The dark side of the moon

Hawkeye

2009-11-03T18:32:00.002-06:00

This morning at South Shore Drive and 56th Street I heard the autumn crows cawing in fine form. As I turned onto the sidewalk along the park, something flew up in front of me; my impression was of a mourning dove, although I hadn't picked up the characteristic whrrrr! of its takeoff. When I looked up, I was surprised to see that what I'd flushed was a small hawk.

I've heard of hawks in Jackson Park/Wooded Isle, but have not seen one except perhaps high in the sky. Here was one perched in the tree in front of me, so of course I couldn't find the iPhone in my bag as I searched frantically and wished for a better camera (and that I weren't on the way to work). As I hunted, I couldn't tell if the bird had flown off or was still there looking at me quizzically. Finally, I dug out the iPhone, input the code, launched the camera application, and took the best photo I could with what I had.

The hawk flew to the ground. Irrationally, I thought it might be injured as it hopped awkwardly around, so I walked toward it, then it took refuge on a lower branch of a bush. Probably feeling threatened by my persistent interest, it flew off. When last I saw it, it was skimming the grass, then soaring high overhead. I still wondered if it had a leg injury—another one of my impressions, like that of a mourning dove.

Fly free, friend.

Dream: Halloween vampire

2009-10-31T19:39:00.000-05:00

A well-dressed man held a group hostage in an elegant dining room at a mansion. They may not have known it, but I could tell he was a vampire. If they didn't comply with his wishes, which were unknown to me, he would perform unspeakably gruesome acts.

He pointed to what looked like an ordinary coffee mug and handed a girl a twig, almost like cinnamon bark. She, under his control, dropped the twig, a drug or poison, into the cup, although part of me wondered how he would force the people to drink it. I knew him to be evil, though, and in my mind I saw all of them tortured and dying if they drank what was in the cup.

I don't know if I was the girl, or if I was an opposing power who controlled her, but she tipped the cup so its toxic contents slowly and quietly spilled out. The vampire seemed unaware, and I felt certain she would not be caught or punished.

With the cup, the balance of power seemed to have tipped in my favor.

Dream: Stray man and cat

2009-10-28T19:38:00.000-05:00

A handsome young man seated at a table with his growing family kept looking up to the stairs to the attic, where his pretty young wife sat with another woman, perhaps her sister. Teasingly, yet meaningfully, the wife would tell him to mind his dinner. Like me, she knew he was interested in the woman. I sensed a playful but real tension. The next time I looked at the women, I realized the companion was just a girl, perhaps even an older teenager. It came to me, too, that the man supported his family through petty crime.

The man left to meet another man; together they went in search of a particular cat. But the cat eluded them, and they became transfixed by a different cat, which they caught. It did not seem to mind. I doubted that either cat was really an animal and wondered what their game was. They knew what they were doing and had something in mind. I was a little afraid for the men, for although they were petty criminals, they were not evil at heart.

The now and the then

2009-10-23T23:59:00.004-05:00

In his answer to the 2005 Edge question, “What do you believe is true even though you cannot prove it?” Kai Krause articulates exactly how I think about the past, present, and future. I’m feeling less than philosophical about the “now,” however, because today started less than ideally. A lot less.

I had decided to celebrate the end of a difficult week by leaving early and stopping at Argo Tea for a breakfast wrap. At a little past 7 o’clock, I walked out into a driving wind that was scuttering sheets of water northward down the street. I thought about waiting a few minutes indoors, but I did want to leave early, and I couldn’t count on the wind or the rain letting up soon. I found myself blown toward 55th Street (the closer bus stop) because the wind was swirling mostly from the south. By the time I had walked to 55th and Hyde Park Boulevard, of course both wind and rain had dissipated into a drizzle with a bit of a breeze.

But during that eight-minute walk down two and one-half blocks, a gust had broken a rib in my favorite everyday umbrella. Grrr.

Although it’s a little further away, I prefer the 56th Street stop because it’s in the park with a view of trees and the Museum of Science and Industry, the stop itself is crowded, and as it’s an earlier stop on the route the buses are less crowded, too. But I would have had to have fought a powerful head wind three-quarters of a block and then a slanting one in the open the rest of the way. So I was blown down the path of least resistance toward 55th.

Where I not only discovered that the wind had broken my umbrella, but within moments a crazed man, or a fabulous facsimile of one, thrust his face into mine, muttering odd things about sainthood and finally throwing in a pitch for money. I wasn’t his only target; he besieged the male half of a young Asian couple, the only other people around. A few minutes later he came back for a second go at me, this time with a straight leap into the saintly rant and no interruption for a pitch. There’s no feeling that compares to being trapped under a bus shelter in the rain with a wide-eyed, self-proclaimed (I think) saint.

My pencil lead broke as I was writing this. Yes, the “now” was going to be a day of small annoyances.

This “now” seems to be one of those times when my highest aspiration is to be a turtle, with head pulled firmly into shell (there’d be no fooling me into peeking out). So this is a good time to forget the “now” and remember the “then,” in this case, last Saturday the 17th.

For years I’ve wanted to visit Starved Rock State Park, after I read about it in either the Chicago Tribune (back when that paper had content of interest) or a local magazine. I thought I’d mentioned it to J., but apparently I hadn’t because he’s been bringing up a trip there as a new idea for the past few weeks. He’d never been there, either, and his late mother had piqued his curiosity with her fond recollections of it. So we set Saturday the 17th as the date to go. And we did.

I met him again at the Homewood Metra station, after which we made a detour to Caribou Coffee. He had his cup and enormous vacuum bottle filled, meanwhile contributing to Amy’s fund. I opted for a bathroom visit and a pumpkin cooler. Next came the tricky part—finding the entrance onto the expressway. The Google Maps text explanation seems a little off to me, and the entrance itself is tucked away almost as though it were meant to be missed. The brightness of the afternoon sun also glared off the iPhone screen, making it almost impossible to see. But, after I had him turn the car (the little blue dot on the map) around, J. spotted the ramp, and away we went.

I feel like this has been a dreary autumn, but even as we angled southwest down the highway, the clouds continued to break up into interesting patterns, with the sun breaking through enough to give me headache as I peered at the iPhone screen. The more sun, the warmer the air—it was turning into the perfect fall day for a walk in the woods and a little bit of an adventure.

Part of the way is along the Illinois and Michigan Canal National Heritage Corridor, designated such on August 24, 1984. This strikes me as a fabulous idea, allowing the many towns along the way their historic and industrial due. J. noticed a sign for a radio station dedicated to tourist information, so he tuned in. As I watched our blue dot skimming along on the map, I felt a teeny bit like an explorer when I told him, “We’re going to cross a river shortly.” This proved to be the Fox, known to me mainly for its propensity to flood (making its banks the ideal spot for a Mies van der Rohe monstrosity).

Probably more so than the Corridor, Starved Rock is a well-loved attraction, drawing millions of visitors a year—not all, I suspect, from Illinois. If J. and I recall correctly, Starved Rock was on ex-Governor Rod Blagojevich’s short list of state facilities to close or curtail, which amazes me. Here you have millions of people who want to visit, and I noticed that the towns along the way tout their proximity to it. A different radio station is dedicated to its tourists. It’s reasonable to assume that these local economies benefit from Starved Rock’s visitors passing through, dining, shopping, perhaps even spending the night as Starved Rock Lodge is often fully booked. The park drew J. and me to an area we otherwise would have had no reason to visit. What would cutbacks at the park have meant to how many people? What good could come of cutting its funding and services? Cut off nose, spite face—perhaps I’m missing some of the details, but that’s how it seems to me.

Starved Rock State Park is still fully functional, but the first sight in the visitors center made me sad—the enormous cross section of the trunk of an elm dating from before the Civil War that had succumbed to Dutch elm disease in the early 2000s. To the lower right, you can see a black-and-white photo of the living tree in its prime, when, the exhibit notes, it sported one of the largest crowns in the country. Oh, to have such a tree under which to while away free time in the summer and upon which to look and ponder in the winter.

We took a quick walk through the gift shop and exhibit that were to close in a few minutes at 4 o’clock and picked up a map and advice on where to go. We had about an hour and three-quarters before dark, so the woman we spoke to steered us toward French Canyon, which she thought we could manage in the time left, or possibly Starved Rock itself. She alluded to slippery footing at French Canyon, but I couldn’t quite tell what to expect.

It turned out to be a gorgeous spot, a place like I might expect to find in parts of New York.

At first it looked like I wasn’t going to make it into the canyon at all. It wasn’t that it was hard, and those in good condition and with sure feet could bound about fairly easily. I’m not in any condition, but what holds me back is a combination of physical weakness and emotional fear. With a little difficulty, I made my way down the steps, some steep, leading into a lower canyon, like a vestibule, where a heavyset woman sat with a stroller (occupied or not, I couldn’t tell). The footing was angled and slippery and seemed treacherous to me, and when I tried to go around her, I ended up grabbing the stroller to steady myself—not a very smart move!

French Canyon itself was up a little waterfall and around a wall of rock, so I couldn’t see it. The woman with the stroller told us that it was lovely, and everyone returning seemed impressed. As I stood there, I thought about how I’d wanted to come here for years, how I’d finally gotten the chance, and how upset I would be later if my weaknesses and fears, both real, kept me from experiencing the joy of the moment or seeing something that should be within my reach. I also saw with painful, stark clarity that if such tiny feats are difficult for me now, they will cross the line to impossible when I’m older—perhaps in five years, maybe ten. My time is shorter than I care to know.

For once in my life I decided to go for the gusto. It’s easy for me to laugh at myself because it really wasn’t that hard. But I have pain and moments of weakness in my back and legs, and no confidence in my body or its abilities, and so I was afraid and had to overcome that fear. The memory of falling on my front teeth last year doesn’t help.

But, using both hands and my rear as a stabilizing platform, and getting all of them dirty, I wound around the woman and stroller, used the worn human footprints as steps up the mini-waterfall, and emerged into one of the loveliest sites I can imagine, at least in Illinois—a tiny, steep, narrow canyon darkened by the remaining leaves on the overhanging trees and tinkling with the 45-foot fall of water at its end.

I could see immediately why Starved Rock is popular. And popular it was on this autumn day, as a group of adults and adolescents descended on us as we were about to venture forth, as a young couple stood at the base of the waterfall, as another young couple set up a tripod and camera—as people came, expressed their wonder, and left. Except perhaps on the coldest, bleakest midwinter day, I doubt one could find solitude at French Canyon—or anywhere else at Starved Rock.

J. noticed that getting down the worn footprints was trickier than he expected. For me, descending is usually much more difficult than ascending, and the downward slant of the notches added to their slippery precariousness. By now, I had impressed myself with my teeny feat of daring, so I moved a little more confidently—but not without engaging hands and rear when necessary.

Next we headed toward Starved Rock, but when J. spotted an almost picturesque bridge, we followed it, thus being detoured toward Lovers Leap. A “leap” implies height, so we found ourselves climbing—or descending, depending on the immediate terrain—what felt and looked like interminable stairs. From comments I’ve read since, these boardwalks and steps are an innovation implemented to stem the increasing erosion of the park, which is primarily sandstone. It’s not hard to picture the damage millions of feet a year over many decades might do to such a landscape. In this area, at least, the rule is not to leave the walk to wander off through the woods. Starved Rock State Park is being loved to death.

J. came upon an overlook of sorts, although I pointed out that it wasn’t labeled Lovers Leap (or anything else) and that the river wasn’t visible, as promised. I heard laughter from below and spotted flashes of colorful clothing between the branches and leaves. “That’s the Lovers Leap overlook,” I said as decisively as I could, based on intuition. This platform offered a treetop view of a variety of conifers. As the trees grow, it will be more of an eye-to-crown perspective.

Now we headed toward the voices, flashes of clothing, and hints of river—if I remember correctly, Lovers Leap was slightly below the conifer spot. This overlook is below a dam and across from a point where the river splits. On what appeared to be a large flat stone island, hundreds of gulls had congregated, and hundreds more wheeled over the water below the dam. At first I thought a large object in the water was an enormous lone bird such as a swan—I had no sense of size or perspective—but a look with my binoculars revealed that what I’d taken for the “swan’s” back was a rock, upon which stood a great blue heron, its head tucked toward its wing if not quite under it. Although we stayed for at least 10 minutes, if not more, the heron never budged. Either it was sleeping, or the river’s fish were onto its sly ways.

Unfortunately for us, it was too early in the year for bald eagles, but soon, soaring above the confusion of gulls, came a flock of giant birds big enough to make the gulls look like sparrows. Even with the binoculars, I never got a good look at them—they were always flying away by the time I could get the glasses trained on them, so I saw them mostly from behind, once or twice a little more from the side. My impression was of short bills and legs, big bodies, and outsized bills. Indeed, my impression was of pelicans. PELICANS? In Illinois? I’d seen pelicans only once before, during dinner near Pompano Beach in Florida, when they landed and stood on the pylons. That was almost up close and personal, while here they flew en masse in the middle distance. I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t shake the impression of pelicans. Later at home I found sources online that mentioned October sightings of flocks of 25-30 American white pelicans at Starved Rock.

I’m still not certain. But maybe I’m not as bad a birder as I thought.

By now the witching hour was approaching, so we started to descend all those steps we’d walked up. At one particularly steep step, I couldn’t bring myself to take it. I froze. J. set his bag down along with my purse, took the binoculars I handed him, and held out his hand, although I was afraid my ankle or knee would give and I’d fall on top of him. Then I heard a sound, which I finally realized was his coffee from his tilted cup spilling onto the ground. While he turned his attention to checking if anything important had gotten wet, somehow I took the step just like that. I surprised myself, then felt silly for freezing in fear again.

Partway down, J. hinted he wouldn’t mind taking a brief detour to Starved Rock, but by then it was just a few minutes before sunset, and I wondered, as I often do, why someone as impractical as I am still manages to have common sense when others don’t. We speculated on the unlikely presence of wolves or coyotes, but I learned later that there are no dangerous animals, including venomous snakes, at Starved Rock. How disappointing. Don’t bobcats wander through Wildcat Canyon? I suppose millions of visitors a year serve as a deterrent to larger predators, although the wanderings of the animals aren’t limited to the trails and stairs.

Having avoided darkness and nonexistent predators, back at the visitors center I used the women’s room while J. sated his incurable need to stimulate the economy singlehandedly in the gift shop. As I left the ladies’, it occurred to me that I’d walked around in the chilly air for two hours without thinking about a bathroom or having an urgent need to get to one. Thank you, Dr. M. and team.

Next on the agenda was something I’d seen on the online calendar—Irish storytelling around a fire at 7 o’clock. I warned J. I probably couldn’t last for more than 15 minutes in the cold—the temperature had dropped precipitously after sunset—but as it turned out I was able to hold out for almost an hour.

After circling the Lodge down the road and becoming a little confused, we found the storyteller, Trish Kelly, at the top of a circle of chairs around a smoky fire. As she waited for more people to appear, she told us that she’d lived in the area all her life and had spent a lot of time clambering about Starved Rock—she may have worked there at some point. She mentioned numerous bones she had broken, multiple times in a few cases, from her ankles and elbow to her jaw, as well as cameras, binoculars, and other valuables dropped and lost in the park. Although I doubt she knocked herself out at French Canyon or on the stairs to Lovers Leap, still, I used the story of her injuries to pride myself on my bravery, such as it was.

As the group stabilized at around 15 to 20, with some continued comings and goings, she regaled us with the story of her adoption from Ireland as an infant, with J. interrupting her to find out that he’d been within 20 miles of her birthplace, and how she’d become a storyteller. She mentioned that she knew no others, which makes me want to contact her and connect her to Bill Watkins. As she warmed up—so to speak—she slyly worked in her first encounter with a ghostie at the home of a childhood friend. She showed us a poster-sized photo of Hegeler Carus Mansion, where she works, and told us that no one had thought it to be haunted—until the night her office lights would not stay off, and a female voice bid her, her friend, and a La Salle police officer “good night.” The audience seemed skeptical, but perhaps the fire crackled a wee bit louder in a momentary silence.

Slipping into a discreet Irish accent, she told the tale of the fearful son of a fearless ghost hunter. I can’t remember his given name, which also rhymed, but the father dubbed him “Rigor Mortis the Tortoise” for retreating into his shell at the first sign of a supernatural presence. Rigor Mortis the Tortoise dislikes this nickname, thinking it will hinder any potential relationship with a girl he might meet whose description sounded suspiciously like our storyteller.

It was at the end of this tale that my chattering teeth and shivering body finally got to me, and I whispered to J. that I had to leave.

I was a bit skeptical about the story of her adoption from Ireland, I told J., although it’s quite likely true. “With storytellers, it’s hard to separate fact from fiction, reality from fantasy,” I said. “I don’t mean that she’s lying, you know. She’s telling a story.” There was a bit more silence than usual at this point, I felt, so I added, “Besides, there is one thing I know to have been a blatant lie.” “Oh?” “Yes. When Rigor Mortis the Tortoise was frightened and the hairs on the back of his neck stood . . .” dramatic pause “. . . that was a lie. Tortoises don’t have hair. Aha!”

He seemed relieved and wondered if the young men of the area appreciate her and her talents. “How do you know she’s not married?” I asked. “She wasn’t wearing a ring,” he replied.

Hmmm. He wasn’t held so rapt by the stories that he didn’t notice these important details.

We drove around the Lodge’s extensive, segmented parking lot again, looking for and finding the restaurant part, then walked under a long, lighted archway toward dinner.

The Lodge is suitably rustic in a strangely elegant way, with a fireplace the central feature of the busy lobby/living room, where numerous people were hanging out, socializing over coffee or reading. Later, I found the lounge and patio in the back, the former also full of people, some watching a flat-screen TV that didn’t quite blend in with the wood beams and décor.

We must have arrived at the restaurant not far ahead of the last seating because we were among the last to leave, shortly after 9 o’clock. I ordered chipotle meat loaf—comfort food with a twist—while the more adventurous J. picked, I think, bluegill (not sure), which he’d never had before. I can’t comment specifically, other than to say it looked and smelled like fish. For dessert, he asked for pecan pie, which our server explained, in apologetic tones, was served in a cup. We didn’t know what to expect, but the pie crust was a cup rather than the conventional wedge. Perhaps that meant it was bought vs. homemade, but it didn’t seem to matter to J., who approved.

After a trip through long, narrow hallways to the front desk lobby, where an older couple was playing a board game to the splash of a koi fountain, and a brief (very brief) detour through downtown Utica, we finally headed home. I provided my usual navigational advice up front, but after a few miles I fell asleep—a great help to the equally tired driver, I’m sure.

When finally I could keep my eyes open for more than a few moments we were already deep into city lights, and the world of French Canyon, Lovers Leap, river pelicans, and Rigor Mortis the Tortoise already seemed a millennium and a million miles away.

Diaper Deck at Argo Tea

2009-10-23T16:31:00.003-05:00

The women's room at Argo Tea (Sears) features a Diaper Deck. Here are descriptions of the visuals and the accompanying text:

Standing baby is about to set something flat down, presumably on the Diaper Deck.

LAY TOWEL DOWN.

Baby appears to be suspended in midair by a belt through his undies.

FASTEN STRAP.

Baby falls headfirst.

NEVER LEAVE BABY UNATTENDED.

Standing baby throws something in the trash.

DISPOSE OF TOWEL.

I finally realized "towel" means "diaper," which is odd as it is called a Diaper Deck.

My attention, however, was distracted by the baby who does it all—lays out his own towel (diaper), fastens himself in but falls off headfirst anyway, then recovers enough to dispose of his own soiled towel (diaper), which you can understand—you might soil yourself if you abruptly fell headfirst.

In all four visuals, clearly the baby has been left unattended. The lesson seems to be that if you leave baby unattended, he'll remove and dispose of his own diaper despite massive head trauma. Interestingly, he doesn't seem to have figured out how to put a clean one on.

Spring into fall

2009-10-13T20:41:00.000-05:00

With the cooler, even cold temperatures of what seems like a premature fall, and distance from my surgery and permanent separation from Ignatius the tenacious fibroid, my energy levels have risen. During the past year or two, I seemed to spend several hours of every weekend in a torpor of deep napping. I still doze off every now and then, but usually not for entire wasted afternoons at a time. With my shoulder (impingement syndrome) feeling better after a couple of bad days earlier in the month, this weekend I was able to collect and toss the trash, clear junk off the coffee table, stay on top of the dishes, clean the bathroom, vacuum, and take care of laundry. It may not sound like much to a normal person, but for me it was quite an amazing feat. This doesn't mean, of course, that the place is straightened up, clean, or presentable.

Last Sunday, the 4th, I met J. at the Homewood train station. But I didn't meet just J. He called to tell me that G., the disabled man he drives to church and Caribou Coffee, was still with him because, when he had tried to drop him off, they'd found the house deserted and locked. Because someone was expected at 2:30 p.m., we went to a bagel place to kill the time. G. could have come with us—we were headed to an art fair at Swallow Cliff Woods—but J. would have had to drive north, then south, then back north again. Waiting worked out, and G. even got a bowl of chili out of it. He's diabetic and sometimes seems to have wildly fluctuating glucose levels, so J. is reluctant to provide him with anything other than coffee for fear it will have an effect on his numbers. Chili may not be healthful, but I figured it wouldn't make his glucose spike, either. He enjoyed it, and I appreciated feeling free from guilt.

Finally, we took G. home, then made for Swallow Cliff Woods via Wolf ("Woof" in J.'s lingo) Road. Along here are still some cornfields, old farmhouses, decaying outbuildings, and remnants of rural culture. Parts of it could pass for southern New York or the flatter bits of central Pennsylvania. Sadly, however, more corner signs have sprung up advertising lots for sale—that open field bordered by trees is probably doomed to become another strip mall because there just aren't enough of those in the Chicago area.

Further north, although I am not sure exactly where, we came across a place where the fields had been converted into a McMansion development. The houses are so large that J. thought surely some of them must be apartments. But no—I'm certain they are single-family homes. I can't fathom why people choose to live in enormous houses on relatively small plots of land squished together. For the money, I'd rather have a more modestly sized house on a few acres, with a little breathing room outdoors as well as in. The style of these dwellings added to their strangely mass produced ostentatiousness—from the glimpses I had of the materials and look, I thought they were intended to mimic European country chateaux. That is, if country chateaux were clumped together on dimes of land in suburban subdivisions. A man's home truly is his castle—minus the estate.

After a few wrong turns here and there—thanks to Google Maps on the iPhone, at least we avoided driving into cul-de-sac traps—we arrived at Swallow Cliff Woods. The sun was peering out intermittently, throwing a little cheer and warmth across the field where the artists had pitched their tents.

After picking up some honey, J. settled in at a tent where what he called "fuzzies"—hand-crafted Christmas decorations and the like—were sold, while I wandered ahead. As happens periodically, I found myself tempted to buy a block of amethyst—it looks so magical, and reminds me of my late aunt—but as also happens I resisted. Instead, I headed for the Forest Preserve District of Cook County tent, where they were attempting to find people to recruit as volunteers. I had to break it to the friendly woman that I'm unable to serve, but we had a good talk about invasive species and what volunteers do. I mentioned Volo Bog, which is touted as the only quaking bog in Illinois. In a show of competitiveness, she hastily pointed out that portions of one of their bogs also quake. J., who had appeared, duly noted one of the places she mentioned as a good spot to visit.

The find of the day was Joe Nowak (For the Love of Nature), a wildlife photographer who prides himself on his unretouched photos, taken with a 35mm camera on Fujifilm. His photos are amazing—a red-tailed hawk illuminated by a ray of sunshine, a great horned owl so blended into the tree bark that it takes several efforts to find, a deer scratching its ears with a hind hoof. He and his wife told us that the owl photos are possible thanks to a woman they call the "owl whisperer"; she has an uncanny ability to sense and spot owls and their nests even while driving full speed down the highway. She'd found the camouflaged owl on a golf course and alerted them. His photos and their conversation were delightful.

You can't visit Swallow Cliff Woods without walking up the old toboggan run stairs. For some people, this means making dozens of trips up and down in the pursuit of fitness. For me, one round trip, with many rest stops on the way up, then broken by a walk in the woods before heading down cautiously, tests the limits of my worn knees and aching back and lungs. Later, on the long way down, we were passed, back and forth at least four or five times, by a determined woman who almost bounded effortlessly. From the bottom we watched her slightly splayed stride, which looked easy. An older man, who also made the round trip several times, did so much more laboriously, soaking his shirt with perspiration. That was me after one trip up.

This time at the top we veered down a path to the left instead of taking the main trail straight ahead. While more level and less of a challenge to walk, it was more interesting visually, with tree-covered ravines that reminded me of New York and Pennsylvania. This seemed to be the way less traveled, a little more hushed, except for a few people like us walking along and the lone cyclist who couldn't, wouldn't, or didn't read the sign prohibiting bicycles and who flew toward and past us with a cheery whoosh.

I remember the summer evening we were at Swallow Cliff Woods after dark, when thousands of fireflies lighted intermittently, transforming the familiar into the magic. Now the fireflies are long gone, having taken summer with them.

Later, we undid all the good we'd done our bodies with dinner at Hackney's in Palos Park.

The following Saturday, the 10th, J. called me in the morning—unusual for him. I deduced correctly that he'd worked overnight. He wanted to go to Bonjour, and we arrived in time for him to order the breakfast special—Madame or one of her helpers even threw in a drink sample and a miniature croissant. While we chatted, I amused myself by watching people walking away from the neighborhood's annual book fair with bags, boxes, and carts of books. (The next day, I encountered a young woman on the Flamingo's elevator who "just wanted to get some groceries" but had succumbed to the allure of the printed word, buying a bag full of bargain books that was clearly weighing her down. "Now I have to go back," she lamented. "For food.")

While J. mailed his taxes, I shopped the biography and poetry sections. I found a two-volume biography of John Adams, a volume of Catullus, and some other treasures. I saw, but didn't buy, a multi-volume poetry set inscribed in spidery writing with a woman's name, "Bryn Mawr College, 1903." I doubt many of my college books, not nearly so beautifully bound, will resurface in such fair condition at a 2085 book sale.

While I cleaned the bathroom, I let J. sleep for an hour or so, the off we went to the Chicago Botanic Garden. We shopped; checked out the orchids, which strike me as ranging from sexy to sinister; and walked around the nearly dead rose garden, the English walled garden, and the waterfall. The walled garden reminds me of The Secret Garden, naturally. Oh, to have a private walled garden retreat where magic at least seems possible. Walled gardens and waterfalls—where dreams are real, or reality a dream.

This time, we found Blind Faith Café without too many detours. The menu had changed, so J. chose a Native American-inspired entrée while I opted for black bean tostadas, both vegetarian. We also picked up baked goods, etc., to go. He'd commented earlier that some of the wall quilts seemed to have disappeared, while I noticed that the merchandise—T-shirts and the like—were missing. J. had better hold onto his old Blind Faith Café vase, as it could soon prove to be nearly one of a kind.

And so home, tired, sated, and happy for a time. Outdoors, among the trees, I come alive.

Let the Fantasea begin

2009-10-11T22:10:00.003-05:00

On 24 September, after an al fresco dinner overlooking the river at Rivers, a friend and I took a cab to the Shedd Aquarium for a members' preview of the new oceanarium show, Fantasea.

I didn't follow the renovation of the oceanarium, so I didn't know anything about it. In some ways, I still don't, because we didn't walk around it afterward. Much of the work, however, seems to have been focused on making Fantasea possible vs. making wholesale changes to the visible and/or aqueous parts of the exhibit—at least, from what I could see from my seat next to the new railings between seating sections.

When Ken Ramirez joined Shedd in the late 1980s as assistant curator of marine mammals and training (he's now vice president of collections and training), he said that the Shedd would never put on marine mammal shows (implication: like SeaWorld), only educational presentations highlighting the whales' and dolphins' natural behaviors, performed on cue. I'm sure I'm not making that up because I seem to recall talking about it with several docents at Lincoln Park Zoo. We even may have discussed it with Ramirez himself when he served as a guest dinner speaker at the 1993 AZAD conference we hosted. I saw the presentation a few times and noticed, or think I noticed, that music and a little showmanship crept in over time, but it remained primarily educational and plain.

Never say never, however.

Now it's definitely a show. A show complete with video, music, costumes, staging, lighting, and props. All that is missing are dialogue, plot, and curtain-call roses for the female lead, a young girl selected from the audience (possibly a privileged person's daughter, pre-selected and rehearsed, judging from her, shall we say, flair for the dramatic). I'm getting ahead of myself, however.

As we sat and waited for what our rear ends told us was a very long time, a lot of important-looking people wandered into the other seating section—the aquarium's board of trustees, which was holding a meeting afterward. I asked my friend how I can get a seat on the board; it looked like a good way to prop up my sagging confidence. She told me to have and donate lots and lots of money. It's that simple. That's really too bad, though—don't my lots and lots of wisdom, insight, and vision compensate for my lack of funds and connections? Anyway, seated in front of the VIPs were "special guests," a couple of elementary school classes.

We were shown some videos, one highlighting Shedd's history. Perhaps an older native Chicagoan might have recognized some of the people pictured (who, in their day, probably had and donated lots and lots of money). My friend disliked the music, which managed to combine a New Age sound with a funereal rhythm, all cranked painfully loud.

The next video captured everyone's attention, showing the beluga whales' return trip from Mystic, Connecticut, on a FedEx cargo plane. Placed into slings, lifted by crane onto a truck and then presumably onto the plane, flown, and trucked again like so much freight, reassured by their handlers, and finally released into their pool, the belugas surely wondered what they had done to deserve this and when the nightmare would be over. I may be anthropomorphizing, but I can imagine only that these intelligent and emotional animals must find being packaged and transported bewildering and stressful, even if they have experienced it before. This video was so touching that some audience members seemed to shed a few tears. Not me, of course.

An introductory video excited us, especially when we saw the red-tailed hawks.

A staffer came out to introduce the preview, warning us that Fantasea is a work in progress and that the animals may choose not to perform their natural behaviors on cue. Like actors (and co-workers), even trained animals may not feel like co-operating. At this point, the young girl lead was selected from the board's side of the audience and given a giant glowing Fantasea logo necklace.

Let the Fantasea begin.

The cast of Fantasea characters includes a sea lion, a rockhopper and a mini-flock of Magellanic penguins, beluga whales, two red-tailed hawks, and the stars of the finale, the showy and popular Pacific white-sided dolphins. The supporting cast consisted of humans dressed to resemble, in a stylized sense, their animal counterparts. Ahead of the hawks, a feathered human "flew" in along a ceiling track; before another act (the dolphins? Now I can't recall), three people sporting bowlers and umbrellas dropped in via trapeze swing contraptions. Between acts, video showed strangely dressed people swimming and ambulating through surreal, almost psychedelic environments, while the girl lead turned on her necklace and apparently directed the action with a little help from the spirit guides.

As for the animals, the sea lion performed some imitative flipper waving, but, as my friend dryly observed, his best trick seemed to be swallowing prodigious quantities of fish. It's all positive.

A man dressed in a penguin-style wet suit appeared, carrying a rockhopper under his arm. When he discovered the Magellanic flock of three or four in a box on wheels, he pointed them out dramatically to his rockhopper companion, who seemed nonplussed. The Magellanic penguins proved difficult to entice out of their box (I suspect penguins are like flamingos—if you can persuade one to move, the rest will follow). The man set the rockhopper down, leaving the bird to hop up our aisle to the amazement and delight of the crowd (especially those close enough to touch it). I can't remember much else other than the man retrieving and tucking the rockhopper under his arm again.

The belugas performed much as they have in the past, perhaps a little closer to the audience and a little more flair in the cues from the trainers.

After the flight of the human hawk, a woman dressed in a quasi-Robin Hood outfit appeared with a red-tailed hawk on her fist. The hawk flew from the seating side to the opposite island. A similarly dressed man appeared with a second hawk for the audience to see more closely, but his hawk was having none of it, bating and falling off the glove repeatedly.

The show wrapped up with the Pacific white-sided dolphins, who, like the whales, spyhopped, flopped, leaped, and flapped their way to an ovation, the most enthusiastic of the evening.

The girl returned the glowing necklace with more dumb show, and so Fantasea ended.

Afterward, the hawk handler told us the birds are blind in one eye—that's why they're nonreleasable—while we commented on the difficulty of indoor flight for even a fully sighted raptor. To a couple of our questions she responded that certain ideas didn't fit into the "story line." Here she lost me.

Story line?

The concept behind Fantasea is to connect the visitors to the animals. We guessed that the trainers and others, like the flying human, filled the role of spirit or animal guides, although I'm not sure that most, or many, average visitors would catch onto that—it wasn't clear.

My opinion of Fantasea is colored by my childhood and my experience. I wasn't raised on the Disney diet, and I didn't learn to anthropomorphize animals. They weren't furry variations on humans; they were more interesting to me for the things that made them different from humans and each other, such as their adaptations, behavior, and interrelationships. A cat was more than cute and cuddly; it was an effective hunter, capable of strength and speed. In every house cat I see shades of lions and tigers. What I do not see is a singing and dancing Disney character or even Sylvester the Cat. My experience as a zoo docent reinforced my perceptions. That's why I see Fantasea from a different perspective than the Chicago Tribune critic, who praised its "thrilling moments and truly eye-popping production values." I'm quite sure most of the audience would agree with this assessment, not mine.

From my skewed viewpoint, the show seemed lacking in a few areas. For example:

Story line. Aside from the girl running from point to point with her periodically glowing Fantasea necklace and meeting the guides and animals, there was no story line. The connections that are supposed to be at the heart of Fantasea made little emotional impact; there were no "ahhh" moments that I noticed, except perhaps a bit of surprise when the rockhopper hopped up the rocky steps. In addition, the red-tailed hawks didn't fit the program. In nature, these animals would not be found together, but at least the sea lion, whales, penguins, and dolphins share aquatic environments and adaptations. While the red-tailed hawk may be found in coastal areas, it's not an emblematic water raptor in the same way the osprey or even bald eagle is. The one's short flight and the other's brief appearance seemed tacked on; they didn't seems to be an integral part of the barely discernible story line.

Animals. How can a show that features six species be said to be short on animals? With the backdrop, bright lights, garish video, blaring music, kitschy costumes, props, girl guide with glowing necklace, and human shenanigans, the animals got quite lost in all that sensory overload. The focus is on them such a short time and is disrupted by so many human interactions that they become almost ancillary to their own show.

Education. With the emphasis on "connection," little in the show provides education or even an attempt at it. To me it seems connections are made and formed with species that we understand, respect, and relate to on some level. All this requires some knowledge acquired through education. At the end of Fantasea, I knew no more about why should I want or feel connection with the sea lion, penguins, belugas, hawks, or dolphins than I had before. Not even the simple point that we all depend on clean water was made. You might learn more at—dare I say it?—SeaWorld.

Shedd has more than SeaWorld to compete with—nonstop action movies with sophisticated animation that makes anything possible, games, virtual reality, facebook, texting—our attention spans seem shorter and more easily diverted than ever. As long as we don't love simple pleasures anymore and need constant and greater stimulation, a mere educational animal presentation doesn't cut it. That's a shame, because all the video, music, lights, and staging detract from the heart and soul of the show and from what's important—the animals.

I also wondered about the animals, especially the rockhopper penguin. I've read that Antarctic penguin species (compared to their temperate climate counterparts, like the Magellanic penguins) do not fare well in temperatures that are even moderately too warm, becoming prone to disease and death, yet here is an Antarctic species paraded in air that's at least 10 to 15 degrees warmer than its optimum range. It wasn't until I'd slept on it, though, that I realized what bothered me more—that the rockhopper was treated like a prop. To me, this sends the wrong message; to form a connection with wild animals, we first must respect what they are, which is neither stage prop nor pet. Rockhoppers aren't objects to be tucked under the arm and carried about like a clutch purse. The thought of it disturbed me even in my sleep.

For all my hand wringing, however, supplemented by that of my friend, perhaps the best commentary came from a little boy I'd noticed early in the evening because he was wearing a St. Thomas the Apostle School t-shirt. After the show, his mother encouraged him to go talk to the trainers. Ignoring her, he spread his arms wide and ran away up the steps, saying, "I want to fly like a hawk."

For at least that brief moment, he'd made a connection.

In today's mailbag

2009-09-29T20:25:00.001-05:00

I found a Quo Vadis Textagenda daily planner, a Rhodia No. 14 pad, a teeny Rhodia No. 10 pad (I'd heard of it, but assumed it was a myth), and a gorgeous Clairefontaine notebook with a textured red cover, all courtesy of Exaclair, Inc. Vice President of Marketing Karen Doherty. Although I'm not an expert, and I'm also terrible at keeping a schedule, I'm going to break the Textagenda in at work over the next couple of weeks and write a review. Stay tuned.

Life at street level

2009-09-28T19:56:00.001-05:00

Saturday, September 19, I invited J. over for an end-of-summer dip in the pool. It’s been a cool, cloudy September, and with the neighborhood urchins back in school only a few hardy residents have been coming out to do a few laps. The sun, sinking toward the south, now hides behind the building most of the day, so there’s nothing for sunbathers to bask in. The pool, once crowded and noisy, is empty and quiet now.

The pool’s water is warm, but the breeze can be nippy on wet skin. J. finds it hard to get into the water, so he lowers himself slowly, while I start to shiver and my teeth to chatter when I get out and the air hits me. I noticed that a young woman who jumped in for a few laps scurried inside after a brief rub with a towel. There’s no drying off naturally at sunset when the 65-degree Fahrenheit air is blowing.

Dried off and warmed up, we decided to eat before J. continued on to work. He mentioned Western Avenue, which seemed too far to me under what felt like time and energy constraints. We settled on Calypso Café—not his idea of new and adventurous, but at least we hadn’t been there in a while, and the menu is pretty varied.

This trip also gave me a chance to see what was left of Dixie Kitchen and Bait Shop—which is nothing, just a very clean excavation, with no sign of construction that I could tell. Ostensibly, a clean site presents a better picture to potential investors than a doomed building, although I wonder who’s buying or lending right now. As I told J., it looks to me like the University of Chicago wanted to flex its muscle and show the neighborhood it means business.

To me, this raises the question of what business the university is in, exactly. Given the number of times they contact me by phone, e-mail, and mail to plead for funding, I would think they’re focusing on their core mission, which I think would be education, research, and medicine. On the side, however, they can’t seem to resist the real estate business—owning and managing the local shopping center, buying property and providing vague explanations, and now buying and redeveloping the old Harper Court.

J. asked me if other big universities carry so much weight in their neighborhoods. To his surprise, I laughed. The University of Chicago is a flea compared to, say, the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor.

I like Ann Arbor. From the bed and breakfast where I stay, I can walk to countless local boutiques and shops, like Peaceable Kingdom and the People’s Food Co-op and Café Verde. For those students who require their suburban comforts, Borders and Starbucks are right off the main campus. But my favorite, even now that many of the brick streets have been paved over, is Kerrytown, a quaint and quirky shopping center where you can find so much variety at the shops or the frequent farmers’ market. At Kerrytown, I feel like I’m in a small village artisans’ market—something that the “college town” of Hyde Park sorely lacks. So much here is spread out and is purely utilitarian; many of the limited storefronts are dedicated to salons, dry cleaners, locksmiths, optometrists, dentists, and the like. A great boutique like Parker’s Pets (akin to Kerrytown’s Dogma and Catmantoo) is isolated on a boulevard, away from other shops in an area that has little to draw pedestrians. Open Produce and The Fair Trader are also wonderful additions to the area, but they’re far from the heart of the university, and students and staff would have to go out of the way to shop there—with little else nearby to browse except a dollar store.

Now imagine Parker’s Pets, Freehling Pot and Pan Company, Bonjour Bakery and Café, Toys Etcetera, The Fair Trader, Istria Café, and Open Produce all on one or two blocks. Throw in a movie theater and even a small venue for folk and world music nearby, and you’ve pictured downtown Ann Arbor. If the university is going to micromanage Hyde Park, can’t they come up with a master strategy and vision that’s as conducive to community and participation as Ann Arbor? Even the 55th Street side of the Hyde Park Shopping Center, with its landscaped courtyard and arts, garden, and book fairs, is a step in the right direction.

My understanding is that a mixed-use high-rise is planned to dominate Harper Court. Perhaps density is ecologically “green” and the best use of urban space. I’ve noticed, though, that high-rises don’t foster community in the way that clustered storefronts and courtyards do. Imposing and bulky, often with little open space, high-rises seem distanced from their surroundings. They don’t entice the neighborhood to gather. Much of urban social life happens at street level, spilling out from restaurants, pubs, taverns, cafés, shops, and three flats, not from high-rise hulks.

Nowhere in Chicago is this more evident than in Lincoln Park, where the main streets like Lincoln and Clark, Armitage and Diversey, are filled with people shopping, eating, drinking, and hanging out in front of the most popular places.

By contrast, the primary commercial street near the University of Chicago is 53rd Street, where many of the most interesting shops (including those that were once in Harper Court) have disappeared, including, for example, the Chalet (replaced by a chain) and the import store (owner retired and moved). Because of the proximity of Kenwood Academy and for other reasons, the police discourage loitering, so what makes Lincoln Park sociable, popular, and successful is considered a threat in Hyde Park. Even men playing chess are dangerous, at least according to those who had the chess tables at Harper Court removed years ago, driving the rowdy players over to Borders and Harold Washington Park, where they continue to disturb the peace with their intent stares at chess pieces.

I’d be happy to be wrong, but unless the street level of a high-rise complex is engaging in design and offers something for many, the university’s plans don’t seem to add all that much to the development of community except a modern face. Unless there’s something really compelling at that level, I suspect most of us will still be at the park watching the chess players, at Promontory Point soaking up rays, or indulging in a croissant at Bonjour, and still wishing there were some place to go and some place to hang out in Hyde Park.

Dream: This is no place like home

2009-09-18T21:36:00.001-05:00

I was at a party given by my parents, but the trailer was nothing like it used to be. The rooms were dark and different, as though they had been rebuilt within a different shell. The main room now sported an impossible cathedral ceiling that made it feel oppressive instead of open and airy. My closet, although full of scattered boxes, was much bigger than my bedroom and was covered with black paper. Despite its crammed space, it had become the focal point of the party.

I saw my dad from behind, staggering as though he were drunk. As he never drank, I suspected he was gravely ill and tried to catch up to him to help him, but he somehow kept eluding me like an illusion.

Something was terribly wrong with my world, and I was frightened.

Review: Mary Barton: A Tale of Manchester Life

2009-09-16T20:42:00.004-05:00

Mary Barton: A Tale of Manchester Life by Elizabeth Gaskell. Edited with an introduction and notes by Shirley Foster. New York: Oxford University Press. 2006. 480 pages.

A tale of Manchester working life set in the 1830s, Mary Barton begins as bucolically as any gritty urban novel can. The Bartons, who are expecting an addition to the family, meet the Wilsons, who are carrying their infant twins, at Green Heys Fields. The charm of these low, flat, treeless tracts lies in their rural contrast to "the busy, bustling manufacturing town [he] left but half an hour ago." The couples adjourn to the Barton home for tea, where Gaskell lovingly describes every modest luxury such working folk can manage—the bright green japanned tea tray with its scarlet lovers, the cupboard of crockery and glass of which Mrs. Barton is so proud, and the hodgepodge of furniture ("sure sign of good times among the mills"). In honor of their guests, the Bartons send young Mary out for fresh eggs ("one a-piece, that will be five pence"), milk, bread, and Cumberland ham.

Thus Mary Barton commences with a self-conscious air of cautious prosperity, but underneath the pleasure of the occasion are hints of despair to come—Mrs. Barton's distress over the disappearance of her sister, and the Wilsons' "little, feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother." In chapters I and II, Gaskell sets up the end of abundance and joy for the Bartons and the beginning of misery for their entire class in the mill city of Manchester.

Mary Barton is a novel of contrasts. While the Bartons take homely pride in their furniture and wares, the Carsons live in a "good house . . . furnished with disregard to expense . . . [with] much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance. As Carson's former employee, Ben Davenport, lies dying in a filthy basement in the company of his wife and children, who are "too young to work, but not too young to be cold and hungry," Carson's youngest daughter Amy tells her brother and father that she "can't live without flowers and scents" and that "life was not worth having without flowers." They can't live without food and shelter, and she thinks she can't live without luxuries. Perhaps the most terrible contrast is between the "listless, sleepy” Carson sisters and the tragedy that interrupts their idle chatter.

The contrast and conflict between the rich and the poor, the men and the masters, is not conventionally based on envy or even class; Carson was once no better and no richer than anyone else. The men don't aspire to wealth, at least for now. They want to feed their families and perhaps to enjoy the simple comforts the Bartons once shared with the Wilsons. What keeps masters and men apart is not class or money, but a more fundamental unwillingness to acknowledge the other’s humanity. Mr. Carson can't be bothered to recall who Ben Davenport is, other than one of the many faceless men who worked for him for many years, or to give Wilson more than a useless outpatient order. Instead of approaching the masters, the men, who are powerless as individuals, join groups and send delegates like John Barton to London and Glasgow to try to gain government support for their cause. On their own, they fail.

Neither side is willing to break the communication barrier. Ignoring one of their number who wisely notes, "I don't see how our interests can be separated," the masters choose to hide the conundrum they face from the men, who are described as "cruel brutes . . . more like wild beasts than human beings." Even as the omniscient narrator shows the just causes for both groups’ anger toward one another and tries to avoid demonstrating a preference, she can't resist retorting parenthetically, "Well, who might have made them [the men] different?" It takes a murder and a near miscarriage of justice merely to open the door to redemption for the man in each side's leading role.

Mary becomes the fulcrum of the characters and plot, connecting the Bartons to the Carsons, the unforgiving John to the repentant Esther, the worldly men and the more spiritually minded women. Through positive and negative models like Alice, Job, Margaret, Esther, Mrs. Wilson, and Sally, and through her true and patient if frustrated lover, Mary avoids Esther's fate and is transformed from a heedless young girl into a courageous woman who is able to withstand the pull of her divided loyalties.

Confronted with the undeniable humanity of John Barton and the relentlessness of his unfamiliar poverty, Mr. Carson finally recognizes the need for change. As guardian of the old institutions, however, he struggles with his ambivalence toward taking action. Meanwhile, Mary Barton simply leaves the dead and the past behind to embrace an entirely different kind of future in a new country.

Mary Barton lacks some of the psychological depth and nuances that make Gaskell's Wives and Daughters more interesting and engaging; here, the characters behave consistently and predictably. Despite the ease of its characterizations and assumptions, though, Mary Barton is a surprisingly stark, unvarnished look at the poorer, seamier side of urban industrial life. Gaskell accomplishes what the masters and men have failed to do—she recognizes the humanity in each of them and hints at its potential if only it is discovered and embraced.

Wednesday, 16 September 2009.
Copyright © 2009 by Diane L. Schirf.

Bogart Planet Saver Sack

2009-09-11T19:17:00.001-05:00

A lot of the people at Blick Art and Argo Tea have complimented me on this “Planet Saver Sack,” a gift from J. They probably wonder how such a frumpy old woman got hold of such a cool bag. I wasn't sure about it at first, but now that I’ve seen the series I’m thinking I should buy at least one more.

Dream: Weird physics

2009-09-09T20:56:00.001-05:00

I was in a strange house with my brother and other people. Nothing was right, within or without. The flows of time and space felt wrong, and the end seemed to be drawing near.

When I saw a vase perched at a right angle to the floor of the fireplace, I had an epiphany—the answer lay in physics. I became even more downcast, however—I know nothing of physics.

I thought of a child named Liu, who I knew could help. But how to find him in this strange house, immersed in fluid and darkness?

Please Mr. Postman

2009-09-07T00:46:00.004-05:00

At times separated by an ocean or by hundreds of miles, John and Abigail Adams wrote thousands of letters to each other, covering personal matters such as their farm, family, health, and hopes, as well as their views of freedom, the American Revolution and government, and its participants. Despite the distance, quite possibly their correspondence benefited from postal efficiencies introduced by fellow revolutionary and occasional nemesis Benjamin Franklin, who was appointed Joint Postmaster General of the colonies for the Crown in 1753 and Postmaster for the United Colonies in 1775.

Adams wrote prodigious numbers of letters throughout his adult life, to Abigail, children and grandchildren, and friends on both sides of the Atlantic. Through letters, he and Thomas Jefferson, past their primes and their ambitions, rekindled their friendship and their dialogue about the rights of man and the role of government. Adams finally quit writing in extreme old age, when his eyes were nearly sightless and his hands shook too much to manage a pen. Only physical infirmity deterred him.

As revolutionaries, then as president and president’s wife, John and Abigail had a great deal to say. Like Benjamin Franklin, they were keenly aware that what they wrote would become part of U.S. history.

I happened to be reading John Adams by David McCullough when I saw the Washington Post story about vanishing blue U.S. mailboxes that had become a fixture on city street corners and in the downtown area of many a burg. With e-mail, texting, social media like facebook and twitter, 24/7 mobile phone access, and other instant, on-the-go ways to communicate, who today takes the time and effort to write letters? Many seem to be able to communicate what we have to say in twitter’s 140 characters (even John Quincy Adams), except when we’re texting cryptic messages back and forth: “whr ru?” “*bcks.” “b thr sn.” If you feel you need to communicate at greater length, you might start a blog, which, without a theme of general interest to the world or of particular interest to a special niche, will probably quickly fizzle out from lack of participation on both ends, readers’ and writer’s. Of course, you might not want to say to the world what you would to family, or to family what you would say to friends.

Although she did not have much to say, my mother wrote letters to sisters and brothers spread out across the country—Pennsylvania, Arizona, California. She didn’t like writing letters. I don’t think any of them did, because letters she wrote and received invariably began with an apology that the writer had not written sooner, followed by numerous apologies for having nothing to say, descriptions of the local weather, a bit of news if there were any, e.g., “Diane starts school in two weeks, Where did summer go?” Why write when there was so little to say and it was such a disliked chore? The answer—long distance was relatively expensive and reserved for truly important and immediate news, like deaths. Usually only one aunt, more affluent and urbanized than the others, called once in a while just to chat—and possibly to avoid writing a letter.

My mother also kept a diary, one of those old-fashioned small books with psychedelic covers popular in the 1960s. Five years of entries for, say, April 8, fit on a page, with perhaps three to five lines on which you could summarize the day for posterity. “A.M. Sunny but snowed in P.M. Insurance man called.” Writing didn’t come naturally to my mother, and she seemed painfully aware of it. She told us that, when she died. she wanted her diaries burned—clearly not for their lurid content or insights into her thoughts, but, I suspect, because she didn’t want anyone to see how mundane they were. I complied, although of course now I wish I hadn’t. I did keep my own two equally dull diaries from my childhood, although I rarely look into them—there is that little of interest in my colorful childish scrawls.

As someone who is paid to write, I’ve found that most people, even those with advanced degrees, are not comfortable expressing themselves in writing. Ostensibly, they worry about such things as grammar, flow, and polish. Could I make them sound better, more intelligent, more interesting, please?

I don’t think people are afraid of their technical shortcomings as writers, whether of professional communications, day-to-day diaries, or letters to family and friends. I suspect there’s a deep-seated fear of revealing our thoughts and how we think to those who know us personally. Unlike John and Abigail, my mother didn’t have congressional congresses, wars, courts, diplomacy, or politics to write about from a firsthand viewpoint. That left her feeling like most people, who think they have nothing worthwhile to say or are afraid to say anything worthwhile from fear of offending or causing an argument or a break (something that troubled Adams less than Jefferson). So they talk about TV shows and tweet about the weather, what they’re listening to or watching, where they’re eating, perhaps what they’re reading. We’re afraid to write, or are unable to write, paralyzed by our lack of material or the unwillingness to be ourselves. We’re afraid to be judged by what we say and how we say it.

I write letters—lots of letters. For all I know, they bore the recipients. But I love the sensory experience of writing, the glide of pen across paper and the appearance of writing, which is almost magical. I may start out on one mundane topic, which leads to another, and another, and, on occasion, sometimes a broader topic of more general interest. A comment about a Victorian novel may lead to a different perspective about some aspect of contemporary life. Writing—not typing—helps me to think questions through and to remember details. Knowing that I am going to write letters keeps me on the lookout for things to write about—the lack of fireflies this summer, neighborhood news, overheard conversations, interesting perspectives on the news and the world, quirks of human behavior, including my own. Sometimes a seemingly ingenuous observation launches me into what I hope is a worthwhile digression, making me perceive a topic or problem differently. Letters allow me to think out loud in a way that a journal, with its audience of one, can’t. Even without a dialogue, I can imagine my audience’s reaction, just as perhaps John, Abigail, and the other assorted family members thought of each other centuries ago as they sat at their desks, dipped their quills, and looked out over the bleak fields of winter and the ripening fields of summer.

Communication doesn’t have to be instantaneous or uninterrupted for the emotional connection to remain strong. To remember this, read some of the most poignant letters from any war—or the letters of John and Abigail Adams. When Abigail reminded John that he was sixty years old, he replied, “If I were near I would soon convince you that I am not above forty.” Could John Adams have conveyed his feelings and the implicit compliment to Abigail so eloquently in a text message? One can only imagine how Abigail’s heart rose as she held the paper and read of his love and lust for her in John’s own handwriting.

My heart still rises in the same way when I receive a handwritten letter, no matter who it is from or what it proves to be about. It’s an old habit that dies hard—and I’m not the one to fight it. Long live the blue U.S. mailboxes.

"Enjoy it while you can"

2009-09-06T14:23:00.000-05:00

A young man passing by said to me, "Enjoy it while you can. Only two days left!" At first I thought he meant the pool, which may remain open as long as the weather holds out. Then I thought he meant summer, which, according to some calendars, ends with Labor Day. If he had excellent eyesight (better than mine, corrected), he may have been referring to Bristol Renaissance Faire, which is mentioned on my t shirt and which concludes tomorrow. I'm leaning toward the latter because of the oddness of the comment, shot at a stranger on the other side of a fence, and the way he was looking back at me when I glanced up, as though he were checking to see if I'd gotten the joke.

It does remind me that not everyone shares my view that summer is over only with the autumnal equinox.

When does your summer end?

Lincoln Park Zoo docent program slated for extinction

2009-09-03T19:29:00.001-05:00

Mary Schmich left a voicemail to interview me for the August 30 Chicago Tribune article, but I didn't get the message in time to meet her deadline. I sent the following letter to the Chicago Tribune and to Schmich. As soon as I get some post-surgery energy, I'll be writing more here.

To the editor:

As a former Lincoln Park Zoo docent during the 1990s (I was 29 when I joined the program), I read “Zoo docents fading from landscape” by Mary Schmich (August 30, 2009) with interest. During my docent service, I received laudatory letters from donors, ovations after animal presentations, and kudos for tours; helped develop a popular “Escape to the Tropics” weekend during the winter; talked to families who delighted in both the interaction and the information; participated in numerous revenue-generating programs such as family workshops; and delivered in countless other ways on what was one of the four prongs of the zoo’s mission: Education. And I was one of more than 200 people of various ages and professional backgrounds, including not only retirees, but working teachers, college instructors, lawyers, nurses, dietitians, executives, Ph.D.s, and so on, doing the same—all on a volunteer basis. To paraphrase the Peace Corps slogan, “It was the best job I ever loved.” I left it with regret for personal reasons.

According to a zoo document quoted by Schmich, “the antiquated volunteer utilization model . . . does not enhance the zoo’s strategic initiatives and often does not set up volunteers for success.” Neither “strategic initiatives” nor “success” is defined. I admit I felt successful when, for example, families paying to attend workshops requested me as their tour guide and when I could persuade children—and their parents—to overcome their fear of snakes to touch one and find out that reptiles are animals, just like us. It’s hard to believe that the docent program, and docent-guest interactions like these, didn’t benefit millions of zoo visitors during the docent program’s nearly 40-year history. Surely the education mission and the visitor experience remain important to Lincoln Park Zoo.

To find out how to enhance its strategic initiatives, Lincoln Park Zoo might consider redesigning the docent program with help from its sister institutions. For example, Prospect Park Zoo (Brooklyn, New York) “is welcoming applications for its Docent Program . . . Docents lead group tours, interpret exhibits, present biofacts and other touchables at Discovery Stations, assist in our interactive Discovery Center, work at zoo special events, and teach visitors how to interact with alpacas and sheep at our barn area. Docents who successfully complete Live Animal Handling Training are also eligible to present short Live Animal Encounters to the public, teaching children and families about animals from the Zoo’s collection of education animals.” According to the Saint Louis Zoo, “Our docents are volunteer Zoo educators who are dedicated to teaching schoolchildren and the general public about wildlife, ecosystems and conservation. In sharing their knowledge and enthusiasm about our Zoo animals, they help increase our visitors’ caring attitude toward nature. Docents are critical to the successful operation of the Zoo’s Education Department and the greater zoological community.” Closer to home, “Brookfield Zoo docents will host the next National Association of Zoo & Aquarium Docents (AZAD) Conference September 7–12, 2010.” (The 1993 national AZAD conference was hosted by Lincoln Park Zoo docents.) These, and many other zoos and aquariums with thriving, successful docent programs, can provide the kind of guidance that Lincoln Park Zoo isn’t able to obtain from a consultant focused purely on business.

Renowned primatologist and herpetologist Russell A. Mittermeier Ph.D., the president of Conservation International and the only working field biologist to head a major international environmental organization, says, “The dedication and efforts of docents are a major contribution to the education of society. Their volunteer services are exerting a real impact, particularly on this country’s young people who show a growing interest in natural history and conservation.” This fits in perfectly with the Obama administration’s nationwide service initiative.

During this severe economic downtown, when Lincoln Park Zoo has had to slash budget and staff, it seems counterintuitive to squeeze volunteers and downsize volunteer programs. And it would be deeply regrettable if Lincoln Park Zoo were to dismiss as an “antiquated model” one that so many zoos and aquariums, and environmental leaders such as Mittermeier, have embraced as essential to conservation education and human appreciation for our fellow earth travelers.

Sincerely,

Diane Schirf

Dream: Pools and planes

2009-08-30T20:38:00.000-05:00

I remember a few elements from my dream this morning, which, I think, took place at a school.

I was with some girls at the edge of an enormous indoor pool in which marine mammals swam. One or two of the girls, my friends, jumped into the water, which was strictly forbidden. Guiltily, I ran away, not wanting to be associated with such behavior and not wanting to be caught (in the sense that I didn't stop or report them). I worried about this, and about the mammals catching diseases. I worried less about the girls being hurt.

I went into breakfast. The boy or man at the end of my bench started to shake voluminous amounts of salt onto the head of the girl next to me and then mine, so much so that I had inches of salt on my head. Yet I did nothing because I didn't know what to do. It was something I couldn't or shouldn't stop because it seemed to have some meaning.

Outdoors, a series of tiny but menacing airplanes came toward us. I didn't know what to do as I didn't understand their intention. Vaguely afraid, I caught a few of them in my hands and turned them around. More planes came, and I did the same. I am not sure what happened to the ones I didn't catch, although I think they continued on Then, thinking that that battle was over, I looked up and saw enormous tanks coming straight for me, rather than for the group. I could do nothing about them as they weren't robotic miniatures but the real thing. I mentally prepared to die.

Instead, I was kidnapped. The kidnapper was a man who seemed smooth, charming, and ambiguous—I could not tell whether he was evil or not. He talked to me a great deal. I didn't know his intentions.

O'BON eco-friendly pencils, paper, and stuff

2009-08-21T19:41:00.003-05:00

Here's one more post in pencils and things mode—if you're not aware of O'BON, purveyors of colorful graphite and colored pencils made from newspaper, as well as other writing-related items, check them out. Here are the O'BON Wildlife and O'BONanza pencil series with an O'BONanza kiwi notebook made with bagasse (sugar-cane paper). The 2B pencils write well and are beautiful to hold and look at, plus they're very easy to sharpen. The bagasse notebooks are smooth and lightweight, and may even serve as a conversation starter when you write at your favorite café or teahouse.

Looney Tunes and fuzzy pencil love

2009-08-20T20:28:00.000-05:00

Yes, I do have more pencils than clothes, or brains for that matter. Here are the latest. I'm insane.

Road to recovery

2009-08-14T23:19:00.000-05:00

I’ve been cleared to return to work Monday. If I feel then like I do today, it will be an especially painful experience.

Yesterday I had my second follow-up appointment with Dr. P. This week’s medical student showed me into a room and told me to undress from the waist down, which I had not done the previous week. I also noticed that this examination table, unlike last week’s, had stirrups at the ready. Not the dreaded stirrups . . .

The medical student asked a series of specific questions that made me want to interrupt to say simply, “All systems functioning normally, Captain!”

Except one—I told her I seemed to have developed a painful external yeast infection as a result of the antibiotics. And that question wasn’t even on her list.

She mentioned “vitals” and then went to get Dr. P., who proclaimed my incisions 100 percent better than they were last week, explaining why to the resident, who had not seen them before.

The medical student, mistaking herself for my mother, said encouragingly, “Tell Dr. P. what you told me. adding that it was better if she heard about it directly from me.

I described the yeast infection and its effects, which felt strictly external to me, and asked her about oral medication (which I’d already researched). As we were talking about it, her eyes fell on the stirrups, and she suggested we take advantage of them for a closer look.

Okay. Anything to get a prescription for the magic pill.

After “scooching” further down the table several times, never easy but especially not after surgery, I found myself trying to look between my legs at the peering faces as the resident explained the lay of my land to the medical student. “What do you mean by ‘no lesions’?” I wanted to say. “It feels likes there are plenty of lesions!” But I didn’t have to say anything. When Dr. P. decided to use her finger(s), both of them probably got a slight adrenalin rush when I jumped and screamed.

Yes, it hurt that much.

They left, undoubtedly wondering what was wrong with me. While I was dressing behind the curtain, a perky nurse came in to take my vitals. “Is your blood pressure normally good?” she asked with some surprise, telling me it was 112/66. Everything was “perfect.”

When Dr. P. and her shadow returned, I asked her to complete the short-term disability form and write a return-to-work note. “What is it you do again?” she asked. “I write,” I said. She looked a little blank at that, so I added, “I sit around all day.” That must have decided her, because I can sit at work as well as at home, and do something for which I will be paid. I’ll have used three of the four to six weeks the surgery entitles me to, which, given how I feel and what I do (no lifting), seems an appropriate amount of time.

Returning last week, as I had wanted to, would have been premature, I realize, but now I am probably ready. I may tire easily, but I will have to remember not to push myself, and not to allow myself to be pushed. This weekend I’ll make a list of those things that must be done ASAP and focus on them on Monday. Of course, I’m sure that more will have been dreamt up in my absence.

On this, my last day of leave, I woke up in some pain and not feeling well, and spent most of the day sleeping or trying to. One step forward, three back.

The truly final journey of Ignatius the tenacious fibroid

2009-08-12T20:52:00.003-05:00

After an August 2008 uterine fibroid embolization, or UFE, failed to relieve me of Ignatius the tenacious fibroid’s symptoms—bulkiness, frequent urination, and possibly the lower back and leg pain that sometimes made walking even easy distances painful and tiring—I scheduled a laparoscopic myomectomy for July 27, 2009. In this outpatient procedure, a laparoscope is inserted through the navel, and the fibroid is sliced, diced, and extracted through several small incisions compared to a single large one. The surgery takes longer, but the recovery period is shorter.

Beforehand, I felt the same way I’d felt about the UFE—I was going to start the day relatively healthy and was choosing to end it, and to spend many days after it, in pain and discomfort. I didn’t hesitate, but it struck me a year ago and again now what an odd choice it seemed, especially because I had become so accustomed to the symptoms that they seemed normal and endurable. I knew, though, that I never felt very good anymore. Sometimes I wondered, too, if the growing sharpness of temper that I’d been experiencing weren’t attributable in part to the fibroid’s effect.

In short—no pain, no gain.

For a laparoscopic myomectomy, you must undergo something I’d never done—a bowel cleanse. On the remarkably cool and pleasant Sunday before the surgery, I spent my time swallowing a noxious liquid while hovering within 10 to 15 feet of the toilet. By 9 o’clock, I was sure that the pain I was in then was sure to be the worst of the whole affair.

Of course, it was just the beginning.

On Monday morning, I threw enough into a tote bag to keep me entertained in the waiting room—pen and pencil cases, journal, paper, The Bride of Lammermoor—plus the usual travel practicalities, like tissues and an umbrella. I also took my new iPhone GS, but not the adapter—I wouldn’t need that during surgery or the brief period of in-hospital recovery.

It’s too bad my brain didn’t regurgitate the slogan from the old commercial at just that moment: “Don’t leave home without it.”

I arrived almost exactly on time, at 8:00 a.m., and sat in the waiting room only a few minutes before I was called; there was very little time in which to become anxious, let alone break out The Bride of Lammermoor. I was escorted to a bed, where an experienced nurse introduced herself and began her ministrations, including the dreaded catheter.

I had been afraid of that.

Dr. M.’s resident came in and introduced herself. The anesthesiologist and his resident came in separately and introduced themselves. Even further down the food chain, a medical student introduced himself. I was the center of a lot of attention, which I’m not used to.

The anesthesiologist, who seemed distracted, noted my high TSH and low level of Vitamin D, although he confessed he didn’t keep up with the recommended ranges. “Really?” said the nurse. “It’s all the rage now—thought to be behind a lot of health issues.” “Like diabetes,” I contributed. “Like diabetes,” she agreed. The anesthesiologist appeared to be deferential on this point. “I follow it because it’s in the news so much,” the nurse explained.

The anesthesiologist left his resident behind to do the IV honors. She offered them to the nurse, who said it was up to the resident. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this,” the resident said brightly. “And it’s not the second time, either.” If it was the the third time, it was not the charm, for after carefully and laboriously tapping a vein, she couldn’t get blood to come back even as the nurse was telling me, “I can do it because I’m old.” Later, the anesthesiologist tried a different vein, which he pumped up and which mysteriously disappeared as he tried to draw blood back. “It was there, but now it’s gone.”

I’m used to having deep, small, uncooperative veins, so none of this surprised me. I don’t recall who finally drew first blood or when.

My surgery was to begin at 9:30 a.m., but there was a slight delay. I went through the double doors at around 9:45 a.m., then promptly conked out, no counting needed. I’m not even sure how.

When I came to, I had the very odd but very clear sensation that it was late in the day. I did the mental math—two to three hours for surgery, say another two hours for recovery—and couldn’t reconcile my memory and calculations with my sense that the afternoon was far advanced. I turned to look at the wall clock, which, if I squinted, I thought I could read without glasses. Big hand on the 5, little hand on the 6. 5:30 p.m.

That couldn’t be right.

I looked again. Same result.

Uh-oh.

As people bustled about me and asked me how I was doing, I wondered if the extended time frame meant missing body parts.

Then I lay in Room 1462, overlooking Lake Michigan, I wasn’t in much pain, and if it hit me I had a button to push every 15 minutes as needed. I had time if not clarity of thought to wonder what kind of interesting circumstances or complications may have arisen.

Later that evening, Dr. M. came in to tell me the story. I don’t fully understand it, so I wouldn’t want to be quoted on chronology or cause and effect. The short version is that issues with CO₂ absorption, combined with the fibroid’s calcification, led to the decision to switch from an outpatient laparoscopic myomectomy to a mini-laparotomy to ensure the entire fibroid was removed. Ignatius, which was described using the precise medical term “ginormous” and which was demonstrated with a show of surgical hands, proved to be “hard as a rock,” having calcified after the UFE.

“So that’s the good part,” he said encouragingly.

“Yes,” I said, having a distinct feeling there was more.

There was.

For the first time in his experience, or any experience he knew of (including, as he later mentioned, that of his father, who had been a gynecologist for 40 years), an instrument (a tenaculum) had broken, and a small piece, one-fifth of inch in size, was now embedded somewhere in my tissues.

Ah. My very own piece of shrapnel.

While I was coming to, or shortly after, I think, x rays had been taken to track down the tenaculum tip. Dr. M. explained that the problem with x rays is that they don’t show where such an object is in three dimensions. In my anesthetized stupor, I suggested an MRI because I knew it would produce a 3D image. Dr. M. seemed to think this a brilliant idea, although later I marveled that I would even mention undergoing an MRI, which I, like most, don’t enjoy. He consulted with Dr. V., the interventional radiologist, who being more expert than I about medical imaging, in turn suggested a more efficient CT scan.

In the meantime, J. came in bearing gifts—flowers, candle, hand soap, “Get Well” balloon, and his Flat Eric to keep me company. After all that anesthesia, I could not keep my eyes open for more than a few moments, so I’m sure I was dull company. When I slept, it was as though dead. The frequent interruptions by the staff—to take my vital signs, to change IV bags, to look at my abdomen, to ask me about bowel movements, etc.—barely broke my sleep.

I found that early mornings began with a visit from Dr. M.’s resident with subsequent visits by other residents—never the same one or two twice—and the medical student I’d met Monday morning. While the residents asked questions, checked my abdomen, and performed other medical ablutions, the medical student seemed limited to asking questions and learning bedside manners. Before leaving, he would reach for and squeeze my ankle through the covers in a way that, in an experienced physician, would be reassuring but in this case was mostly awkward. As each morning’s residents came in, often waking me up from a sound sleep, I did appreciate being part of their educational experience in some infinitesimal way, and wondered if they’d seen my surgery or how much they knew of my case.

It was Tuesday, I think, that Patient Escort Services came to take me for a CT scan. From one day to the next, I had become as weak as an infant. I was sore, but it’s not that it hurt me to sit up or to transfer from the bed to the gurney. It simply took all my strength just to move from a prone to an upright position. Each time, I had to reach for one or more helping hands.

My room was in Prentice Women’s Hospital, while the CT scan equipment is in Galter or Feinberg Pavilion. We descended into the bowels, then proceed what seemed an interminable distance. I don’t remember much except the surreal sensation that comes naturally with being wheeled on a gurney through long stretches of hospital basement hallways, broken mainly by scenic paintings, automatic external defibrillators (adult and child versions), and emergency signs and equipment. I also recall the weakness I felt transferring onto the CT bed and back, the hands reaching to help me, and how quickly it was done—in that sense, much preferable to an MRI.

I don’t remember much of Tuesday or Wednesday, which were largely featureless. I used my iPhone as long as the battery lasted. I figured out how to use the room’s TV/computer system, which seemed to hark back to the old WebTV. I watched students play baseball on the two diamonds below and the boats in the harbor and on the lake. I began to feel that I had never really learned how to live and that I had missed out on much in life, that the ball players, dog walkers, and boaters were all privy to secrets and pleasures that elude me. And I chafed at my constant restraints, the catheter and the IV. Finally, I don’t know when, the catheter was removed, bloodily and painfully, which gave me the freedom if not the energy to roam the halls, including the one circumference prescribed. I discovered a patient/family education center and a visitors lounge, both with computers, which I used to e-mail Virgil and others.

By Tuesday dinner, I was deemed capable of a solid diet, and I was starting to feel hungry, so I ordered perhaps a little too ambitiously. I learned later that, if I had not ordered something, dining services would have called me. If your doctor has ordered a diet, they don’t let you get away with not eating, whether you wish to or not.

I felt okay yet not good on Wednesday. I thought that if I could just go home, I could rest and feel better, as I had after the UFE. It didn’t help that was I was fighting constant nausea and even had an incident in the handy bedside basin. I was told that one of the primary conditions of my release was the ability to keep oral pain medications down—something that nausea and vomiting were making problematic.

By Thursday afternoon, though, I wanted out. Although I sensed some reluctance, I was finally deemed ready for prime time, and J. agreed to pick me up after work. He arrived at 7:00 p.m., and we set off, first for Walgreens, armed with prescriptions.

At the pharmacy, it took longer than I expected, and after 15 minutes or so I started to wonder if a trip outside to get the basin I’d thoughtfully brought with me was in order. The nausea I thought was under control hit me hard. Although vomiting provided no relief, it probably did raise the eyebrows of the fellow who saw me emptying the basin, I thought discreetly, into the bushes outside the store.

Once home, I set J. up as best I could, showered, and fell into bed—where I could get only snatches of sleep between the terrible gas pains in my bowels and the equally awful nausea/acid and trips to relieve it, followed by the need to clean up the mess. It was the most vile vomiting I’d ever experienced, almost as though my internal organs had liquidated and were being voided through the mouth. It reminded me of the beef bouillon I’d had Sunday, as though it had fermented in my stomach for the past 72 hours.

I’m not sure when I’ve ever felt more wretched. And I had only myself to blame for pretending my symptoms were better than they were.

By 4:00 a.m., I was shivering uncontrollably, then later, after I had closed the window against the refreshingly cool night air, I started to sweat. My esophagus was in acidic flames, and even I had had enough. I called Dr. M. at around 5:30 a.m. To my surprise, he answered. He asked me my temperature (I didn’t know then, but took it a few minutes later—102.4ºF), asked other questions, and told me to come straight back to the 14th floor of Prentice. All I wanted was that fire in my esophagus put out and to stop feeling so woozy. I roused J. and packed my bag, this time, remembering to include the iPhone adapter as well as my sponge bag—even in my feverish state I had that much presence of mind.

By 6 o’clock we were on Lake Shore Drive, me with my window rolled all the way down so the 60-degree wind could take the edge off the fever and sweating.

At the hospital, there was some delay with security, and I dragged myself to a seat while they figured out what to do with me and J. dealt with the valets. On 14, I veered instinctively toward Room 1462, which had since been occupied, but J. and my hospital escort firmly steered me toward Room 1464. After I was settled on the bed and my bag stowed, J. went to work, and I was left for quite a while to contemplate the unrelenting burning in my esophagus. Over the next couple of hours it dissipated, the nurses finally started an IV with antibiotics (being more concerned about the fever), and I accustomed myself to the thought of another night in the hospital.

Dr. M. wanted to make sure the sliver hadn’t moved, and so I was scheduled for another CT scan at 3:30 p.m., this time with and without contrast dye. Through some snafu or other, I wasn’t picked up until shortly before 6:00 p.m. I was still on pain medications, so I wasn’t in much pain, but I was in no condition to do anything except send e-mails through the WebTV-like room system, watch the weather, try to find something on television that wasn’t unbearable, and otherwise kill time until 3:30 p.m. and then past it.

Not long after Dr. M. had dropped in Friday afternoon, I had developed diarrhea—a sign that my bowels had come back online, if imperfectly. “That’s good!” he said enthusiastically when I told him later. “Do you always have that effect on people?” I shot back, which made him shake his head ruefully. Even Monday night J. had commented that my “wit” never left me, even under the influence.

By the time Patient Escort Services came for me before 6:00 p.m., I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t embarrass myself—at one point, either during my first or second visit, I’d already had a soiling incident. Sure enough, while waiting I had to go. And go again. And again. Just as they were about to run me through the machine the first time, without dye, I said, “I have to run,” and I did. In all, I made six or eight trips to the CT scan area’s facilities. At least at a hospital, most are sympathetic.

Next came Phase II—consumption of two 450ml bottles of barium sulfate, the contrast dye solution. Whimsically, one was labeled, “Berries,” the other “Apple.” (My first choice, “Banana,” which I thought least likely to aggravate my ongoing nausea, was unavailable.) Because of the nausea, I had warned everyone that I that I might not be able to keep the stuff down. The taste and texture didn’t help, but at least I was distracted by a conversation with a fellow patient, who sported a kerchief over her head and a deep red sickle wound under each eye. She looked like she’d been in an accident or on the losing end of domestic violence. She told me that the chronic sinus infection that had plagued her had proved to be a sinus tumor and that it had been removed the old-fashioned way—by going down through her head. “I look like I’ve been in a wreck, I know,” she said. Then, using J.’s words almost exactly, she added, “You, on the other hand, look fabulous. May I ask why you’re here?” “That’s because you can’t see my belly,” I answered. Not only did it look like a Frankenstein experiment, with the incision through the navel, two large and two small laparoscopic “ports,” and the larger mini-laparotomy incision on top of my appendectomy scar, but it was grotesquely distended with gas and distorted, with the bottom of the old scar even more pulled in and a bigger divot missing—not a sight for the squeamish or delicate.

I drank the two bottles within the allotted hour (it was now 8:00 p.m.) and hinted that I couldn’t be held responsible for keeping it down if there were any delay. Coincidentally, I was next—and somehow I did manage to keep it down. In fact, I think that by this point I had nothing left to give at either end, although the queasiness continued.

In the back of my mind, I wondered if J. had stopped by during the height of visiting hours and found me missing. When I was wheeled back into my room at 8:50 p.m., there he was, handing me a note about how he had to go back to work and how he had scrounged dinner at Argo Tea, discovered the hospital’s wireless network for guests, and fallen asleep over his iPod Touch. He stayed with me for a while, lured by the possibilities of wireless downloads. He really had to go, however, when around 9:20 p.m. I started to drool involuntarily and ran for the bathroom, saying, “Oh, I’m going to throw up” (although, as it turned out, the nausea passed and I didn’t).

“Uh-oh, well, I really do have to get back to work,” he replied. With that, my “nurse” unceremoniously bailed with unusual alacrity.

The CT scans revealed that the tenaculum tip was still in the abdominal muscle. They also revealed another unwelcome guest—a “big” gallstone, which was possibly the culprit behind some pancreatic inflammation, the nausea, and even fever.

I was scheduled for an ultrasound the next day to get a better look at my gallstone and the inflammation. This time, unlike for the previous night’s CT scan, I was taken lying down on a gurney against my will. The reason for this became clear, though, as the ultrasound technician performed his examination of me on the gurney—no transferring needed. It wasn’t too bad, except on a few passes he dug the wand into my tender abdomen. Owww. I asked for his unofficial verdict. “Your gallstone looks like it’s between one and one and one-half inches,” he answered. “That doesn’t seem that big,” I said later to Dr. M., who looked surprised and said, “It is. Typically gallstones are described in terms of grains of sand.” Oh.

The ultrasound also showed the inflammation was under control, probably thanks to the antibiotics. My temperature was consistently normal, the tenaculum tip was ruled out as a cause, and I was deemed fit to try to eat again. Indeed, I was told this time that if I could keep Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch and breakfast down, as well as oral medications, I could go home Sunday.

On Saturday afternoon I noticed the boats in the harbor pulling up quite closely to each other in rows. The nurse who came to reinstall my recalcitrant IV told me that the boaters pass from vessel to vessel drinking and having a good time, while the police keep a cautious eye on the festivities. It sounded like they do this a few times a summer as a tradition. In the meantime, one of us noticed that I had developed ugly red welts on the insides of both forearms—an allergic reaction that mystified everyone as I’d been on the antibiotics for a while, and they thought the contrast dye an unlikely culprit for this delayed response. (I read later that it may have been additives.) Congratulations to me—I’d just earned several doses of IV Benadryl.

When Dr. M. came in after 9:00 p.m., sporting a sweat suit, he apologized for his tardiness and explained he’d had a commitment to his daughter. I was impressed he came in at all. By this time, my arms had cleared up, but when he took the obligatory look at my abdomen, he spotted welts all over my upper thighs. My body had not liked something.

Later, he was working at a computer in the Patient Care Center when I took a spin around the floor in the hope that exercise would act as a sleep aid. When he saw me pass by on the return trip, he seemed startled. “You walk faster than I do,” he observed. I don’t know if this is true, but by Saturday night I did feel much better than I had 40 hours earlier, and there was more of a spring in my step, I’m sure. Now if only I could keep down two more meals.

Dr. M. had found my dinner choice of whole wheat toast and cooked carrots “interesting,” while the nurses weren’t happy when they learned, too late, of it. “No whole grains, no vegetables, not with diarrhea,” they said. “In this case, fruits and vegetables aren’t healthy.” One recommended eggs or macaroni and cheese. Later, the new shift nurse dismissed eggs as “too fatty.” So for breakfast I ate white toast and drank four ounces of apple juice over a three-hour period, just enough to claim I had eaten. By lunch time, I wasn’t hungry. and I tried to sleep through it. This is when I found out that there is no evading dining services. If you are supposed to be eating, they will call you, wake you out of a sound sleep, and patiently wait for you to make up your mind. I asked her for recommendations, and she suggested eggs as “an easily digested protein.” I mentioned the nurse’s concern about fat, and—why had I not thought of the obvious?—she pointed out that they can be scrambled, etc., without the yolk. Eggs it was, plus one of the three apple juices they had left for me in the morning.

The IV was removed at some point on Sunday, and by noon I had, according to my purse pedometer, walked 1.01 miles, another feat that impressed Dr. M. That was my final burst of energy for the day because, after all that activity, the equivalent of two eggs, and the third and final apple juice, I didn’t feel like stirring.

Around 2:00 p.m., while those outside my window were savoring another perfect Sunday, I conked out hard. I’ll never know how long I might have slept because almost exactly at 4:00 p.m., a knock at the door interrupted a particularly intriguing dream. It took some time and effort to rouse myself, by which time a woman had bustled in, saying perkily, “Respiratory Services with oxygen!” Clearly, this wasn’t intended for me, although earlier in the week I had been chided by a nurse or two for not using my deep breathing visualization toy when in bed. “When I’m in bed, I’m usually asleep and can’t!” I’d retorted. They’d looked at me strangely.

Dr. M. made an appearance, this time in a tee shirt and shorts over which he’d thrown a lab coat to look more official. Maybe I said something, because he mentioned that when he comes downtown for only one thing he drives his vintage convertible. I told him he hadn’t had to come just to see me, but perhaps he did, because I was soon to be released. Free at last! For some reason, though, I had become very depressed during the day, which I mentioned and which I think he’d noticed. It may have been the prospect of going home alone, of not knowing what I was going to do with myself, and of uncertainty all around, but I also thought it might have been attributable to the effects of anesthesia, change, and strangeness, combined with my unhappy memory of Thursday night and Friday morning.

The nurse called in a couple of prescriptions to Walgreens (which is what I should have had done on Thursday) while I packed and waited 30 to 45 minutes for Patient Escort Services. Although capable of walking, I’d opted for a wheelchair because I still felt weak and lethargic, or just tired.

It turns out that cabs don’t come by that way often, and both my escort and one of the valets ventured out in search of cabs for me and for a family that was also waiting with a discharged patient. Finally, a cab pulled up to drop a woman off, and I anxiously asked him if he accepted credit or debit cards. My escort stepped up with a remonstrance about letting the previous passenger settle the fare with the driver, but I wanted to know the answer because if he didn’t, I’d cede my place to the waiting family. There’s nothing like being lectured about manners at such a time!

It worked out. The driver waited for me at Walgreens while I picked up and paid for the prescriptions and got cash back (why hadn’t I thought of that before, which would have spared me the lecture?).

And so ends the saga of Ignatius, the tenacious but benign fibroid (according to the pathologist). According to Dr. M., its post-embolization size was 12 centimeters, and it weighed 1,074 grams. I’d reminded Dr. M. that I’d wanted Ignatius in a jar, and he had dryly responded, “It would have taken a bucket!”

At one point during the week when Dr. M. had seemed a little discouraged about the tenaculum incident, it occurred to me that I hadn’t told him how I felt. So I did—even only few days later, even with gas pain and incision soreness, I could tell that my lower back tiredness, ache, and pain were 1,000 percent better and that the surgery had made a huge difference. He quite brightened and said, “That’s good!” Even experienced surgeons need reassurance. It is true, however—I wasn’t buttering anyone’s bread. The disgusting hard spot underneath my navel is gone, my uterus is no longer the size of an eighteen-week pregnancy, I don’t feel bulky and bloated, I don’t have a constant urge to urinate, and wonderfully, my back and legs feel normal without the pressure of the fibroid against my spine and nerves. In return, my already grotesque appendectomy scar is even more distorted, my activities are a little restricted for a longer period than planned, and I’ll probably feel the pull of scar tissue for a longer time, as I did after the appendectomy. The pain, fever, and tedium were worth the long-term results. At my age, I don’t think it’s likely I’ll grow another Ignatius.

Of course, the truly terrifying parts are yet to come—the bills.

Related posts:
The plot to murder Ignatius, part one—June 14, 2008
The plot to murder Ignatius, part two—June 15, 2008

Ignatius, the friendless fibroid—July 26, 2008

18 August 2008: The day of reckoning for Ignatius—August 26, 2008

Snuffed but not forgotten: Ignatius, the large, dead fibroid—April 29, 2009

Where’s Ignatius? (or, find the fibroid)—June 16, 2009

Ignatius the tenacious—June 21, 2009

Hodge is home

2009-08-10T18:10:00.000-05:00

I picked up Hodge via walking and bus, although two weeks in a cage on rich food at the veterinarian's clearly put him well over my post-surgery lifting weight limit of 10 pounds.

Portals to another dimension

2009-08-05T20:37:00.002-05:00

I must have seen "The Bewitchin' Pool" on The Twilight Zone at an impressionable age because to me it's one of the most memorable episodes of the series, despite its flaws. Imagine—emerging from an ordinary suburban swimming pool into a bucolic world similar to but better than your own. The pool was my first experience with a portal to another dimension, place, or time, a concept notably brought to TV screens by Harlan Ellison in his Star Trek script, "City on the Edge of Forever" and repeated to lesser effect in numerous episodes of the franchise. In "Contagion," Picard discovers the "masters of air and darkness" indeed.

Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass are, of course, quintessential stories of such portals. Life may not be better down the rabbit hole or on the other side of the mirror, but the rules seem to be different, the unexpected becomes the norm, and life is truly a game. As a child of imagination, Alice is confused by but accepting of the contradictions and anomalies she finds. Why explore another dimension if it's going to be just like yours?

Death opens one of these portals. "Break on Through (to the Other Side)" seems to be a call to action, suggesting we try the portal that's beyond the valley of the shadow of death.

Strangely, all of this brings me to some architectural, structural, or location oddities that have evoked a feeling of the other side in me. Even though portals probably don't exist, I sense that these places can fire the imagination's ability to discover one.

The first I can recall only vaguely—curtains, perhaps beaded, through which you passed from one dim room into another at my aunt's house. As a very small child, I half-expected something wondrous on the other side of the curtain, a different type of place, a monster, a marvel of some kind. Instead, I always found the same darkened room with the same old-fashioned furniture, but that didn't mean the other dimension wasn't lurking in the dim light, always just beyond my physical or mental reach.

Later, after she was widowed, her older sister moved into a first-floor apartment in a large converted house near the old bridge over the train tracks in Bellwood. Of interest to my immediate family was that it was the same apartment my maternal grandfather had lived in toward the end of his life (he died when I was two as the last of my grandparents).

What fascinated me was something entirely different. My aunt's bedroom and living room were on one side of the public hallway leading to the stairs, while her kitchen was up and across the hall, next to the building's main door. In the morning, we'd get up, put on robes or dress (not me), leave the living room, lock the door behind us, walk across and up the hall, unlock the quaint kitchen (probably old-fashioned even for those days), and have our breakfast in the light streaming in from the window. Afterward, we'd reverse our route, this time locking the kitchen and unlocking the living room, where the heavy drapes were drawn and the light didn't penetrate. With the indescribably lonely sound of train whistles during the night, the gloom of the living quarters (folks of my parent's generation or at least acquaintance seemed determined to keep the light out), and the strangeness of living on two sides of a public hallway, I felt like I had landed temporarily in a very different world. Eventually the building was condemned and torn down, and more than 30 years have passed since I listened to the forlorn train whistles in the night.

The first aunt, with the beaded curtains, moved to the second floor of a house in Altoona. I didn't spend much time there and stayed overnight only a few times. To get to her part of the house, you walked up a steep, straight, narrow staircase. The steps were so deep that sometimes I misjudged them and tripped up the stairs. The apartment itself was small and overcrowded, with stuff piled everywhere—a trait our branch of the Schirf family shares. Entering the vintage kitchen was like stepping back in time, accented by some of my aunt's additions. One was a table fan from perhaps the 1940s with only a few widely spaced wires covering the blades, the kind of awful, easily remedied design that makes me wonder what the manufacturer was thinking. I avoided that fan because I would be the most likely to fall into it and lose some fingers if not a hand.

This place had two wonderful features. The first was a door in a wall. There was something odd about it that I can't quite remember. The door may have had steps leading to it, or it may not have been flush with the floor. Perhaps the stairs up began immediately on the other side, which I would not have had the opportunity to see anywhere else. I wish I could remember more, but I never went up the stairs or saw the attic they led to. All I knew about it is what my aunt told me—it was hot and occasionally visited or occupied by bats.

The other feature was a second bedroom off my aunt's bedroom. To get to this room, you had to step down into a different house, a house with a different look, smell, and feel. My aunt's visitors, like her younger sister, slept in it, and she stored sewing machines and similar paraphernalia in it. I stayed in it once or twice. It had its disadvantages; for example, if you had to visit the bathroom in the wee hours, you had to avoid tripping on the step (who would remember in the middle of the night to step up or down to pass from room to room?), and you had to make an effort to get by my aunt's bed on the outgoing and return trips without tripping over her or waking her up. But there was something about the room I loved—it was dark and close, although there were sheer white curtains over the window near the door. It was separate. On one side of the door was my aunt and her downstairs neighbor. On the other side, I was alone in this room, with access only to it and to my aunt's house. It felt like a different world, one that wasn't quite in sync with her ordinary world next door. Even the street out the window wore an odd aura from this angle compared to the same street as seen from my aunt's window. It was like being in a different place at a slightly different time—the same, but not the same.

As she aged, we worried about my aunt because of the steep stairs and the likelihood that someday she would misstep and fall down them. Ironically, when she did fall and break her hip, it was not on her stairs but on a step off the sidewalk at her next-door neighbor's house. None of us would have foreseen that. At some point, both houses were slated to be torn down, and she moved into the first-floor apartment of a newer house with no interesting features except perhaps the cellar, which, like the attic before, I didn't see.

All this brings me to a building in Hyde Park that I've seen hundreds of times, perhaps, but never noticed or thought much about. Located at 57th Street and Lake Park Avenue, it's secured now as a vacant building. I hope this doesn't mean it's doomed to be torn down. It's Gothic and gloomy, and even more forbidding and creepy now with metal plates securing the exterior doors and first-floor windows.

One day in passing I noticed for the first time how close the second-story tower room is to the rail overpass, which set me to thinking about how strange it would be to look out over the tracks and to see the trees rooted in the ground at that level, the clouds and rooftops cut off by the lines of the tracks or platforms, and a world floating above a world—all a hand's breadth away. While they lay sleeping, Metra carried home tired office workers and exuberant revelers and freight trains on the far track moved untold tons of goods from hither to yon—all elevated, at second-story eye level, yards away. Did the people in that room feel as well as hear the power of the freight trains as well as the breezier flight of the more frequent Metra trains? Did anyone who lived there see, hear, feel, and ride trains in their dreams? Did they feel the closeness of their connection to distant places?

Age and experience weaken the imagination, and portals to another dimension don't open to me and share their secrets as often or as readily as they once did. That's why I'm so happy that this strange building has, and why I hope it remains here at least a little longer. Today's architects, "starchitects," designers, and builders, with their unfailing eye for the contemporary, cold, colorless, and soulless, not only no longer have the keys to the portal; they're no longer aware of its existence in their utilitarian, ambitious, glory-driven brains.

Blogging will resume

2009-07-31T22:55:00.001-05:00

Blogging will resume as soon as I am out of a hospital bed.

Sent from my iPhone

Preparation

2009-07-26T17:43:00.002-05:00

It's 9:30 a.m., and I'm at Bonjour drinking my last coffee of the day. At noon or thereabouts I start the "bowel preparation" phase of my laparoscopic myomectomy. I've met with the surgeon twice and with a nurse practitioner, pre-registered, filled out all the paperwork (I hope, because it was left a little vague), and filled four prescriptions. Now comes the hard part—a part I didn't learn about until the second appointment with the surgeon, although perhaps I should have guessed. Since with age I'm trying to hone my philosophical approach and attitude, if this proves to be as unpleasant as many have hinted I'll try to see it as a prelude to the colonoscopy that's sure to be in my future.

There's something I've been reading that puts a day on GoLytely/GaviLyte into perspective. At age 45, Nabby, the daughter of John Adams, underwent a mastectomy for breast cancer without anesthesia. It took longer to dress the wound than to inflict it. As author David McCullough notes in John Adams, her suffering is inconceivable. Four years later, she traveled 300 miles in 15 days so she could be with John and Abigail. Emaciated, she had to be carried indoors, where the only comfort modern medicine could provide was opium. When she died three weeks later, Adams was saddened by her loss, yet relieved at her release. Her calm stoicism impressed all who witnessed it.

Suddenly, the discomforts required by 21st-century medical practice seem as nothing, and my anxieties, like life, are as dust in the eternal wind.

Addendum: If you want to know the effects of four liters of GoLytely/GaviLyte solution, imagine how it might feel to forcefully evacuate the contents of Lake Michigan every two to five minutes for several hours. Feels so good.