Road Trip

My family ends up in hospital waiting rooms quite often, as Mom has been dealing with health issues for many years. Sort of feels like home after you've been here awhile. The St Cloud hospital is one of the most professional and courteous I have experienced.

So here I am, with Pat, Barb, Julie and Mom, in one of the waiting areas in the hospital, doing some writing while Dad takes a nap. He just got a bath, clean bedding and a back rub from the nurses, so I'm thinking he'll be sleepin' like a baby for a while. He has a low grade fever today and will likely get a pacemaker implant tomorrow, provided the fever dissipates.

Usually Dad is on the waiting room end of these hospital visits, and I was remembering the time when Mom became extremely ill while they were on vacation a few summers ago. They'd gone to a family reunion in Sioux Falls, and Mom was in such bad shape that Dad called us to come down there. So 'the girls' (Pat, me, Barb and Julie) all crammed into Julie's little car, and headed out into the night. It seems that even if you have time to pack a bag, there are always a few things you forgot to bring, or ran out of while you're away. This is why a lot of our pajamas are from Walmart.

Anyway, because Dad packs for vacation like most men, with just the most minimal amount of clothes, by the time we got to the hospital in Sioux Falls, and it became obvious that Mom would be there for a while - he needed to get out to make some extra clothing purchases.

A small warning bell dinged off somewhere in the back of my brain, but I ignored it. Which is probably why - when we reached the mall, Barb and Julie made a hasty beeline off to the other end of the mall, (to look at shoes, naturally) leaving me to help Dad find the stuff he needed. Dad's not a big shopper, I guess Mom probably buys most of his clothes, and a feeling of dread and slight panic swept over me when Dad said, "Well, I guess I need some shirts. I like those T-shirt shirts, you know, with a pocket on the front. And stripes, this way." While motioning his arms to indicate horizontal stripes.

Wonder of wonders - and thank you Jesus - there happened to be a big table of such shirts at Kohl's. We picked out a few and Dad tried one on. In the store. Right next to the table. Then posed, pooching out his belly, and asked, "Does this look too small for me?" We had more stuff to get and needed to get back to the hospital in due time. I said they looked great.

Onward to socks. You'd think this would be an easy one, but he had a particular kind in mind, and more complexly - a certain calf height. Not too high and not too low. Those seem to have too tight elastic. Those have a grey toe and heel. Etcetera. Finally found some that fit the bill.

I was hoping he had brought enough underwear, because I really just didn't want to go there. Alas, to the underwear aisles we trod. This was the worst, because while I don't mind a quick grab and buy, I did not want to browse the men's undie aisle. With my dad. We looked at a lot of different styles, and although he seemed sure of what exact type he wanted (and I really had no inclination to learn what type of unterwasche he wore) we couldn't find the right ones. He finally found a package of underwear that *seemed* close to the right kind, judging from the photo on the front. But he was hesitant to choose them because they were labeled 'fitted knit boxers' and he knew his were called 'boxer-briefs.'

Our shopping was finally completed. It has always stuck in my mind though - how we were able to find all those items exactly like he what wanted. Maybe guardian angels cover more ground than we think. ;)

Just Another Date In Paradise

Yet another first date. I'd been emailing quite a lot and talking on the phone with this guy, and he seemed normal and kind of fun. There was something about him that was off-putting also, but I could never really put my finger on it - so I chalked it up to my imagination and just dismissed it. He really wanted to meet, and I ended up staying in the city for the weekend at the last minute, so although I knew he had a fairly full weekend, I said if he could roust up a couple spare hours we could have coffee or a cocktail and chat for a bit in person. He said he could after 830pm on Saturday.

I wore a summer dress and shiny wedge sandals, make-up, perfume and I did my hair in a fun curly style - I thought we might go out for the coffee, but he came to the door with a nice bottle of wine. He was wearing a real weird tank top (what guy wears a tank top on a date??) and some unflattering denim shorts that I've never seen the likes of before. Not in the past couple decades anyway. He sort of wanted me to open the wine, but since he'd just come from a neighborhood party where he'd had mixed citrus drinks, I asked if he would like something more along those lines and I poured him a lemon drop.

We chatted in the living room for a while, and were actually having a really good time. I knew from talking on the phone, that he isn't the world's greatest conversationalist, so I kept the conversation flowing and upbeat, asking him funny questions, and inquiring about his hobbies, interests, and family, etc. One question I asked was: What is the stupidest thing you've ever done? He replied, "In high school shop class I removed the guard on the table saw, and cut off two of my fingers." I thought he was kidding till he waved his finger-chopped hand at me. The pointer finger was completely gone and the "finger" finger was far too short to ever give the finger.

Well, you know me, I recover quickly from shock, and who am I to be all hoity-toity about a couple of missing digits? We keep talking. I was having fun, and he was too. He said he didn't really like his drink, so we went to the kitchen and opened the wine. I don't drink wine much at all, and red wine never, as the tannins give me a headache. But he had a couple glasses and the conversation was still going.

I don't get all lovey-dovey on a first date; I like to get to know the person first, but we decided to watch a concert on dvd, and as I was retrieving a disc from a basket on the floor right beside him - I was enjoying his company so much that I leaned in to give him a little kiss. Besides I like to kiss and I was wondering if he was much of a kisser. He looked at me in surprise and I said "I was just going to give you a kiss." He smiled, leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth about 2 inches, as if he was going to yawn. I kid you not. I didn't have time to register shock, as I was already on the down-swoop, so I elected to kiss just his top lip, not knowing how else to handle it. Fortunately, his jaw swung back upwards to an actual kiss position, so I could just give him a little peck, and back off. Wow. Awkward. I am seriously still wondering - is that actually the way he kisses? I surely want no part of it. Who doesn't know how to kiss? Isn't it an automatic thing?? A natural response??

Miss Vegas Kitty came in to say hello, and he pushed her away, telling me he really loves cats. He mentioned that he thinks his ex is probably a lesbian.
(I'm doubtful, because every guy I've dated has claimed their ex was either psychotic or a lesbian...) But if she was - I'm starting to see why she might have been driven to that side.

I asked him if he'd like some coffee, even though he's not finished with his second glass of wine. He said yes. I brought him a cup of hazelnut flavor decaf.

He's sitting on one end of the sofa and I'm sitting on the adjacent love seat, the corner nearest him. We're leaning toward each other, within touching distance, about a foot apart, so we can look at each other while we chat. He asked me why I'm not sitting on the couch next to him, cuddling, and I explain that I don't usually get all cuddly on the first date, and that it's also a little odd to talk while we're both looking directly ahead. He asks again, as if he hasn't heard me, and I politely say I like to get to know my dates first, before getting close physically. He asks again. I repeat, still nicely.

He asks again, and again, and again. He says I'm extremely controlling. In a five minute lecture. I say, "I think our date needs to be over." In my head I say, "How's that for controlling, you creepy toad." He contemplates about leaving while sipping his coffee. I get up and start bringing the glasses to the kitchen. He gets the message. When I turn around he is standing at the door, looking kind of defeated, one arm up and braced against the wall. I am momentarily distracted by the hairy rodent clinging to his armpit, but I recover quickly, recognizing it as just some out of control pit hair. He still wants a hug. I give him a brief hug, no kiss (no way) and I say, "I'm sorry our date was bad, but we're just not compatible. Good night." In my head I add, "Good riddance."

So far, internet dating has not resulted in my meeting anyone I would prefer to be with - more than I would prefer to be alone. Which is where I started, and where I still am. And I think that's just fine.

Ah... July

It's Sunday. Early. This is one of those perfect summer weekends where no one wants to let the day go, and we all stay up late into the night. This morning it's very quiet, even the birds are sleeping in. I can see from my bed, the sun rising over the lake, the mist is disappearing. Back in the day - John and I would be out in the boat now, listening to the loons, fishing for bass. In my case - northerns.

I woke up on Saturday at 4am in the city, packed the car and was heading up north at 430am. Got here about 730, and took a short nap. I went over to Mom and Dad's around noon. Dad was doing a whole lot better, and tinkered around with the little radio I bought him. He had shaved his head and Mom told him he looked like George Clooney. I think he looked better than George Clooney. He was listening to Click and Clack when I got there, and told me the previous caller was from Minnesota; a woman who said her husband checks the air pressure in the tires every time they go to Duluth and wants her to get out of the car when he does, and was it really necessary to. (They said not unless she weighs as much as the car.)

I mowed their lawn, and went back inside. Dad and I ate some lunch while Mom had a nap on the couch. The lunch was from canned cupboard food - chicken sandwiches, baked beans and chips, with root beer Mr Freezes for dessert. (By the way - as bad as canned chicken may sound - it was DELish compared to that actual farm-canned chicken in ball-jars that mom canned years ago and BROUGHT IT AS FOOD ON A VACATION WE TOOK WHEN WE WERE KIDS! On-vacation-food is fast food, restaurant food, and fun treats. It is not - and never will be - home-canned-soft-suspended there-basking in it's own juices-freaking-jar-canned-chicken. I can only remember one thing worse and that was a very large batch of home-made ketchup, which only tasted like ketchup in the slightest - oh wait- NOT AT ALL sense. It just made a hamburger feel sad...) Anyway, Dad hasn't eaten much for a week or so, and I was hungry from lawn mowing so it was more like a gourmet meal in our minds. I did up the few dishes and drove back to the cabin.

Suffice to say the weather was lovely, the kind of summer day you remember, you remember, in the bleak December. Ah... sighs and bliss and all that...

I am not a big Casino-r, but Mom was really wanting to get out, so after she got back from Mass (which is at 4pm in Hack, if anyone wants to fulfill their obligation before they get drunk on Saturday night, or whatever) she called me and asked if I wanted to go. She was going alone if I didn't want to - and the sad vision of that was about all the arm-twisting I needed. Showered, and ironed an outfit, and headed back out. The neighbors watched as they relaxed on their porch, they must wonder...

(Interruption in story - as I'm typing, I can hear some animal sound outside like a baby goat. I think it's unlikely there's a goat around, I'll have to check it out when I get up. Hmm...)

I went back over to Mom and Dad's and had dinner. Mom had made sloppy-joe's from Grandma's old recipe. They don't taste all that good, but the fun is in saying "This is Grandma's old sloppy-joe recipe from the root beer stand!" I also just like the name sloppy-joe. I wonder who came up with it? We could have just as easily been eating dribbly-bob's or messy-kens. Maybe I'll invent a recipe for the dribbly-bob. I'm kind of digging that name too.

Dad wasn't really up to going anywhere, so Mom and I drove off to the casino. Mom did the machine choosing, and I did the winning. Hah. It was fun. There was a powwow going on that I would have liked to check out more, but we didn't get a chance, what with meandering from one slot machine to another with a glazed look of temporary euphoria in our eyes.

We had fun. Everyone had fun. It was THAT kind of summer day.

Mary Ellen and the Horrible, Terrible, Very Bad Kidney Stone

I've felt like a bit of a walking wreck for a good part of this spring. I've had a few slammer headaches, a bombastic migraine, a horrid cold, and one of those seven week hack-up-a-lung coughs, which has finally turned into an annoying off and on wheeze-hack that busts loose generally when I'm in the middle of stating something very wise, or loving, or serious, effectively rendering my intended speech weakly pitiful and ridiculous sounding. So, you'd think, according to the rules of life, where things sort of even themselves out - I'd be in excellent health for the next couple of years. Right? Nope.

A few weeks ago I was quietly going about my usual work at the office, minding my own bizzness, designing plush bears or giraffes, or something along those lines, when I suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of nausea roll in, a big nasty wave. Took me by surprise. I wasn't feeling ill in any way, so I ignored it. About two minutes later it returned, not to be denied. Two words flashed by on the big-screen in my brain, as I hastily fled from my desk, through the warehouse, and out the back door, where I really, really needed to let some vomit fly. Kidney! Stone!

The cool outside air hit my clammy skin just enough to briefly calm the impending puke. And that was a good thing, because right where I was intending to spew, was, just my luck, some old dude trying to (illegally) dump his trunk load of trash into the dumpster. He was probably as dismayed to see me as I was to see him.

I caught my breath and tried to relax while I moseyed as casually as possible over to the other side of the building where my car was parked. I tried every way I could to reason with myself: you can’t be sick, you were feeling just fine a half hour ago! Calm down, you’re not going to throw up. Are you?

I opened my car door and crawled into the back seat. There’s no good way to describe the all-over pain a kidney stone comes with, but basically my whole BEING just felt wrong. But laying face down in the backseat was not helping, at any rate, so I heaved myself back into a sitting position and got back out. Very slowly.

A decision has been reached in my brain. Even though I have only been at work for an hour, I absolutely must get home as soon as possible. This is to avoid a potentially painful and embarrassing situation in which I am overcome with the highest level of kidney stone pain; an off the charts screamin’ meemie kind of pain, where one finds the only pain-enduring position that can be had in an office is on the floor on one’s knees, draped over the seat of one’s chair, unable to speak, or move otherwise, except in a whispered garble to one’s ex, on one’s tightly gripped cell phone, to PLEASE come and get me, which one’s ex does, to his great credit. If you think that sounds like I was just describing a memory, I was. The memory of kidney stone #2.

Yes folks, I said #2. Step right up, step right up, to see the lady who can pound out kidney stones one after another, every couple years, like clockwork.

I walk deliberately back to my desk, breathing shallowly, trying not to disturb the stone, at least till I get home. I must email some files to hit a deadline, which involves translating them into a low res format and cc’ing oh, about 8 people, cause that’s how we do where I work. This normally only takes a couple minutes but I could barely get through it, and when I clicked send on the last file, I grabbed a couple plastic bags, and left.

The ride home, usually about a half hour, was the longest trip home I've ever taken. Every crack in the street, every tiny bump - excruciating. The pain causes constant nausea, which I fought off as long as I could, until it was either cough it up while driving, which, because I puke long, loud and hard, was impossible, or pull over immediately. With a yank on the steering wheel I swerved over onto the nearest side street, a very private and lovely cul de sac in Edina, where I sort of rolled out of the car into a bent position, leaned against the car door, and heaved into a bag. Across from me, a nice gentleman was puttering about in his yard. I was careful not to make eye contact, hoping he would not come over to see if I needed any help, as I wasn't in a conversing frame of mind. He didn't. (His lovely home wasn't all that far from some dubious looking apartments on 66th Street, so maybe he just assumed I was a crack-mess or something.) Coffee-puke. Smelled vomit-ty bad, and I had all I could do to regain control of my stomach and get back into the car, bag knotted at the top, and set carefully on the floor.

I had to stop one more time to vomit before I made to my house. Finally. First thing you do is remove much of your clothing. It hurts to have anything touching your skin. I put on a soft, loose nightgown. This being my third kidney stone, I knew the ropes. When my body said the position of least pain was on my hands and knees on the floor, I did it. Fast forward through extreme pain, really unbelievable. In short, it's kind of like a constant mule kick in the kidney, which is also killer back pain. My kidney stone was on the move, so I also had horrible low abdomen pain at the same time. I fell asleep at some point, in a very strange position. Or perhaps I passed out from the pain, I don't really know. I felt a lot better when I woke up. I stayed in bed the remainder of the day, and was just fine from then on. I had no more pain, even when I finally passed it, about a week and a half later. (For those that are unsure - the stone comes out when you pee.)

It's a harrowing experience, no question. Miss Anti-drug (that's me) would gladly have taken pretty much any type of painkiller I could get. On the other hand, I got through it all right without any. Maybe I'll buy myself three big silver belt buckles, to commemorate, like bull riders get. My sisters had a couple of nice suggestions. One said maybe send out birth announcements for the little guy. One said I should have all three stones set into a ring. Yeah, yeah, eeeeveryone's a comedian.

Living Like Lucinda

Lately, lines of poetry had begun to cross her mind. A trail of typed, black letters on white banners, appearing here and there on illogical occasions. While she was trudging upstairs with a basketful of clean laundry to put away. She'd gone to the dances at Chandlerville and played snap-out at Winchester. Poetry she'd read many years ago, and embraced, was coming back to comfort her, like an arm around her shoulder. She made no acknowledgement or wonder of it.

Serving customers at the bar, late at night, her feet hurting. The last-to-leave patrons had nothing to go home to, cigarette breath whistling heavy past the scent of booze in their glasses, grinning yellowed teeth wheezing over the same old bad jokes. A spidery pile of pull-tabs, offering nothing, next to the half empty drinks. She had no reason to feel superior, and didn't. The poem waved, smiling. One time we changed partners, driving home in the moonlight of middle June, and then I found Davis.

A pervasive sadness enveloped her during the day, of a kind that she couldn't shake off. She did not allow her thoughts to stray to Avery. And because of this, when the workday duties became mind-numbingly rote, her mind filled with a headachy emptiness instead.

She fell exhausted into bed at night, curled into the warmth of the poem, living like Lucinda; enjoying, working, raising a family, keeping house, tending the garden, through the dark night. She awoke to the long fingers of the sun on the bedclothes, somehow sated and rested.

The words returned to her, fleeting, but strong, and she remembered walks over the fields and through woods, birdsong, and gathering shells by the river, picking flowers and weeds to arrange in a vase on the table. She recalled what it was like to live loud, shouting and singing, and knew she had not lived enough yet.

Mary Ellen Seidel


Lucinda Matlock
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the midnight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.

Edgar Lee Masters; Spoon River Anthology

The striking painting shown above is by Edward Hopper, one of my favorite artists.

That's what I thought...