Short Story: Waiting
- At October 12, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
- 0
Hi Sandy,
I’m waiting for the morning to start. Bill is still sleeping. Had to sneak out. Didn’t want to disturb his beauty sleep. Ha, ha! Like sleep could remove his beer belly and love handles.
I shouldn’t complain. You know Marie. Her husband Smitty got hurt last December. Hasn’t worked since. It’s just awful. The roofing company he works for will not pay a cent until they have their people investigate the accident. You can imagine how long that’s going to take!!!
Oh, well. Linda Mahoney at the post office, you remember her, is quitting her job. She whispered this to me on Tuesday when I went in to mail your gift. She looked like she had been crying. Everyone always thought she had a thing for the UPS driver. I think his wife found out and raised hell.
How’s Larry doing? Bill said he talked to him at Home Depot getting supplies for his workshop. Bill said Larry was getting tired of the commute to Livermore Labs. That drive is the pits. But what are you going to do. You have to go where they pay the most money.
It’s been real hard on Bill having to change jobs after the layoff. Not much call for chemists anywhere, not that he minds working at Home Depot. At least he’s a manager, and you know, things could be a lot worse.
Anyway, I was wondering if you got your birthday gift on time and if you liked it. I know you collect those glass figurines and when I saw that crystal ballerina at Macy’s, I just thought to myself, that looks like Sandy! I hope it fits into your collection.
Well, Bill just woke up and I guess it’s time for the daily schedule to begin. I do envy your going to work every day and going out to lunch with friends.
I think about how we grew up in Sacramento and went to LA together. That was a hoot! Remember the frig that died with four porterhouse steaks in it that we had just gotten the night before with our tips from the Snack Shack?!
Sometimes I wish I had stayed my senior year, finished my degree, but Bill and I were crazy about each other and I was pregnant with Cheryl. Then, you know Bill’s mom offered to help us buy a home. Feels like a hundred years ago.
Sandy, do you ever have regrets? I mean deep regrets in the heart that have no words. Sometimes I feel like I was headed in one direction and then, hell, I don’t know what happened. So many of my days are alike. Most of the time I forget what day it is.
My girls get so impatient with my forgetting their swim meets and dance recitals. But you know nothing seems very important. Even Bill rolls his eyes at me. He says I’m unintentionally funny.
But I was funny. I was the funny one in our group and smart like you. I’m beginning to think maybe I wasn’t smart enough. So Sandy, what does a woman do when she wakes up and finds she’s living some other woman’s life? You know me, just kidding!
Send me a quick e-mail when you can. Hope to hear from you soon.
Love ya,
Amanda
Story: Attention Deficit
- At September 19, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
- 0
“Stop that! Lucy, are you listening to me?” At eight years old, Lucy had a perfect view of all ten elevator buttons. The last three floors were dedicated to psychiatric services.
Lucy pushed all three buttons, then slyly glanced at the man with glasses who returned her smile.
The doctor told Lucy’s mom that her daughter had an attention deficit disorder to which Fran, Lucy’s mom, replied, then why does this behavior only happen when she’s around me.
“Behave yourself!” Fran hissed in a whisper everyone heard. Fran gave what Lucy described to the doctor as her mom’s evil look, so evil Lucy could feel her face break into smithereens.
“Step back, please.” A nurse with a blue and white cap deftly turned the wheelchair so the teenage boy could be wheeled in facing the elevator doors.
“Hold the doors!” The woman was helped by the man with glasses who slid the doors back open for her. Lucy thought the lady was silly because she giggled the whole time the man was helping her. It wasn’t natural. This was her mom’s favorite thing to say.
The boy in the wheelchair ignored Lucy. Lucy noticed his hair stood straight up from his forehead. Fran grabbed Lucy’s hand before it reached the boy’s head.
“I’m Lucy. What’s your name?” Lucy stood directly in front of the teenage boy so he would pay attention to her.
“Ron.” His voice was slightly hoarse.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Lucy!” Fran was acutely aware of each person on the elevator and was convinced they all must think she was a terrible mother with a daughter who was never taught manners.
As the silent embarrassment continued, Fran’s blood pressure became elevated and her tension headache returned.
The woman who had giggled exchanged a knowing look with the man with glasses. Neither one had children but knew with utmost certainty, if they had children, they wouldn’t behave like Lucy.
The nurse perfectly expressed public opinion when she smiled at Lucy with false cheerfulness and spoke.
“My, aren’t we the curious one.” Lucy could hear the disapproval behind the words.
“Everything is wrong with me except my mind.” Ron looked into Lucy’s eyes.
“When I was eleven, the entire power of my body zoomed into my mind overnight, and in the morning I couldn’t move. I’ve been in a wheelchair ever since.”
The adults were drawn to Ron’s words, the hint of wry humor, casual bravery and some truth about his condition. But mainly they felt sorry for him.
“Cool!” Lucy smiled at Ron. Finally, someone worthy of her attention.
“Can I touch your hair?”
“You’ll have to pay a dollar for the privilege.”
The elevator doors opened and Lucy left with Ron and the nurse onto the fifth floor.
“Lucy! Get back here this second. Do you hear me?”
Story: Forgotten
- At September 12, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
- 0
Who am I who comes to this strange land of plenty, of breezes and olive trees, or so I’m told, and sand as far as my feet can walk.
Who has gone before me? I do not know. The sun is my roof, moving past an invisible horizon. No shadows form beneath the brush along a path beneath the sun’s light.
My memory wanders beside a large white tent. I hear a thin tinkle of bells as the camels move. I feel the sway of the saddle.
A fragment comes as silver glints in moonlight, knives held in nervous hands, eyes trying to see through silence, waiting for someone or something.
I recall a marketplace, smells of dung and sweat and strange fruits packed in salt to make them sweeter.
A familiar face appears. He smiles broadly so I will notice the gold in his teeth and not the intent in his eyes. His eyes search for what I am keeping from him, some secret thing I have forgotten.
His woman hides behind her veil. She bends her head and stares at the dust on her shoes. I feel her interest and even excitement in her breathing or maybe it is fear.
She would not be here without permission, without purpose. Into my mind comes the picture of my unmade bed on the worn Persian rug, a crumpled pack of menthol cigarettes, my American-made watch and seven one hundred dollar bills.
When I open the door in my mind wider, no walkway appears, no escape into knowing, not even another door.
I am surrounded by silence. The male face moves closer. I feel the warmth of the woman through her dress. She should never come so close to a male stranger.
A sharp pain begins from the woman’s hand in the middle of my chest and travels inward, stopping my heart. I no longer see the man’s face. I no longer feel the warmth. The silence opens and I slip away.
A Mixed Blessing
- At August 29, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog
- 0
I check the reflections in the glass doors just before we enter the Veteran’s Hospital in Fresno, California. I’m twice the size of my husband and I’m a small woman. Every four months or so he loses more muscle tissue. No one mentions wasting disease, only arthritis and the possibility of type 2 diabetes.
This will be my husband’s third colonoscopy in eight months. Again he will lose another three to four pounds. Travis has decided this will be the last colonoscopy for a long time. Travis and I both agree no one is looking at the physical strain this is causing.
Today we’ll take the elevator to the third floor where wives, sisters, brothers and neighbors wait for same day surgery procedures to be over, then there is the two to three hour wait as the anesthetic wears off.
The doctor will remove two polyps from Travis, one from his stomach, one from his colon. We’re told all polyps eventually become cancerous. Weeks later the biopsies will be benign, even the polyp that has existed for almost a year will exhibit no change.
So far, cancer has only appeared in patches on Travis’ face. This skin cancer was destroyed after five weeks of daily radiation treatments. Now, bright red spots appear on Travis’ face, then disappear in three to four hours. No one can explain why.
Recently, I tried to remember all the procedures Travis has gone through and the decisions that we had to make under duress. The consultation we had with the amazingly confident surgeon fifteen years ago ranks highest in difficulty.
Travis’ foot was losing circulation. He had one successful operation with veins transferred and circulation reinstated. Then the familiar blue-gray color and the pain were back in his left foot. This surgeon recommended removal of the foot “because no matter what you do, sooner or later the operation will fail and the foot will have to come off.”
The surgeon confidently explained through diagrams on a blackboard how they were going to remove the foot, how simple the procedure was and that he personally had done hundreds of these operations. I only knew I did not want Travis maimed in any way.
This prompted the question that had not been asked, “Where exactly, that is, how far above the ankle will you be cutting?” Travis remained silent and the surgeon’s smile remained fixed. “We’ll make the cut just below his knee. It will, of course, require some rehabilitation.”
Several weeks later, we sat in the hospital hallway with an intern, one of several assigned to the confident surgeon. It was winter and after 5 in the evening. I remember the pager calling for the surgeon until finally an intern informed us that the surgeon had left for the day.
The intern was given permission to do the procedure. Procedure was such a neutral word for an operation that called for a gut-wrenching decision. We remembered this young intern’s insistence, “Let’s do this. The faster it comes off, the quicker you can get rid of the pain.”
Travis and I had a mutual sense that the surgeon should have said something to us before he left. There was no solace to be found anywhere. Travis asked why we were discussing this in the hallway. The intern said, “No office space is available.” He never looked. Our need for privacy was not important.
For two years we had made every effort to save Travis’ foot. Our tension was turning into panic. Travis and I agreed we would find someone outside the system. We had to believe there was another option. The intern was disappointed since Travis’ operation would have been his first opportunity to remove a foot.
Within two months, we found a very young serious surgeon with quiet confidence who said, “Yes, the situation is difficult, but it is not impossible.” The surgeon’s kindness was as impressive as his skills. The operation was a complete success, unlike what followed.
After the foot surgery, there was the rotary cuff replacement that removed most of Travis’ movement in his right shoulder and arm. Then the fall and the broken hip, then a hip replacement that left Travis’ left leg three-fourths of an inch shorter than his right leg. Then his left kidney stopped working. No medical explanations have been offered to Travis.
The culmination of these physical insults to Travis’ body can be seen each day as my husband struggles to dress himself, walk, or move his body in ways most of us take for granted. Travis has also been given many medications over the years, some experimental and all with deadly side effects that have further compromised his health.
Because of his physical condition, Travis constantly feels the anger of frustration, but he also finds joy in his garden, his hobby of building model airplanes and cars, watching the History channel, and playing with our pets. We are each other’s best friend and I would do anything to help him, but all I can do is love him and keep the pain away.
When I wrote the title I thought I was going to explore my husband’s good and bad experiences with the Veteran’s Hospital, but then Travis emerged as the subject. I realize this is about my husband’s bravery in the face of unending physical complications. This is about his ability to recover his humor and acceptance even if his body can’t cooperate.
Travis does not give up and I believe this time in his life is as much of a battle as the challenges of war he faced in Korea. For the past 20 years, Travis’ life experience has been one of extremes in good and not so good events, a life that can best be described as a very mixed blessing.
Story: Sunrise
- At August 22, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
- 0
The outlines of houses and trees were barely becoming visible. The air was still, neither cool nor warm. A door opened on the upper deck of the Shelton house.
An orange tomcat escaped from the open door onto the roof, went across and dropped onto the dilapidated structure of Harvey Shelton’s veggie palace. The small white poodle from next door had already slipped past a rotten board that Harvey promised to nail back in place two months ago.
Orange and white shapes moved stealthily among the dense tomato plants, sniffing under the wide zucchini leaves for a slight movement of a gopher, a rabbit, anything.
Vultures in three dark clusters began to stir in one of the many scrub pine trees, waiting to prance across Alice Framington’s roof, wings in wide arcs to catch the sun’s rays.
Alice threatened to harm them, but every morning she stood on her porch with a broom, hitting the porch columns to scare them away. This would only interrupt the woodpecker in the oak tree in her front yard.
On the other side of Harvey, past the creek, was the Shepard’s log cabin. Linda Shepard watered her heirloom roses and carefully readjusted the chicken wire around them. Last week a deer had head-butted the wire and almost trampled her prized possessions.
Across from Linda, up a steep winding drive, lived Steve Melon who had lights installed the whole length of his driveway. He claimed this was necessary to keep himself and his German Shepherd safe from the local bobcats.
His neighbor Cynthia Cross insisted a whole bobcat family was living on her three-acre lot. But Cynthia and her husband also said they could see the spirit of a white buffalo. Each story varied with their alcohol intake.
About half an acre North, down from Harvey, two visitors sat on a leafy veranda at Mark’s place. Mark was asleep as this was his one day off from Hansen’s garage. The visitors sat for a long time. As the story goes, they were waiting to see the sunrise.
Thoughts: Life Force
- At August 19, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog
- 0
The divine source is like a sun, tremendous creativity in the form of compassionate intelligence. Life emanates from divine source as dynamic, active. Human life enters the earth with 90% memory and 10% new energy for creative exploration.
Life force is an emanation from divine source that creates life or living tissue out of matter. Matter as particulars in space.
Dimensions are how more space is created.
Each lifetime occupies a different dimension in space.
Deja vu is when consciousness bridges two lifetimes.
All things are parallel at all times.
Occupying one dimension or space is sequential.
Two sequentials equal a parallel.
Nothing exists separately, not even discreet units.
Time is rhythm or part of a cycle. Each part of a cycle is a different time or rhythm. Taken all together, an entity is “advancing or cycling” through dimensions.
Earth has basically 10 dimensions.
No divine being is confined to earth.
A divine being: consciousness developed into a discrete system.
Humans are discreet systems with creative or divine awareness.
In animals, this is a physical sense instead of a brain function.
One member of a species can cross over and up, never down.
Life spirals up or is not supported and degrades into its most basic components.
Identity cannot be lost. Something more distinct than genetics is inherent in each discreet part.
Unlike intelligence, higher consciousness is not measurable except by influence. The higher the consciousness, the safer the conduct–mental and physical–for all concerned.
What you see and know is influenced by your rhythm and where you are in a cycle. Transcending immediate influence is part of the purpose of consciousness, to connect to a larger identity which is the emanation from divine source called life force. This is the divine vehicle that creates your physical presence.
Dear reader: The purpose of this series is not to promote any belief system, but rather to share ideas that have come to me. I have great respect for all belief systems as each one of us is a seeker and finder of our own truth.
The Return of Zorro
- At August 08, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog
- 0
I can’t count the number of times Zorro was taken to the vet nor the number of blood tests that were done that showed slight elevations here or there, but as the very concerned vet explained, “There is nothing definitive, nothing that points to why his health is deteriorating. Even so, he has remarkable energy.”
And so, he was remarkable. He was born in our garage with two other siblings to a feral calico cat who looked as if she had given birth to variations of only those colors displayed in her own coat: orange and white, gray and white and finally, Zorro who was a black and white Tuxedo cat. It took six weeks to entice them indoors.
Zorro of course looked like he was wearing a black patch over each eye. He was so fast that all that was visible behind the cardboard boxes in the garage was a glimpse of his clear green eyes. He began as plump as a plush toy and ended as the smallest and thinnest of his siblings.
He never failed to catch the stray mouse or lizard that ran the marathon across their protected outside room. He was, in a word, ferocious when it came to food, all food. An unprotected dinner plate was an invitation to steal. His favorite meal was tuna fish. Zorro was also known for taking food from other cats.
As small and as thin as Zorro became, his energy overcame any obstacle. He had incredible speed and learned to snatch what he wanted, whether it was a bite of fresh salmon or the blue ball with the bell inside. He did not have normal power; he had the power of determination to keep what he was slowly losing which was his health, his strength and finally his tremendous stamina.
That extraordinary stamina was also applied to his need for affection. He would interrupt the brushing of another cat to get more strokes for himself. He never tired of snuggling up against other cats. Watching tv meant having one arm free to constantly pet Zorro and scratch the top of his head.
His health was never steady. Each morning I would check for the look which meant Zorro’s back would be raised, his tail tightly curled around his frail body and his expression was pensive. This was his look of pain. This would mean another visit to the vet, more tests, and finally, I simply did healing after healing.
I could not stop the slow, inevitable internal destruction, but the pain could be controlled. Perhaps that helped Zorro’s determination to live for six and a half years. I believe this was much longer than the life he genetically inherited. Zorro just loved being alive.
My husband and I knew something was wrong when Zorro climbed into a lower kitchen cupboard and stayed for hours, then hid in the pantry overnight. Within three days, his body began a swift decline as if sheer will power could no longer hold the flesh and bone from collapsing. He began losing interest in food. Then he would only drink water.
The telltale yellow color inside his ears, on his nose and inside his mouth announced the failure of his liver. My husband could not sleep and I slept with Zorro resting on my chest. I wanted him to know how loved he was by my heartbeat and the movement of my breathing with his own.
Within three days he could no longer walk. This morning he quietly left. He silently coughed and the movement of his heart and lungs stopped. Although my hand on his fur felt warm, I knew Zorro had returned from where he began this journey, and I gave thanks for having his presence in our life.