Thursday, August 26, 2010

the garden

I have not planted a garden for 7 long years. I did not have room. But this year, along with a husband, a house, a new cat and a red haired grandson I got room to plant a garden! I was ecstatic and relentless. I made wonderful loamy compost. I bought dirt (yes, in the desert we buy dirt) plants and seeds and went to work.

I planted squash and watermelon seeds and beautiful tomato plants, both determinate and indeterminate, with tiny marble sized tomatoes trembling on the stems. I planted flower seeds galore and already established succulents; baby sun rose and moss rose with tiny blooms. I moved Rudy’s little cactus into the garden where it could keep company with other growing things. I tended the seedlings and plants with great care. I mulched them deep and low (thank you Arlo) and watered them twice a day. All was well in my garden. Life was sweet.

Rudy and I noticed two Common Sagebrush Lizards living behind a young Mediterranean Palm at the edge of the garden. We named them Lizzie and Leo Lizard Lips. In short order Leo and Lizzie presented us with several tiny hatchlings about ¼ inch long. The little ones skittered across the deck and up the block wall when we walked outside. Their parents were much braver and stood watching us as they did “push ups” to make themselves appear ferocious.


The squash put forth huge yellow blossoms that bloomed in the morning and withered by afternoon. But we had no pollinators. For a week or so every sunrise found me padding about, bleary eyed, paint brush in hand, transferring pollen from male to female blossoms. The tiny yellow blossoms on the tomato plants wilted and died. I harvested eight tomatoes; those that were on the one plant when I bought it. The watermelon vines grew silvery green and sprawled their way past succulents and useless squash and tomato plants. They bloomed and the blooms died.


We watched as two soft, gray mourning doves billed and cooed on the garden wall and since they were nesting, I bought seed for them. They pecked gently among the seed and soon about a million pigeons joined them, jostling and pushing them aside. I provided them all with water. It’s hot in the desert. I bought a hummingbird feeder hoping to bring pollinators to the garden. The hummers loved the nectar but couldn’t be bothered with yellow flowers, thank you very much. Tiny finches found the hummingbird feeder so I bought a tube feeder and Rudy and I watched the hummers and finches eat while we had breakfast and dinner. They chirped loudly, jockeyed for position, fought and fluttered. One of the little finches learned to cling to the window screen and peer in at us. One early morning a hummingbird hovered not five inches from my nose. We were eye to beak and I was so enchanted I think my heart stopped beating.

My veggies bore no fruit, my flower seeds did poorly, though I did have a nice showing of California poppies, and while my morning glories climbed the wall in true morning glory fashion they did not flower.

Then one morning the unthinkable happened. I looked out the window at my poor struggling garden and the pigeons were industriously eating away at the succulents and even the few petunias that were left! I did nto know pigeons ate plants! I stopped feeding the pigeons; the mourning doves had already left for where I don’t know; probably a nearby garden without pigeons. I still feed the finches and the hummers but the garden is just about finished. There is one bedraggled, yellow cempasuchi marigold, the yellow marigold associated with the Day of the Dead ceremony. How fitting. I wonder who pollinated it. I hand pollinated two watermelon blooms last week and now there are two tiny pea-sized watermelons. I am protecting them from the pigeons with mesh. I wonder what will become of them. And though I no longer feed them, the pigeons stay on, feeding on seeds and suet the finches drop. I have tried chasing them away but they're not afraid of me. The succulents have all been moved to the front porch where they have not been found by the pigeons and are beginning to bloom again.

All is not lost in my garden. There were lessons to be learned. I have learned that in spite of it all I still love to garden. I have learned the difference in male and female squash and watermelon blossoms, and that you don’t always get what you expect. I have learned to care for hummingbirds and finches and that pigeons will eat anything %*@#!

I am already planning next year's garden. I'm going to have carrots, turnips, potatoes; anything that grows underground.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Lost in the hallway.

It was our second night in Colorado. We enjoyed a delicious dinner and returned to our hotel.

“I’m going to hang out in the lobby a few minutes and check my Face Book,” I said.

“You go ahead. I’m going up to the room,” Rudy said.

The lobby was pleasant and I checked my Face Book and wandered around a bit before heading up to the room.

I got off the elevator on the 2nd floor and hesitated before I knocked on the door of room 233. It seemed to me our room was on the other side of the hall. I did not want to knock on the door and come face to face with a stranger. How would I explain myself? “I’m sorry but I can’t remember what room I am in?” No way! I wandered up and down the hall and looked at the doors. None of them looked right. I whipped out my trusty cell phone and sent my husband a text message: “Open the door please. I am lost in the hallway.” But the message was not sent. I tried again. “Rudy, please open the door and look out in the hallway. I am lost.” Again the message was not sent. What the heck was wrong? Once more I tried and the message was not sent. Arghhh… Was I doomed to go to the front desk and tell the very young receptionist I had forgotten what room I was in? I tried to call my husband. The call did not go through. “Wait,” I thought. “We are in the mountains and the reception is probably no good!”

I gave it one more try before I faced the front desk and this time I heard Rudy’s sweet voice say, “Hello?” But that was all. I lost the connection.

“Buzzards!” I pushed the down button on the elevator and just at that moment I heard a door open. I looked around the corner and there stood my husband. I was saved!

“Have you been trying to call me?”

“Well. Yes. I forgot what room we were in and 233 didn’t seem right.”

Rudy laughed. “That’s because we’re here… in 218.”

“Oh. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to have to go to the front desk and admit I had forgotten where I was sleeping tonight. I tried messaging and calling you but my cell wasn’t working.

Rudy laughed again. “That’s because the reception is lousy up here,” he said as he turned to open the door to our room.

A strange look came over his face and immediately I knew what it meant. The door was locked. Yes. He had walked out and let it lock behind him.

Hand in hand Rudy and I went downstairs to tell the very young receptionist we had locked ourselves out.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

the Steve and Doctor McDreamy question

The Mountain View emergency room was busy. At the end of the hall a young woman sat on a gurney and a nursing assistant sat with her. She was on suicide watch and had been there 6 days waiting for a bed at Las Vegas Mental Health. All the rooms were full and there were people in the hallway… people with broken legs, feverish babies and seniors with chest pain. I was there with my daughter Lori, who was suffering headache and stiff neck. We were not in the hallway but in a bay, surrounded by a red and gray striped curtain. Lori was sleeping after an injection of morphine. I sat wedged between a metal tray and a crash cart, reading and waiting for the doctor to come back and say something. Anything. The metal tray next to me began to rattle and I felt the side of it hit my leg. I looked up. The lead wires from the next bed were coming over the curtain and tipping the tray. Suddenly drops of blood spattered the floor near my feet. I heard people running. The curtain covering the next bad was shoved back. I could clearly see what was happening.

“Get back in that bed Steve!” yelled the young doctor. “Look what you’ve done! You ripped your IV out and there’s blood everywhere! You’re pulling the curtains down and you’re going to hurt this woman. I don’t blame her if she sues you.” I did not want to be hurt but I had no plans to sue Steve.

“I just spent a week… seven days, in Summerlin Hospital drying out!” Steve yelled.

“And you left there and on your way home you got drunk and ended up on the floor in CVS. The ambulance brought you in. You are detoxing all over again, your cardiac enzymes are not good and I expect you to seize any moment. Now get back in that bed.”

“I am sick of being in the hospital. I just spent a week in Summerlin. I want to get out of here.”

“Look Boss, keep it up and you’re going to see a nice doc become a mean doc. Get back in that bed!”

By now, two security guards and a nurse had joined the doctor and they were all issuing orders.

“Get back in that bed now!” said one security guard.

“Here, give me your arm,” said the nurse. “You’ve got blood everywhere and your arm is swelling. Give it to me!”

And Steve kept repeating, “I just spent a week in Summerlin. I am tired of hospitals. I want to get out of here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” yelled the doctor. “I am serious. Get back in that bed.”

“I know my rights! I want out of here! I just spent a week in Summerlin! You can’t keep me if I want to go! Give me the @*$# paper and let me sign it and get the @*$# out of here!”

The doctor looked like Mountain View’s version of “McDreamy”; young with curly, dark hair, blue eyes, navy blue scrubs and matching sneakers. Steve was older, gray and thin with cavernous eyes, dressed in a hospital gown with blood dripping from his right arm. It was clear to me who was going to win this argument.

“Don’t make me restrain you Boss!” said the doctor.

“Just give me the paper and let me out of this @*$# place! You can’t keep me if I want to leave.”

About that time a nurse hit Steve with an injection in his arm.

“What the…? What was that? Why did you do that?”

“The doctor ordered it to help you calm down.”

“I don’t want to calm down. I want to get the hell out of here. I just spent a week in Summerlin. I need to go home. You can’t keep me here. I know my rights.”

Steve was right, of course. They couldn’t keep him there legally and they were keeping him against his will. Still it was 11 pm and 104 outside. He was drunk and the doctor felt he needed to be somewhere safe.

“Hey! What was that you gave me?”

“Ativan. Relax.” The nurse helped Steve back onto the gurney and pulled the curtain back around him.

“I guess I don’t have any @*$# choice.”

I watched the housekeeper clean the blood from the floor, listened as Steve’s voice became softer and was finally quiet and I thought about his rights and how they had been violated. Steve was not incompetent but he was drunk. And it was a hot night. And it was dangerous for him to be wandering around out there but still… he really wanted to leave the hospital.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

snapshots

Family

My daughter and I don’t always see things the same way but we often enjoy long discussions. She is kind enough to allow me to give her motherly advice (though I don’t know if she takes it) and sweet enough to let me nurture her at times. We have worked together professionally and I admire her nursing skills and she my social working skills. We travel well together and at home we enjoy spa days, lunch, shopping, family and spending time with her grandchildren… my great grandchildren. Sometimes, when we are laughing (or even when we’re crying) I can’t help wondering what it would have been like to have a mother-daughter relationship with my mother.
________________________


I went to Iowa a while back. I was invited to a family reunion by people I did not know and who were not family. I met them online. When we arrived at my hostess Laurie’s house her two sisters, Barb and Connie and their kids were there. We sat downstairs in the den with cool drinks and began to get to know each other. As we talked Barb waved a bottle of nail polish. “Connie,” she said, “polish my toenails for me, okay?” Connie sat on the stool in front of her sister, picked up the bottle and polished Barb’s nails.
I was in a strange state with people I didn’t yet know but I certainly recognized honest sisterly love when I saw it.
___________________________

Strangers

A week or so ago I pulled into an AM – PM minimart to get gas. I know they sell BP gas but I see a need to support them because they have a contract with BP and must buy gas from them. To boycott AM – PM minimart would not hurt BP, but it is obviously already hurting AM – PM minimart. They have dropped the price of their gas.
There was a large two tank gas truck next to my car getting ready to leave. The young driver got out of his truck and asked, “May I help you?” He pumped my gas for me, got in his truck, waved and left. He wore a BP insignia on his uniform. We’re all in this together.
___________________________

A couple of evenings ago I was sitting on the porch of Panera Bread enjoying a glass of iced tea. A young man with several old plastic bags sat down at the table across the porch from me. It was the end of a very hot day and he looked hot, dry and homeless. “Can I buy you something cold?” I asked. He got up and left. Sometimes good intentions can hurt others.
___________________________

I was in the store where I buy plants and seeds. There was a plant on the back shelf that was almost dead. I picked it up and looked at it. There was a tiny bit of fresh green at the bottom. “What will you do with this plant?” I asked the clerk.
“Throw it out.”
“May I have it?”
“Give it to you? No. You have to buy it.”
“But it’s almost dead.”
“Yep.”
I bought it, brought it home, put it in the kitchen window and watered it. It died. I’m still glad I bought it.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Guppy and the dancing girl…

When I went to Florida to visit my son’s family this year I brought something new with me. A husband.

My three older granddaughters, Evan, Kasia and Little Mary clearly understood who Rudy was but Ursula had just turned two and I wondered if she actually knew who I was much less that Rudy was new to the picture. I think she understood how he fit in the line up, after all, her other grandmother comes with a grandfather.

Kasia and Little Mary were talkative on the drive from Tampa to Dunedin. Ursula sat smiling quietly in her car seat next to me and once in a while she peered around at Rudy who was sitting shotgun.

At home the girls showed us their rooms and toys and chattered nonstop. Ursula followed us and put in the occasional shy word. Finally we settled down in the dining room to relax and chat a bit. I don’t think any of us noticed Ursula had not joined us.

Suddenly, a tiny vision in a diaphanous mint green dress and black-gold beaded headpiece slid quietly into the room. She handed her sister, Kasia, a cd and waited for the music to begin.

Photobucket

Head down and hands in front of her, Ursula began to dance. Her tiny bare feet patted the floor as she moved sideways across the room. She raised her arms over her blond head and twirled. She swayed; she lifted first one leg then the other. She glanced upward, she glanced to the left then the right; she moved to the music. That baby worked that room like Salome dancing for the head of John the Baptist. She turned and pirouetted with the ancient awkwardness reserved for baby femme fatales. The beads on her headdress clicked as she spun. She held the tip of her tiny pink tongue between her teeth and concentrated on her next move. She whirled, she circled the room and suddenly I realized… she was dancing for only one person! Rudy! My new husband! She clutched her little hands firmly then threw them wide as she approached the object of her desire. Finally, she turned, glanced over her shoulder and gave him her most dazzling smile! He smiled back. She placed a miniature elbow on his knee and he gently adjusted her headdress. Not a word passed between them. He picked her up and put her on his knee. Breathless, she whispered, “Hi Guppy,” sighed and leaned back on his chest.

In that moment I knew I had lost my husband to my youngest granddaughter.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

the GPS

While Rudy and I were in Florida visiting Chris and his family we decided to visit Daytona Beach, about 150 miles away, across the state.

Chris offered his car and we set out early on a crisp morning, MapQuest in hand.

“Just use the GPS,” Chris said.

“That’s okay son. We can find our way without it.”

“Well if you need it, use it.”

Rudy and I were feeling pretty secure about finding Daytona Beach, no problem. After all, we are of the generation that didn’t have a GPS to depend on. We used maps and always got where we were going. Besides, how difficult could it be? It looked like a straight shot on I-4, past the dog track and International Speedway. Piece of cake.

The first mistake we made was just 2 blocks away from their house. We went left instead of right and nothing made sense after that. We ended up by the beach and knew we were going the wrong way. We were laughing when we stopped at the first minimart to ask directions. After all, we are of the generation that asks directions if we lose our way.

We bought a couple of snacks and took off again… left instead of right. The next minimart was only a couple of miles away, thank goodness. The lady who gave us directions was very thorough. “Go right on County Road 99 which is also Pinehurst and go south toward Main Street, then turn left on Main Street which is also FL-580.”

This time we turned right. “Why is every street also called something else?” I asked Rudy. “There honey,” I said pointing. “Take County Road 99 and turn left on Pinehurst.” Seems we should have turned right on Pinehurst.

We got gas at the next minimart where we learned we had been driving for 45 minutes and were still in Tampa. I looked at the GPS. “We don’t need to use this thing, do we?”

“No, no,” Rudy said, “we got off to a false start but we’re okay. We just have to find I-4.”

“I-4? I thought that last guy said ‘I-75.”

“Yes. I-75 to I-95 North and then straight on to Daytona Beach.”

“Then in that case according to MapQuest, we turn left here.”

You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find I-4. I eyed the GPS and wondered but by now we had become determined and very stubborn. A couple more minimarts, a few more gallons of gas and we found I-4. It was a straight shot from there and we were very proud of ourselves. We rolled into Daytona Beach 5 1/2 hours later without using the GPS. It’s a 3 hour drive.

The way back seemed easy enough. All we had to do was reverse the order in which we came. How hard could that be? We were doing fine on I-4 when Rudy spotted a Cracker Barrel off the freeway, to the right. He knew I wanted to eat there so he whisked us off I-4 quicker than you could blink an eye. The problem is things seen from the freeway are not necessarily where they appear to be and we now appeared to be in Universal Studios. Restaurants to the right of us, restaurants to the left of us but no Cracker Barrel. We went back around to the freeway and yep! There it was! Back through Universal Studios we went but there was no Cracker Barrel to be seen. We stopped at a gas station (yes, I looked at the GPS but I didn’t say anything.) “Go down to the twin towers and it’s right behind them,” said our friendly clerk. To tell the absolute truth we were getting ready to give up 30 minutes later when we found it quite by accident.

We ate dinner, relaxed, shopped a little then hit the road, full of mac and cheese and proud of ourselves. We didn’t need that GPS. “We’ll be home in an hour or so,” Rudy said.

Once again we turned left when we should have turned right, or maybe it was right when we should have turned left and found ourselves on a toll road we had never seen before. It was late, we were tired and Rudy was hoarse. He was coming down with a cold. I cast a jaundiced eye at the GPS. I had no faith in it but we had been gone all day and we needed to get home. I considered it for just a moment but quickly changed my mind.

The lady in the minimart was very patient as I wrote down her directions. “Turn left at McDonald’s, go three red lights, turn left on Hillsborough Avenue and straight into Pinellas County.” I relayed the information to Rudy but not in quite the way it was told to me. At least that’s what we think happened.

About 11:30 I called Chris’ wife, Jill.

“We are at the corner of “This and That,’” I said. “Where do we go now?”

“Oh Mamazita, I don’t know where that intersection is. Here, talk to your son”

“Mother?” He was hoarse and sounded as if he didn’t feel very well; kind of like he was coming down with a cold. .

“Yes Boy?”

“Turn ON the GPS and punch in HOME!”

At that point I gave up being stubborn and turned on the GPS. I hit home and two minutes later we pulled into the driveway, tired and no longer so determined and proud. Yes, we are proud members of the generation that got around without a GPS and we are now of the generation that uses a GPS. Ours goes with us everywhere we go. .

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Rudy

March 9, 2010

Everything in the universe has a measurement. Stars are closer to, farther from earth, people are taller than, shorter than, rain is harder than, softer than, houses are larger than, smaller than. The cancer cells that have invaded Rudy’s body have a scale all their own. His score is six and that’s “mildly aggressive;” better than moderately or highly aggressive but cancer, nonetheless.

“You’ve got the good kind of cancer “Dr. Reisinger said.

I had no idea there is a good kind of cancer and besides, this is my husband we’re talking about. Let her use the term “good cancer” on her husband. Suddenly I experience a curious dreamlike silence and a white hot stone lodges itself in the center of my chest. I do not look at Rudy but stare at Dr. Reisinger as if listening intently. My mind is traveling randomly at warp speed. “What do we do now?” “How could this happen?” “We have only been married 4 months!” “This is too soon!” “We have not had enough time together to have to deal with this!” “Can we work as a team?” “Is he scared?” “Does he know I’m scared?”

“…think since we see the same results with surgery and radiation, radiation is probably your best choice but the decision is yours.” I realize I have tuned back in to Dr. Resinger.

“What do you think?” Rudy asks.

Me? I surprise myself by speaking. “I think we should go with the radiation.” What? Where did that come from? Who am I to have an opinion?

“I agree,” he says. That’s what we’ll do. Set it up doctor. I’m ready.”

I leave Dr Reisinger’s office feeling as if I have just watched a movie entitled, “Rudy and Kate Discuss Cancer with Dr. Reisinger.” I do not feel as if what had just happened is real but I feel more profoundly Rudy’s wife than I have in the four months we have been married.

March 30, 2010

The people in the waiting room of the oncologist’s office are a group. They speak words not yet in my vocabulary. They talk about losing their hair, fatigue, nausea. The man in the black watch cap seems restless; he walks from one end of the room to the other and changes his seat only to get up and do it again. The woman with the short black hair says she cannot have radiation today because she still has staples in her head. The man next to her says he feels cold but at least he’s not nauseous today. To my left there is a wig catalogue. I move closer to Rudy, put my arm through his. I don’t want us to be part of this group. I don’t want us to be in this room. I want us to be outside in the sunshine. The door opens and a nurse calls his name. He walks through the door alone. I am not allowed near the equipment. The cancer cells have separated us for the first time and I miss my husband.

March 31, 2010

Albert, from the oncologist’s office calls. He says Dr. Reisinger is not pleased with yesterday’s CT scan and Rudy must have another. I call Rudy at work and ask when he is available. “Not in the morning,” he says. “I have to be at work in the morning.” He sounds irritable, short. I have never heard my husband like this. I call Albert and tell him to schedule Rudy for tomorrow afternoon.

Rudy is home for lunch at one. “I want to ask you something,” he says.

“Sure.”

“Is it normal for me to be angry about having cancer?”

Oh, my gentle husband. I feel angry too.