Our first house in Willamina was on the outskirts of town at the top of a long sloping hill. It was a small white box, with a smaller white box behind it. The garage was almost too short for the station wagon. The house had a small living room, a small kitchen, one small bathroom and one small bedroom. It had a back porch which doubled as a laundry room. The washing machine was one of the old fashioned kind that had a roller on it. It was just like Grandmother’s in Texas. The water emptied into a big, double sink. I slept across that room, next to an inside wall for warmth.
One of Daddy’s high school students gave me her old bicycle. I loved it even more then my bike in Salt Lake. This one was a real grown-up girls bicycle with a basket on the front and a long flat panel on the back to carry a passenger. It had a bell, too. Even with the seat as low as it would go, I could barely reach the peddles when I sat. It became my private measure for how much I was growing.
My mom, Maggy, got really hard to be around. If I came straight home after school, she would hound me about cleaning my room, picking up the clothes off the floor of the curtained-off corner that was my closet. She’d say things like, “You're seven years old. You're not a baby anymore. It’s about time you started to take some responsibility around here. I’m not your slave, do you understand me! You’re going to learn to clean up after yourself and start doing chores, like everybody else. Where’s your homework?”
“I did it at school, in the library. Why are you so mad at me?”
“I’m not just mad at you. I hate this place. Now help me clean up. Start in your room.”
“Why did we come here if you hate it?”
“Because it was the least of three evils.”
“What you mean.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just stay out of my way and keep your room clean. I want you to clean the tub after you bathe. You could help a little more with the dishes, too. Now do what I ask, and leave me alone.” She turned her back and walked out of the kitchen into the living room where she had her sewing machine set up on a card table. She was making curtains. I stood there, very quiet, and then I went into my room and started with the closet. I picked up the piles of clothes on the floor and laid them on my bed. Then I started playing dress-up. After I tried on an outfit I hung it up or folded it, and put it in the boxes that were my chest of drawers. If something smelled really bad, I dumped it in my dirty laundry basket. Then I quietly tiptoed out the back door and got on my bicycle. I rolled out the driveway and instead of circling the house around the picket fence that surrounded the front yard, and heading down the paved road to town, I took the dirt road at the back of the house, coasting over the pot-holed, rocky surface, cruising the neighborhood, heading for the woods that bordered the north end of town, only a few blocks from our house.
I found trails among the trees, ferns as tall as a person bordered the trails. I found delicate, orchid like flowers, fallen trees with trunks covered in a rug-like green moss. Within the cover of that forest, even in heavy rain I could remain remarkably dry. The trees were like gently dripping umbrellas. I found a huge variety of mushrooms and toadstools, and saw squirrels and chipmunks, does with faintly spotted fawns. I saw a skunk and he saw me. We stared at each other for a moment, then he turned and walked away, stopping once to look back at me. Then he hurried on. I went home when it started to get dark.
The smell of dinner hit me before I even opened the back door. And I could hear my mother’s voice raised. I paused with my hand on the doorknob. Maggy was raving about mildew. About mildew and money. That seemed safe enough for me to open the door. As I entered the kitchen, glancing quickly at the table to see if it needed setting, I heard her say, "...so I got a job. I start work Monday. I’ll work in the front office at the Electric Company. Judy’s going to have to help out here. And I’d appreciate it if you backed me up on that. Could you try to get home a little earlier?” Then she noticed me getting silverware out of the drawer. “Where the hell did you go?”
“I just went for a bike ride.”
“Did you hear what we were talking about?”
“I heard you say you got a job.”
“Well, that’s going to mean more work for you. I’m counting on you to help me out here, okay?”
“Okay.” I went about my business of setting the table. We had chicken with dumplings and salad. It was great, one of my favorite things. A filling, comforting food. And there were leftovers to eat after school tomorrow. And nobody would be home, so I could do what I wanted and wouldn’t get yelled at. I sang as I washed the dishes. “We are poor little lambs who have gone astray, baa, baa, baa. We are little lost sheep who have lost our way, baa, baa, baa. Gentleman songsters off on a spree, doomed from here to eternity. God have mercy on such as we. Baa....baa...baa.”
When I took my bath I scrubbed out the ring in the tub with my washcloth and bar soap. I hung up my towel. I put on my pajamas, carried my dirty clothes into my bedroom and threw then on the closet floor. Maggy was sewing, and Daddy was grading tests. I said goodnight and went to bed. I was delighted that Maggy would be going to work.
When Daddy came in the next night to read with me, he said, “It’‘s cold out here. We need to get you a heater. Sit up and let me scoot in there. We can keep each other warm while we read. Did you ever hear of the Donner Party?”
“No. What kind of a party did they have?”
“They were explorers, pioneers, and they got caught in a snowstorm, crossing Donner’s Pass. That’s a high mountain pass. They ran out of food, and they were so cold. Almost as cold as I am right now.” He stuck his bare feet on the side of my calves. They were like ice. I giggled and tried to scoot away.
“If I’m going to finish this story, you’re going to have to keep me warm. Come here.” He wrapped me in his arms, and pulled me close to his body. Snuggling me in close, my head nestled in his armpit. “They call it the Donner Party, because it was a group of people who all died in a horrible winter storm on Donner's Pass. Nobody was prepared for how much snow there was or how cold it got. When the horses died, they ate the horses. That kept them alive for awhile, but now and then someone died in the night, even though they all slept together, like this. Do you know the best way to stay warm?”
“To wear lots and lots of clothes and keep your hat on!”
“That’s best in the day time, but at night, even with clothes on, your body temperature drops. So the best thing to do is share body warmth with someone else. Let me show you what I mean.” I had my back to his stomach, and he scrunched back from me and pulled his sweatshirt up, and pulled his pants down. Then he moved his bare stomach and chest and legs close to me, and it was like backing close to the gas heater in the living room. Then he pulled my nighty up and it was skin to skin. My butt was cold until it snuggled into his lap, which was hotter than the rest of him. It was like the hottest part of the fire. “See what I mean? That’s how the Donner Party stayed alive as long as they did.”
“Did they all die?”
“I’ll finish that story next time, but you need to practice your reading, so read to me kiddo.”
I leaned forward, breaking contact, to reach my reader. Daddy pulled me back, and with his hand he opened my legs, slipping his penis between them, resting it snug against my peepee. It was warmer than anything. Then he said, “Now I’m comfortable and warm, how about you?” I nodded my head. “Well, are you going to read to me?”
I turned pages to the slow, rhythmic rocking of Daddy’s naked body behind me, between my legs. His breath was warm and wet on the top of my head. I turned another page and held my breath, listening. He whispered, “Does that feel good? Are you warm enough?” I nodded my head. He used the hand that had slipped his penis between my legs to reach across and touch himself. Then he put his fingers on my peepee and they were slippery. They slid into the lips of my peepee, so his penis was rubbing against me closer and slippery. He whispered, “Give me your hand.” I took my hand and put it in his, and he moved them both to the hot slippery place between my legs. He put my palm over the wet round top of his penis, with his hand on top on mine, he pressed our hands around it, and our hands moved together, touching my slick peepee then pulling back to move through the crack of my bum, then forward again, so slow and warm and slippery. The inside of my thighs were slippery, too. He made a soft huffing sound and our hands filled with hot wet slimy stuff. He held my hand there, full of that stuff, while he whispered into the top of my head, “God, oh God, you are the sweetest...oh...ah, God...”Then he used the hem of my nighty to clean up our hands. It was the beginning of a new tradition.
Another tradition was shooting rats at the city dump. The only picture of me holding that gun and aiming it, is from that day when I was about to turn ten. The gun I'm holding in the picture is my mother's Luger pistol, a spoil of war my biological father brought back from his adventures in World War II. I am a thin, long legged girl with shoulder length hair. The picture was taken at the city dump in Willamina, Oregon, in the summer. My Daddy and I are out of school and shooting rats at the dump. He leans against our ugly green station wagon, a cigarette dangles from his lips and when he isn't aiming a camera at me, he is holding a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette. I'm a good shot by then, but I don't remember when I held this gun for the first time. It has a fierce little kick that I have learned to control. I am standing there facing my Daddy with the gun held in my right hand, arm extended, head turned to the right, shot by the camera in profile, squinting slightly as I aim. My left arm hangs so nonchalantly at my side. I have very good posture. I'm wearing shorts, a camp shirt, and have espadrilles on my feet. It was so easy to swing that gun in a quarter arc and shoot my Daddy dead. I remember the thought drift through my brain like the wisp of a dream. And then as if it were just a dream, I do it. I don't even think about it. It just happens. That quarter swing of my arm, and I pull the trigger. My aim is wrong. The top of his head flies off and splatters the windshield of that ugly green station wagon. He doesn't make a sound. He is slumping down, sliding off the hood of the station wagon, missing the top of his head. Then there is the sound of the beer bottle hitting the dirt. It's a soft little sound, as the beer bubbles up and spills into the dirt. Now it's so peaceful at the dump.
I'm curious and walk slowly toward the station wagon with the gun dangling from my left hand. The cigarettes are in the breast pocket of his short sleeved shirt. Blood and bits of other stuff are soaking the shoulders of his shirt and I want to get the cigarettes out of his pocket before they're ruined. I drop the gun in his lap, and then I reach into his pocket and grab the pack of cigarettes and his zippo lighter. He's never let me play with the lighter. He always lights my cigarette for me. It takes me two tries to get the flame to pop up. It's so easy. I wonder why he made such a big deal about the zippo being dangerous. I sit in the dirt, and lean back against the back tire in the shade. It's so quiet.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
No News Is Good News
I've heard nothing from Z. I didn't expect to. I doubt if I will unless it's bad news, so if I don't hear from her I assume she's doing fine. I'm sure she's happy to be with her sons and daughter-in-law and granddaughters. I started missing her months ago, so this is nothing new. But I wonder if I'll always miss her. It didn't feel like this when we were young and off living our lives in different parts of the world. Then I always knew that we would meet up and catch up and our friendship would go on forever. Forever comes to an end eventually. I bump up against that reality almost every day now. It's the reminder that my days are numbered and I better get about finishing the things I started and trying to make the most of time left to me.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A Few More Famous People With Bipolar Disorder
- Tolstoy
- Virginia Woolf
- Hemingway
- Robert Lowell
- Anne Sexton
- Abraham Lincoln
- Winston Churchill
- Theodore Roosevelt
- Goethe
- Balzac
- Handel
- Schumann
- Berlioz
Famous People With Bipolar Disorder
- Rigoberto Alpizar, shooting victim.[1]
- Sophie Anderton, model[2]
- Adam Ant, musician[3]
[edit] B
- Andy Behrman, author of the book Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania[4][5]
- Max Bemis, frontman of the band Say Anything, spoke about his diagnosis in an interview with Spin magazine in 2006.[6]
- Maurice Benard, actor. He has discussed his diagnosis with Oprah Winfrey, and has since become active in promoting bipolar awareness.[7]
- Ludwig Boltzmann, physicist and mathematician. He "suffered from an alternation of depressed moods with elevated, expansive or irritable moods." John J. O'Connor and Edmund F. Robertson.[8]
- Adrian Borland, British musician[9]
- Russell Brand, comedian and actor. "In a low-key admission at the end of the book, he says he was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder – manic depression – after he kicked the drugs for good in 2002 which goes some way to explaining his almost superhuman indifference to the chaos and catastrophe that almost lead him to obscurity."[10]
- Andrea Breth, German stage-director [11]
- Jeremy Brett, actor[12]
- Frank Bruno, boxer; was hospitalized for a short period and is currently on lithium.[13][14][15]
- Barney Bubbles, graphic designer [16][17]
[edit] C
- Robert Calvert, former Hawkwind frontman [16][18]
- Alastair Campbell, press advisor [19][20]
- Georg Cantor, mathematician. Cantor's recurring bouts of depression from 1884 to the end of his life were once blamed on the hostile attitude of many of his contemporaries,[21] but these bouts can now be seen as probable manifestations of bipolar disorder.[22]
- Dick Cavett, television journalist. "CAVETT: Both in hypomanic, which I have had, and incidentally, one has to admit many patients say I am cured now, I am fine. But I must say I miss those hypomanic states. They are better off where they are."[23]
- Iris Chang, historian and journalist for the San Francisco Chronicle[24]
- Kurt Cobain, musician. His cousin, Beverly Cobain, a "registered nurse (…) [with] experience as a mental health professional" and author of a book, When Nothing Matters Anymore: A Survival Guide for Depressed Teens ISBN 1-57542-036-8, stated in an interview: "Kurt was diagnosed at a young age with Attention Deficit Disorder [ADD], then later with bipolar disorder; (…) As Kurt undoubtedly knew, bipolar illness can be very difficult to manage, and the correct diagnosis is crucial. Unfortunately for Kurt, compliance with the appropriate treatment is also a critical factor."[25]
- Patricia Cornwell, American crime writer.[26]
- Robert S. Corrington, theologist. In his book Riding the Windhorse: Manic-Depressive Disorder and the Quest for Wholeness ISBN 9780761826194 (Hamilton Books, New York, 2003) he gives a personal account of his own struggles with the condition.
- Michael Costa, former Australian Labor party politician and Treasurer of NSW. "Mr Costa said a number of state parliamentary colleagues approached him about their mental health problems after he publicly revealed his battle with bipolar disorder in 2001."[27]
[edit] D
- Ray Davies, musician: is openly bipolar; also see his autobiography, X-Ray
- Richard Dreyfuss, actor, BBC Documentary[28]
- Mike Doughty, musician. First described himself diagnosed as bipolar in 2007 on his blog.[29]
- Patty Duke, actress.[30]
- Devin Townsend, musician.[31]
[edit] E
[edit] F
- Carrie Fisher, actress and writer. "'I ended up being diagnosed as a bipolar II,' says Fisher."[28][32]
- Stephen Fry, actor, comedian and writer. "As a sufferer of the disorder, Stephen Fry is speaking to other sufferers to find out about their experiences and visiting leading experts in the UK and US to examine the current state of understanding and research." Stephen has recorded a documentary about the life of the manic depressive which aired on the BBC.[28]
[edit] G
- Alan Garner, novelist. According to the Guardian, "In The Voice that Thunders (Harvill), a collection of critical and autobiographical essays, Garner casts light on his writing and thinking, and the role that manic depression plays in his creativity".[33][34]
- Paul Gascoigne, English footballer. "His second book, released this year, centres on his therapy - for alcoholism, eating disorders, OCD, and bipolar disorder, among others."[35]
- Mel Gibson, actor and director.[36]
- Matthew Good, Canadian musician. He first disclosed his illness in a personal blog. It was during the writing and recording of Hospital Music that he suffered one of his worst episodes.[37]
- Philip Graham, publisher and businessman. "It had finally penetrated to me that Phil's diagnosis was manic-depression…" Katherine Graham (1997), Personal History, p. 328; Knopf, 1997, ISBN 0-394-58585-2 (book has numerous other references).
- Macy Gray, musician and actor. As documented in an interview with Saul Williams[38]
- Graham Greene, English novelist.[39] Extract from Graham Greene: A Life in Letters]: "Greene was managing the impulses of bipolar illness, involving mood swings from elation, expansiveness or irritability to despair and would quickly be guilty of repeated infidelities."
- Ivor Gurney, English composer and poet.[40]
[edit] H
- Terry Hall, lead singer of The Specials [41]
- Linda Hamilton, actress. Star of the Terminator movies. Was diagnosed at the age of 40[42]
- Mariette Hartley, American actress, has publicly spoken about her bipolar disorder.[43]
- Jonathan Hay, Australian rules footballer[44]
- Kristin Hersh, musician, formerly of rock band Throwing Muses, is occasionally mentioned as having bipolar disorder, one example being a Muses biography.[45] She has also mentioned the disorder in several interviews.
- Abbie Hoffman, political activist: "Abbie was diagnosed in 1980 as having bipolar disorder, more commonly known as manic depression." [46]
- Marya Hornbacher, writer. Hornbacher wrote Madness, a memoir of her struggle with bipolar disorder, after writing Wasted, which detailed her eating disorder.
[edit] I
- Jack Irons, drummer, formerly of Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam.[47]
[edit] J
- Kay Redfield Jamison, clinical psychologist and Professor of Psychiatry at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, who profiled her own bipolar disorder in her 1995 memoir An Unquiet Mind and argued for a connection between bipolar disorder and artistic creativity in her 1993 book, Touched with Fire.
- Daniel Johnston, musician: "Johnston's output in his late teens and early 20s proved to be a symptom of his worsening manic depression." The Guardian Unlimited, Saturday August 20, 2005: "Personal demons", review of film, The Devil and Daniel Johnston:[48]
- Andrew Johns, Professional Rugby League Player. — has gone public about his condition.[49]
[edit] K
- Kerry Katona, English television presenter, writer, magazine columnist and former pop singer with girl band Atomic Kitten. BBC[50]
- Rep. Patrick J. Kennedy has been open about mental health issues, including being diagnosed with bipolar disorder.[51]
- Otto Klemperer, conductor[52]
- Margot Kidder, actress — self-described:[53] "I have been well and free of the symptoms that are called manic-depression for almost five years, and have been working steadily and leading a happy and productive life since then."
- Patrick Kroupa, writer and hacker, has been very open about his drug use and mental health issues, after his last heroin detox in 1999. He mentions bipolar disorder openly in several interviews.[54][55][56]
[edit] L
- Vivien Leigh, actress, cited in Holden, Anthony, Laurence Olivier, Sphere Books Limited, 1989, ISBN 0689115369 ; pp 221–222
- Neil Lennon Footballer with Celtic FC open about his battles with depression[57]
- Jenifer Lewis, American actress, spoke about her diagnosis on Oprah in September 2007.[58]
- Bill Lichtenstein, print and broadcast journalist and documentary filmmaker, profiled in Time magazine, October 10, 1994.[59]
[edit] M
- Melissa Miles McCarter, author. Insanity: A Love Story (2009) discusses the experience in the hospital before being diagnosed with bipolar disorder.[60]
- Kristy McNichol, actress. The former child star and teen idol left the show Empty Nest due to her battle with the depression. McNichol later returned to the show for a few episodes during the series' last season.[61][62][63][64][65]
- Kate Millett, author, The Loony-Bin Trip (1990) discusses her diagnosis of bipolar disorder, describing experiences with hospitalization and her decision to discontinue lithium therapy.
- Ben Moody, musician. The former guitarist from Evanescence.[66]
- John A. Mulheren, American financier, stock and option trader and philanthropist.[67]
- Edvard Munch, artist. Rothenberg A. Bipolar illness, creativity, and treatment. Psychiatr Q. 2001 Summer;72(2):131–47.
[edit] N
- Florence Nightingale, nurse and health campaigner. BPW "Florence heard voices and experienced a number of severe depressive episodes in her teens and early 20s - symptoms consistent with the onset of bipolar disorder", Dr. Kathy Wisner, a professor of psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center.[68]
[edit] O
- Sinéad O'Connor, musician. She discussed her diagnosis with Oprah Winfrey in October 2007.[69]
- Graeme Obree, Scottish racing cyclist. World hour record 1993. Individual pursuit world champion in 1993 and 1995. Cited in 2003 autobiography, Flying Scotsman: Cycling to Triumph Through My Darkest Hours and 2006 film.
- Phil Ochs, musician [70]
- Ozzy Osbourne, singer. Lead singer of Black Sabbath and his self-titled band. Cited in VH1's "Heavy: The History of Metal" in 2006.
- Cheri Oteri, actress. Saturday Night Live Cast Member. Cited in Shales T.& Miller A. (2002) Live From New York, A Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live.
- Craig Owens, singer for American band Chiodos.[71]
[edit] P
- Nicola Pagett, actor. Wrote about her bipolar disorder in her autobiography Diamonds Behind My Eyes ISBN 0575602678
- Jaco Pastorius, jazz musician. "Jaco was diagnosed with this clinical bipolar condition in the fall of 1982. The events which led up to it were considered "uncontrolled and reckless" incidences."[72]
- Jane Pauley, TV presenter and journalist. The former Today and Dateline host describes being diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her autobiography "Skywriting: A Life Out of the Blue", which she wrote in 2004, as well as on her short-lived talk show.[73][74][75][76][77][78]
- Edgar Allan Poe, poet and writer.[79][80][81]
- Gail Porter, British TV presenter [82]
- Emil Post, mathematician. [83]
- Charley Pride, country music artist. (autobiography) Pride: The Charley Pride Story. Publisher: Quill (May 1995). "Pride discusses business ventures that succeeded and those that failed, as well as his bouts with manic depression. He tells his story with no bitterness but lots of homespun advice and humor."
[edit] R
- Rene Rivkin, entrepreneur.[84]
- Barret Robbins, former NFL Pro Bowler.[85]
- Axl Rose, lead singer and frontman best known for Guns N' Roses[86] "I went to a clinic, thinking it would help my moods. The only thing I did was take one 500-question test - ya know, filling in the little black dots. All of sudden I'm diagnosed manic-depressive."
- Richard Rossi, filmmaker, musician, and maverick minister, revealed for the first time in a live interview on the Lynn Cullen show on June 5, 2008 the link between his artistic productivity and his depression to bipolar disorder, stating that "my father was bi-polar one, and I'm bi-polar two." He spoke of the relationship between creativity and the illness.
[edit] S
- Nina Simone, American singer. Interview with her daughter Simone, The Sunday Times June 24, 2007[87]
- Michael Slater, International Australian cricketer, forced to retire because of related symptoms.[88][89]
- Tony Slattery, actor and comedian.[28] "I rented a huge warehouse by the river Thames. I just stayed in there on my own, didn't open the mail or answer the phone for months and months and months. I was just in a pool of despair and mania." BBC Documentary[28]
- Sidney Sheldon, producer, writer; wrote about being a victim of bipolar disorder in his autobiography The Other Side of Me.
- Tim Smith, rugby league player whose career with NRL side Parramatta Eels was ended due to his bipolar condition, and pressure from the media.[90]
- Peter Steele, frontman of metalband Type o Negative [91][92]
- Stuart Sutherland, British psychologist and writer[93]
[edit] T
- Steven Thomas, American entrepreneur.[94][95]
- Gene Tierney, Academy Award nominated actress, Best Actress (1945)[96]
- Devin Townsend, musician, Strapping Young Lad, The Devin Townsend Band. He took himself off of his medication to write lyrics for Strapping Young Lad's album Alien.[97]
- Nick Traina, singer.[98], "in the last year of his life, he began telling people he was manic-depressive."
- Timothy Treadwell, American environmentalist and bear enthusiast, featured in the 2005 documentary film by Werner Herzog titled Grizzly Man.[99][100]
- Margaret Trudeau, Canadian celebrity and ex-wife of former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau (deceased). She now travels Canada and other countries speaking out against the stigmas on mental illness[101]
[edit] V
- Jean-Claude Van Damme, actor[102]
- Kurt Vonnegut, author[103]
[edit] W
- Scott Weiland, musician. (Stone Temple Pilots, Velvet Revolver)[104]
- Mark Whitacre, business executive described in the true story movie, The Informant[105]
- Brian Wilson, musician.[106]
Friday, October 23, 2009
Everything Changes
Yesterday I went to see Z. I think it might be the last time I ever get to see her. She is otherworldly now and I can't even say goodbye. She told me she was leaving Utah to visit her two oldest boys, her granddaughters. She says she'll be back in a couple of months. I doubt I'll ever lay eyes on her again, but since she can't admit that this is it, we can't really say goodbye. She seems so deeply delusional about her cancer and it's metastasis, the time so short, and she has ended treatment. She would not agree with me that she's ended treatment, since she's started treatment with hash oil, but it seems like palliative care to me. It seems like her version of hospice without ever admitting to herself or me or her children that she is close to death now.
Months ago she said she only wanted "positive energy" around her. She didn't want to hear anyone say, "You're too sick to be out of bed, too sick to scrub the fridge, you should be waited on, taken care of." And yet, she was too sick to do much of anything. Everything was such a life-sucking effort. Her youngest son and his family moved in to her house to take care of her. But I don't think she really let them take care of her. I went to see her one day and she was scrubbing the fridge, furious that it was so dirty, such a mess, so obviously needing to be done, yet she had not asked the kids to clean it.
Another day, a couple of months ago, she wanted fresh pita, hummus, yogurt, and halva from a Middle Eastern market just a few blocks from her house. Her daughter-in-law was now living with her and not working. But it was me she asked to bring her what she craved. I'm not sure she ever gave them the chance to help her, to care for her. The few things I did for her were so insignificant, and yet they always made me furious with the kids. To me it seemed as if they were living with her and not caring for her, not making sure she had whatever she needed or wanted. I have been mad at them, mad at her, mad at the world.
Ms M works at the University Hospital. She brought Z's medical records day before yesterday so I could take them to Z yesterday. It was so sweet of her to take her lunch time to go up to Huntsman and pick up all the records Z wanted to take with her to California, just in case she changes her mind about further treatment. Ms M has lived in my big house for five years this October. She has the run of the place. And I don't recall ever getting really angry with her until yesterday.
The night before last when she brought Z's records out to my place she had a glass of wine and spent some time visiting with me. When she got ready to go home she discovered that her roommate had locked the back door. Ms M borrowed my keys to let herself in and I said to her, "Don't forget to bring the keys back this time, I have a doctor appointment tomorrow and then I need to go see Z." She forgot. So when I got ready to go to the doctor there were a few moments of panic until I found the spare key to my car. I left my house unlocked. It wasn't such a big catastrophe, but it pissed me off. It was the second time she'd borrowed my keys to let herself in her house and forgotten to bring them back. Ordinarily I don't go anyplace so it wouldn't be a big deal. But yesterday, when I got back from the doctor appointment and grocery store, rushing to carry the bags in, unload them and hurry to Z's to see her for the last time, Ms M was sitting at the picnic table smoking. She was taking a break from leaf blowing. As I passed her I said, "You didn't bring my keys back to me. Not cool!" She said, "Sorry, I forgot. I'll get them now." I was loaded down and kept walking back to my place. I put groceries away, hurrying to get my chores done to go see my old friend for the last time. Ms M did not bring the keys out to me. I had to go pick them up from the picnic table where she was still sitting. Again I said. "Not Cool!" She said, "I was going to bring them to you." I said nothing. I grabbed the keys and left. We have not talked since. She is the last person in the world I would want to alienate. But in all the years we've known each other I have only been angry with her a couple of times. This was one of them.
When you're old and your best friend is dying, you are forced to face your own mortality. And in an instant, everything changes when you realize how very alone you really are.
Months ago she said she only wanted "positive energy" around her. She didn't want to hear anyone say, "You're too sick to be out of bed, too sick to scrub the fridge, you should be waited on, taken care of." And yet, she was too sick to do much of anything. Everything was such a life-sucking effort. Her youngest son and his family moved in to her house to take care of her. But I don't think she really let them take care of her. I went to see her one day and she was scrubbing the fridge, furious that it was so dirty, such a mess, so obviously needing to be done, yet she had not asked the kids to clean it.
Another day, a couple of months ago, she wanted fresh pita, hummus, yogurt, and halva from a Middle Eastern market just a few blocks from her house. Her daughter-in-law was now living with her and not working. But it was me she asked to bring her what she craved. I'm not sure she ever gave them the chance to help her, to care for her. The few things I did for her were so insignificant, and yet they always made me furious with the kids. To me it seemed as if they were living with her and not caring for her, not making sure she had whatever she needed or wanted. I have been mad at them, mad at her, mad at the world.
Ms M works at the University Hospital. She brought Z's medical records day before yesterday so I could take them to Z yesterday. It was so sweet of her to take her lunch time to go up to Huntsman and pick up all the records Z wanted to take with her to California, just in case she changes her mind about further treatment. Ms M has lived in my big house for five years this October. She has the run of the place. And I don't recall ever getting really angry with her until yesterday.
The night before last when she brought Z's records out to my place she had a glass of wine and spent some time visiting with me. When she got ready to go home she discovered that her roommate had locked the back door. Ms M borrowed my keys to let herself in and I said to her, "Don't forget to bring the keys back this time, I have a doctor appointment tomorrow and then I need to go see Z." She forgot. So when I got ready to go to the doctor there were a few moments of panic until I found the spare key to my car. I left my house unlocked. It wasn't such a big catastrophe, but it pissed me off. It was the second time she'd borrowed my keys to let herself in her house and forgotten to bring them back. Ordinarily I don't go anyplace so it wouldn't be a big deal. But yesterday, when I got back from the doctor appointment and grocery store, rushing to carry the bags in, unload them and hurry to Z's to see her for the last time, Ms M was sitting at the picnic table smoking. She was taking a break from leaf blowing. As I passed her I said, "You didn't bring my keys back to me. Not cool!" She said, "Sorry, I forgot. I'll get them now." I was loaded down and kept walking back to my place. I put groceries away, hurrying to get my chores done to go see my old friend for the last time. Ms M did not bring the keys out to me. I had to go pick them up from the picnic table where she was still sitting. Again I said. "Not Cool!" She said, "I was going to bring them to you." I said nothing. I grabbed the keys and left. We have not talked since. She is the last person in the world I would want to alienate. But in all the years we've known each other I have only been angry with her a couple of times. This was one of them.
When you're old and your best friend is dying, you are forced to face your own mortality. And in an instant, everything changes when you realize how very alone you really are.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Riding the Bipolar Roller Coaster part II
It's been a long time, in bipolar terms, since I experienced a real depressive episode. But I remember all too well that depression sometimes presents as organic illness. I start to feel sick. Feeling sick is not my normal state. This feeling sick sends me to my internist. And in the early phase I might have some mild and transient bug that can either be treated or waited out. But I don't bounce back. Feeling ill lingers. Not sick enough to simply stay in bed, but not well enough to want to do much of anything. It's a headache that's hard to get rid of, or a bowel disturbance, or low grade fever, or a slow, creeping stupidity that scares me more than anything. It's the transitions from one pole to the other that are the most dangerous. It's when we, the bipolar, realize depression is bearing down on us and we still have the energy to do something about it, that we know we can't stand it again. That's when we think about suicide. If I were suicidal, I would not be talking about it, so relax. I'm not suicidal at the moment. But I have been there many times. It's why I don't fear death by cancer or heart disease or a fatal car accident.
In Salt Lake, under the umbrella of Medicare, we have Valley Mental Health. And within Valley Mental Health is a group called The Master's Program. You have to be bipolar and over fifty to qualify. I think calling a program for the old bipolar patients "The Masters Program" is both funny and apt. If you've lived past fifty and you are bipolar, you're damn special. You have survived a very difficult life. And I'm always amazed how many of us there are. We are often treated for substance abuse(self medicating) which might result in a bit of trouble with the law, especially for men. Men are more likely to be incarcerated than women, since men are more likely to be violent against others, whereas women are more likely to be self destructive.
We can be extremely charming, and we can be horrid. I would not choose a bipolar friend to hang around with. In my opinion many of us are more trouble than we're worth. In transition we can be seething with barely suppressed rage. In a manic phase we can seem as if we're taking large doses of amphetamines--motor-mouthed and loud. I sure wouldn't choose to spend my time with anyone like me. But for the person experiencing a bit of mania it's damn fun. We all live for the hypomanic phase of the illness. But, like the way down, the way up is also dangerous.
I have over the course of my life dealing with this monster illness found that not that many of the drugs to control my illness are tolerable to me. They all have some side effects, most commonly weight gain, which makes it hard for a lot of women to stay with on them. And some side effects are worse than others. One drug gives you tremors and one drug makes you fat, one drug makes you stupid and one drug steals your dreams. Go ask Alice. I'm guessing she was bipolar.
There are bipolar drugs I am frankly afraid of. I know that if the constellation of side effects is both weight gain and an inability to create I will not take the drug. I can tollerate the weight gain but not the inability to write. And like all medications not all people react the same way to the same drug. The drugs I hate the most are those used to treat mania. In the first place mania is fun and you have enough energy to clean your house, do the laundry, carry on loud long conversations while you bake a cake and paint the ceiling red. Most of the really hard outdoor work done on this piece of property, was done by me working round the clock making stone pathways and patios in the middle of the night with outside lights on.
The dangers of mania are an expansiveness that makes casual sex easy and fun, it makes shopping sprees with a new credit card seem like the best of ideas. It makes an already mercurial personality, capable of inflicting whiplash injury to loved ones with the harsh word and the hot temper more intensely painful to those close to you. Tears flow easily. You feel everything more intensely, like you were on a great high. But the drugs to bring you back to earth are harsh. The are deadening. I've had a major psychosis which is the real danger of uncontrolled mania. It takes at least a two week hospitalization in a psych ward to get that under control. And the drugs to stop the hallucinations left me feeling lobotomized. I remembered nothing much, not even my way home. I lost my way within a few blocks of my house. And I had tremors that were so bad I had trouble drinking coffee. To my friends, my affect was pretty flat. But I've lived to tell you about the dangers of the journey.
If you have one family member with bipolar disorder, chances are there have been many others in your genetic pool. I was doubly cursed in that both my mother and father were bipolar. This is an illness with two genetic markers, not the usual one. So it's a mighty potent gene.
My father was diagnosed with schizophrenia in the late 1940s. I'm told by my psychiatrist that most bipolar patients were diagnosed schizophrenic in those days. He was hospitalized twice that I know of. I knew him as a rage-aholic. He was mean and abusive to me and my mother. Maggy, my mother, was the more manic type of bipolar personality. She always saw my depression and tendency to isolate as being lazy and too sensitive. She would never admit that there was anything wrong with her. She was critical and disapproving of almost everyone else but especially me. She was known to her siblings as the mean one in her family, bordering on sadistic. She was the classic narcissist. She was perfect and everybody else was fucked. Life in my home was hell for me. And I was given the advise by three separate therapists to vanish and never contact her again, to move and leave no forwarding address. But she was my first unrequited love. I never was good enough for her but I kept trying like a woman in an abusive marriage.
In Salt Lake, under the umbrella of Medicare, we have Valley Mental Health. And within Valley Mental Health is a group called The Master's Program. You have to be bipolar and over fifty to qualify. I think calling a program for the old bipolar patients "The Masters Program" is both funny and apt. If you've lived past fifty and you are bipolar, you're damn special. You have survived a very difficult life. And I'm always amazed how many of us there are. We are often treated for substance abuse(self medicating) which might result in a bit of trouble with the law, especially for men. Men are more likely to be incarcerated than women, since men are more likely to be violent against others, whereas women are more likely to be self destructive.
We can be extremely charming, and we can be horrid. I would not choose a bipolar friend to hang around with. In my opinion many of us are more trouble than we're worth. In transition we can be seething with barely suppressed rage. In a manic phase we can seem as if we're taking large doses of amphetamines--motor-mouthed and loud. I sure wouldn't choose to spend my time with anyone like me. But for the person experiencing a bit of mania it's damn fun. We all live for the hypomanic phase of the illness. But, like the way down, the way up is also dangerous.
I have over the course of my life dealing with this monster illness found that not that many of the drugs to control my illness are tolerable to me. They all have some side effects, most commonly weight gain, which makes it hard for a lot of women to stay with on them. And some side effects are worse than others. One drug gives you tremors and one drug makes you fat, one drug makes you stupid and one drug steals your dreams. Go ask Alice. I'm guessing she was bipolar.
There are bipolar drugs I am frankly afraid of. I know that if the constellation of side effects is both weight gain and an inability to create I will not take the drug. I can tollerate the weight gain but not the inability to write. And like all medications not all people react the same way to the same drug. The drugs I hate the most are those used to treat mania. In the first place mania is fun and you have enough energy to clean your house, do the laundry, carry on loud long conversations while you bake a cake and paint the ceiling red. Most of the really hard outdoor work done on this piece of property, was done by me working round the clock making stone pathways and patios in the middle of the night with outside lights on.
The dangers of mania are an expansiveness that makes casual sex easy and fun, it makes shopping sprees with a new credit card seem like the best of ideas. It makes an already mercurial personality, capable of inflicting whiplash injury to loved ones with the harsh word and the hot temper more intensely painful to those close to you. Tears flow easily. You feel everything more intensely, like you were on a great high. But the drugs to bring you back to earth are harsh. The are deadening. I've had a major psychosis which is the real danger of uncontrolled mania. It takes at least a two week hospitalization in a psych ward to get that under control. And the drugs to stop the hallucinations left me feeling lobotomized. I remembered nothing much, not even my way home. I lost my way within a few blocks of my house. And I had tremors that were so bad I had trouble drinking coffee. To my friends, my affect was pretty flat. But I've lived to tell you about the dangers of the journey.
If you have one family member with bipolar disorder, chances are there have been many others in your genetic pool. I was doubly cursed in that both my mother and father were bipolar. This is an illness with two genetic markers, not the usual one. So it's a mighty potent gene.
My father was diagnosed with schizophrenia in the late 1940s. I'm told by my psychiatrist that most bipolar patients were diagnosed schizophrenic in those days. He was hospitalized twice that I know of. I knew him as a rage-aholic. He was mean and abusive to me and my mother. Maggy, my mother, was the more manic type of bipolar personality. She always saw my depression and tendency to isolate as being lazy and too sensitive. She would never admit that there was anything wrong with her. She was critical and disapproving of almost everyone else but especially me. She was known to her siblings as the mean one in her family, bordering on sadistic. She was the classic narcissist. She was perfect and everybody else was fucked. Life in my home was hell for me. And I was given the advise by three separate therapists to vanish and never contact her again, to move and leave no forwarding address. But she was my first unrequited love. I never was good enough for her but I kept trying like a woman in an abusive marriage.
Z's Cancer Has Spread
It was on my birthday, June 12th, that we found out Z's diagnosis of small cell squamous lung cancer. It was not inside her lungs but still it was devastating. And it was a late diagnosis since Z doesn't trust or believe in Western medicine. She is a practitioner of alternate modalities (her words not mine). And yet after a while of thinking she could battle this cancer with juice fasts and magic water (my term not hers) the tumor was pressing on her superior vena cava, making it hard to swallow, breathe, talk. It was getting worse fast. Her daughter came and put so many things in order, and it was her influence and research that put Z in touch with the best pulmonary oncologist in Utah at Huntsman Cancer Institute. She got the best pulmonary radiation doctor in Utah. And Z hated every second of her care. I was never allowed to accompany her to any of her appointments despite asking. So I gave her rides to and from her early treatments which she reluctantly agreed to. I helped her put her clean her closets so Z's youngest son and his partner and her son and their son could move in and care for her. They were given the full house and Z was moved out of her bedroom and into the small basement room where it would be cool and quiet. Then I had to butt out, since her kids caring for her meant a great deal to her. I felt their care was not only inadequate, but worse, it created more work for her and very little nurturing care from them. She called me to bring my little French vacuum over to vacuum her bedroom in the basement, crowded with the washer and dryer, piles of dirty clothes, their vacuum and anything else the young woman partnered with Z's son didn't want in the upstairs. I cooked her favorite things and took her anything she craved but I got harder for her to swallow. And all the time I wondered what her son and his partner were doing to help her. The young woman did not work out of the home, but stayed home with her toddler and baby all day. But she never seemed to do much for Z. One day I called to find Z cleaning the fridge. I was seething with rage. She was too sick to be doing anything but getting waited on, fed things that sounded good to her, kept clean and quiet. But any critical comments about her son and his lazy (my word) girl friend and the lack of care, the absence of nurturing they exhibit towards Z makes her jump to their defense. They're sick, they're busy, they're tired. Frankly I don't give a shit what their excuses have been for not shopping, cooking, serving, cleaning up after and around Z. They live in her house rent free to make it easy on them to take care of Z. They have been awful at taking care of Z.
It was months before she told me what stage her cancer was. Stage three. Dire, but not yet matasticized. Her prognosis was 30% chance for a good outcome with aggressive chemo and radiation. She balked and tried to find a way around it. She hated her doctors and claimed the only reason they treated cancer was the big bucks. She said her treatment would buy a new set of golf clubs for her oncologist. I have a close friend who works as a researcher at Huntsman and asked her to check this doctor out. Her report to me was that he was a very good doctor. Not the best bedside manner, but top notch skills. He is the best pulmonary oncologist in this part of the country. But Z could not be convinced that he was not a charlatan.
In the time since June 12th she has had pulmonary embolisms, severe pain in her hips and shoulders, pneumonia, and the pain from radiation burns as they tried to get the tumor to shrink back from her vena cava so she could breathe and swallow. At every turn in this journey there wasn't a day she wasn't pissed off at the doctors and technicians who administered her radiation and chemo. She kept looking for a "natural" cure for her cancer. When her hair started falling out she wanted to stop chemo. She was sure they were going to kill her with the chemo. They didn't understand that she was too "pure" for this level of chemo. She'd been a vegetarian for over 30 years. Her system wasn't like other peoples, she kept insisting. She was furious that her oncologist didn't acknowledge her slight weight as a reason to back off the chemo. Z is 5'8" and weighed 115 when the treatment started. She's now probably 95lbs, if that.
Z got through the first round of radiation and chemo and had a couple of weeks to recover some strength. Then her doctor ordered another round of chemo. She had one treatment and then refused to continue until they did another PET scan to see how much the cancer had shrunk. She got the results yesterday. Her cancer is now in her liver, spleen, and lungs. The original tumor, which was "lung cancer" wasn't actually in her lungs. It was outside the lung and pressing on her airways. That tumor had shrunk some, but the cancer had matasticized. Now she's no longer willing to receive any more Western medical treatment. They offered to give her hospice care. And this offer of hospice is to her a confirmation that Western medicine has failed her.
Before she got the results from the PET scan, she'd found the cure she'd been looking for. It's hash oil. She found a site on the internet that promises to cure lung cancer with the use of hash oil. To my way of thinking anything that gives her hope or makes her feel better is a good thing. She says she's leaving Friday for Southern California where her two oldest sons live. I wanted to get her a first class ticket on a plane, but she wants to have her car with her. So her brother is driving her to Southern Utah where she'll spend the night. Then she plans to drive herself to Las Vegas to meet up with her middle son. He'll fly in to Las Vegas to drive her the rest of the way to San Diego. Her oldest son and his wife and twin daughters live close to the beach in San Diego.
Z is my oldest, closest friend. We met at seventeen as early admissions students at the U of Utah. We were the first early admissions students the University accepted and the only girls in that first group of six. We were as different as it's possible to be. But for some reason the friendship grew and though we have spent years living in different parts of the country, married, divorced, and out of touch, whenever we did see each other the old friendship was just like it always was. She is my Executor, has medical power of attorney for me. We never thought I would outlive her. I'm bipolar and have what used to be called Malignant Hypertension. The leading cause of death for people with severe bipolar disorder is suicide. I wasn't expected to live this long. Now it looks like I will survive her. How strange is the landscape of my life without her in it.
It was months before she told me what stage her cancer was. Stage three. Dire, but not yet matasticized. Her prognosis was 30% chance for a good outcome with aggressive chemo and radiation. She balked and tried to find a way around it. She hated her doctors and claimed the only reason they treated cancer was the big bucks. She said her treatment would buy a new set of golf clubs for her oncologist. I have a close friend who works as a researcher at Huntsman and asked her to check this doctor out. Her report to me was that he was a very good doctor. Not the best bedside manner, but top notch skills. He is the best pulmonary oncologist in this part of the country. But Z could not be convinced that he was not a charlatan.
In the time since June 12th she has had pulmonary embolisms, severe pain in her hips and shoulders, pneumonia, and the pain from radiation burns as they tried to get the tumor to shrink back from her vena cava so she could breathe and swallow. At every turn in this journey there wasn't a day she wasn't pissed off at the doctors and technicians who administered her radiation and chemo. She kept looking for a "natural" cure for her cancer. When her hair started falling out she wanted to stop chemo. She was sure they were going to kill her with the chemo. They didn't understand that she was too "pure" for this level of chemo. She'd been a vegetarian for over 30 years. Her system wasn't like other peoples, she kept insisting. She was furious that her oncologist didn't acknowledge her slight weight as a reason to back off the chemo. Z is 5'8" and weighed 115 when the treatment started. She's now probably 95lbs, if that.
Z got through the first round of radiation and chemo and had a couple of weeks to recover some strength. Then her doctor ordered another round of chemo. She had one treatment and then refused to continue until they did another PET scan to see how much the cancer had shrunk. She got the results yesterday. Her cancer is now in her liver, spleen, and lungs. The original tumor, which was "lung cancer" wasn't actually in her lungs. It was outside the lung and pressing on her airways. That tumor had shrunk some, but the cancer had matasticized. Now she's no longer willing to receive any more Western medical treatment. They offered to give her hospice care. And this offer of hospice is to her a confirmation that Western medicine has failed her.
Before she got the results from the PET scan, she'd found the cure she'd been looking for. It's hash oil. She found a site on the internet that promises to cure lung cancer with the use of hash oil. To my way of thinking anything that gives her hope or makes her feel better is a good thing. She says she's leaving Friday for Southern California where her two oldest sons live. I wanted to get her a first class ticket on a plane, but she wants to have her car with her. So her brother is driving her to Southern Utah where she'll spend the night. Then she plans to drive herself to Las Vegas to meet up with her middle son. He'll fly in to Las Vegas to drive her the rest of the way to San Diego. Her oldest son and his wife and twin daughters live close to the beach in San Diego.
Z is my oldest, closest friend. We met at seventeen as early admissions students at the U of Utah. We were the first early admissions students the University accepted and the only girls in that first group of six. We were as different as it's possible to be. But for some reason the friendship grew and though we have spent years living in different parts of the country, married, divorced, and out of touch, whenever we did see each other the old friendship was just like it always was. She is my Executor, has medical power of attorney for me. We never thought I would outlive her. I'm bipolar and have what used to be called Malignant Hypertension. The leading cause of death for people with severe bipolar disorder is suicide. I wasn't expected to live this long. Now it looks like I will survive her. How strange is the landscape of my life without her in it.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
How I Became Crazy
My mother nearly starved me as an infant. She had postpartum depression and could not stand to hold me. She did not notice that there wasn't a hole in the nipple on the bottle and that I was not getting milk. She thought I was willful and unwilling to suckle the bottle. This event set the stage for a lifetime of conflict and desperate need.
At three I was raped by a nineteen year old boy who was a friend of my brothers. My mother was the only one who knew, since she walked in on the act in progress. She told no one. But when I had to pee and it burned, she told me "Never let a boy do that to you," giving me responsibility at three for what an adult did to me. I regressed and hid in the bathroom, the only door I could lock.
She taught me to smoke when I was five. She told me no one likes children, so I should act like a grown up. She taught me how to mix a cocktail. Though these were skills of a sort, they made me freakishly grown up and set me up to be objectified.
She ran away from my family and only took me with her, then sent me to Texas to live with relatives. I was well cared for but knew I'd been abandoned.
She married a pedophile from a very prominent family and took me back when I was six. This man adopted me and began sexually abusing me which went on in her presence until I was eleven and started menstruating. I was told I was too old for my Daddy anymore. I was then turned over to my mother who began to use me like her own personal cleaning lady. Again, this responsibility for all the housework did give me skills, but let me know that my only worth was now as servant to my mother. I was told there is no such think as unconditional love. "You have to earn love." My dad no longer found me useful, so I had to earn my mother's love by keeping the house clean and the laundry done. I was an A student but was told I wasn't living up to my potential. I was never praised for anything but the way I looked. My mother then started telling my my nose was too big. She pinched my budding breasts, she spit in my face, she goosed me at every opportunity. We were a good looking, well educated, upper middle class family. My mother always worked and my father was a psychologist. I was a ticking time bomb.
When I began to date I was told by my family that the only reason a boy would be interested in me was to "get inside (my) pants." I was told my only worth was between my legs. I began to loathe myself. I started cutting and puncturing my skin with things like an ice pick. I put cigarettes out on the back of my hand. I clawed the flesh of my face. I detested myself.
By the time I was seventeen I knew I couldn't live at home anymore. I skipped my senior year of high school so I could go to the University of Utah and live in the dorms.
Depression took me like a gentle lover. All of this is enough to drive a child crazy. By seventeen I had PTSD. But I was also bipolar and full of unfocused rage.
At three I was raped by a nineteen year old boy who was a friend of my brothers. My mother was the only one who knew, since she walked in on the act in progress. She told no one. But when I had to pee and it burned, she told me "Never let a boy do that to you," giving me responsibility at three for what an adult did to me. I regressed and hid in the bathroom, the only door I could lock.
She taught me to smoke when I was five. She told me no one likes children, so I should act like a grown up. She taught me how to mix a cocktail. Though these were skills of a sort, they made me freakishly grown up and set me up to be objectified.
She ran away from my family and only took me with her, then sent me to Texas to live with relatives. I was well cared for but knew I'd been abandoned.
She married a pedophile from a very prominent family and took me back when I was six. This man adopted me and began sexually abusing me which went on in her presence until I was eleven and started menstruating. I was told I was too old for my Daddy anymore. I was then turned over to my mother who began to use me like her own personal cleaning lady. Again, this responsibility for all the housework did give me skills, but let me know that my only worth was now as servant to my mother. I was told there is no such think as unconditional love. "You have to earn love." My dad no longer found me useful, so I had to earn my mother's love by keeping the house clean and the laundry done. I was an A student but was told I wasn't living up to my potential. I was never praised for anything but the way I looked. My mother then started telling my my nose was too big. She pinched my budding breasts, she spit in my face, she goosed me at every opportunity. We were a good looking, well educated, upper middle class family. My mother always worked and my father was a psychologist. I was a ticking time bomb.
When I began to date I was told by my family that the only reason a boy would be interested in me was to "get inside (my) pants." I was told my only worth was between my legs. I began to loathe myself. I started cutting and puncturing my skin with things like an ice pick. I put cigarettes out on the back of my hand. I clawed the flesh of my face. I detested myself.
By the time I was seventeen I knew I couldn't live at home anymore. I skipped my senior year of high school so I could go to the University of Utah and live in the dorms.
Depression took me like a gentle lover. All of this is enough to drive a child crazy. By seventeen I had PTSD. But I was also bipolar and full of unfocused rage.
Running The Maze
Daddy was an expert at driving the lab animals mad
It was his job, it was his passion. Daddy had talent for it.
Daddy married a woman with a pretty child and no maternal
Instinct drove them to it. Unhinge that child Daddy, see what
She can take. The little whore becomes your slave until she is
Too old. Unhinge that child. What is she but a ticking time bomb.
Call her a liar and she becomes one, threaten the cage again, bind her
Mind with fear like Chinese women’s feet. Women are used to torture
The women her mother hates so much, apron wearing women, domesticated
Dumb cows. The girl will run the hamster wheel of repetition repetition repetition
Until she’s the only one left alive, alone at last. Talks about it like normal life, like
normal life
Like Normal life.
It was his job, it was his passion. Daddy had talent for it.
Daddy married a woman with a pretty child and no maternal
Instinct drove them to it. Unhinge that child Daddy, see what
She can take. The little whore becomes your slave until she is
Too old. Unhinge that child. What is she but a ticking time bomb.
Call her a liar and she becomes one, threaten the cage again, bind her
Mind with fear like Chinese women’s feet. Women are used to torture
The women her mother hates so much, apron wearing women, domesticated
Dumb cows. The girl will run the hamster wheel of repetition repetition repetition
Until she’s the only one left alive, alone at last. Talks about it like normal life, like
normal life
Like Normal life.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Dear Congressman Jim Matheson
I called your office a couple of weeks ago to express my hopes that you would support a public option as part of healthcare reform. The person who answered your phone in DC hung up on me the minute the words "public option" passed my lips. I was stunned. The next day there was a letter to the editor in the Salt Lake Tribune by a man who had the same experience. Unlike me, he kept calling back until he found someone who would answer his question, which was "Why would you hang up on a constituent calling to express their opinion?" He was told, that there were just too many calls coming in for a public option and that it had always been "off the table." My question now is, "Why did you run as a Democrat if you don't care that your Democratic constituents support a public option for health care reform?" It seems to me this is a slight of hand. You are not really acting like a Democrat. We already have two powerful Republican Senators who don't care what our wishes and concerns are. You ran for Congress in Utah's moderately liberal district as a Democrat, but you are not representing your constituents interests. I will be working very hard to find a liberal to run against you in the next primary. I will do all I can to defeat you even if this means voting for just another Republican. Better to have an honest enemy than a false friend.
Sincerely,
Peggy Pendleton
Sincerely,
Peggy Pendleton
It's Boob Squishing Time Again
It was only a week and a half ago that I got my boobs squished. But they found a hinky spot on both breasts, so today I have to go back for a diagnostic mammogram and maybe an ultrasound as well, depending on what they find with the diagnostic mammogram. If it were just my breasts and everything else were fine, I wouldn't be worried. But I've had a low platelet count for a long time. There is a big range between high-normal and low-normal. I've been below low-normal for well over a year.
So now I'm under the care of an oncology hematologist. He ordered an ultrasound of my liver and spleen three weeks ago and the only thing they found with that test was a few gallstones. These gallstones aren't bothering me, so I plan to do nothing unless they get to be a problem. And in my latest round of blood work they found that my platelet count was up a little from the last time it was checked. Still not low-normal, but better, on the upswing, maybe. At least for the time being. I'm hoping to avoid a bone marrow test. That is the next test if my platelet count is lower next time I go in to get it checked--in three months.
So, for a relatively healthy woman with a family history of high blood pressure, heart disease, and bipolar disorder, all of which require the taking of pills, I'm sort of peachy. And I plan to come back after this new boob squishing has been read, to tell you, I really am peachy.
So now I'm under the care of an oncology hematologist. He ordered an ultrasound of my liver and spleen three weeks ago and the only thing they found with that test was a few gallstones. These gallstones aren't bothering me, so I plan to do nothing unless they get to be a problem. And in my latest round of blood work they found that my platelet count was up a little from the last time it was checked. Still not low-normal, but better, on the upswing, maybe. At least for the time being. I'm hoping to avoid a bone marrow test. That is the next test if my platelet count is lower next time I go in to get it checked--in three months.
So, for a relatively healthy woman with a family history of high blood pressure, heart disease, and bipolar disorder, all of which require the taking of pills, I'm sort of peachy. And I plan to come back after this new boob squishing has been read, to tell you, I really am peachy.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The Huge Green Ash Tree Turns Gold
The single gold leaf is on the glass roof of the sunroom in the little house. The photographs of the Green Ash tree are taken aiming my camera straight up. This tree is the first to turn color in the fall and loses all its leaves in a two day period. And after one day of wind it looks like the photo in the bottom right. I have a forest in my urban back yard. The leaf raking is nearly endless. It's always a race to get the leaves up before the snow falls.
Autumn Work Week Ahead
I will have to spend every spare minute this next week working in the gardens, getting ready for Winter. This wall of vines on the south facing glass wall of the little house needs to be pruned down and cleaned up. The back driveway needs the same kind of vine taming in order for the gate to slide on its runners. And yet, all I want to do is tweet and edit fiction.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Orrin Hatch Is Undone By Small MoveOn.org Demonstration
Hey "scurrilous" folks,
So, we knew the fight would be hard and long... but it's begun to really heat up now...
On MSNBC this afternoon, Andrea Mitchell asked Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-UT) about a MoveOn-organized protest outside his Salt Lake City office, where protesters criticized Hatch for allegedly being beholden to the insurance industry because it donated a lot of money to his past campaigns.
"I'm supported by people all over the health care system," Hatch said, "including doctors, including hospitals, including insurers, including
liberal people, conservative people and moderate people. Everybody knows how much money you have to raise to run for the Senate."
Then Hatch turned his fury to MoveOn and George Soros.
"MoveOn.org is a scurrilous organization," he said. "It's funded by George Soros. He's about as left wing as you can find in this country. And they're
up to just one thing, and that is to smear good people. And frankly, they're
not gonna smear me without getting kicked in the teeth by me."
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/33330046#33330046
(This from the Deseret News.)
MoveOn.org executive director Justin Ruben responded that when Utah members of his group questioned the money Hatch took from insurance interests, "What did he do? Go on national TV and threaten to kick them in the teeth. Apparently this was easier than defending his ties to the insurance companies."
He added, "Hopefully whoever Sen. Hatch kicks in the teeth is independently wealthy, in case their claim is denied by one of the insurance companies who've been funding his campaign."
---------------------------------------------------------------
Here's what the media advisory will say about tomorrow's event:
---------------------------------------------------------------
MEDIA ADVISORY FOR October 16th, 2009
CONTACT: Richard Lafon, (801) 815-3870
Event Begins at Senator Hatch’s Office at 12:00 PM, October 16th, 2009
MoveOn Members Protest Sen. Hatch’s Threat To “Kick Them In The Teeth” Event Held in Response to Hatch’s Threatening Remarks Made Towards MoveOn.org On National Television
On Friday, October 16th, MoveOn.org members will gather outside of Senator Hatch’s office to protest his threat, made on the national cable television
station MSNBC, to kick MoveOn.org in the teeth. The threat was made in response to a question about a rally held on Wednesday, where MoveOn members
criticized Hatch for taking $913,614 from HMO and health insurance interests and being opposed to a public health insurance option. Insurance companies
and HMOS are spending nearly $5 million per week fighting against health care
reform, and one of their top targets is the public health insurance option—the heart of real reform crucial to lowering rising health care costs and expanding high-quality, affordable coverage to more Americans.
There are nearly 23,000 MoveOn.org members in Utah.
Senator Hatch’s remarks can be viewed at (1:30 mark):
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/33330046#33330046
WHAT: Rally Outside of Senator Hatch’s Office
WHO: MoveOn members
WHERE: Federal Building, 125 South State Street, Salt Lake City, UT
WHEN: 12:00 PM, Friday, October 16th, 2009
*** VISUALS: Participants will be holding sets of chattering teeth***
(cold and rainy)
MoveOn.org Political Action is a political action committee powered by 5
million progressive Americans. We believe in the power of small donors and grassroots action to elect progressive leaders to office and to advance a progressive agenda. We do not accept any donations over $5,000, and the average donation to MoveOn.org Political Action is under $100.
So, we knew the fight would be hard and long... but it's begun to really heat up now...
On MSNBC this afternoon, Andrea Mitchell asked Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-UT) about a MoveOn-organized protest outside his Salt Lake City office, where protesters criticized Hatch for allegedly being beholden to the insurance industry because it donated a lot of money to his past campaigns.
"I'm supported by people all over the health care system," Hatch said, "including doctors, including hospitals, including insurers, including
liberal people, conservative people and moderate people. Everybody knows how much money you have to raise to run for the Senate."
Then Hatch turned his fury to MoveOn and George Soros.
"MoveOn.org is a scurrilous organization," he said. "It's funded by George Soros. He's about as left wing as you can find in this country. And they're
up to just one thing, and that is to smear good people. And frankly, they're
not gonna smear me without getting kicked in the teeth by me."
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/
(This from the Deseret News.)
MoveOn.org executive director Justin Ruben responded that when Utah members of his group questioned the money Hatch took from insurance interests, "What did he do? Go on national TV and threaten to kick them in the teeth. Apparently this was easier than defending his ties to the insurance companies."
He added, "Hopefully whoever Sen. Hatch kicks in the teeth is independently wealthy, in case their claim is denied by one of the insurance companies who've been funding his campaign."
------------------------------
Here's what the media advisory will say about tomorrow's event:
------------------------------
MEDIA ADVISORY FOR October 16th, 2009
CONTACT: Richard Lafon, (801) 815-3870
Event Begins at Senator Hatch’s Office at 12:00 PM, October 16th, 2009
MoveOn Members Protest Sen. Hatch’s Threat To “Kick Them In The Teeth” Event Held in Response to Hatch’s Threatening Remarks Made Towards MoveOn.org On National Television
On Friday, October 16th, MoveOn.org members will gather outside of Senator Hatch’s office to protest his threat, made on the national cable television
station MSNBC, to kick MoveOn.org in the teeth. The threat was made in response to a question about a rally held on Wednesday, where MoveOn members
criticized Hatch for taking $913,614 from HMO and health insurance interests and being opposed to a public health insurance option. Insurance companies
and HMOS are spending nearly $5 million per week fighting against health care
reform, and one of their top targets is the public health insurance option—the heart of real reform crucial to lowering rising health care costs and expanding high-quality, affordable coverage to more Americans.
There are nearly 23,000 MoveOn.org members in Utah.
Senator Hatch’s remarks can be viewed at (1:30 mark):
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/
WHAT: Rally Outside of Senator Hatch’s Office
WHO: MoveOn members
WHERE: Federal Building, 125 South State Street, Salt Lake City, UT
WHEN: 12:00 PM, Friday, October 16th, 2009
*** VISUALS: Participants will be holding sets of chattering teeth***
(cold and rainy)
MoveOn.org Political Action is a political action committee powered by 5
million progressive Americans. We believe in the power of small donors and grassroots action to elect progressive leaders to office and to advance a progressive agenda. We do not accept any donations over $5,000, and the average donation to MoveOn.org Political Action is under $100.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Strange Woman (a short story)
"I was born with a flair for the dramatic but it was ridiculed out of me young. Not eradicated entirely, just driven under the bone, deep into the heart and spleen.” She pauses as if that’s all there is, finishes her Old Fashioned, plucks the cherry out with two long, slender, well- manicured fingers, tilts her elegant head back exposing a long supple neck and plops the glistening cherry in her open mouth. After she chews her cherry she continues, staring into her empty highball glass. “As I grew teeth, I ground them into cracked and splintered nubs. I eventually made tourniquets of the muscles surrounding my head, which I’m sure must feel like the binding of Chinese women’s feet in the old days. I only got to perform when I was assured of privacy. And there was precious little of that. Not that we were a big family. No, there were only the three of us. But there was only room for one performer in that small audience.”
She says this with a straight face and in a fairly convincing southern accent. Her voice is husky and deep, a whisky voice with that rough edge of a smoker. The whole thing sounds like something from a play. She’s addressing this load of crap to some big old John Wayne clone who’s muscled himself into the narrow space next to her at the bar. She’s responding to something he whispered into her right ear. He looks frankly bewildered, furtively glancing around for less complicated prey.
You can tell by the way she looks that what she says just might be true, but she tells it like a bald-faced lie. She’s a head-turner. Not flashy-dramatic, but eye-catching. Classy, chiseled face. Even if she isn’t terribly thin or young, she’s got great bones. Her clothes are expensive—quality, well-tailored, good fabrics. Her dark brown hair is cut about shoulder length and it gleams. It sways when she turns her head. Everything about her is striking, but quietly so. She’s the sort of woman everyone will turn to look at, but won’t approach. She looks self-contained and needing no one. Part of it’s her age. She’s not young enough to hustle. Not old enough to con. And despite that line of bullshit and her age, she’s sexy.
The man who sits next to her at the bar wears a huge silver and turquoise watch and matching belt buckle. He’s tall, balding, and beer-bellied. She isn’t wearing any jewelry, no ear rings, no wedding band, no watch. They don’t even come from the same planet.
A tall, slender man in his thirties sits at the far end of the bar where it curves around and ends in the wall--something to lean on if need be. It’s the opposite end from where the bartender takes orders from the cocktail waitresses. It’s a good place to watch the waitresses and the rest of the bar clientele. He watches one of the cocktail waitresses for a few minutes. She smiles at the bartender as she rattles off the list of drinks she needs, and the second he turns away and starts working on her order, her face is a total blank, completely losing it’s warmth, as if a light went off. And just then she catches the slender man watching her. Her eyes lock on his, and he finds it impossible to look away from that completely expressionless stare, as if it were a dare. When she finally turns away from the bar with her two vodka tonics and three 7&7s loaded on that tiny tray, he looks down the bar at the dark-haired, older woman who is watching him with a bemused expression on her very interesting face.
She raises one eyebrow and lifts her highball glass in a salute. He lifts his drink to salute her back and feels his face flush. He signals the bartender, and when he looks back up at her, she’s looking in the mirror behind the bar bottles. At first he thinks she’s looking at herself, but her face is completely unstudied, and it occurs to him she’s watching the table behind her. She has the rapt expression of a voyeur. When the bartender takes his order, the slender man also orders one for “the great broad drinking the Old Fashioned,” he nods in her direction.
A small, aged, black man at the piano finishes “‘Round Midnight.” The slender man at the bar pays for the bourbon and soda the bartender sets in front of him and leaves his stool to walk over and put a dollar in the pianists tip jar.
When he passes the back of the aging beauty’s barstool, she’s still watching the table behind her in the mirror. She sees him pass in front of them. When he walks back, after delivering his compliments to the pianist, she turns her head and flashes him a high voltage smile. He smiles back. She says, “Hard to beat “‘Round Midnight,” isn’t it?”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“Thanks for the drink. Care to join me?”
“Sure, for a minute.”
Still smiling she says “My name’s Judith,” and extends her hand. She has long slender fingers. Her hand is soft but looks like it’s done some work in it’s day. There’s a small round scar just above her little finger. Her nails are short and expertly painted the color of Mexican tile.
He turns to her and says, “Would you like to share an order of escargot?”
“I’d love to.” Her lips are red and shiny. Her teeth are white and even. He asks her if she minds if he smokes. “No, not at all, I used to smoke and I’ll enjoy yours vicariously. It’s one of the reasons I still come here. Most places are so sanitized these days. Lord I love Larry Horton for keeping his bar properly smoke-filled.” Again the almost southern accent.
“You know the owner?”
“It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody else and their business. So, since I don’t recognize you, you must be new in town or passing through. There are few strangers at this restaurant, since it’s small and far off the interstate. How did you find our little treasure?”
“I spent the day at Dillard’s today and asked the manager where to eat. She recommended Horton’s, so here I am. Sorry I’m so rude. My name is Martin. Martin Laterite”
“How very French.”
“The name, yes. I’m named after a great-grandfather.” He waves the bartender back and asks for the escargot. It will take about fifteen or twenty minutes.
“I noticed that you’re wearing a wedding ring. I find that so touchingly sweet in a man. Were you shopping for your wife?”
“No, I was selling. It’s what I do for a living. I sell women’s designer sportswear.”
“God! What a hellish job for a man.”
“Most women think it would be a great job.”
“Well, unlike most women, I hate stores and shopping. Did you like Lilly?”
“Lilith Jacobson? The store manager?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yeah, I do. She’s a strait shooter. I like her directness. And I’m grateful to her that I’m not eating at Howard Johnson’s or the golden arches.”
“I play bridge with her once a month. And she does my shopping. God bless her for that. She’s a terrific friend.”
“And a wonderful job she does if the outfit your wearing is her handiwork. It’s Ann Klein Couture and they don’t carry the couture line in-store. So you must be a very special customer.”
“Just a picky friend. Besides, I only buy a few pieces each year. It’s not that much more work to buy special things for me. She knows my wardrobe and only adds what’s missing. I’ll bet she’d be here with you if it weren’t for her husband's business party.”
“Why aren’t you at her party?”
“Because I’m here having a drink with you Martin.” she raises her glass and sips her drink.
the pianist starts playing “So What," and the bartender heads toward them with a plate of escargot. When they’re finished with their appetizer, the hostess comes over and tells him his table is ready whenever he is. He asks Judith to join him for dinner and to his surprise, she accepts. This scares him a little.
They are escorted by the hostess in her long black dress to a table by the only bank of windows in the crowded room. As the two women lead the way he watches them whispering to each other. They bump hips and he notices Judith’s ass. The bias cut of her silk-jersey skirt pulls slightly as she moves from foot to foot and her hips rock from side to side. Martin balls his dangling hand into a soft fist.
They don’t talk much during dinner, but he does find out that she’s married to a college professor who doesn’t have time to go out, so she goes out by herself. He notices she doesn’t wear a wedding ring and says, “Women who don’t wear wedding rings scare me.”
“They ought to scare you. You are married to a woman I presume. What’s she doing while you’re on the road?”
“Staying home with the kids, I hope.” When she laughs he notices her neck is creamy white. She eats with relish and makes slightly sexual noises with her first few spoons full of lobster bisque. It is a soft moaning noise deep in her throat. He wonder’s why she and her husband aren’t at Lilly’s party.
“Do You work?”
“You mean, do I work outside the home, honey? Yes I do. I’m the wife of a poor college professor, remember? I have to work so I can buy my Ann Klein Couture.” She throws back her head and laughs. Martin thinks about his penis.
After dinner he asks for the check and the waiter says the check has been taken care of.
He says, “No, I’ll get the check! Judith, I travel on an expense account. Please let me get the check.”
She says, “I have nothing to do with this. It’s probably Larry or the guys in the kitchen.”
“Who was it? I’d like to thank him if it was the owner. And I’d want to thank the kitchen anyway for a great meal.”
The waiter says. “I’ve been asked not to say. I’m sorry.”
Martin pulls a twenty out of his wallet and leaves it on the table. He says, “Judith, would you like to have a cognac in the bar and maybe some dessert?”
“Yes, thank you. I will join you for an after dinner drink.”
The waiter, still hovering, pulls her chair out just as Martin reaches for it.
When they head back into the bar, the pianist is playing “For All We Know.”
They order cognac and sip it warmed. The crowd in the bar is thinning. Soon the kitchen crew starts coming in through the restaurant. It’s almost eleven.
Before he gets a chance to invite her to his room, Judith stands up, nods to the two tall very young men and says to Martin, “My dates for the rest of the evening are off-duty and ready to escort me to my job.”
One of the two young men looks like Mic Jagger when he was twenty-something. The other looks like Jim Morrison alive. They hover a discreet distance from the drinking couple.
Judith leans over and whispers in Martin’s ear, “Our meal was comped by one of those two characters. They’re the chefs, and we’re going to the club I run for this rich boy who lives in Paducah. These guys want to go for the last strip show of the evening. They’d be very cross if I invited you. But I had a lovely evening with you Martin. Maybe next time you’re in town we can do it again.”
She says this with a straight face and in a fairly convincing southern accent. Her voice is husky and deep, a whisky voice with that rough edge of a smoker. The whole thing sounds like something from a play. She’s addressing this load of crap to some big old John Wayne clone who’s muscled himself into the narrow space next to her at the bar. She’s responding to something he whispered into her right ear. He looks frankly bewildered, furtively glancing around for less complicated prey.
You can tell by the way she looks that what she says just might be true, but she tells it like a bald-faced lie. She’s a head-turner. Not flashy-dramatic, but eye-catching. Classy, chiseled face. Even if she isn’t terribly thin or young, she’s got great bones. Her clothes are expensive—quality, well-tailored, good fabrics. Her dark brown hair is cut about shoulder length and it gleams. It sways when she turns her head. Everything about her is striking, but quietly so. She’s the sort of woman everyone will turn to look at, but won’t approach. She looks self-contained and needing no one. Part of it’s her age. She’s not young enough to hustle. Not old enough to con. And despite that line of bullshit and her age, she’s sexy.
The man who sits next to her at the bar wears a huge silver and turquoise watch and matching belt buckle. He’s tall, balding, and beer-bellied. She isn’t wearing any jewelry, no ear rings, no wedding band, no watch. They don’t even come from the same planet.
A tall, slender man in his thirties sits at the far end of the bar where it curves around and ends in the wall--something to lean on if need be. It’s the opposite end from where the bartender takes orders from the cocktail waitresses. It’s a good place to watch the waitresses and the rest of the bar clientele. He watches one of the cocktail waitresses for a few minutes. She smiles at the bartender as she rattles off the list of drinks she needs, and the second he turns away and starts working on her order, her face is a total blank, completely losing it’s warmth, as if a light went off. And just then she catches the slender man watching her. Her eyes lock on his, and he finds it impossible to look away from that completely expressionless stare, as if it were a dare. When she finally turns away from the bar with her two vodka tonics and three 7&7s loaded on that tiny tray, he looks down the bar at the dark-haired, older woman who is watching him with a bemused expression on her very interesting face.
She raises one eyebrow and lifts her highball glass in a salute. He lifts his drink to salute her back and feels his face flush. He signals the bartender, and when he looks back up at her, she’s looking in the mirror behind the bar bottles. At first he thinks she’s looking at herself, but her face is completely unstudied, and it occurs to him she’s watching the table behind her. She has the rapt expression of a voyeur. When the bartender takes his order, the slender man also orders one for “the great broad drinking the Old Fashioned,” he nods in her direction.
A small, aged, black man at the piano finishes “‘Round Midnight.” The slender man at the bar pays for the bourbon and soda the bartender sets in front of him and leaves his stool to walk over and put a dollar in the pianists tip jar.
When he passes the back of the aging beauty’s barstool, she’s still watching the table behind her in the mirror. She sees him pass in front of them. When he walks back, after delivering his compliments to the pianist, she turns her head and flashes him a high voltage smile. He smiles back. She says, “Hard to beat “‘Round Midnight,” isn’t it?”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
“Thanks for the drink. Care to join me?”
“Sure, for a minute.”
Still smiling she says “My name’s Judith,” and extends her hand. She has long slender fingers. Her hand is soft but looks like it’s done some work in it’s day. There’s a small round scar just above her little finger. Her nails are short and expertly painted the color of Mexican tile.
He turns to her and says, “Would you like to share an order of escargot?”
“I’d love to.” Her lips are red and shiny. Her teeth are white and even. He asks her if she minds if he smokes. “No, not at all, I used to smoke and I’ll enjoy yours vicariously. It’s one of the reasons I still come here. Most places are so sanitized these days. Lord I love Larry Horton for keeping his bar properly smoke-filled.” Again the almost southern accent.
“You know the owner?”
“It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody else and their business. So, since I don’t recognize you, you must be new in town or passing through. There are few strangers at this restaurant, since it’s small and far off the interstate. How did you find our little treasure?”
“I spent the day at Dillard’s today and asked the manager where to eat. She recommended Horton’s, so here I am. Sorry I’m so rude. My name is Martin. Martin Laterite”
“How very French.”
“The name, yes. I’m named after a great-grandfather.” He waves the bartender back and asks for the escargot. It will take about fifteen or twenty minutes.
“I noticed that you’re wearing a wedding ring. I find that so touchingly sweet in a man. Were you shopping for your wife?”
“No, I was selling. It’s what I do for a living. I sell women’s designer sportswear.”
“God! What a hellish job for a man.”
“Most women think it would be a great job.”
“Well, unlike most women, I hate stores and shopping. Did you like Lilly?”
“Lilith Jacobson? The store manager?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yeah, I do. She’s a strait shooter. I like her directness. And I’m grateful to her that I’m not eating at Howard Johnson’s or the golden arches.”
“I play bridge with her once a month. And she does my shopping. God bless her for that. She’s a terrific friend.”
“And a wonderful job she does if the outfit your wearing is her handiwork. It’s Ann Klein Couture and they don’t carry the couture line in-store. So you must be a very special customer.”
“Just a picky friend. Besides, I only buy a few pieces each year. It’s not that much more work to buy special things for me. She knows my wardrobe and only adds what’s missing. I’ll bet she’d be here with you if it weren’t for her husband's business party.”
“Why aren’t you at her party?”
“Because I’m here having a drink with you Martin.” she raises her glass and sips her drink.
the pianist starts playing “So What," and the bartender heads toward them with a plate of escargot. When they’re finished with their appetizer, the hostess comes over and tells him his table is ready whenever he is. He asks Judith to join him for dinner and to his surprise, she accepts. This scares him a little.
They are escorted by the hostess in her long black dress to a table by the only bank of windows in the crowded room. As the two women lead the way he watches them whispering to each other. They bump hips and he notices Judith’s ass. The bias cut of her silk-jersey skirt pulls slightly as she moves from foot to foot and her hips rock from side to side. Martin balls his dangling hand into a soft fist.
They don’t talk much during dinner, but he does find out that she’s married to a college professor who doesn’t have time to go out, so she goes out by herself. He notices she doesn’t wear a wedding ring and says, “Women who don’t wear wedding rings scare me.”
“They ought to scare you. You are married to a woman I presume. What’s she doing while you’re on the road?”
“Staying home with the kids, I hope.” When she laughs he notices her neck is creamy white. She eats with relish and makes slightly sexual noises with her first few spoons full of lobster bisque. It is a soft moaning noise deep in her throat. He wonder’s why she and her husband aren’t at Lilly’s party.
“Do You work?”
“You mean, do I work outside the home, honey? Yes I do. I’m the wife of a poor college professor, remember? I have to work so I can buy my Ann Klein Couture.” She throws back her head and laughs. Martin thinks about his penis.
After dinner he asks for the check and the waiter says the check has been taken care of.
He says, “No, I’ll get the check! Judith, I travel on an expense account. Please let me get the check.”
She says, “I have nothing to do with this. It’s probably Larry or the guys in the kitchen.”
“Who was it? I’d like to thank him if it was the owner. And I’d want to thank the kitchen anyway for a great meal.”
The waiter says. “I’ve been asked not to say. I’m sorry.”
Martin pulls a twenty out of his wallet and leaves it on the table. He says, “Judith, would you like to have a cognac in the bar and maybe some dessert?”
“Yes, thank you. I will join you for an after dinner drink.”
The waiter, still hovering, pulls her chair out just as Martin reaches for it.
When they head back into the bar, the pianist is playing “For All We Know.”
They order cognac and sip it warmed. The crowd in the bar is thinning. Soon the kitchen crew starts coming in through the restaurant. It’s almost eleven.
Before he gets a chance to invite her to his room, Judith stands up, nods to the two tall very young men and says to Martin, “My dates for the rest of the evening are off-duty and ready to escort me to my job.”
One of the two young men looks like Mic Jagger when he was twenty-something. The other looks like Jim Morrison alive. They hover a discreet distance from the drinking couple.
Judith leans over and whispers in Martin’s ear, “Our meal was comped by one of those two characters. They’re the chefs, and we’re going to the club I run for this rich boy who lives in Paducah. These guys want to go for the last strip show of the evening. They’d be very cross if I invited you. But I had a lovely evening with you Martin. Maybe next time you’re in town we can do it again.”
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