Bones

It is Wednesday morning and I am called down the hall by a man’s voice.

“Puney, Puney, down here.”

He sounds weak and hurt; the noise registers in the same place of my brain as the baby mouse caught by a sticky trap last week.

“Just come in,” he says as I raise my hand to knock on the door.

It’s eerie that he knows I am just outside of his door. I pride myself on my quiet and cat-like footsteps.  When I was a kid, for one reason or another, I thought I was actually a Native American descendent and naturally practiced the silent walk of my people through the woods, grocery store, mall and all other places a delusional 7 year old might find herself.  In spite of that intense practice, I am coming to the realization that my footsteps may not be as cat-like as I once believed.

In the next instant, I consider the possibility that this is a trap and I am about to be separated from my beloved skin, Buffalo Bill style, but quickly ignore that pesky gut feeling and push forward. I enter the room to see the man sitting on the couch, holding his arm at a peculiar angle.

Dark red drops of blood escape from multiple cuts on his arms and legs. His eyes are unable to focus and his head wobbles back and forth on his chicken neck.

“I fell,” his voice cracks and there is dried blood on his lips.

His explanation saves me precious time to determine, with a great sense of relief, this is not a trap.

His voice drops to a whisper, “I just don’t feel right.”

In front of the man is a table with his medications, inhalers and tiny brown bottle of nitroglycerin on top. He grabs the tiny bottle and tries to twist the lid off while still cradling his other arm.  He is most unsuccessful.

I start to offer to help when he holds up the arm he has been cradling and I see for the first time the real problem. On the side of his wrist, a bluish-purple mass has formed around what appears to be the end of a protruding bone.  The mass is so big and unnatural, it seems unreal, I look for strings or tacks where the mass is externally connected.   I find none.  The mass is definitely an unfortunate part of his arm.

“I think ther’ is somethin’ wrong with mah wrist.”

A strange new accent emerges, perhaps released from a past life as the pain increases. Pain does all sorts of magical things to people; it transforms their personality, encourages new behaviors and habits, and reminds us that we are of the living.  Of course, it should be noted that the transformation is not necessarily good, nor are the habits and behaviors that are often pain inspired.

“Yep, that looks pretty messed up,” I offer my unprofessional and unsolicited opinion and dial 911 against his feeble protests and promises to ice it.

Brother, I might not be a doctor, but I do know there are some things that all the ice and Ibuprofen in the world won’t fix, starting with broken bones.

How is that for taking a fierce stance?

Official Diagnosis: Pretty Messed Up Wrist, no ICD9 code available.
Fierce

Six Month Sentence

Vice
My mouth aches from the violent hands of a psychopath and my mind fills with questions.  Why do I allow this abuse to happen, over and over again?  How do I so totally forget about the pain of the last experience to sit in the waiting room without apprehension and allow it to happen all over again?

The assailant, Lashes, led me back to her lair and gestured for me to sit in the dental exam chair made of leather.  Such opulence for such a dark place of torture, it barely made sense. I would feel better on a plain metal chair, no frills allowed.  Mentally, I could be more ready by remaining uncomfortable and instead I sank into the plush chair and foolishly lowered my guard for what was to follow.

On my left, I noticed that Lashes was armed with multiple weapons, tiny daggers and swords for scraping, poking, and general destruction.  Not surprising, they were all perfectly sharpened and polished on a tray.  Lashes wore a paper mask and safety glasses, perhaps to make it harder to pick her out of a police line-up? It was a clever disguise.  Lashes looked just like the other female hygienists in their bright scrubs, crocs, and blonde hair tied up in ponytails.

Lashes stabbed and speared my gums with one tool after another.  She carelessly hopped from tooth to tooth like a flea on a cat’s back.  There did not seem to be a plan or a method to the woman’s madness.  Suddenly, she snapped off her gloves and shuffled a stack of papers; then she was back, pulling on another pair.

“Open up wider,” she demanded without an explanation.

“Not that wide, close your mouth halfway.”

“Ok, a little wider.”

There was no making this lady-demon happy.

I could see the concentration in her beady eyes through the plastic protective lenses as she continued to scrape and scratch in my mouth.  Not for the first time, I tasted blood during the appointment and felt tears welling up in my eyes.  I willed myself to endure the pain in silence with a reminder that this too would soon pass and checked my watch with the classic stoicism of a martyr.

Nearly an hour had passed; this was officially the longest, most excruciating cleaning I had ever experienced.  Simply doing a job that she either detested or loved, the passion that Lashes had for the work was apparent, but also quite unclear as to which pole it leaned.

Afterwards, I still wasn’t sure that I could pick her out of a lineup but knew the major difference between Lashes and every other human, was her preference for pain; the pain of other people, to be specific.

However, I suppose as far as torture standards go, she is quite good at her job so I naturally scheduled another appointment in six months.

 

 

The Cucumbers are Multiplying

The air has a chill to it this morning and the sun has yet to break through the darkness of night.  Fall is coming, slow and gentle, like it does every year to ease us into the misery of winter.  Soon it will be time to put away tank tops and shorts, swimsuits and flip flops in exchange for corduroys, sweaters and waterproof boots.

It is a problem that Midwesterners understand all too well, how to maintain two totally different wardrobes with only undergarments being seasonally interchangeable.  Residents of Hawaii, California and Florida, you have no idea what you are missing out on.  Unless of course, you escaped the weather of your home state after declaring to anyone who will listen, “This life of grey skies, chapped hands, and constant scarf wearing is no longer tolerable.”

I am nearing that state as my tolerance diminishes with each year.

Yet, I stay and dream of escape and an ocean breeze to cool my sun-kissed face, not ready for the change that a move would require.  And I work, like the rest of the sheeple that I know.  I work to pay utility bills and a mortgage, to buy food for my cats, husband, and self, and sometimes, I work just to get through to another season with the promise of better days.

As an offshoot of this working, I recently found myself as a defacto dog-sitter.

It started out as a one-time only situation, out of sheer necessity, and has since turned into a routine as natural as picking up the mail from the mailbox after work or taking out the trash on a Thursday night.  Whenever the owner of the hound leaves, he stops by the office with a leash and a bag of snacks.

“These are just in case she gets hungry.”

Gee, I thought they were a present for me.  I nod and wave the man off, I know the deal.  Take her out for a walk when she whines at the door, give her treat whenever she asks for one.  Easy.

The dog entrusted to my care is a mixture between Rottweiler and German shepherd and woe to the fool who messes with her.  Actually, she can’t be left alone without howling and trying to escape by hurling all seventy pounds or so repeatedly against the door which is how I ended up as her temporary custodian.  In summary, she is an emotionally dependent, fatty girl with missing teeth and bad breath, loyal to bacon strips and strangers who might be carriers of her beloved bacon strips.

Not that I mind her company.  After she gets dropped off, she flops herself down at my feet and patiently waits for a treat or for her owner to return.   The former always occurs before the latter.  When her owner does finally return for the beast, it is always with a generous payment in hand and gratitude.

Lately, I have been paid in cucumbers. Extraordinarily large, garden fresh cucumbers.

A worthy payment for services rendered and in the customary Hoosier spirit, he has given me more than I could ever eat.

Generosity: it’s one of the good problems that Midwesterners are all too familiar with, right after mastering the fine art of small talk about the weather.
Learning

On the Cellular Level

Obsessed
I have a not-so-secret love affair/obsession with my i-phone and technology in general. It’s the world in my hands and at my fingertips. If I want to find out how long to boil corn or how to change a flat tire, the rationale behind string theory or the number of monkeys in the jungle, it is all there waiting to be summoned from the mysterious depths of the internet.   As wonderful as it is to have access to endless information, it is not my main reason to constantly check my phone or computer.

For me, it’s for the sense of connection that texts and emails offer and the validation that a like via thumbs up or a star provides.  I constantly check and recheck emails and text messages and stats, giving too much time and value to the number of views or comments left.  A void opens up in my chest when there is no activity.  No calls, no texts, no views or comments.  I am alone in the world and my loneliness   is a black hole that threatens to swallow me.

Why do I allow myself to go through this torment over something that is as unreal and fleeting as phantasmagoria? All of it is smoke and mirrors, an intangible and impossible replacement for a real human connection and genuine approval.  Yet, it is to technology that I continue to turn for entertainment, comfort and interaction and my anxiety around real people grows.

I am quite certain that I am not alone in this. I went on a bike ride with my husband, a real person, last weekend. We rode through a town in which people were gathered on park benches, waited in line for a restaurant and were seated at tables with steaming hot plates of food.  Every single person on the benches had their phones out, they texted, played music and threw poke’ balls.  Almost every other person at the restaurant had their phone next to their plate or in their hand.  While standing in line, the people glanced at their phone or flipped through screens, some punched in messages or played games.

We rode onward and I felt a profound sense of sadness at the scene as it seemed like a fair representation of the greater population. There is a human desperation to feel a part of something greater, linked to others, approved and liked.  Through technology, we have the ability to be constantly connected, no matter the distance.  However, the closer the physical proximity, the less use or ability people have for a quality connection.

I am pledging to put my devices away for a bit and to appreciate the reality that surrounds me, to engage with other people, and to be present in my interactions. For the weekend, I will have to seek validation from within myself and connection with those in my household, on my block, and in my life.

Get ready husband and cats, we are about to have a seriously engaged weekend.

 

Training for the Olympics

Surface

Last night, I tried my body at lap swimming. Naturally, I was inspired by the Olympians in Rio.  What could be more motivating than watching the super-fit athletes in their slick suits glide through the water like a pod of porpoises? They made swimming look so effortless. There was no spluttering or messy kicking. Not a single swimmer rolled over onto his or her back to catch their breath while floating and panting.

Obviously, they had gills and webbed fingers. Instead of ostracizing these fish people for their differences, we regale them as the heroes and champions of our country because they are winners. Would we be so open to these genetic mutations otherwise?  Personally, I am quite jealous of the fish people. I envy their extra big lungs and controlled breathing, their webbed toes and gills turn me green.  Some (fish) people have all the luck.

Before I could start on my own Olympic training, I had to track down my swimsuit from when I was 12 or 15 or 29. The suit was an old purple Speedo, not the best looking suit, but it still served its porpoise.  I knew it was somewhere around our house, stuffed into a cranny or nook in a closet.

Sure enough, I found it at the bottom of a box tucked into the closet, under 357 unmatched socks, just waiting for Match Day. Squeezing into it was the next challenge but once I was in, it was for good.  There was no risk of this suit slipping as there was barely the possibility of breathing and regular blood circulation, let alone a wardrobe malfunction.

So, I had the suit and the desire, I just needed the big body of water with lines and as few other people as possible. I headed to the gym, weaved my way through the meatheads and the sweaty sweaters to the locker room and into the pool.

Thankfully, I was the only one there for the first few laps. I stopped after each length of free-styling to pant and rest on the wall before trying it again.  At one point, I floated on my back down the lane and imagined myself to be an ameba on a Petri dish, running into the wall and the separating buoy line.   I choked on water, spluttered and gasped while kicking and splashing in what might be called swimming by someone watching from far away without binoculars.

Then a very serious-about-swimming woman appeared with a swimming cap and goggles, water shoes and a nose clip. Drats! My secret was about to get out that I was the worst swimmer in the pool.  She then proceeded to lower herself into the pool to walk, slowly, from one end to the other waving her arms in a crazy water aerobics class type of way.

I stopped worrying about what she thought or any other person who slid into the water. It’s not a competition, unless you really are in the Olympics and then good for you.  For the rest of us, it is about letting go of being self- conscious and doing what feels good and what is good for us.  Regardless of how messy or terrible it looks, who cares?

It is another one of those things that is about function not fashion, right Dad?

 

The Grumpy Insomniac

Since becoming an insomniac, I have tried everything to sleep. I started with a sleeping mask but my eyes were still open all night.  I thought the room was too bright so I added black out blinds and still my eyes were open.

Try this sleeping potion, its guaranteed to make you sleep, the guy at the supplement shop promised.  Sleep I did, but unlike Sleeping Beauty, I became a Walking Zombie who was charming and delightful to no one the next day.  Birds were not landing on my shoulders, and woodland creatures were not gathering round my darling ballet slippers the next day.

A sleep therapy noise machine that I only came into by a stroke of good luck helped for a few nights.  Alas, this too was only the placebo effect.  After a week of gentle ocean waves and white noise, I was back up.  Two shining eyes peering out into the darkness, hating the night for what it held back from me and gave to so many others.

In contrast, my husband gets up every morning as soon as his alarm sounds with a cute little stretch and a yawn. He hops out of bed and says things like, “What a great night of sleep.” And “I am just so rested now.”   Then, he bounces off to do a number of productive morning things while I hit the snooze button, again and again and again.

I could glare and growl at him but it makes no difference to that puff of sunshine who travels around in such a well-rested state. So instead, I keep my grouchiness to myself and pull the pillow over my head hopeful for a last minute fog delay or natural disaster to allow me to repose just a bit longer.

 

Out Damn’d Spot

A sudden and desperate squeaking started from somewhere in the room.   I looked at the old fellow, Mr. W. Alva, sitting across from me.  He busily studied a set of forms on his lap with a magnifying glass that he produced from the depths of one of the many bags that were placed at his feet.  He was a retired bottlemaker and amateur scientist who found himself quite homeless after a series of unfortunate events and now sat in my office.

“Do you hear that?”

Mr. Alva set the magnifying glass down on the table next to him. The handle of the magnifier was carefully wrapped in layers of duct tape for a most comfortable grip.  Everything he owned was customized to fit his needs, from his banana spoon, which was a pen taped to a white plastic spoon and stored in his top shirt pocket, to his watch which had about twenty-seven rubber bands wrapped around the wristband.

“What?” He looked up and asked questioningly with his toothless mouth agape. In his mouth moved a strange pink tongue like that of a parakeet, mashing up words like pellets. Under the wrinkles of his eyelids, he peered at me with tiny eyes in the process of receding into his face.  They were greyish, the blue, green or brown washed out over the years.

Clearly, he did not hear the squeaking. Mr. Alva was nearly deaf from earwax, long white hairs that grew outwards and inwards, and years of experimenting with explosives. It would not have been a surprise for the man to reach into one of his bags and pull out an ear horn, and say, Come again?

I was alone in my quest to identify the sound. What a gift to hear birds singing and what a burden to hear the suffering of a baby mouse stuck to a sticky trap by its little baby mouse head.

Mr. Alva, although nearly deaf, maintained his ability to see sharply across the room. He warned with a waving finger before returning to his reading, “Better not let it bite you, its belly might be full of poison.”

Very helpful, Mr. Alva, thanks.

I had to decide the most decent and humane action and quickly to end the squeaking and squirming of the trapped creature. A quick test of the trap proved its effectiveness in that the mouse could not be separated from its ultimate demise, voluntarily or forcibly.  It was too late for both of us.  The mouse would never escape and I would never regain my innocence.

Like Lady Macbeth, the blood was on my hands and forever in my conscience.

 

Initiation

Apology

“Were we invited to this party?”

There were no cars parked outside or people milling around the front door.  We were at the end of a cul-de-sac, standing where the GPS led us and there were no signs of life.  A trash can lay on its side at the end of a drive; all of the windows were closed up tight and the blinds were drawn in each of the identical houses.  It was not an encouraging scene.

No one responded when my party date/husband texted the friend-of-a-friend to whose house we waited outside like census takers double checking the address and comparing notes.  The only things missing were the signature clip boards and name badges.

Instead we carried a bag of chips, salsa and a bottle of wine and escalated our communication efforts by calling this friend-of-a-friend.

It’s the new age way of things, text and then call.  Calling is a last resort, when all else fails.  Like come on, just text us back, I thought impatiently as my inner teenager started to show.

Suddenly, an event more exciting than a New Message coming across one’s iphone screen. A real person emerged from the house and it was our friend.  We both rushed towards him like two lost souls towards the promise of salvation.

“How long have you guys been out here?  You should have just come on in.”

He was blissfully unaware that in some neighborhoods not far from this one, walking into a stranger’s house without permission was more than enough to enact the Castle Doctrine.

Now properly invited inside, we followed Friend through the doorway where a sea of strange faces awaited us.  They suspended pretzels and cheese stuffed bread balls in mid-air, conversations went on hold indefinitely, all activity ceased until our acceptability could be determined.

“Hi, I’m Puney,” I said with a slow and non-threatening wave.  It is sometimes best to not make any sudden movements around strangers.

“I’m Neb,” the tall handsome man next to me introduced himself, confident and unafraid of making sudden movements around strangers, breaking my stranger rule #1 within the first sixty seconds.  He darted around the counter and dropped off our offerings and grabbed a plate, ready to dig into the beanie weenies, cookies, and chips.

A shaggy with dog with a low swaying belly ran out from underneath of the cluster of legs.

It smelled my toes and wiggled its chubby back end where a tail might have been at one time, perhaps delighted by the smell of JibberJabber, my cat, that patiently waited for our return at home.

“That’s Cooper, he won’t bite,” a faceless female voice from the still watching and silent crowd explained.

I reached down to pet Cooper and instead of receiving the pets, it turned around and sat down right on top of my feet.  It looked up at me with an excited doggy smile as a hot whoosh of gas escaped from its rear end and whirled around my bare toes.

It got up and ran off, disappearing back into the cluster of legs.

My face must have shown my disbelief.  Was I just the victim of chemical warfare?

“I think that dog just farted on my feet.”

The faceless female voice emerged with a real face and body, laughing and unapologetic.

“Looks like you just got initiated.”