Hoj Notes

Weeks ago, at the AlphaPoms and Pomskies kennel in Canton, Georgia, my wife, Cheryl and I stood outside a white playpen and marveled at the double litter of puppies sprawled drowsily across a ceramic tile floor.  In the playpen, a small tray of milk and kibble, bunched up blankets, a medium crate, and in a corner, covering about a sixth of the floor, a litter box strewn with paper pellets, free of puppy business.  No smells, no barks.  The air punctuated, every so often, with soft yips, shivers, and shakes.  Puppy dreamland.

Days ago, my wife had attended a wine-tasting, socially distanced I was assured, with a friend and two friends of the friend.  A person’s taste in wine can tell you a bit about them.  A person’s taste in dogs, too.  Sipping a flight of California sauvignon blancs (of which my wife was disappointed – she, an unyielding devotee of New Zealand), one of the newly minted acquaintances, upon hearing my wife relay her excitement regarding the arrival of our new Pomsky puppy, spit into a decanter and said, “Oh gawd, a designer dog.”

We were in a room just off the kennel owner’s large, modern kitchen.  In most homes, you could imagine this room a den.  The owner, Lisa, blonde bob, elaborately tattooed, 40-ish, wore jeans and a black tank top with the kennel name in white script.  Matching black tank on her daughter, who leaned against the wall, smiling, jean shorts rolled up her tattooed thighs.  After dabbing a tiny puddle of clear urine with a crumpled tissue, Lisa said, “Take off your shoes, get in, mingle, if you want.”

A designer dog is defined as the offspring of purebred parents of different breed.  Designer dogs are bred for the desired traits of each parent: usually smaller, low shed, mild temperament, adorability.  Most of us know the labradoodle is a cross between a poodle and Lab.  A Pomsky comes courtesy of artificial insemination, a female husky by male Pomeranian.  Blame the recent pup craze on the pandemic.  Blame the designer dog craze on Australian Wally Conroy, father of the first labradoodle.  It’s ok, he blames himself too.  He bred the very first on request for a low shed, guide dog.  To his regret, he then encouraged the labradoodle’s marketing.  Wally is quoted only two years ago, saying some doodles are crazy and have health problems.  Sexual reproduction is like a box of chocolates.  First generation offspring have a 50/50 chance of inheriting the less desirable traits.

I sat in the pen barefoot, enough room for twelve of us if Cheryl stood and I kept my knees up.  Ten, four-week-old puppies were unperturbed, just fed, preferring slumber.  One puppy was awake and — black coat, smaller, a girl, thin white stripe from crown to nose — licked and licked my ankle.  Lisa’s daughter said, “That’s Cookies and Cream.”  Blue eyes.  Cheryl cradled a boy, a fluff-ball named Rocky Road, party eyes (speckled blue and brown), gray and white mask like a bandit.

Critics opposed to designer dogs warn of the day when public appetite wanes.  What happens to unwanted offspring then?  Aren’t there enough rescues waiting for adoption?  At the wine-tasting, Cheryl’s friend’s friend said she was into boxer rescue.  This was news to me, that rescue people could splinter by breed. “And what did you pay for the dog?” she’d asked.

Cheryl’s down payment awarded us ninth pick of fifteen.  By my math, there should’ve been seven puppies to choose from, not ten.  Somehow, we’d moved up three, now picking sixth. Improved odds of getting what we want. A good thing, one would think.

Cheryl’s brother-in-law, Scott, a Siberian husky and Alaskan malamute enthusiast, tells a story of Oreo, RIP, his husky escape artist who’d once traveled a gauntlet of home fencing to arrive at the neighbor’s free-range chicken pen.  It was a weekday.  Scott is a police officer and got the call from Animal Control while on duty.  He arrived at his neighbor’s backyard in uniform to find a grisly scene: Under an innocent blue sky, Oreo had dispatched ten of the neighbor’s twenty chickens to bloody chicken heaven.  We can probably agree this is no way to go for any chicken, but at least they had a 50/50 chance.  And, I presume, a good life right up until that fateful day, that existential moment when the doomed birds caught a glimpse of the mission in those ruthless, cold husky eyes — those chickens had lived a peaceful, easy, hen-zen sort of life.  (Of his neighbors, Scott felt bad, said, “They liked their eggs.”)  Contrast that fowl end-of-life story to the dark, poorly ventilated, overcrowded pens, the restricted, overfed lives of those processed, neatly packaged chickens we purchase by the tasteless pound.  As for Oreo, he was simply expressing an unvanquished genetic legacy.  If a dog’s life flashes before a dog’s eyes, one might imagine, in Oreo’s last moments, a most fond, lupine vision of the ultimate hunt, the great chicken massacre, possibly the greatest day of his otherwise domesticated, fenced-in life.

Cheryl’s dog worldview pointed to the future.  She fell for one of the honey-coated pups, “She’s so cute I can’t stand it.  Want to hold her?”  Cradling Vanilla Bean in my palm, I brought her to my nose.  She smelled like a spice.

Pomeranians are smart, energetic, chewers.  Pomerania is a region spanning northeastern Germany and northwestern Poland.  Cheryl and I are childless.  We own immaculate furniture imported from Germany and Poland.

Two puppies are blue merles.  Cheryl knows because she’s seen them on the AlphaPoms facebook page.  They are not in the pen.  Lisa said, “Everyone wants the small Husky look and coloring.”  Cheryl kept asking what each puppy would look like grown.  Aside from fur color, their puppy faces were indistinguishable.

Remember from biology class, Punnett squares?  All you need to know is each parent contributes half the offspring’s DNA and that the genes get passed down in generally predictable ways.  So, the ideal Pomsky, would receive the Pomeranian’s sociability, smaller size, and intelligence and the Husky’s coat, lupine snout, and lazy watchdog manner, i.e., little barking.  But it’s a crapshoot when you’re looking at the whole litter.  Statistically speaking, you’re just as likely to get a Pomsky cursed with a Pomeranian’s unrelenting yappiness and cutesy lion’s mane, crossed with a stubborn Husky’s penchant for digging and excessive shedding.

Luna, Luna, Luna.  It’s all I hear.  Cheryl loves Luna.  Probably carved in a heart shape on the pin oak in our yard.  The neighbor’s dog, Luna, has the Husky look and coloring.  Small and adorable.  Luna is the origin story of our puppy quest.  Luna came from the prior litter at AlphaPoms.  On our morning walks, it sits, alert blue eyes, at the end of the neighbor’s driveway, tail-flapping, begging us to approach.  Cheryl speaks to Luna in a baby voice.  Luna drops her front legs, lies, rolls over.  Cheryl rubs her belly.  Luna, Luna, Luna.  This is what I want, Cheryl says.  Luna never barks. A dream dog.

Four weeks from bringing our puppy home, we have a problem.  We cannot know what we have inherited. It could be a Luna, the silent, submissive beauty.  Or it could be an Oreo, slaughterer of free-range chickens.  But we’re not snobs, we will love our dog in whatever flavor it comes.

Won’t we?

The scoops, left to right: Hershey, Cookies ‘n Cream, and Rocky Road.

A.  Sheltering in place, weary from hours of online grading and a spouse making loud sounds in the house again, you change into running shorts and matching headband in search of mid-day, phantasmagoric adventure.  You could run the shadeless neighborhood blindfolded, so instead, hatch a plan to drive to your favorite leafy park, recently reopened under your state’s aggressive reopening guidelines.

     Water bottle, check; towel, check.  Not getting any younger, the virus has you uneasy.  A mask for the run?  You believe the President’s vanity keeps him from wearing a mask, even at an Arizona mask factory or Ford ventilator plant, blowhard goes nose-free.  Not you.  If you toss a mask into the car, go to B.  On the other hand, you’re so vain.  Sure, you wear a mask hefting your eggplant around the produce aisle, but no sooner clear of the last bagger, you drop your mask like your spouse drops the (now daily) five o’clock jug of sangria.  If the mask stays behind, go to C.

B.  Really?  Why are you even here?  You will never wear a mask in the great outdoors.  Ever.  Not in town.  Not in NYC.  Not even Wuhan.  Under martial law.  Enough pretending poster child for toxic mask-ulinity.  Proceed to C.

C.  You can enter through the main gate and park near the outdoor exercise area, a popular stopover for fit parents to stash strollers near the playground.  Or you can drive past the gate and park on the street, a short walk to the small pond just inside the park, a gathering place for filthy geese, fishers, and portal to a parallel universe.  Rumored portal, that is.  You are undecided: it’s mostly the surface scum and no swimming sign, but also a fear of bottomless depths and toothy abyssal creatures that keep you from a curious, impulsive plunge.  Of the geese, you’ve no doubt.

     Known virus carriers, you’ve tiptoed through their deviously plotted cigarello garden of e. coli, been further harassed by their aggressive, grass-chewing swagger, their honky, bacteria-laden sneezes.  Sour odors could have you longing for that mask.  If geese microbes scare you, enter through the main gate, go to D.  If it’s toddling, pre-K immu-ninos and immu-ninas and their buff, virus-shedding mommies you fear, park on the street, go to E.

D.  You live in the burbs of a large southern city where confederates, conspiracy theorists, Pelosi fans, Kemp lovers, and phantasm-seeking joggers come together, united in their belief, in their goddam right to co-mingle peacefully in their favorite park, eager to express, or escape, their politics with a fresh air stroll.

     Inside the main gate, the parking lot near the outdoor fly machine, sit-up station, and pull-up bar is jam packed, cars queued, waiting for a spot to open like it was Yellowstone’s Grand Prismatic Spring in July.  Inching along, you see the distant playground overrun with mucousy, raucous, immune tykes, while nearby, a young woman in a black tankini ties off her double stroller, jumps up to the pull-up bar, your pull-up bar, and after 12 reps, exhausted, you stop counting.  Next up, her shirtless husband.  Then, their trainer.  Not a single young Republican wipes down the bar.  And how would you know that?  Because nobody had a towel!  Come on!  Peel out to E.

For E to Z, CLICK HERE

Two Jeopardy CLUES, same answer

CLUE#1: What a kid says to their concerned parent who’s just read the teacher’s email that their digital homework is overdue by three weeks.

CLUE#2: What Governor Kemp says in press conference on April 1st regarding knowledge that asymptomatic carriers spread the corona virus, known publicly more than three weeks.

ANSWER:  What is…  “I didn’t know until the last 24 hours.” 

Seems the CDC must have finally got through to the parents of Governor Kemp.

Pay attention in science class, kids.  Social studies, too.

The last day before schools closed, I evacuated my classroom of all tissue, sanitizer, and alcohol wipes like some hastily redeployed soldier.  Every morning I wake in my king-sized, memory foam bunk without a cough or runny nose, I say a silent prayer then kick myself for not humping home the cheap one-ply from my school’s rest rooms.  My wife tosses and turns too.  Her employer instituted a telework policy: two weeks in office, two weeks remote.  Company woman through and through, a real lean-in trooper, she hunkered down in her deserted office every day last week, co-workers giving wide berth to the symptomatic: sneezers, wheezers, and geezers treated equally like modern-day lepers.

Paranoia is contagious.

Don’t get me wrong, we’re fortunate, thankful for employment, concerned for small business folk, but face it, people, we’re at war, our President says so, having just appropriated the notion from someone on tv with years of experience making serious faces for a network camera.  Even my wife can appreciate branding genius: Wartime President.  I’ve read enough post-apocalyptic novels, the weapon I need to defend my wife, my shelter, my hot tub, not a firearm, but information.  Information is truth, truth is power, power is survival.  This: a survival tale.  Me: Wartime Husband.

Friday, Cheryl comes home from work and, I kid you not – I’m in the kitchen, facemask secured (liberated from her metalsmith toolbox), blue nitrile gloves, taking steel wool to strawberries, dunking red peppers and summer squash in a 10% bleach solution – first thing she does, lifts my mask, kisses me.  On the lips!  Fuckin’ A!

Gloves on hips, I give her my best how could you look.  Bad enough the virus transmits through air, my wife seals the deal with personal contact.  Kicking off her pumps, she asks, how was your day, baby, what’s with the PPE?  Smells like a janitor’s closet in here.

Over her shoulder, Mike Pence’s face is on tv cable news, looking all solemn.

Hey you – Cheryl snaps her fingers – you haven’t been watching COVID news all day again, have you?

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Tired of singing the ABCs while washing your hands?

Ooh my little protein coat, my protein coat
When you gonna give me symptoms, Corona?

Ooh you make my motor slow, my motor slow
Stand away from me in all lines, Corona

Never gonna stop, give it up, such a city-wide
I always cover up from the touch of unsanitized

My my my aye ah choo!
Ma ma ma my Corona

Don’t come any closer huh, uh will ya huh
Close enough to sneeze in my eyes, Corona

Keeping it a mystery, gets to me
Had my fill of talking head lies, Corona

Never gonna stop, give it up, such a country-wide
Microbes in the air, unsettle us, exponential rise

My my my aye ah choo!
Ma ma ma my Corona (2x)

When you gonna give it to me, give it to me
Is it just a matter of time, Corona?

Is it d- d- destiny, d- destiny?
Or is it just the virus that binds, Corona?

Never gonna stop, Angel Soft, such a nation-wide
Toilet paper bought, gonna hoard, survive time with mine

My my my aye ah choo!
Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma
My my my aye ah choo!
Ma ma ma my Corona (4x)

Ooooooooh, whooooaaaaaahh,
My Corona!

Twenty seconds is up. Now what to sing while we drip dry?

When you fly out of Atlanta on a Friday afternoon, you expect to feel put-upon.  It starts at the gate.  Jesus save me from the carry-ons, you think, as the gate agent says, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a full flight, limited bins.  We’re asking ten to fifteen volunteers check bags for an on-time departure.”  The thing you carry: a backpack, no wheels.  The gate agent will ask, “Is it squishable?”

You hardly expect, no way of knowing, the treasure already stowed in the belly of the Delta MD-80.

Your boarding pass reads: GEN.  Jesus save me from the boarding groups.  Groups boarding before General Economy: Travelers Needing Special Assistance; Unaccompanied Minors; Medallion; First Class; Business Class; Comfort Class; Military Personnel with Credentials; Travelers Stowing Retractable Strollers; Travelers Calming Recalcitrant Babies; MAIN Cabin 1; MAIN Cabin 2; MAIN Cabin 3.

You anticipate an uncredentialed body in your seat and prepare a polite redress.  Every time you board a flight, to anywhere, you expect a body in your seat.  Nobody is ever in your seat.  But today is Friday, December 20th, busiest travel day of the year and you never know.

In line behind you, only two left to board, a smartly-dressed, Nicole Kidman look-a-like and, last but leashed, her cinnamon mini-doodle.  The doodle has its own backpack.  A therapy dog?  A patch, a dog tag of sorts, is sewed on the pack: Mobile Dog Gear.  The website’s dog tag-line: Make sure your pet jet-setter has everything she needs for her next trip with Mobile Dog Gear’s Weekender Backpack Pet Travel Bag!

Overhead bins are crammed.  Full.  Shut.  In your seat sits a man with meaty hands.  Jesus save me.

You don’t bother with your boarding pass, something in his manner – you’d say slow to rise, if only.  He leans a shoulder across the aisle from his (your) seat, slaps a paw, says “This here must be mine.”  You hesitate, confused, thinking, is he moving or not?  Not looking up, the man says, “You want me to move?”

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Who is the third who walks always beside you?

The Waste Land. V, What the Thunder Said

This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers….There is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance or death.

Shakespeare: The Merry Wives of Windsor V, I, 1.2

After fourteen years teaching high school, year fifteen will be my first under a new department chair.  That this was unusual hadn’t sunk in until I told a peer who laughed and said it would be his sixth, no, no, seventh in twelve.

She had hired me, given me my chance in education and come to be a good friend.  She was respected within the department and throughout the school for her work ethic, mentoring, leadership, money spent out-of-pocket, and sacrifice of personal time.  Or so I’d thought.  I’d learned of her departure Memorial Day weekend in a hotel in Highlands, N.C., a favored mountain getaway where my wife and I hike the Nantahala Forest, stroll the shops, and dig in to sweet and savory breakfasts.  We’d just checked in, late afternoon.  I was looking forward to the unwind after weeks of proctoring exams and finalizing grades.  I can still picture the view from the warm concrete balcony – one of those “where were you when you heard” moments – feet on the iron rail, sun sprayed through the treetops, a honeysuckle perfume mixed with orange light sifted through a flurry of helicopter seeds, the sycamores channeling traffic sounds of Highway 64, chugging choppers and campers and grinding trucks magnified up the mountainside.  I cupped my hand to the phone straining to hear, parsing the unfathomable.  That night, I slept in a fit.  The only boss in education I’d ever known had resigned abruptly under circumstances one might call sub-optimum.

At least summer vanished as expected.

First day of school commute, 2019.  I lock the front door, step into the dank air between geraniums craning from two rotund planters guarding our porch like marble lions, past the mailbox, flap open, and onto the street where I’m startled by a stranger.  Practically walk into him.  He’s hooded, dead center of the street, backlit by a lone streetlamp.  A cavity where his face should be.

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Tuesday, June 4th, 2019

4:15am

We’re up early.  I’m flipping through mom’s surgery paperwork in her dimly lit condo, looking for the Cleveland Clinic campus map.  “How’d you sleep?” I ask.  “Good,” she says, preoccupied, stuffing garments into her overnight bag.  Half a beat later, she laughs nervously, “But I didn’t sleep so good.”

I can’t find parking deck P on Waze, but then remember I can never get the audio to activate anyway.  At least the rain is holding off.  I drive mom’s white Jeep Compass in the black predawn to get Rose.  At a red light, the engine idles off.  “God I hate that,” mom says, pushing an override button behind the gear shift.  “That will fix that.”  From the driveway, we see Rose wave out the dining room window where the dog usually stands.  Walks out with a mug, opens the car door, says, “Wait.  I forgot the doggie barrier.  Would it be wrong if I asked you to hold this?”  I wished for a mug of my own.  Rose returns, “You aren’t going to write about this are you?”

I exit MLK to E.105th.  A right on Euclid is my mistake.  Should’ve waited for Carnegie.  There’s no left onto E. 90th from Euclid, so I cruise a few blocks before a u-turn in the wake of a wailing ambulance and two of Cleveland’s finest.  Through a maze of Clinic buildings, with Rose’s encouragement, we arrive at parking deck P next to the Clinic Surgery Sign which looks a lot bigger in the pamphlet image.  After surgery, in the neuro step-down unit, I overhear Rose on the phone say to her husband, “I knew mom was nervous when she never once commanded Eric turn this way or that.  She’s always navigating when I drive.”

5:30am

Mom is checked in at desk P by one of three clerks.  The middle clerk asks, “Who’s going to wear the pager?”  I watch her mouth as she recites her rote instructions, all I hear is “Minus button, press the minus button, to read the entire message, keep pressing minus.”  Building P waiting area sprawls over two floors.  Reading crannies, small flat-screen tv nooks, chairs and dual seats and benches all with the same, aging cracked vinyl installed in the 70s.  The chairs are more comfortable than they look.  The waiting area slowly fills, people with inscrutable faces.

5:45am

Over the PA, Mom is called back to desk P. She signs insurance forms then returns to the waiting area.

6:15am

Mom is called to desk M in building M just around the corner, down a connector ramp from desk P.  Rose accompanies mom.  I stay behind.  I am directed to the free coffee machine hidden near the elevator.  I select darkest beans, maximum roast.  Ten ounces, but it’s really good.  I return again and again.

6:45am

Rose texts from the pre-op room, do you want to come back and see her before she goes in?  I’ll come and get you.  Mom lies in a hair net, hair still intact, on a roller table with an IV in the back of her hand.  A nurse says, “The surgery is expected to last 253 minutes.”  The precision seems ludicrous but reminds me of airlines and how they manage to make up time, not by flying faster, but by changing flight paths.  Once brain surgery takes off, it’s hard to imagine how surgeons make up time.  Much later, in the neuro step-down unit, mom will complain of nausea from wheeling between rooms after surgery.  The nurse will say some of the transporters are more aggressive than others and suggests she keep her eyes closed next trip. Turns out, Mom will need transporting post-surgery for an unplanned cat scan.

6:56am

Everyone in the waiting area wears a blue pager around their neck.  It’s always beeping loudly somewhere.  The first time I hear mine, I think it’s another:  The patient has entered – I press the minus button – surgery.  A flat screen on the wall near desk P scrolls patient codenames (Ho..a, S) for privacy and displays her surgery start time, 6:56am.

7:15am

Downstairs the cafeteria is open.  Rose and I order eggs.  I get hash browns and Rose fills a bowl of fruit for the two of us.  We sit at a table in the small dining area.  The eggs are tasteless but edible and the hash browns are, inconceivably, rubbery.  After chewing awhile, I reluctantly decide I cannot eat them when an aproned worker from behind the serving station brings me a bowl of hash browns, “These are fresher,” she says.  Rose and I sit in the cafeteria and talk for two hours.

9:15am

Beep beep beep: Come to desk P for locker key and storage information.  Rose stores mom’s overnight bag in a pay locker that’s free.

Upstairs we find two chairs in a corner with a table.  I show Rose Facebook photos of relatives on mom’s side, my Yellowstone vacation photos.  I have her read my essay about Mom’s surgery and can’t help notice she laughs more than my wife does.   She has questions:  Who’s the English teacher?  Who is P?  Who says your blogs are too long?  Did you really faint? Would you like to hear my sty story?

10:20am

Beep beep beep: Surgery in progress.  Patient is stable.  There is a family sitting nearby with a young boy who paces the floor in bare feet, a phone in each hand at arms length, watching cartoons.  His head swivels from one phone to the other. His father corrals him when he wanders into our space. He is not a small boy. This happens more than once.

11:15am

Beep beep beep: Surgery is complete.  Patient is stable but not ready for visitors yet.

Rose and I exhale and tell the clerk at desk P we’re leaving the area.  Rose buys a coffee drink at the Clinic Starbucks. We buy pre-made wraps in plastic containers and decide to wait before eating. I fit them in my backpack and we wait.

2:15pm

Beep beep beep: Please report to desk P.  Remove patient belongings from locker.  At desk P the desk clerk tells us the doctor will be ready to talk to us within a half hour.

3:00pm

Dr. Machado is embroidered over the pocket of his white coat.  He has thin hair, glasses.  He comports with the air of a serious, preoccupied nerd which is comforting.  “We evaluate two electrode positions and ten combinations of physical tests.  She’ll remember the tests: holding a cup of water; touching her nose; speaking exercises.  We increase the voltage until she feels a tingling down her arm.  It sets the voltage limit for our future programming.”

No change in demeanor, Dr. Machado continues, “The cat scan revealed a spot of blood.  All I have is one point in time.  She’s scheduled for another scan at 5:00pm.  Some brain swelling is normal, but we need to check this out.”

3:15pm

Outside under a light gray sky, we sit on a bench in a large grassy area and eat our wraps.

4:15pm

Beep beep beep: Patient is ready for visitors.

Rose and I go to the 6th floor of the H building.  Mom is in the neuro step-down unit rather than the general floor.

Mom cries when we first walk in to room H63.  Rose kisses her.  Mom keeps her head turned to Rose. Mom’s voice is pitched high and weak and she flails her arms, dragging along the IV and other tubes.  Head shaved, a bad military cut, a swab of orange anti-septic streaks across her forehead.  Dried blood at the stereotactic pin points.  Atop her head, a white bandage.  She looks like a grizzled sergeant who survived a shelling attack.  The top of her head is bruised, a purple ponding, clusters of short hair sprout like reeds near shore.

Mom is tough.  Closes her eyes for short stints, too uncomfortable for sleep.  Courageous yet compromised.  In hazy reverie, mom recalls the soft hands of one of the assistants, caressing her arm during the surgery.

She takes a bite of graham cracker.  “Would you like peanut butter?”  The nurse asks about pain, “Does your head hurt?  Feeling nauseous?”  Yes to both.  Drugs for both. Mom says the ride on the bed through the halls made her dizzy.  She swallows a pill, sips water, and immediately calls for the throw-up bucket.

The nurse, Shelby, performs neural tests.  Shelby is young, upbeat, and energetic.  Okay Miss Sybil, every hour on the hour until 1:00am.  Grab my hands.  Push.  Pull.  Hold your arms up Miss Sybil, like you’re holding a pizza box.  Perfect.  Close your eyes.  Keep your arms up.  Perfect.  Lift your right foot.  Left.  Perfect.  Push your toes down.  Now up.  Perfect.  Okay, worst part, I’m going to blind you.  Don’t move your head.  Look left, look right, up, down.  What’s today’s date?  Where are you?  What’s your name?  Okay, I’m going to change things up on you.  Who is the president?

Shelby says the neuro step-down visitation is 24 hours.  “You can sleep here if you want, but you probably won’t get much sleep.” This discouragement is welcome.

7:45pm

Rose wants to meet the second shift nurse.  A singing custodian changes the plastic waste container linings.  He sings about love as he shakes out a fresh plastic bag.  He sings on the other side of the divider curtains.  He sings as he talks to patients.  I ask what song.  “Why, it’s my own.  I just make it up as I go along.”  He is a handsome man, around 60.  

We meet Katelyn, another young nurse who mom says is gorgeous.  “Hold your arms up, like a pizza box.”  We leave mom for the night around 8:30pm without hearing results of the cat scan.  I fully expect mom will require one more night.

9:15am Wednesday June 5th

The next morning, Rose and I find mom sitting up, alert.  We’re pleasantly surprised – she’s cleared to go home.

The cat scan had revealed a complete absence of blood on the brain.

Rose helps mom get dressed as I turn my back.  I realize Mom is returning to normal when she makes me uncomfortable, saying “Oh I’m sure he’s seen a boob before.”  I consider a joke but make a silent offering instead. If I were the type to keep a gratitude journal, this moment would be etched on the cover, grateful for my little sister as I contemplate the limits to my caregiving.

A pastor and his trainee walk up to mom’s bed and chat.  Mom gets emotional as she describes the difficulty writing her name, “It’s so frustrating.”  They wish mom the best and we hold hands in a circle and pray.

Mom scratches her name on one last form.  An attractive Latin woman stops pushing her swiffer and smiles, keeps her eyes on mom and wishes her good luck.  The wheelchair arrives.  The Latin woman watches as a male nurse helps mom into the wheelchair. In three weeks, mom will return for the left hemisphere with a little more confidence and a little less fear.

Take a look at my new toy

It’ll blow your head in two, oh boy

Truth Hits Everybody, The Police

I almost never refer to my mom as mother unless I’m joking.  But as my research plunged me deeper into this awesome and awful technology, mom simply felt too informal.  Whose lucid mom volunteers for brain surgery, anyway?  Every little thing a mom does is magic: she bakes chocolate chip cookies; stirs corn starch into a bubbling paprikash; rolls tender leaves of cabbage around peppered beef; crochets afghan throws; knits booties and sweater vests of her own free will.  Only a wacky mutha could sign on for a metal rod sunk through bony temple, smuggled past the parietal cortex, down deep to a dysfunctional sub-thalamus, the last stop before medulla oblongata.

Hearing my mother’s brain surgery had been scheduled for this June – two surgery dates actually, weeks apart (she qualified for an electrode implant in each hemisphere) – what had first come to mind was, how will this interfere with my annual summer visit?  Cheryl, wife and enlightened voice asked, why don’t you plan your trip to coincide with your Mom’s surgery?  Your sister would probably like the help.

The truth hits everybody, and mine arrived like a freight.  In line for brains, I thought they said trains and asked for one with frequent stops.  Is there a part of the brain evolved for empathy, and if so, would a scan of mine reveal a stone cold Homo neanderthalenthis: dormant, unlit, inactive?

On the other hand, if you’d told me years ago my mother would slowly evolve a disorder of the brain, I’d have replied, Tell me something I don’t know.

Step 1: Attach stereotactic frame

CLICK HERE to read on about the 8 Surgical Steps of Deep Brain Stimulation