Waiting Game

Thankfully, I haven’t had much need to sit in a doctor’s waiting room the past few years. Recently, my internist left his clinic for fairer shores, and I was forced to find a new doc. I decided on a female physician, nice woman, I like her a lot. After listening to my litany of aches and pains, she suggested some screenings—my age. Okay.

The past month I have worked full time scheduling appointments, driving to one clinic after another and WAITING. I’ve been stuck, prodded, smeared, squished, and nearly killed (a stress test) ultimately for my good health.
 

The new fancy orthopedic clinic was a cattle call. In the name of efficiency, I was given an electronic tablet to fill out and got into a line where a young woman took vital signs one patient after another. When I finished entering my life history into the cloud, I was given an electronic survey of my techie experience. Handing the device to a human, I was assigned a number printed on the schematic of the building, complete with all the different doctor’s exam room numbers. I was instructed to listen for the “dings” and watch the TV monitor for my number and its corresponding room number. Sitting down in the gymnasium sized waiting room, I noticed there was not one magazine, newspaper, or pamphlet, on any of the end tables. Everyone who was smart used their phone. Waiting two hours for my number to “ding” and flash across the screen, I proceeded to find my own exam room. I was relieved to see the doctor was human if not harried. I wonder why.

I'll tell you about the cardiologist next time. Right now, I have to answer the phone. They're calling me to schedule an appointment.

 

Tears

I went to Fred's funeral yesterday. He was an older gentleman who lived a long and healthy lifestyle. An active golfer and avid smiler, it was hard to imagine Fred was in his 80's.

I don't do funerals well. I usually try to avoid them because I cry -- a lot. I could have been one of those professional mourners in ancient times. Women who were hired, presumably by the rich, to wail at funerals. I try not to be so emotional, but the tears leak out. Usually I look worse than the family who I'm supposed to be comforting. They inevitably end-up patting me on the back, giving hugs and words of encouragement. Geech.

No one I know disliked Fred.We weren't especially close friends, but he lived and died my ideal. Extending his hand with a smile, he had a welcoming soul. He died in his sleep. What a blessing. There are many things worse than dying.

Godspeed, Fred. And for your family, I cry.

Reality Check

The past few weeks have been a roller coaster ride. My emotions, like eggs rolling on the coaster car’s floor between my feet. I try to stop them, but they crack and ooze with a gooey reality check.

I’ve been on hormone replacement for years, and I was under a delusion my emotions were under control – that I was too old and therefore no longer at the mercies of this monthly ride. How foolish we humans are, so easily sucked into our fantasies of power and restraint. A tiny pill, half the size of a pencil eraser, one milligram, zapped my myth. Between our insurance provider insisting on a generic medication substitution or pay through-the-nose, and our drug store closing because of Obama insurance restructuring, I was left for a month without my milligram of hormonal sanity.

I didn’t care at first. It comes on slow. The coaster moves away from the platform and chugs up a scenic incline. "Oh, LOOK. How beautiful. Maybe I don’t need that pill anymoreeeeeeeeeeeh." I fall headlong into a tantrum. Expletives fly like egg bombs. As I round a bend into a black tunnel, tears streak my yolk covered face.

The doorbell rings. FedEx. My meds delivery – expedited.

Only a few more loops now, and I’ll be back to the platform. What was I thinking? One lie or another. That’s what fiction writers do best. 
 

striations

            the grain of wood
            a tree’s life measure
            jagged and stained
            knotted beauty
            cut and sanded

            pillar and post
            sound foundation
            pressed over time
            striations of strength
            weather the storms
        
         

Goal Cleaning

I’m doing some spring cleaning – spring of 2009 to be precise.

We had company last weekend, and I had to clean my office to make room for an air mattress. I couldn’t believe how much stuff has accumulated since we moved here nine years ago. For the health and well-being of our guests, I hurriedly rearranged one shelf in the closet to shove all the mess laying on the desk, chairs, and floor, and promised to come back.

A few days ago, I stood at the Closet of Truth. “I will never save junk again.” I lied, when we moved. On the top shelf there was an expensive broken camera. On the shelves below were floppy discs with no drive, used (but still good) manila folders, a laptop I haven’t fired up since we got our iPad, wires that don’t connect to a computer, TV, or telephone we currently own, and on the floor (my personal favorite) those two large boxes full of 20 year old photos that “need to be put into albums.”

Today I’ve tackled my file cabinet. You know those antiquated boxes that stack in the corner with drawers. Evidently, I started these when I didn’t have a clue how to file (or spell). It’s all interesting, sometimes just from the curious. What the hell was I thinking?

I came across a file from a workshop I attended in 2009. Besides half used notebooks and a plastic baggy with out-of-date conference news, I came across a list of career goals. We had been encouraged to write a list of one year goals and five year goals. Ouch – 2013. All the things I was going to achieve. Humm, maybe I should have revisited these sooner –worked a little harder.

No, I am not going to share. Actually these look pretty good. No need to waste paper, I’ll just change the date and file it under 2018.

One of Those Days

Last weekend, I went on a two day road trip with three friends from the Bayou Writers’ Group in Lake Charles. We had the privilege to attend the Jambalaya Writers’ Conference hosted by the Terrebonne Parish Library in Houma, Louisiana. It’s a terrific small conference year after year, where they treat participants well for a great price. This year’s keynote speaker was Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried, and he didn’t disappoint. Listeners were treated to personal antidotes where Mr. O'Brien demonstrated his storytelling style of writing.

Several agents and editors from New York attended, and I wanted to take advantage of the one-on-one book pitch sessions being offered. From experience I knew these 10 minute appointments went fast, and I needed to sign up early. Not a good self-promoter, I usually shoot myself (or wished I had) during the interview process, so I rose that morning to meditate and prepare in my room.

I walked the short distance from the hotel to the library where the conference is held, thinking I had arrived in plenty of time. The woman at the table informed me, “There are only two editors left with times available.” I perused the names and asked about my editor of choice, Monique Patterson. The helper with the clipboard checked the schedules confident that Monica was already booked. To her surprise and my glee the name on the first slot had been scratched threw, not once, but twice, leaving it open for me. My confidence in prayer sored, as I returned to the hotel to meet my friends.

They were sitting in the lobby, where I discovered one of my writer companions had awoke having health issues that necessitated a wheelchair, or she wouldn’t be able to attend the conference. Being a Methodist, I had noticed a United Methodist church across the street from the library and hotel. The concierge called the number, but no one answered. Of course it was Saturday, I thought, listening to the machine. However, the pastor left his cell number.

Boldly, I called and identified myself (like he’d know me), explained our problem in one sentence, and asked if the church had a wheelchair they might loan us for the day. He immediately said, “Can you come right now?” He was on site, preparing for a funeral.

We shuffled to our waiting SUV and drove across the street. Pastor Don Ross, wearing his blue suit and tie, met us at the front door, wheeled the chair down the walk, and helped us load it. We exchanged a few pleasantries with simple return instructions and waved good-by. In ten minutes we were at the conference, on time with a rolling front row seat.

Listening to the morning greeting, I knew the interview would go fine. Calm and professional, I met the challenge and my fears with confidence—someone smarter than me was in charge.

I Haiku – Do You?

Haiku – a three line poem consisting of 17 syllables, 5 in the first line, 7 in the second, and 5 in the last line. This simple Japanese art form was first created in seventeenth century by a humble teacher named Basho. The purest form of this ancient poetry creates a snap-shot of nature. 

Like delicate flowers,

     Haiku appears simple – mundane.

Truth is its nectar. 

 

Daisies wilt and fade.

    Poetry preserves the mind,

Time in its blooming.

 

To get a real feel for excellent Haiku read some Basho http://oaks.nvg.org/basho.html, but remember in English the Japanese doesn’t always have the 5,7,5 syllable translation.  

Master Basho Haiku

old dark sleepy pool…

    quick unexpected frog

Goes plop! Watersplash! 

Now try it yourself and slip one in your pocket www.poets.org. You never know when you might need a poem to share.

Baldauf Haiku 

Chrysanthemums paint

       a color pallet for spring.

Brushstrokes for the eyes.