We talked about my shirt.
A couple of years ago, my sister gave me a Banana Republic t-shirt she didn't particularly like. It looks real good on me. I'm not really sure why exactly, whether it's the cut or the fabric, but it hugs my shoulders and chest and clings in such a way that I feel and look a little like a God.
The shirt seems to enhance or compliment the better parts of my body, makes my arms look a little bigger and the damned shirt didn't have holes in it, I'd wear it every day of my life.
I love that shirt.
She read my vitals: 127 over 78 with a pulse of 69. Not bad.
"I need to work on the cardio a bit more," I said.
"You work out?" It was almost flirting.
"Yeah, weights and an arc-trainer at South Charleston Rec." Where elderly gay men openly stare at my package, but I didn't mention that part. Instead, I posed and flexed a bicep.
She laughed.
"Do you have kids?"
I nodded. Yes, I have many kids. I have no idea why you are asking me this, but yes, I have many, many children. I am the father of nations.
She checked my blood.
"You're always in a good mood," she told me, which wasn't entirely true, but could be as far as she was concerned. "Some people don't even want me to touch them." She shook her head. "They get mad about drawing blood, start yelling."
I frowned.
"You kind of have to, right?" I tried to think of some way where no contact was possible. "And if they hate that part, with the lance thing, how are they going to feel about what goes on in back."
There was no other way to put this.
"This isn't for fun," I said. "I'm not doing it... none of us are here because we want to do this. This was not our first choice." She nodded. I was preaching to the choir. It wasn't her first choice either. "I guess you've got to wrap your head around what's being done. If you think of it as a job, it's not so bad --and better than fast food."
OK, that last thing was pure bullshit. Bleeding isn't better than a shift at McDonalds. It just sounds like it would be.
The tech smiled. My blood work checked out. She sent me on my way.
It might have been the beard, but I could have swore, by the way she looked at me, she thought I was cute.
It had to be the t-shirt.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Cancer man: clown
I have a not-too-unreasonable fear of Cancer. In my life, it has killed two grandfathers, a couple of uncles, a great aunt or two and was a factor in my grandmother's death. It's also popped up in the lives of my sisters and is the odds on favorite for how I will eventually go.
Part of the reason I've continued with the Road to Recovery program with the American Cancer Society is because Cancer is waiting for me. I've seen how frail it makes people who have it. I have compassion for them because I have compassion for that future me, that shriveled man somewhere down the line who will likely face it alone.
I am man who is very aware of the reality of his surroundings.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the circus, from Ringling Brothers. A clown, who I did a feature on, was diagnosed with brain cancer. Surgery had been performed, but they were really only able to remove part of the tumor. They're treating it as best they can, trying to keep him comfortable and in good spirits, but his hopes for a meaningful recovery sound bleak.
The treatment buys him some time.
Someone at the circus remembered the article, remembered maybe that he liked it, and wanted a copy to send him they could put on his wall. The circus was gathering things to help cheer him up and show them they cared now, especially now.
I said yes. I didn't hesitate. I didn't ask anybody what it was going to cost. I just said yes.
It took a little bit of doing. It wasn't entirely easy, but I had help shepherding it through. The glossy poster version of his front page article got done and all I had to do was write a check to pay for it --something I will do in a few minutes once I figure out where the accounting department is in this building. Our secretary, really kind of a saint, gave up her money for the postage. The poster is already in the mail.
I've thought about the clown, about why the man behind the makeup got into his chosen field. It's not an easy choice to become a circus clown. It's an outright weird choice. There are much easier and more obvious ways to become an entertainer, but he chose it, I think, because he loved the audience, because he loves children.
As a symbol, I couldn't think of anything sadder in the world: a clown dying slowly of cancer.
I think I would have said yes, even if the picture had cost a hundred bucks. As it happened, it didn't. There's not a lot of justice in the way of things, but you can get a discount now and then.
Part of the reason I've continued with the Road to Recovery program with the American Cancer Society is because Cancer is waiting for me. I've seen how frail it makes people who have it. I have compassion for them because I have compassion for that future me, that shriveled man somewhere down the line who will likely face it alone.
I am man who is very aware of the reality of his surroundings.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the circus, from Ringling Brothers. A clown, who I did a feature on, was diagnosed with brain cancer. Surgery had been performed, but they were really only able to remove part of the tumor. They're treating it as best they can, trying to keep him comfortable and in good spirits, but his hopes for a meaningful recovery sound bleak.
The treatment buys him some time.
Someone at the circus remembered the article, remembered maybe that he liked it, and wanted a copy to send him they could put on his wall. The circus was gathering things to help cheer him up and show them they cared now, especially now.
I said yes. I didn't hesitate. I didn't ask anybody what it was going to cost. I just said yes.
It took a little bit of doing. It wasn't entirely easy, but I had help shepherding it through. The glossy poster version of his front page article got done and all I had to do was write a check to pay for it --something I will do in a few minutes once I figure out where the accounting department is in this building. Our secretary, really kind of a saint, gave up her money for the postage. The poster is already in the mail.
I've thought about the clown, about why the man behind the makeup got into his chosen field. It's not an easy choice to become a circus clown. It's an outright weird choice. There are much easier and more obvious ways to become an entertainer, but he chose it, I think, because he loved the audience, because he loves children.
As a symbol, I couldn't think of anything sadder in the world: a clown dying slowly of cancer.
I think I would have said yes, even if the picture had cost a hundred bucks. As it happened, it didn't. There's not a lot of justice in the way of things, but you can get a discount now and then.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
No, I didn't unfriend you.
No, I didn't un-friend you on Facebook. I didn't suddenly get annoyed with you stalking. I wasn't offended by something you wrote or by some stray comment you might have made. I just quit.
A friend at work brought up my recent departure from Facebook. For a moment, he'd thought I'd deleted him from my vast network of admirers, well-wishers and people who just dig the weird shit I say, but then realized, nobody was still my digital pal. I'd pulled the trigger on my account. Ka-pow. Gone.
It wasn't personal or maybe it was. I have like 570 or so people who I've picked up over the last year or so. Some are old fraternity brothers, a few are high school friends, one or two are people I've worked with in the last 20 years and the rest came from everywhere. Some of them are fellow bloggers I've had contact with. It's a lot of people.
I love people. I'm a guy who likes lots of friends, is into talking and hanging out, but Facebook really isn't about that. It's mostly about endlessly touching base, but never really getting far beyond that --at least, it was for me.
After my meltdown last week, I started reevaluating things and started thinking about the nature of some of my relationships. How many strictly digital friendships did I want? Looking at it that way, I felt disposable. I didn't like the way it felt --so I quit. I hung it up in favor of maybe rebuilding some real friendships, finding some new ones and being a person instead of a ten second sound byte or a video game character.
A couple of people have contacted me or spoken to me to ask me what's up and I've explained that I'm not entirely through with Facebook. As a guy who writes feature stories, I have to go where the stories are and there are stories on Facebook. But I'm taking a break from it and when I go back in a few weeks or a few months, I'm not going to be doing the same shit I was doing.
I know it's the coolest thing. I know it's supposed to be the biggest innovation in communications since movable type (seriously, I read that, I think, on Huffington Post), but it ultimately could be as bad for us as refined white flour, corn syrup or heroin --things that seemed like good ideas at the time, but have become a few of our local demons.
I am probably being overly dramatic, but I do know, it was too much. I craved the interaction, but ultimately felt lonelier and less connected because of Facebook.
I'd rather blog. I'd rather write letters, exchange e-mails or phone calls and every once in a while, meet for a cup of coffee or a cheeseburger, look across the table and just catch up.
Just a few less drive-by relationships. That's what I want.
A friend at work brought up my recent departure from Facebook. For a moment, he'd thought I'd deleted him from my vast network of admirers, well-wishers and people who just dig the weird shit I say, but then realized, nobody was still my digital pal. I'd pulled the trigger on my account. Ka-pow. Gone.
It wasn't personal or maybe it was. I have like 570 or so people who I've picked up over the last year or so. Some are old fraternity brothers, a few are high school friends, one or two are people I've worked with in the last 20 years and the rest came from everywhere. Some of them are fellow bloggers I've had contact with. It's a lot of people.
I love people. I'm a guy who likes lots of friends, is into talking and hanging out, but Facebook really isn't about that. It's mostly about endlessly touching base, but never really getting far beyond that --at least, it was for me.
After my meltdown last week, I started reevaluating things and started thinking about the nature of some of my relationships. How many strictly digital friendships did I want? Looking at it that way, I felt disposable. I didn't like the way it felt --so I quit. I hung it up in favor of maybe rebuilding some real friendships, finding some new ones and being a person instead of a ten second sound byte or a video game character.
A couple of people have contacted me or spoken to me to ask me what's up and I've explained that I'm not entirely through with Facebook. As a guy who writes feature stories, I have to go where the stories are and there are stories on Facebook. But I'm taking a break from it and when I go back in a few weeks or a few months, I'm not going to be doing the same shit I was doing.
I know it's the coolest thing. I know it's supposed to be the biggest innovation in communications since movable type (seriously, I read that, I think, on Huffington Post), but it ultimately could be as bad for us as refined white flour, corn syrup or heroin --things that seemed like good ideas at the time, but have become a few of our local demons.
I am probably being overly dramatic, but I do know, it was too much. I craved the interaction, but ultimately felt lonelier and less connected because of Facebook.
I'd rather blog. I'd rather write letters, exchange e-mails or phone calls and every once in a while, meet for a cup of coffee or a cheeseburger, look across the table and just catch up.
Just a few less drive-by relationships. That's what I want.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
blood: walking
One of my most consistent complaints about going to the plasma center is I have to give up a morning at the gym to go. I'm on the Tuesday/Friday donor schedule and among the seemingly endless rules, regulations and guidelines for bleeding, they recommend you don't do any heavy lifting afterward.
Specifically, they mean yard work. That's what the nurse told me, which I thought was funny at the time --who would do that? Sell some blood; go hack down weeds.
Well, people who do yard work, as in the guy who drags the mower up and down the street looking for lawns, the guy who makes his living clipping hedges, spreading mulch and moving the dead limbs in the backyard.
More than a few of the local guys sell their plasma. Maybe, just consider, if you hire some greasy longhair to cut grass and put mulch out on your lawn, you could tip.
But me, I lamented the fact I couldn't lift weights. In fact, the nurse recommended I not even get on a treadmill for half a day after a donation for fear of it causing bruising.
Mind you, the bruising isn't really a health issue. It just makes the needle work a little more problematic. It can actually disqualify a bleeder from donating.
Anyway, today I finally got my car into the garage. It needed an inspection in August and while the local cops may not always be so hot at catching the bad guys, they are like Spider-man and the Batman rolled into one when it comes to minor traffic violations.
I've been living on borrowed time for weeks.
So I dropped the car off, grabbed my pack full of library books and hiked over to the Plasma Center. It wasn't a bad walk --about twenty minutes up, about twenty minutes back. I didn't mind it at all and it was a change of pace from slinging my limbs to and fro on the arc trainer.
Next time, I will do it without so many graphic novels, cookbooks and a boxed lunch --I also had the Bret Easton Ellis book, which I finished.
I was worried about feeling weak on the walk back, toward the library then work. Sometimes after I bleed, I feel a little out of sorts, just a little bit drained. I'm always hungry, but I planned ahead. I sucked down a Slimfast right after I left the plasma center. They recommend food and drink after donating and what better way to both than in a convenient steel can.
I chose the strawberry condom flavored slimfast. It's my favorite.
Anyway, the walk wasn't terrible and it's a good way to make better use of my time, get out a little bit and find some time to exercise. Hell, it may even save me a buck or two in gas, which is good. Repairs to my car are going to run $800.
That's a lot of blood.
It never ends.
Specifically, they mean yard work. That's what the nurse told me, which I thought was funny at the time --who would do that? Sell some blood; go hack down weeds.
Well, people who do yard work, as in the guy who drags the mower up and down the street looking for lawns, the guy who makes his living clipping hedges, spreading mulch and moving the dead limbs in the backyard.
More than a few of the local guys sell their plasma. Maybe, just consider, if you hire some greasy longhair to cut grass and put mulch out on your lawn, you could tip.
But me, I lamented the fact I couldn't lift weights. In fact, the nurse recommended I not even get on a treadmill for half a day after a donation for fear of it causing bruising.
Mind you, the bruising isn't really a health issue. It just makes the needle work a little more problematic. It can actually disqualify a bleeder from donating.
Anyway, today I finally got my car into the garage. It needed an inspection in August and while the local cops may not always be so hot at catching the bad guys, they are like Spider-man and the Batman rolled into one when it comes to minor traffic violations.
I've been living on borrowed time for weeks.
So I dropped the car off, grabbed my pack full of library books and hiked over to the Plasma Center. It wasn't a bad walk --about twenty minutes up, about twenty minutes back. I didn't mind it at all and it was a change of pace from slinging my limbs to and fro on the arc trainer.
Next time, I will do it without so many graphic novels, cookbooks and a boxed lunch --I also had the Bret Easton Ellis book, which I finished.
I was worried about feeling weak on the walk back, toward the library then work. Sometimes after I bleed, I feel a little out of sorts, just a little bit drained. I'm always hungry, but I planned ahead. I sucked down a Slimfast right after I left the plasma center. They recommend food and drink after donating and what better way to both than in a convenient steel can.
I chose the strawberry condom flavored slimfast. It's my favorite.
Anyway, the walk wasn't terrible and it's a good way to make better use of my time, get out a little bit and find some time to exercise. Hell, it may even save me a buck or two in gas, which is good. Repairs to my car are going to run $800.
That's a lot of blood.
It never ends.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Cancer Man Returns Again
The apartment was a little slice of hell, not the kind of place where you'd want grow up, not the kind of place you'd ever want to go to die. As it happens, we seldom get those kind of choices. You're born where you're born. You die wherever. Most of the time, you're greeted by a crowd coming in. Most of the time, you leave when there's no one looking.
The door was at the end of a long stretch of stairs. A swollen and prematurely carved jack-o-lantern guarded the last step. It was already beginning to rot and the rain coming down wouldn't help.
The window next to the door had been patched over. In it's place was a restaurant sign advertising loaded nachos. The job wasn't a quick fix. It was permanent.
What kind of asshole landlord would do that?
Gina shuffled outside, all smiles and frenetic politeness. She didn't mean to call, didn't want to be a bother, but she didn't want to miss her appointment.
I apologized. I wasn't late. She was in no way behind schedule, but I'd been answering an e-mail. I wanted to make sure a friend was OK.
She got in the car and we drove. She told me about her daughter again, clarifying some of the things she'd said before. Last time, she'd been groggy. She'd taken a pain pill before we left and the drugs had knocked her on her ass. I'd thought it was just the chemo, but Gina told me she's taking quite a bit of medication.
"Me and the other daughter clashed," she said. "She was moving in with the boyfriend and I went along. He had a big house."
What the daughter had failed to mention was that she and the boyfriend expected her to watch her daughter's two kids all summer long.
"I told her not to take them out of daycare, but she did." She frowned. "I don't mind helping out, but not all the time."
On a fixed income, a disability check, and with cancer, they'd brought her in as an indentured servant.
"We clashed. Boy, we clashed. " And she left and moved in with another daughter with equally complicated, but less troublesome issues.
"She can't drive," she told me, shook her head and laughed. "Boy, she can't drive."
At the office, the nurse told us it would be two to three hours for her treatment. Gina gave me the card for her doctor and told me to call him after while. She didn't see any point to have me wait around.
I went back to work, checked in with the doctor and they called me when she was finished.
I ushered her carefully back into the car. Most of the spunk and spark Gina had going for her before the treatment was gone. She was tired and fearsome of the traffic.
"I don't want to tell you how to drive," she told me. "I'm just making suggestions."
On the way, she offered me a small can of Pepsi.
"I grabbed this," she said. "I thought you might like it."
I told her I couldn't. I'd just started another diet.
She put it away.
"I don't drink soda too much on account I had a colostomy." She laughed miserably. "I'm all eaten up." She wasn't the only one. "A girl in there, burst a bag." She looked out the window. "She should have said something. I had some spares."
In the car, I noticed the smell: the chemical smell of a funeral home, the smell of death. It was all over her and everywhere in my car. Quite suddenly, I wanted to get her home and get as far away as I could.
I kept my hands on the wheel, drove and just listened. You don't get cancer by riding in a car with a cancer patient.
"They wouldn't tell me how many treatments I had left," she said. "I asked the man and he said he was going to check, but then I took my pill and I forgot and he forgot."
"You could probably call them tomorrow," I told her.
Gina nodded. She could do that. Sure, she could.
"I saved that article," she told me and I didn't know what she was talking about. "That one you did with Judy Garland's daughter. I cut it out and kept it."
"You saved that?" I smiled. "That's..." I didn't know what to say. "It wasn't a very good article," I told her. "Not my best." I looked at her. "Thank-you. You didn't have to do that."
She didn't say anything.
We navigated backstreets and side roads to finally bring her back to her daughter's apartment.
"You can let me out right here. I appreciate you doing this. Thank-you." She skittered off toward those long steps with the sagging Jack-o-lantern at the top. She didn't want me to follow, but I waited at the curb and watched her find the door before I drove away.
I wish I could have brought her some place else.
The door was at the end of a long stretch of stairs. A swollen and prematurely carved jack-o-lantern guarded the last step. It was already beginning to rot and the rain coming down wouldn't help.
The window next to the door had been patched over. In it's place was a restaurant sign advertising loaded nachos. The job wasn't a quick fix. It was permanent.
What kind of asshole landlord would do that?
Gina shuffled outside, all smiles and frenetic politeness. She didn't mean to call, didn't want to be a bother, but she didn't want to miss her appointment.
I apologized. I wasn't late. She was in no way behind schedule, but I'd been answering an e-mail. I wanted to make sure a friend was OK.
She got in the car and we drove. She told me about her daughter again, clarifying some of the things she'd said before. Last time, she'd been groggy. She'd taken a pain pill before we left and the drugs had knocked her on her ass. I'd thought it was just the chemo, but Gina told me she's taking quite a bit of medication.
"Me and the other daughter clashed," she said. "She was moving in with the boyfriend and I went along. He had a big house."
What the daughter had failed to mention was that she and the boyfriend expected her to watch her daughter's two kids all summer long.
"I told her not to take them out of daycare, but she did." She frowned. "I don't mind helping out, but not all the time."
On a fixed income, a disability check, and with cancer, they'd brought her in as an indentured servant.
"We clashed. Boy, we clashed. " And she left and moved in with another daughter with equally complicated, but less troublesome issues.
"She can't drive," she told me, shook her head and laughed. "Boy, she can't drive."
At the office, the nurse told us it would be two to three hours for her treatment. Gina gave me the card for her doctor and told me to call him after while. She didn't see any point to have me wait around.
I went back to work, checked in with the doctor and they called me when she was finished.
I ushered her carefully back into the car. Most of the spunk and spark Gina had going for her before the treatment was gone. She was tired and fearsome of the traffic.
"I don't want to tell you how to drive," she told me. "I'm just making suggestions."
On the way, she offered me a small can of Pepsi.
"I grabbed this," she said. "I thought you might like it."
I told her I couldn't. I'd just started another diet.
She put it away.
"I don't drink soda too much on account I had a colostomy." She laughed miserably. "I'm all eaten up." She wasn't the only one. "A girl in there, burst a bag." She looked out the window. "She should have said something. I had some spares."
In the car, I noticed the smell: the chemical smell of a funeral home, the smell of death. It was all over her and everywhere in my car. Quite suddenly, I wanted to get her home and get as far away as I could.
I kept my hands on the wheel, drove and just listened. You don't get cancer by riding in a car with a cancer patient.
"They wouldn't tell me how many treatments I had left," she said. "I asked the man and he said he was going to check, but then I took my pill and I forgot and he forgot."
"You could probably call them tomorrow," I told her.
Gina nodded. She could do that. Sure, she could.
"I saved that article," she told me and I didn't know what she was talking about. "That one you did with Judy Garland's daughter. I cut it out and kept it."
"You saved that?" I smiled. "That's..." I didn't know what to say. "It wasn't a very good article," I told her. "Not my best." I looked at her. "Thank-you. You didn't have to do that."
She didn't say anything.
We navigated backstreets and side roads to finally bring her back to her daughter's apartment.
"You can let me out right here. I appreciate you doing this. Thank-you." She skittered off toward those long steps with the sagging Jack-o-lantern at the top. She didn't want me to follow, but I waited at the curb and watched her find the door before I drove away.
I wish I could have brought her some place else.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
blood: scar tissue
"What, no hippie book today?"
"No," I said and held up a copy of "Imperial Bedrooms" by Bret Easton Ellis. "No, this isn't about starting a commune."
She smiled and had no idea whatsoever what I was reading. She just wanted to say hi. After 32 visits to the plasma center, I'm now a regular and since I bathe, don't come in drunk or high, don't appear to be fresh from a prison chain gang and don't act like I'm a good candidate for a restraining order, they're trying to make me into a character in their ongoing drama.
This is completely reasonable, since they are all characters here.
"Right or left arm?" The milker asked me.
As usual, I said, "left."
She sat me at a recliner that, unfortunately, was facing away from the big screen tv playing "Walk The Line." I haven't actually seen the film and had just caught enough of it out in the lobby to be sort of interested.
Everybody else had a great view and seemed completely enraptured, including the bleeder come to stick me, which is always a little nerve wracking.
"No commune book today?" She asked.
"No," I said and again held up what I was reading. "Just this."
The milker looked over to her co-worker.
"No commune today."
"Oh, too bad," the girl said. "We were both hoping to join."
And this, I thought, could be flirting, except it isn't. At best, they were gently mocking me, which is sort of annoying when you want to believe that attractive strangers might flirt with you. That stopped a while back. Time to move on.
Anyway, I considered explaining what the book was about, how it was a sequel to "Less Than Zero," and go into how much fun that is --not to mention the rest of Ellis's catalog, which is largely for masochists, but I wasn't up for the contempt.
If I was so damned smart, what was I doing here?
It was an argument I could not hope to win.
Meanwhile, the milker assigned to me, looked at the scar in my elbow sourly.
"This vein sucks," she said.
"I'd switch to the other arm," I told her. "But that vein is crooked and last time I tried it, that hurt --a lot."
She looked at me. Her friend and fellow commune enthusiast was interested, too.
"Who did that"
"I don't remember." Though, I did. She just wasn't visible at the moment and I don't speak ill of people who might be sticking me with needles.
"Was it a man or a woman?" She asked.
"A woman," I told her, the truth, though neither of them seemed happy to hear that. They'd both been complaining about some other milker, a guy, who neither of them trusted. I didn't catch the name and they didn't seem interested in passing along the information a second time.
"How bad is my arm?" I asked.
She shook her head, frowned.
"It's got a bunch of knots and lumps from the scar tissue. The vein is hard."
I nodded. This will only get worse.
"Will this become too difficult to get a needle into?" I asked. "Is this going to eventually stop me from donating?"
She shook her head.
"No."
But she seemed to be saying it was going to make it more likely that getting stuck would hurt.
It doesn't matter. I'm good at that.
"No," I said and held up a copy of "Imperial Bedrooms" by Bret Easton Ellis. "No, this isn't about starting a commune."
She smiled and had no idea whatsoever what I was reading. She just wanted to say hi. After 32 visits to the plasma center, I'm now a regular and since I bathe, don't come in drunk or high, don't appear to be fresh from a prison chain gang and don't act like I'm a good candidate for a restraining order, they're trying to make me into a character in their ongoing drama.
This is completely reasonable, since they are all characters here.
"Right or left arm?" The milker asked me.
As usual, I said, "left."
She sat me at a recliner that, unfortunately, was facing away from the big screen tv playing "Walk The Line." I haven't actually seen the film and had just caught enough of it out in the lobby to be sort of interested.
Everybody else had a great view and seemed completely enraptured, including the bleeder come to stick me, which is always a little nerve wracking.
"No commune book today?" She asked.
"No," I said and again held up what I was reading. "Just this."
The milker looked over to her co-worker.
"No commune today."
"Oh, too bad," the girl said. "We were both hoping to join."
And this, I thought, could be flirting, except it isn't. At best, they were gently mocking me, which is sort of annoying when you want to believe that attractive strangers might flirt with you. That stopped a while back. Time to move on.
Anyway, I considered explaining what the book was about, how it was a sequel to "Less Than Zero," and go into how much fun that is --not to mention the rest of Ellis's catalog, which is largely for masochists, but I wasn't up for the contempt.
If I was so damned smart, what was I doing here?
It was an argument I could not hope to win.
Meanwhile, the milker assigned to me, looked at the scar in my elbow sourly.
"This vein sucks," she said.
"I'd switch to the other arm," I told her. "But that vein is crooked and last time I tried it, that hurt --a lot."
She looked at me. Her friend and fellow commune enthusiast was interested, too.
"Who did that"
"I don't remember." Though, I did. She just wasn't visible at the moment and I don't speak ill of people who might be sticking me with needles.
"Was it a man or a woman?" She asked.
"A woman," I told her, the truth, though neither of them seemed happy to hear that. They'd both been complaining about some other milker, a guy, who neither of them trusted. I didn't catch the name and they didn't seem interested in passing along the information a second time.
"How bad is my arm?" I asked.
She shook her head, frowned.
"It's got a bunch of knots and lumps from the scar tissue. The vein is hard."
I nodded. This will only get worse.
"Will this become too difficult to get a needle into?" I asked. "Is this going to eventually stop me from donating?"
She shook her head.
"No."
But she seemed to be saying it was going to make it more likely that getting stuck would hurt.
It doesn't matter. I'm good at that.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Reckoning II
I've been working on another book for a while --a familiar book, about snake handlers, evil preachers and secret doings in pleasant Lee County. Things were going great and now they are definitely not.
I'm putting that one in a drawer --maybe for a while, maybe forever. I don't know. The drive to finish the book is gone. I just don't want to look at it any more. I can't look at it right now, for sure.
In the meantime, I'm not sure what to do. Probably, the right thing is to pick up the other book, my long suffering, happy-happy book about a suicide that goes wrong and dig back into that. Silliness and mayhem might be just what I need --and I have a new take on it.
Emotional upheaval turns out to be very useful creatively. It would be great if something decent came out of all of this.
I'm putting that one in a drawer --maybe for a while, maybe forever. I don't know. The drive to finish the book is gone. I just don't want to look at it any more. I can't look at it right now, for sure.
In the meantime, I'm not sure what to do. Probably, the right thing is to pick up the other book, my long suffering, happy-happy book about a suicide that goes wrong and dig back into that. Silliness and mayhem might be just what I need --and I have a new take on it.
Emotional upheaval turns out to be very useful creatively. It would be great if something decent came out of all of this.
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