The Slumber Party
Posted on June 3, 2014 Leave a Comment
On a Friday night in June, we rounded the corner past the elevators,
floors thick with dented wax
and walls thick with beige over blue
over beige over blue.
There’s a minor blaze to keep us on our toes, said a nurse
whose edgy bucktoothed laughter guided her in step with an empty wheelchair.
And so I had seen the old man shuffle downstairs,
throwing lit Camels in the bathroom sink –
which was really a pleather recliner –
and how they caught and smoldered a moment
before their flames jumped to the over-painted sill,
framing the dirty glass reflection of flecks, specks of dirt, and remnants of spring grime
into one cloacal conflagration.
I had seen,
but said nothing –
lightly jumped from one pale green tile to another,
the grownups following behind.
In the room below the window, the flashing lights twirled and slanted red and blue up to me
in the outlined
EXIT
shining dusky at my feet.
Slamming doors, switches thrown –
and now –
no way out.
The orange sun made a final drop as this jump was contemplated.
Pushing the window out of its bed of sticky paint and pollen,
there is a rush of early summer chill
quickly depositing a deepened musk of fire under the edges of my nostrils,
a mist of hose-sprayed water on my flushed forehead.
Measuring the distance in confidence, I assume the best,
knowing my sleeping bag is curled and twined in the station wagon, waiting.
Who will survive?
I will. I will.
I Have Created Myself
Posted on May 28, 2014 Leave a Comment
On the day the bird takes flight, all will be the same.
A dreary, lint-colored felt will serve as a swath of sky,
paring itself into small circles of blue dreams
from which desperation will seep,
then pour –
and finally inundate
beneath.
But there will be no harbingers to precede
or even tardily accompany her
as these mirrored images are realized, reflected.
The change must – and will – be
a surprise,
apprehended by sudden courage,
instant grace,
and the sum of all sorrows,
failures,
rejections.
In this remedy amounting to triumph with quickened ascent,
all will be the same –
except she will soar in flight,
above the View-Mastered earth, dimensioned in the debris
of its own beauty.
Alone and astonished at her song –
I have created myself –
finally, she sings.
In the rise of her wings and the resiliency of her heart,
she sings –
I have created myself.
At Fred’s
Posted on May 22, 2014 Leave a Comment
Sitting below the tin sunshine of morning, they are
all for themselves
on the vinyl swivels of impending gossip, the backs of shared misfortune.
Cups of milky tea, stringed labels
Lipton-bright
dangled amid crumbs and crumpled sugar packets.
The greenish-hued Princess Pseudomona reigns,
and her ear-bent court of retirees
ne’er-do-wells
braggarts
circumspectly defer,
awaiting the sovereignty of their turn to grouse and gripe,
while the throng of the late backpack-laden
simply grab a buttered roll, one sneaker out the door, one hand clutching a Gatorade,
one eye on a swift escape.
To be a martyr is to be burned at the stake –
This they know without having to be told
or left to wonder where the party is.
It is the grumbling and groveling of the regulars
that is the party, the grist of the mill.
As the fingerprinted glass door swings wildly open,
and slack signs carelessly taped are caught in the cross breeze,
the burden of this party is left behind.
The tin sunshine of morning reigns.
Mantra
Posted on May 19, 2014 2 Comments
When I open my eyes each morning to a new day,
my child is dead.
When I yawn, stretch before arising, and dangle my feet off the bed,
my child is dead.
When I worriedly listen for my other son’s soft breaths as he sleeps,
my child is dead.
When I am overjoyed at the presence of those warm breaths on my face,
my child is dead.
When I eat breakfast with my still-breathing son,
my child is dead.
When I laugh and hug him, relieved and thankful,
my child is dead.
When we hurriedly walk the dog before leaving for school,
my child is dead.
When I drive to work and curse at the traffic,
my child is dead.
When I arrive at the doorstep of another week,
my child is dead.
When I sit down at my desk to begin my day,
my child is dead.
When we chatter about the mindless television we watched last night,
my child is dead.
When we decide what to eat for lunch,
my child is dead.
When I eat a yogurt instead,
my child is dead.
When we complain we’re tired after lunch and need a nap,
my child is dead.
When there is so much to be done,
my child is dead.
When there’s little to be done,
my child is dead.
When there’s nothing to be done,
my child is dead.
When I absently drive home,
my child is dead.
When I am elated to hear children’s laughter in the schoolyard,
my child is dead.
When we excitedly share the stories of our day,
my child is dead.
When we sit down to dinner,
my child is dead.
When I cheer at baseball games and finish checking homework late in the evening,
my child is dead.
When I close my eyes and pretend to sleep,
my child is dead.
When I smile,
my child is dead.
When I mourn,
my child is dead.
When I breathe,
my child is dead.
And when I live,
my child is dead.
Squandering Stories
Posted on May 16, 2014 Leave a Comment
In third grade at Yantacaw School, we had a weekly timeslot reserved for show-and-tell – sometimes involving show-and-listen, where we were allowed the opportunity to share our favorite music with classmates – more like show-and-tell lite. I believe this is where I may have been exposed to the one-eyed, one-horned, flying Purple People Eater – something I can’t unhear – and, possibly, On Top of Spaghetti. Which also can’t be unheard. Nope. (You’re welcome, for the earworms.)
In preparation, most of us spent the entire week envisioning the absolute, hands-down, perfect show-and-tell piece. This was serious stuff. So, after as much advance consideration as an 8 year-old can rally, I schlepped my mom’s copy of Tapestry to Mrs. Story’s class, eager to share its melodic treasures of deep elementary school meaning. (It was that, or the soundtrack to Hair – a close second. Carole King won. Probably because she was Really Rosie. Hello.)
On that Friday, I presented my selection to Mrs. Story. I was promptly vetoed for the subject matter’s inappropriateness (!), certainly difficult to wrap my adult head around. Yes, my head. Where my ears are. The ones which hear my son and his friend giddily singing Baby Got Back – a classic, for sure – in the dugout on Saturday mornings. Inappropriate? Um….okay. (Good thing I didn’t bring in Hair. Whew.)
I’m not sure if I’ve ever fully recovered from this thwarted attempt to share my love for Carole King with the world (that is, third grade). Luckily, though, her career was able to thrive, notwithstanding the injustice of it. And I have no idea what, in fact, I actually showed-and-told that day, if anything. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the story I wanted to tell.
Which brings me to my point.
Tell the stories you want to tell. Even better, in doing so, follow the March Hare’s advice: say what you mean. Your stories aren’t to be squandered – they’re to be told. I, myself, don’t ever want to wind up like Harry in The Snows of Kilimanjaro, mentally kicking myself with a gangrenous leg for having frittered away a lifetime of opportunity, overwrought by the fear of perhaps offending someone, or – even worse – what might be thought of me. Whatever it is YOU want to do, do it now. Say it now. Live it now. Regret is a common literary theme for a reason.
So I will keep telling my stories. Even if they’re mediocre. Even if no one is listening (or reading) now. Eventually, someone may.
I won’t be a squanderer. And I will say what I mean.
The Happy Hour
Posted on May 14, 2014 Leave a Comment
Cocktails
FOR SALE
is what it says.
Underneath the
‘FOR SALE’
are fragmented black letters,
dissimilar in size,
chipped and discolored
to almost grey (not gray).
-Buy 8 get 1 free-
We’ll buy them and drink them.
Carefully placed, you believe,
are those letters on the sign,
crooked and hanging,
the first ‘l’ dangling into the ‘S’ below.
Can’t be what it says, though.
-But does it say that?-
(It does.
Say that.)
For an instant, it’s considered
an outlandish, absurd exaggeration,
before realized – frantically admitted –
you want those 9 cocktails.
Who wouldn’t?
Confident you can drink the 8
and get the ninth,
or all of them,
free!
You raise your hand,
your (invisible) glass, too,
not recognizing no one asked.
Still standing up –
maybe even leaning on that sign –
without doubt next
falling over in a heap
next to some dirty brown Impala.
-Hey, that looks like a cop car-
is what you hear.
Either way, we can fake it,
as we turn around
and look again to see those letters suspended
in our faces.
It is almost certainly too early,
but that burning is already there,
felt in the back of the neck.
So we shiver to think
soon it will all be erased
and all be gone, all be better.
So much better,
when put in that perspective –
a jaded angle curved like a bottle
almost,
but clear, radiant –
biting the inside of the tongue,
cutting deep and blistery
in your cheek,
sweet and stinging within,
and blank.
Always bare, we cleanse the palette,
rinsed and ready for the opus.
That’s not what it says, though.
The building is for sale.
‘Cocktails’
is left over from the bawdy El Norte.
Oh, that’s why.
Our plummeting hearts
thought it was a day for the clinking
of cheap and shameful glass.
Thus humiliated by our desperate cravings,
the ‘l’ falls into the dirt and rocks,
not looking any different than before –
just gray (not grey),
and barely crowning the asphalt oasis.
It was a pleasant prospect.
Nonetheless.
Hey, Nurses, Happy Special Needs Caregivers Day
Posted on May 2, 2014 Leave a Comment
The evolution of National Nurses Week (May 6, 2014 – May 12, 2014) and National Nurses Day, which will honor nurses this year on Tuesday, May 6, 2014, has been a well-deserved reward for the hard work and dedication of nurses in all areas of the profession. Doctors don’t need any recognition like this because it comes as a matter of course to them. I’m sure they’d argue it doesn’t, but let’s not focus on them. We can just hand them some tiny violins and be on our way. Back to work, that is. Because nurses work really hard. Especially pediatric home care nurses, who diligently care for the sickest of children, not in hospitals, but at home and at school. Wherever their lives take them.
Pediatric home care nurses are the heroes who empower families to live as normal lives as possible, on their own terms and surrounded by familiarity, consistency, and caring. On this Nurses Day, as we celebrate the compassionate professionals who go the extra mile each day for their patients and families, it’s important to remember this, though: there’s no Special Needs Caregivers Day.
As a registered nurse for the past twenty years, I am delighted by the prospect of National Nurses Week. I embrace the hard won recognition of my profession, and do my best to foster a respect for it within the community. Nurses are smart, hard-working, and crucial to healthcare. But I’ve been on the other side of the coin, too. I have been the exhausted, frazzled, and frightened mother of a child with multiple medical needs. I’ve had to open the door of my house to strangers – nurses – and entrust my child to their care. And that ain’t easy.
From this perspective, as a nurse and a mom, I can’t offer you tote bags with National Nurses Week logos, or fancy multi-colored pens, or even a cheap lanyard for your ID card. I can offer you only what I’ve learned from years in the trenches, caring for my child shoulder to shoulder with nurses – these three essentials I always wished they knew:
1. We Know Our Hair’s a Mess. We Know This. And We Know Our Kid’s Hair is a Mess, Too.
Your patients’ houses are often a cradle of chaos. They are disheveled. Believe me, they’re embarrassed about it. Most of them, at least. The last thing they want to do is let you into their homes in such a state of disarray. But they know the most important thing is that their children are cared for. So they let you in, hoping you will overlook the mess, the disorder, the grime on the kitchen floor. It’s tough to do it all, and some things necessarily have to go to the back burner. If you walk into your patient’s home and it smells like dirty diapers, or you have to step over piles of laundry, please try to at least appear understanding. I bet you have piles of laundry in your homes, too.
2. We Are Your Equals.
We know you are professionals, and we appreciate that. We get it. We want your input. We want your advice. We also want you to respect us. As adults. (Sometimes you’re the only grown-ups we see!) As parents. As experts in the care of our children. As warriors in long, difficult battles to ensure only the best for our babies. Special needs parenting is fraught with obstacles. We are parents first, yes, but we also have a slew of other roles: insurance advocates, engineers, teachers, therapists, comedians, and – of course – nurses. Not nurses like you, but nurses to our children. Nurses who jump out of bed half-asleep to suction tracheostomies and readjust oxygen concentrators. We know what we’re doing – and if we don’t, teach us. Just don’t talk down to us.
3. Be Honest. We Can Take It.
Parents only want the best for their children. They want them to thrive and grow. To learn and achieve goals. Special needs parents want all these things for their children, too. We want them to reach their potential. From nurses – and all healthcare professionals, really – we want honesty. Don’t patronize us with clichés, vague opinions, and – worst of all – outright falsehoods (however well-intended) to placate our worst fears. Just tell us when you don’t know things. If we keep asking you questions like “Will my child ever walk?”, “Will my child ever talk?”, or “Will my child die?”, just be sincere in your answers. Most of the time, we already know those answers. We’re only looking for some support so that we can continue doing our job as parents. It’s not easy facing all that uncertainty. Just be candid without being cruel. Be hopeful without being unrealistic. Give it to us straight. We can take it. We have to. And our children will be better off for it.
Now go and celebrate being nurses! Just remember, we’re working with you.
Cat’s in the Cradle
Posted on May 1, 2014 Leave a Comment
When you’re young, it’s almost impossible to grasp the rapidity of the passage of time. Time certainly doesn’t seem to be moving quickly to you as you’re plodding through each day, wishing to grow up. Working with such a small frame of reference, kids are doomed to believe everything remains the same.
Having an older father, I was always aware of time in a sort of concrete sense: he was older than other kids’ dads, so had lived longer. In that way, I had an awareness of time, albeit peripheral. I say peripheral because, although I knew and appreciated the concept that our time on earth is limited, I still operated as though I had plenty of it to waste – which is the nature of childhood. And adulthood, too, so it would seem.
A few weeks ago on a Friday night, I took my son and his friend out for pizza. We were joking and laughing and generally being silly. We were having a great time – creating memories. As we drove away from the restaurant, “Cat’s in the Cradle” came on the radio. (Yeah, don’t judge me for listening to the Bridge on Sirius. It’s corny – but it’s just the right amount of chill for a car full of squealing kids.) I didn’t have my sunglasses on. And I started to cry. Which I always do when that damn song comes on. Even when I was 10, like my son and his friend. Because I began to understand then, even as I am only beginning to comprehend now, there isn’t an unlimited supply of chances racing down the pike for all of the things you want to do, or say, or be in life.
So they saw my tears. “She always cries when this song comes on, “ Danny reported to his friend with an eye roll.
And I do. And I’m not embarrassed.
I wish I had so much more time with all of the important people in my life who have died. If only I hadn’t rolled my eyes long enough to ask my father why his mother’s name was Filomena. When you’re a kid, you always think there are plenty of moments left for all of the things you want to know.
There aren’t.
Thankfully, my father, being pretty clever, imparted a decent amount of what I needed to know without me ever even having to ask.
So I’ll keep listening to the Bridge. Because I know there’s always a pretty good chance I’ll hear “Cat’s in the Cradle,” and it will remind me – in that synchronous way songs sometimes do – to ask the important questions of the people who are still here. To listen for their answers.
It will remind me to give my son some of the answers, too.
50 Going on 2
Posted on April 30, 2014 Leave a Comment
When work feels overwhelming, remember that you’re going to die.
We have a coffee mug in our office with those words written on it. It isn’t that I need to be reminded of this certainty. I do not. In my life, it has become a mantra of sorts. One that I probably say to myself no less than twenty times a day – replacing “work” with whichever other of a multitude of situations fits the bill. Responsibilities. Other people. Resisting chocolate chip cookies. Life.
Life is often overwhelming. Especially when you forget to stop sweating the small stuff, and you allow yourself to be sucked into the misery and ingratitude of the perennially miserable and ungrateful.
Lately, a cast of thousands.
It cannot be overstated – some things are important, and some just aren’t. If you resist getting a handle on what is and isn’t important, you are going to fail at life while simultaneously inflicting unnecessary gloom on everyone around you. If you consciously choose to be overwhelmed only when necessary, you’ll find there are a lot fewer instances where being overwhelmed is required than you probably thought.
I am consistently astounded by the minimal conditions needed to incite the most absurd levels of frustration and anger in people. As if someone is pointing a gun at them. Or their loved ones. Or at their chocolate chip cookies.
Really. Take a deep breath. Count to 100. Be thankful you’re breathing. If you can’t do those things, just be quiet. You’re ruining it for the rest of us who’ve realized it isn’t worth the effort to have temper tantrums.
We all have stress and heartache in our lives. When it seems too much to bear, it’s important to remember one truth – it will all end. Save your energy for when it actually counts.
Saliency
Posted on April 11, 2014 Leave a Comment
Swept under the rug of regret
are all the glossed-over particulars,
the minutiae
exchanged for the gray scale,
the broad strokes
-Please spare us the gory details.
There’s no need to go any further-
inbred and pled
are all those congenital smiles
-You keep doing it, and so will we-
and you will
and they will
keep smiling, that is,
at each other at everyone at no one
with gleaming atom bombs
never detonated,
4th of July duds that go up,
pop,
and leave only a small mist of smoke
to fall in the trees
and smolder,
a paled possibility of igniting unexpectedly,
but never doing so.
-Things like that just don’t happen here-
and just like that,
rolled up with a condescending
sweetie,
the fire burns itself out,
purposefully, remorselessly –
before a quick descent back to hell,
or rather is seen, but pretended away,
propelled by a thin swath of the superficial,
compelled to response by rote,
a waterfall of denial that
irrigates and irritates
the underside of angelic flow.
It barely trickles
beneath an easy deluge
of disguised calm,
not worth the effort to break the seal.
And so, ineptly, it’s easily faked,
covert and obvious, primarily ignored
saliency.
A Girl by the Bridge 
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