Nearly done with this draft of my new novel. The rewrite process is pretty much sucking the lifeblood from me... so blogging will remain sporadic for a few weeks.
For those who have asked about the book, titled Split Infinities, here's a glimpse:
SPLIT INFINITIES - CHAPTER ONE
Of course she knew; it didn’t require a medical degree to deduce that if the three packs a day didn’t kill her, the repressed anger eventually would.
Though “repressed” wasn’t the most accurate term. Not with her record of rants against incompetent magazine editors or the tirade of e-mails sent to her ex-husband during their divorce proceedings. “An explosive, pitiful woman,” his attorney had called her. Kate smirked. As if his opinion was at all objective.
But no, repressed was clearly the wrong adjective. She knew she’d have conjured up the perfect modifier if she weren’t, at this particular moment, propped up in a hotel bed, in the midst of a heart attack and awaiting the ambulance she called.
The heart attack itself came as no surprise, though the prematurity was hardly expected. She was only 40—too young statistically for her lifestyle and temperament to have already caught up with her, wasn’t she? Her father had been 46 before his own three-pack-a-day habit zapped his heart. But his anger issues were practically nonexistent compared to hers. Unless, of course, his own anger was truly of the repressed nature.
Kate squinted, struggling to concentrate. Her anger was more…volcanic. Yes, that would describe it more accurately, she thought, pleased at her ability to self-edit even amidst the nausea and the crushing pain in her chest.
God, she’d love a cigarette. Probably a good time to quit.
The siren screamed in the distance, and Kate reached for her purse on the nightstand. She’d propped open the hotel room door once she was certain what was transpiring, before she’d grown too weak. No need to have the EMT crew battering down the door. Though most of the tourists were likely too preoccupied to notice this late night show.
This was an irony that couldn’t escape her: that she would be someplace like Disney World, surrounded by thousands of families taking part in their blissful and oblivious celebrations, while she lie dying, alone, in her hotel room.
Alone on New Year’s Eve, for Christ’s sake.
Disney hadn’t been her first choice, of course. Wanting—no, needing—an escape from the barbaric Niagara Falls winter, Kate had pitched the travel magazine editor on a story about New Year’s cruises. But the magazine had just run a cruise story, and the editor suggested the Disney angle instead. Desperate for both sunshine and a paycheck, Kate had agreed.
So off she journeyed, alone, to the kingdom of joyful families. And judging by her current condition, she might not live happily ever after.
As the siren neared, she visualized her obituary in the paper back home. Damn-she wished she’d had the forethought to write it herself, ahead of time, as writers often did. Though she’d have had to fudge the unforeseen details, she could have at least injected some humor, plugged in a bit of bravado. Left to other hands, instead it would read simply pathetic.
She imagined her sister-in-law, Linda the Wicked Witch of the Southwest, tsk-tsking how predictably pitiful it was for Kate to expire this way. And what a friggin’ nightmare for Linda to have to help plan the funeral, though she would offer to do so, naturally, with fabricated tears and a spray of cheap, dyed carnations. She hoped her death might come at a particularly inconvenient time, perhaps in the midst of one of Linda’s charity balls. Kate managed a smile at the thought.
Not that Kate welcomed being the subject of anyone’s hypocritical sympathy. She’d managed most of her life flying solo. She’d handle her death the same way.
She took a deep breath and pressed her hand to her chest. It would be easier if she didn’t suddenly feel so afraid.
##
“So Katherine, you began the evening feeling nauseous?”
Kate opened her eyes and gazed hazily at the nurse in the ER exam room. “Nauseated,” she said. “I felt nauseated.”
The nurse looked back down at the chart, with slight confusion. “Yes. You were nauseated.”
Kate nodded, closing her eyes again. “Right. I was nauseated, meaning I was sick to my stomach. If I were nauseous, it would mean I was making others sick to their stomachs. Though worse has been said about me.” She smiled, appreciative that her wit hadn’t fully disappeared, even though the pain appeared to be taking a toll on her wits.
With a painful smile, she tried to explain this play on words to the nurse, who simply nodded and turned away.
“She’s delusional,” Kate heard her remark to another nurse.
Before Kate could comment, the world turned black.
##
Disney World. Parade. Puking next to the Tower of Terror.
Had she gone on the ride? Not likely. Wasn’t she acrophobic? Yes, she was certain that was the case.
Though her eyes remained closed, she became aware of tubes and wires connected to her body. Where was she? A hospital? Vague images drifted through her mind.
Kate remembered watching a parade and taking notes. She recalled some indigestion, which she’d first dismissed to acid reflux. Probably bad judgment, her attempt to get the real Disney experience by eating those two corndogs and funnel cake.
But then a cold sweat started in, and she’d vomited.
On the monorail ride back, she’d puked again, hadn’t she? Yes, this time more discreetly, into a plastic shopping bag that read, “Capture the Magic.” And she nearly stumbled to her room, with no one even raising an eyebrow, apparently assuming she was celebrating New Year’s in predictable drunken fashion.
Her memory blurred again. Had she been drunk? No, she couldn’t recall a single drink. She suddenly remembered the pain in her chest, which had intensified and spread to her shoulder. Her eyes blinked open.
She gazed around the hospital room. One could simply sleep off a drinking binge. This was clearly more complicated.
So, this was how she spent her New Year’s Eve? Kate grimaced. How could she write an article about a New Year’s celebration when she spent the midnight hour in the ER? And what about her travel expenses? Could she still write them off?
If she was dead though, someone else would have to deal with her debt. Let the creditors just try to hit up her daughter. Meg could barely pay her own rent. Probably her brother would ante up, she reasoned. Wouldn’t that piss off Linda?
Debt was hardly her biggest worry right now anyway. Mere survival topped the list.
She’d contemplated dying four times in her life: When her mother died of ovarian cancer when Kate was 17. When she realized she was pregnant, two days before high school graduation. When her father died, just ten months after Meg was born. And when she realized her marriage had slipped out of her control. She’d not seriously considered committing suicide—just welcomed the notion of falling asleep and never waking up.
Funny, wasn’t it, that the thought she had embraced at those times was now her greatest fear?
She stared at the wires connecting her to the monitor and followed the undulating rhythm of her heart.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Keeping My Mouth Shut...
... for another week, while I focus on a novel rewrite. If you're having withdrawal pains (humor me here), feel free to peruse the archives.
The blog will be back in action sometime next week.
The blog will be back in action sometime next week.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Expecting the Best
So, I've been priding myself on losing a bit of weight, especially when I look around the office and see these enormous bellies everywhere.
But then, I must stop and remind myself that all these women who have suddenly developed a serious need for elastic-waist pants aren't fat--they're pregnant.
We're experiencing a strange baby phenomenon at the office: stomachs sprouting, baby genders being pre-announced, maternity leaves being scheduled. (Ha! And how many of these women will use up vacation days toward this leave of absence? "Vacation Time" will become an oxymoron once they live through a few nights of three-hour feeding intervals.)
Yes, I remember the trials of pregnancy and the torture of labor and delivery. My favorite tale of torture? How about the failed epidural that was officially declared to be on the fritz only after the doctor started my emergency C-section and made the first, oh so not numbed by medication, SLICE IN MY ABDOMEN?
God only knows why I was willing to have a second child.
The reality, cliche' and all, is that time does make you forget the pain of childbirth. Or perhaps you don't truly forget it, but are willing to do it all over again, for the joy of giving birth to another child.
That unmatched joy (along with rampant lust and ineffective birth control) has kept the earth populated since the beginning of time.
I'm past my prime child-bearing years, and my sons are both young adults. No more babies for me, and I'm OK with that realization.
Yet, I eye these mothers-to-be with a bit of envy. I experience their hopes and dreams vicariously. I have to hold myself back from touching the baby-filled bellies of my co-workers, as well as total strangers. I have an uncontrollable urge to ask to feel their babies kick.
Though I'll never again feel the sensation of a baby doing somersaults within me, the memory still causes me to have butterflies in my stomach.
Pregnancy--as fleeting and frightening and fascinating as it is--isn't just the beginning of a new human life. It's the beginning of a new world for that tiny human's parents.
At some point, of course, we're too biologically old to simply forget the trials and torture of pregnancy and childbirth, and to instead simply choose to do it all over again.
Although we're likely to thank God for that, once our older children become teenagers.
But then, I must stop and remind myself that all these women who have suddenly developed a serious need for elastic-waist pants aren't fat--they're pregnant.
We're experiencing a strange baby phenomenon at the office: stomachs sprouting, baby genders being pre-announced, maternity leaves being scheduled. (Ha! And how many of these women will use up vacation days toward this leave of absence? "Vacation Time" will become an oxymoron once they live through a few nights of three-hour feeding intervals.)
Yes, I remember the trials of pregnancy and the torture of labor and delivery. My favorite tale of torture? How about the failed epidural that was officially declared to be on the fritz only after the doctor started my emergency C-section and made the first, oh so not numbed by medication, SLICE IN MY ABDOMEN?
God only knows why I was willing to have a second child.
The reality, cliche' and all, is that time does make you forget the pain of childbirth. Or perhaps you don't truly forget it, but are willing to do it all over again, for the joy of giving birth to another child.
That unmatched joy (along with rampant lust and ineffective birth control) has kept the earth populated since the beginning of time.
I'm past my prime child-bearing years, and my sons are both young adults. No more babies for me, and I'm OK with that realization.
Yet, I eye these mothers-to-be with a bit of envy. I experience their hopes and dreams vicariously. I have to hold myself back from touching the baby-filled bellies of my co-workers, as well as total strangers. I have an uncontrollable urge to ask to feel their babies kick.
Though I'll never again feel the sensation of a baby doing somersaults within me, the memory still causes me to have butterflies in my stomach.
Pregnancy--as fleeting and frightening and fascinating as it is--isn't just the beginning of a new human life. It's the beginning of a new world for that tiny human's parents.
At some point, of course, we're too biologically old to simply forget the trials and torture of pregnancy and childbirth, and to instead simply choose to do it all over again.
Although we're likely to thank God for that, once our older children become teenagers.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
R.I.P.
Another renowned celebrity is gone. I appreciated his talents and grieve his loss. Anyone who's contributed so much and impacted the lives of millions deserves the tributes he's received.
Still, it intrigues me how hypocritical the world can be. Because one day, many view a man as a monster, and the next day he's suddenly a martyr.
I'm not saying he deserved either label. Maybe he was neither. Maybe he was both. But it seems death is a person's quickest route from ridiculed--even reviled--to revered.
Is the media to blame? After all, the media industry capitalized on his fame, his downfall, and now his death. How they choose to portray someone and exploit him appears to dictate the outlook of much of the world.
The media, after all, is fickle.
And once they get a hold of news of an icon's death, even the death of another fair-haired celebrity slips down to runner-up. Especially when cancer is so ordinary, so mundane, compared with the thrill of a potentially drug-related death.
But perhaps the media is not the culprit. Perhaps it's just human nature to mourn what we've lost, even if we didn't fully appreciate it when we once had it.
I'm fortunate to have made many friends in my lifetime.
I'm guessing--just a hunch--that I'll miraculously have more when I'm gone.
Still, it intrigues me how hypocritical the world can be. Because one day, many view a man as a monster, and the next day he's suddenly a martyr.
I'm not saying he deserved either label. Maybe he was neither. Maybe he was both. But it seems death is a person's quickest route from ridiculed--even reviled--to revered.
Is the media to blame? After all, the media industry capitalized on his fame, his downfall, and now his death. How they choose to portray someone and exploit him appears to dictate the outlook of much of the world.
The media, after all, is fickle.
And once they get a hold of news of an icon's death, even the death of another fair-haired celebrity slips down to runner-up. Especially when cancer is so ordinary, so mundane, compared with the thrill of a potentially drug-related death.
But perhaps the media is not the culprit. Perhaps it's just human nature to mourn what we've lost, even if we didn't fully appreciate it when we once had it.
I'm fortunate to have made many friends in my lifetime.
I'm guessing--just a hunch--that I'll miraculously have more when I'm gone.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Top Ten Reasons I Won't Be Running for Political Office
10) I can't say I never inhaled.
9) As a former journalist, I'd insist on asking myself all the questions at news conferences.
8) I'm too poor to buy any votes.
7) My friends wouldn't stop laughing long enough to complete their ballots.
6) Sarah Palin couldn't get by on her good looks either.
5) I can't balance my own checkbook, so imagine the fun I'd have with someone else's money.
4) Can you say "being accountable for one's actions?"
3) I'd have to bribe the paparazzi to use Photoshop.
2) My party affiliation is whichever one has the best music and most liquor.
1) I don't have a spouse I can cheat on.
Guess you can always write me in during the next election. Who am I to argue with public demand?
9) As a former journalist, I'd insist on asking myself all the questions at news conferences.
8) I'm too poor to buy any votes.
7) My friends wouldn't stop laughing long enough to complete their ballots.
6) Sarah Palin couldn't get by on her good looks either.
5) I can't balance my own checkbook, so imagine the fun I'd have with someone else's money.
4) Can you say "being accountable for one's actions?"
3) I'd have to bribe the paparazzi to use Photoshop.
2) My party affiliation is whichever one has the best music and most liquor.
1) I don't have a spouse I can cheat on.
Guess you can always write me in during the next election. Who am I to argue with public demand?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Dear Dad
Dear Dad,
You've been gone nearly 20 years now. Hard to fathom it's been almost two decades since I've heard that distinctive laugh of yours or watched your pensive expression as you bent over the Sunday crossword puzzle.
My life has gone on, of course, as it does for any child who has lost a parent. That old cycle of life thing, for certain, plays a part in each of our lives. The cycle in our own lives, unfortunately, stepped in sooner than we expected, because 53 years was just far too young. (OK, time for some dark humor of yours to insert itself here... I hope they admire your sarcasm as much in heaven as we did here on earth.)
But when Father's Day comes around each year, I do face the day with some combination of long-standing sorrow and warm memories.
The happy memories are endless and would require a novel, not a simple blog post, to do them justice.
Still, I regret that you weren't here for so much of our lives for us to enjoy your companionship and for you to take part in our family's world. And your grandchildren--Four of them now! You'd find pride in their accomplishments, their athletic abilities, their humor, their intelligence. I can assure you that so many of those qualities were passed down from their grandfather, even though they never had the honor of knowing him.
I'm not a religious person, Dad. You'd understand that. And you'd be OK with that, too. Because even when your daughters didn't meet all of your expectations in our younger years, you always were clear in your love and acceptance of us.
And religion aside, you need to know there's still a spiritual side of me that makes me hold onto the belief that we'll be together once again, some day. Hope you'll have some pull to get me into the place where you are...
Who knows, maybe in the afterlife, I'll surprise you by matching your game on the golf course.
If not, I'd be content to just carry your golf bag.
Until then--
I love you.
Sherry
You've been gone nearly 20 years now. Hard to fathom it's been almost two decades since I've heard that distinctive laugh of yours or watched your pensive expression as you bent over the Sunday crossword puzzle.
My life has gone on, of course, as it does for any child who has lost a parent. That old cycle of life thing, for certain, plays a part in each of our lives. The cycle in our own lives, unfortunately, stepped in sooner than we expected, because 53 years was just far too young. (OK, time for some dark humor of yours to insert itself here... I hope they admire your sarcasm as much in heaven as we did here on earth.)
But when Father's Day comes around each year, I do face the day with some combination of long-standing sorrow and warm memories.
The happy memories are endless and would require a novel, not a simple blog post, to do them justice.
Still, I regret that you weren't here for so much of our lives for us to enjoy your companionship and for you to take part in our family's world. And your grandchildren--Four of them now! You'd find pride in their accomplishments, their athletic abilities, their humor, their intelligence. I can assure you that so many of those qualities were passed down from their grandfather, even though they never had the honor of knowing him.
I'm not a religious person, Dad. You'd understand that. And you'd be OK with that, too. Because even when your daughters didn't meet all of your expectations in our younger years, you always were clear in your love and acceptance of us.
And religion aside, you need to know there's still a spiritual side of me that makes me hold onto the belief that we'll be together once again, some day. Hope you'll have some pull to get me into the place where you are...
Who knows, maybe in the afterlife, I'll surprise you by matching your game on the golf course.
If not, I'd be content to just carry your golf bag.
Until then--
I love you.
Sherry
Thursday, June 18, 2009
When Less Is... Less
With a class reunion scheduled on the calendar, and a closet of clothes that apparently shrunk in the dryer, the brain and the body finally sat down for a little one-on-one.
Being as they're both slightly schizophrenic, the conversation was a bit hard to follow. So bear with this excerpt:
Brain: "OK, Body. You seem to be carrying more than your weight around here lately. Let me step in and help you out. Let's start with those Nutty Bars in the pantry. Remember those? Well, from now on, forget about them."
Body: "Forget about the Nutty Bars? God's Gift to the Confection Industry? No, how about the Oatmeal Creme Pies instead? I promise to make the eyes look the other way with those."
Brain: "No, no, it has to be the Nutty Bars. I know your weakness. And speaking of weakness, let's talk about your physical stamina. You've become quite the couch potato. Wouldn't kill you to take an exercise class."
Body: "Hmmph. Wouldn't kill me, eh? Well, check out this: http://www.sportsci.org/encyc/suddendeath/suddendeath.html
Brain: "You're being too anal. Leave that to your lower half, alright? Exercise is almost always a good thing, really. Trust the research to me."
Body (sniffing): "Well sure, you have the desk job. I do all the real work around here."
Brain: "But we're in this together, Body. And since I'm the brains in this operation, you need to work with me here."
Body: "Oh, yeah? Well don't forget who got us into all this trouble. I mean, who justified that last bagel and cream cheese? It was you, Brain, telling me I'd just have to make up for it later with a good work-out."
Brain (feeling admonished): "Yes, I know. You're right. Damn. I hate it when I'm to blame. It's so much easier to accuse you. After all, even when I'm Thinking Thin, you so seldom seem to cooperate."
Body (nodding): "So true. I'll try, Brain. But you've got to help me out here. Like those low-carb beers you've chosen as our Happy Hour Savior? Great idea, really, until you suck down six of them."
Brain: "Oh. Right. So, less is more?"
Body: "Uh-huh. Unless we're talking Nutty Bars. And then less is just, less. So why don't I unwrap a couple right now?"
See why I struggle?
Being as they're both slightly schizophrenic, the conversation was a bit hard to follow. So bear with this excerpt:
Brain: "OK, Body. You seem to be carrying more than your weight around here lately. Let me step in and help you out. Let's start with those Nutty Bars in the pantry. Remember those? Well, from now on, forget about them."
Body: "Forget about the Nutty Bars? God's Gift to the Confection Industry? No, how about the Oatmeal Creme Pies instead? I promise to make the eyes look the other way with those."
Brain: "No, no, it has to be the Nutty Bars. I know your weakness. And speaking of weakness, let's talk about your physical stamina. You've become quite the couch potato. Wouldn't kill you to take an exercise class."
Body: "Hmmph. Wouldn't kill me, eh? Well, check out this: http://www.sportsci.org/encyc/suddendeath/suddendeath.html
Brain: "You're being too anal. Leave that to your lower half, alright? Exercise is almost always a good thing, really. Trust the research to me."
Body (sniffing): "Well sure, you have the desk job. I do all the real work around here."
Brain: "But we're in this together, Body. And since I'm the brains in this operation, you need to work with me here."
Body: "Oh, yeah? Well don't forget who got us into all this trouble. I mean, who justified that last bagel and cream cheese? It was you, Brain, telling me I'd just have to make up for it later with a good work-out."
Brain (feeling admonished): "Yes, I know. You're right. Damn. I hate it when I'm to blame. It's so much easier to accuse you. After all, even when I'm Thinking Thin, you so seldom seem to cooperate."
Body (nodding): "So true. I'll try, Brain. But you've got to help me out here. Like those low-carb beers you've chosen as our Happy Hour Savior? Great idea, really, until you suck down six of them."
Brain: "Oh. Right. So, less is more?"
Body: "Uh-huh. Unless we're talking Nutty Bars. And then less is just, less. So why don't I unwrap a couple right now?"
See why I struggle?
Monday, June 15, 2009
Can't Means Won't
When it comes to outlooks on life, I believe the world is comprised of four sorts of people: pessimists, realists, optimists and idealists. People either focus upon the worst, the most logical, the somewhat hopeful, or the best of all possibilities in life.
I generally see myself as somewhere in the middle: a cross between a realist and an optimist. So it hit hard when, twice this week, one of my children said, "Why are you so negative? Don't be such a pessimist."
Me? A pessimist? The woman who lies on the deserted beach when vacationing, even as the raindrops are pelting upon her, just in case the sun might finally peek around the clouds? The same woman who, upon receiving a certified letter from Son #1's former high school, held off just a tad of hope as she tore open the envelope, that it might be some type of letter of commendation? (Aside: Certified letters from your child's high school are NOT EVER a good thing.)
No, no, I told myself upon this remark. He's so off target on this one. Until I recalled the words I had just uttered to him. Some combination of: "Don't. Won't. Can't." (And this last one is his favorite upon which to pounce. "Can't means won't, Mom," he says. Is this a mantra from his Catholic high school or some saying from his Boy Scouts background? Regardless, it rather pisses me off.)
So, yes, I am forced to concede. The perpetual realist/optimist in me does indeed, at times, show the traits of a pessimist. And is this so wrong? Because really, maybe the pessimists hold the true key to happiness. After all, pessimists are never disappointed.
Still, living life under an umbrella of negativity is not for me. Frequently sarcastic, occasionally cynical, yes--I'm all that.
But I'd prefer to leave any out-and-out pessimism to those very rare instances when hope is clearly and absolutely elusive.
I can't imagine those instances will be many.
And yes, when I say "can't," I mean, "won't."
I generally see myself as somewhere in the middle: a cross between a realist and an optimist. So it hit hard when, twice this week, one of my children said, "Why are you so negative? Don't be such a pessimist."
Me? A pessimist? The woman who lies on the deserted beach when vacationing, even as the raindrops are pelting upon her, just in case the sun might finally peek around the clouds? The same woman who, upon receiving a certified letter from Son #1's former high school, held off just a tad of hope as she tore open the envelope, that it might be some type of letter of commendation? (Aside: Certified letters from your child's high school are NOT EVER a good thing.)
No, no, I told myself upon this remark. He's so off target on this one. Until I recalled the words I had just uttered to him. Some combination of: "Don't. Won't. Can't." (And this last one is his favorite upon which to pounce. "Can't means won't, Mom," he says. Is this a mantra from his Catholic high school or some saying from his Boy Scouts background? Regardless, it rather pisses me off.)
So, yes, I am forced to concede. The perpetual realist/optimist in me does indeed, at times, show the traits of a pessimist. And is this so wrong? Because really, maybe the pessimists hold the true key to happiness. After all, pessimists are never disappointed.
Still, living life under an umbrella of negativity is not for me. Frequently sarcastic, occasionally cynical, yes--I'm all that.
But I'd prefer to leave any out-and-out pessimism to those very rare instances when hope is clearly and absolutely elusive.
I can't imagine those instances will be many.
And yes, when I say "can't," I mean, "won't."
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