evening when I come through the front door, there is an explosion - the dogs howling and wailing to be let out of their kennels and be fed, while the cats stroll quite casually out from wherever they've been sleeping. One by one, like a small but self important parade, they appear and line up by their food dishes, only the littlest one talks and only because he's too young to be able to reach the counter on his own. They eat quietly and delicately, unlike the feeding frenzy the dogs display - then groom themselves and retire, like gentlemen taking their cigars and brandy to the study. I may not see them again until bedtime when some combination will arrive to curl up behind my knees or with the small brown dog on the pillow, others will stay in the shadows til morning. One or two will come and go during the night like wayward lovers but there will always be at least one small, furry body by my side, kneading, purring, taking and giving comfort - I am reassured just by their presence.

There's something about cats that calls to my soul and tugs at my heart, as if I am meant for them and they for me. On my worst day, a kitten can coax a smile out of me, give me a reason to get out of bed, even have just a little more faith. It's hard to say who gets more from these liaisons - as my Cousin Linda recently commented to me, Life is just a bowl of kittens.

Having started the year with seven cats, lost four and gained two, I fear that attrition is not working quite as I planned. Resolution and good intentions simply can't overcome fuzzy, blue eyed furballs or sweet faced half grown kittens in trees.

There are two means of refuge from the misery of life - music and cats.
Albert Schweitzer

Cabbage Salad

The circle of old fishermen outside the barber shop looked on while my brother, the youngest one, an eternal optimist and dreamer as it turned out, began laying out his smuggled fireworks. There being no 4th of July holiday in Canada, he had decided to improvise a celebration, yet being young and not always as clear headed as one might like, hadn't thought it all the way through. He had stolen a box of wooden kitchen matches and meant to put on a show in the square on a warm Saturday night when most of the village would be on hand - he had rockets and missiles and twizzlers, things that raced into the night sky and exploded in showers of brightly colored, hissing sparks. He lit screaming meemies that twitched and strutted on the dirt road while making an ear splitting whine before fizzling out. And it almost went off without a hitch. Boy's as dumb as dead grass, Sparrow commented dryly as the last rocket shot into the air and took an unexpected turn toward Miss Florrie's newly planted cabbage patch. She had been intending to water it for days but had been down and out with a summer cold for the past week and not gotten around to it. The rocket sputtered into the arid leaves and instantly caught fire - one stray spark with just enough life left in it landed on a single papery leaf. In a matter of seconds, the entire first row was in flames and threatening the whole yard beyond. Ayuh, Uncle Willie muttered, Best to call out the buckets. My brother burst into tears.

Being a tightly knit and mostly accustomed to solving their own problems community, the brigade was formed in short order and the fire contained. The first row of cabbage plants was a total loss, the second and third succumbed to water damage, but the fourth survived - a little singed and blackened around the edges but salvageable. Miss Florrie stood on her porch, heavy hearted and grim and trying not to show it. Accidents will happen, she finally said with a brave but shaky smile, And you ,young man, this with eyes sharply narrowed at my brother, are going to learn a thing or two about planting cabbages. Starting tomorrow. If I were you, I wouldn't be late.

My brother hung his head and sighed deeply, images of a carefree summer evaporated and were replaced by the promise of dusk to dawn gardening, but he was a good boy and knew when to cut his losses. Yes, ma'am, said dutifully and Miss Florrie relented, Come inside now, she told him, I have fresh corn muffins and new milk.

And so it was that my youngest brother and Miss Florrie became friends. They spent the next two weeks shoulder to shoulder in the cabbage patch, carefully and meticulously clearing the ruined ground, hoeing, and replanting. Each day at five, precisely when the factory whistle blew, they stretched their backs and put away their garden tools, pronounced it a good days work and shared muffins and milk on the veranda. My brother took his first steps toward growing up by learning a little about commitment, consequences, and accomplishment and between them they produced a remarkable and prolific crop of cabbage. It was, as my grandmother said, a particularly fine season for cole slaw, cabbage salad and gardeners of all ages.

Cows & Cheese & Hillbillies

Misery, Nana liked to quote, loves company.

We were on the road through Western Massachusetts and headed for New York. It was the height of foliage season and my grandmother was in a hurry - her only sister had been hospitalized with a heart attack and Nana was sure that without some assistance and care giving, the family would rapidly come apart at the seams. She had recruited my mother to make the trip with her and I was along for the ride but things weren't going smoothly and the two women were battling over gas prices, where to spend the night, how long they would have to stay, which exit to take, where to eat along the way. I curled up in the back seat of the Lincoln and tried to read and tune them out but soon enough - Nana had warned me about reading in a moving car, telling me it was sure to make me queasy - a wave of motion sickness struck and I settled for watching the leaves fly by and trying to sleep. I was regretting turning down her earlier offer of Dramamine but in the tradition of the women in my family was too stubborn to admit it.

Like the winding countryside road - my grandmother used the interstate highway system only when there was no other available route - the front seat argument waxed and waned, sharply speeding up on the long patches of clear and straight pavement, slowing and easing up on the bends and curves. They sniped about which radio station to listen to, how much to open a window, whether or not to check under the hood at the next gas stop. If there was nothing real to disagree upon, they seemed to invent something out of whole cloth.

We should've left earlier, my mother complained at one point, We'd practically be there by now.
If you'd been ready on time, my grandmother snapped back, we might very well just have.

I hate Vermont, my mother said as we passed a dairy herd peacefully grazing on the green hillside, Nothing but cows and cheese and hillbillies.
Judas Priest! Nana said, slamming her fist on the steering wheel, Can't you do anything except bitch?

My mother gave her a sullen look then turned her face away, a sulky child not getting her way. For her part, Nana stared straight ahead, her mouth in a tight, grim line. Aside from the static-y noise of the radio, there was cold silence for a considerable time. Obstinate to the end, neither woman would have dreamed of apologizing or admitting fault - blame assigned was blame to the bitter end.

In time, we passed into New York and reached the village of Fort Edward, a lower middle class community of primarily blue collar workers and look-a-like manufactured housing. Everything was sparse and painfully new looking, each little home sat on its own little lot but there were no trees or shrubs, no cracked sidewalks or flowered walkways. It was as if each neighborhood had been turned out as identically as the next and the sameness was sterile and almost depressing. Lunch was waiting - hamburgers and hot dogs from the obligatory backyard grill, potato salad and dill pickles served on paper plates to the gathered relatives sitting in lawn chairs and balancing tv trays on their laps. I was left with my cousins while my mother and grandmother drove to the hospital in Glens Falls. As I barely knew them, it was an awkward and uncomfortable few days and it was a relief when my grandmother returned to claim me. She had done her duty and satisfied her conscience - having arranged meals,
housekeeping, visiting nurses - and secure in the knowledge that her family was intact, was anxious to head home.

The drive home was long, tedious, filled with verbal sparring in between long silences. I wondered uselessly about the cause of the conflict between them - were they too alike or too opposite? Did they not know each other at all or know each other far too well? Was it just a bad match or unfulfilled expectations? The rage and resentments between them ran deep and no answers ever came. It was hard to tell who was the misery and who was the company.

Throwaways

November announces its arrival with dark skies and torrential rainfall. The small brown dog paws her way beneath the blankets and huddles against me for warmth, a gentle reminder that it's time to turn on the heating pad in her kennel and sort through her winter wardrobe of sweaters. She doesn't understand about the seasons and knows only that yesterday was sunny and warm and today is not. We did not celebrate her birthday this year as Halloween fell during the Great Tooth Debacle - I owe her a celebration.

I can't quite comprehend that she is seven now while the black dog is approaching thirteen. The time in between has passed like a quick rush of wind, hardly noticed but leaving its mark. A black muzzle has started to gray and there are now several false starts before she can make the jump to the bed. She has mellowed no more than a degree or two and slowed down even less - still the first at the door at the first noise, still loving the chase, still frantic and wild and hyper active - her spirit cannot be tamed. The little one has become a shade or two more timid but lost none of her sweetness or need to be loved. She still cowers at the slightest suggestion of a harsh word and can have her feelings hurt far too easily, running to me at the first sign of threat from the new kittens, an anxious eyed little creature incapable of raising the first paw in self defense. From first sight, how these little throwaways have taken my heart.

Perhaps it's my natural need to be needed or the part of all us that seeks love and acceptance, maybe it's being able to trust them with a secret or the comfort they bring or never having to justify myself - maybe it's just something in their small faces that pulls at my soul - but I sometimes wonder if I don't need them more than they need me.

A Room Full of Strangers

It was my brother's third arrest and a fierce battle was being waged over whether to bail him out again or allow him to spend the night in jail.

My mother was violently advocating for his release, alternately crying and cursing and breaking things while my daddy pondered whether or not there might be a lesson to a night in a cell. My grandmother sat in a corner chair, knitting placidly and making no comment. Vandalism! my mother screeched, No more than high spirits! My daddy frowned at her, Car theft is not just high spirits, Jan, he said sharply and she threw a half full beer can toward him with a renewed wail - it hit the wall behind him with a wet, metallic thud - I want him out tonight! she screamed. I was reminded of a scene from Alice In Wonderland, in the kitchen with the Cook and the Duchess and the Baby who turned into a pig. My mother turned to my grandmother and pleaded desperately - Nana ignored her, continuing to knit as if nothing at all was happening while my daddy paced the length of the living room, his pale, anxious face in an angry and rare scowl. Just be quiet for a minute, Jan, he snapped at her, Let me think. He turned to my grandmother and asked what she thought. Nana looked up at him, then at my sobbing mother, then returned to her knitting. I think, she said with a shrug of her shoulders, that he's where he belongs. This brought a fresh outburst from my mother and she collapsed into her chair with a high pitched whine of protest. Christ! my daddy exploded, out of patience and finally succumbing to a flash of temper, Enough dramatics! It's not helping!

I winced at this from a man who so rarely as much as raised his voice to make a point. He looked old and beaten, out of options and very angry. My hysterical mother, more than a little drunk and wild eyed with fury at being denied her way, continued to sob and beat her fists. Only my grandmother seemed to have any presence of mind, she methodically kept on knitting her way through this latest melodrama, content to let it play out on its own. I had no idea how she could remain so detached and untouched - I had seen her more emotional in a room full of strangers.

He's your grandson! my mother wailed.
He's a thug who got drunk from liquor he bought with a forged id, Nana replied mildly, Then stole a car and crashed it. And, she added, pausing to wrap up her needles and yarn and pack them into her carrying case, resisted arrest in the bargain. To my mind, it's time he learned something about accountability. I for one am washing my hands of this whole sorry mess and going home. Knitting in one hand and purse in the other, she slipped into her coat and boots, walked to the front door and opened it. Do what you want, she advised my slack jawed parents neutrally,
Good night. A rush of freezing air whisked in out of the dark night - it had begun to snow again I noticed - then the door closed and she was gone.

I left by the back door, not knowing or caring how things turned out, not bothering to say goodbye. I wasn't wanted or needed in this particular room full of strangers. I agreed with my grandmother and had nothing left to offer.

The Kindest Man I Know

Sitting in a hot tub in the middle of the night with a hot facecloth pressed as hard as I can stand on my mangled jaw. Waves of pain like white hot knives pulse from my tooth and and surrounding gum and I think I cannot bear one more single second of it. I could take all thirty of the controlled substance pain pills, hopefully drift off to sleep, slip beneath the water and hurt no more. During the fraction of a second when this seems like not just a good but a perfectly reasonable solution, a small black paw appears on the edge of the bathtub, followed by a small black body and an inquisitive meow. The black kitten's blue eyes, filled with curiosity, meet mine and through the haze of the last 36 hours of intolerable agony, I dimly remember that I am responsible for lives other than my own. Don't cry! a barely recognizable inner voice screams at me, It will only make it worse! Some part of me knows this is true but I cry anyway - pain, exhaustion, lack of sleep and depression have taken their toll. The kitten meows again, this time a little louder, a little more insistently. Lives other than your own, he seems to be reminding me, and I reluctantly crawl out of the hot water and stagger to the kitchen where five cats and two dogs are gathered, concerned and impatient to be fed.

It wasn't, I tell myself a couple of days later after nearly four hours of root canal, a genuine suicidal thought, just a passing impulse born of pain that for the merest blink of an eye seemed rational and a little tempting. But as I explained it to the dentist and watched his eyes - noting a sudden and quite serious reaction - I realized that it might have sounded like a warning or worse, a cry for help. It got me to thinking about chronic pain and the people who bear it, by choice or not, and how they survive it with minds intact and bodies still drawing breath. Free of responsibilities, I'm not sure it's something I would choose for myself.

In dental school, this angel of a man in a mask with the kindest eyes I have ever known tells me, They taught us to pay attention when a patient mentions suicide, even if it's just in passing.

Pain can make you a little nuts, I say through a welcome haze of nitrous and local anesthesia, It was just one moment. It wasn't real.

He says nothing to this, just watches and lets me drift away while the nitrous goes to work and the pain blessedly stops, but I can feel his hand on my shoulder as well as his gentleness and caring. He is the kindest man I know.