Independence and Insanity

I thought after my last blog post that I wouldn’t have much more to say. Everything, it seemed, had been said. Any further words would be suffocated and extinguished by the complete absence of thought.

Boy, was I wrong. I began to reconsider. The complete absence of thought has never prevented me from unleashing my vocalization upon the innocent and the insane, so why should I harness my voice now? Being mute has never been my long suit. I failed the entrance exam to the Mafia School of Thumb Breakers and Contract Snuffing because I flunked out of remedial “omerta.” I simply couldn’t stop talking about the virtues of my vow of silence. I am a Zen Master of the filibuster.

Besides, how do I know what I think until I hear what I have to say? There’s a certain perverted logic to that reasoning. I like to think of this as the gift of tongues…and, in this at least, I’m well endowed.


I have been reflecting a lot lately about independence. Maybe that’s because the Fourth of July is approaching. Maybe it’s because of my own personal odyssey.


Independence – autonomy, sovereignty, self-reliance – is a powerful and noble concept. Independence is not accomplished easily or without sacrifice. It demands ingenuity. And sometimes it taxes one’s resolve. Our collective national history bears that out – as does my own particular experience.


Some seek independence. Others have it thrust upon them. Either way, it is a quest.


My personal road to independence has been less an inspiring crusade and more a mad scramble toward self-sufficiency. Because grief is so complex, and I must continually balance the joy and the sorrow, functioning with a degree of rationality is often elusive.


I have discovered that independence demands creative imagination, guts, and knowing whom to call with questions.


Independence is a journey, not a destination.


On my journey, I have planted trees, recharged car batteries, replaced light bulbs, repaired sprinkler heads, learned to mow the lawn, put salt pellets in the water softener, and talked smack with guys getting petrol. “Mighty fine pumps at Sev, eh?” I even got a new set of tires for the Toyota. There’s nothing like the smell of new tires. So singular. And it evokes memories from high school, when we would steal tires from the blind center (Yes, the blind center!) to burn the “W” on Ensign Peak after a football game. We were arrogant enough to suppose the reason we never got caught was because of stealth and cunning. Obviously, those of us involved didn’t exactly achieve Honors at Entrance. Ah, but I digress. That’s a story for another blog.


AND I killed a black widow. She was as big as a Volkswagen and twice as venomous. For a nanosecond, I actually had second thoughts about offing a mother with so many children. We are both widows. But does that make us friends? I think not. I thought better of it. Becoming a widow through spousal consumption is frowned upon in polite society. So, like Ripley in mortal combat with the Alien, I whacked her with the only weapon available – the newspaper. Thankfully, it was the sports section that made the actual impact. The visceral arachnid spatter strategically obliterated the devastating headlines that Rafa Nadal had just been ousted from Wimbledon by an unknown. NUMBER 100! I was spared the heartache…and the world had one less spider.


In addition, I have been thrust, by necessity, into the world of high finance and maniacal equilibrium loss that ensnares the cranially inept and holds them in perpetual bondage.


I have had to learn about the Hong Kong, the Hang Seng, S & P, Nasdaq, and the Yin Yang. I have had to decide if I want to “annuitize” my “annuities” – noun confusion and verb disorientation - forms of the same principle that I wouldn’t understand if they were adverbs, gerunds or dangling participles. Lately, all my participles have been dangling.


Stocks, bonds, trusts, wills, and my portfolio. They all may as well have been written in cuniform. I am now convinced that SS really refers to some kind of neo-Nazi government military conspiracy specifically designed to confound the neuronically feeble. It’s working! I had severe post-traumatic decision fatigue.


Trying to navigate sorrow and social security made me weary and uncomprehending, and I feared for my psychological welfare. I worried that my eyes would go all googly and rotate in opposite directions, while I smiled the vacant smile that makes me appear slightly genetically challenged.


One day, as Brodi and I were discussing our induction into the world of the certifiably deranged, Beckham drew a stick figure of a baby on a piece of paper. He placed a frown on its face, meticulously cut it out, and gave it to me as he mimed that the baby was crying. Well, as a dutiful and caring grandma, I wrapped the paper doll in a blanket, sat in the rocking chair, and began cooing and crooning lullabies to soothe and comfort this infant. It was musical propofol worthy of the most ardent insomniac.


I conversed with Brodi in hushed tones so as not to wake the baby, that I refused to become psychotic, crazed or a citizen of the lunatic fringe. I would not become absurd, farcical, preposterous or pathologically obsessed. NOT I.


Brodi listened with admirable composure. And then, with barely detectable detachment, she made the observation that I was rocking, singing lullabies and murmuring endearments to a 3-inch paper doll. Apparently, Beckham had long ago relocated to another room to watch “Phineas and Ferb.”


Regally, I rose from my chair, which rendered me officially off my rocker, gently placed the baby on the bed, and madly began ransacking the cupboards for chocolate stimulants and performance enhancing caffeine. It was a full frontal assault on the refrigerator. At that point, we were laughing so hard that it caused us to snort carbonated sputum from our nasal passages and drool pools of chocolate down our chins.


Independence is a journey, not a destination. Independence is a concept of hope – an affirmation of confidence. It is a virtue worth pursuing. Being independent means relying on others.


Independence takes a village.

Insanity I can do on my own.

To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven

I suppose I have always known the day would come when I’d write about Dennis.  Not a tribute.  But who he was.

 Not an easy task.  Many times I’ve tried.  And many times I’ve thought, “Not yet.”

 Perhaps it’s time.

Words do not come easily to us non-Robert Brownings, who cannot begin to “count the ways.”  Soaring rhetoric in hyperbolic praise would be inappropriate.  But then so is speaking in tones of low-voiced sorrowing that well-ordered grief seems to require.

I think that part of the process of letting go is holding on.  Dennis counseled us to move forward and make this work.  We owe it to him to be all right.  It is a binding contract for those of us privileged to have shared his life.

T. S. Eliot declared “April is the cruelest month…”  I have known months notable for their brutality, but I do think Eliot got it right.  April was harsh.

Quite simply, Dennis was what he seemed to be.

Blinded by my own mortality, I tend to launch questions into the great void of outer darkness regarding the rationale of the universe and its justice system, with my signature damaged intensity. 

Dennis never did.  He seemed to embrace the wisdom that acceptance, not anger, was the more productive weapon when going into battle with such a formidable foe as pancreatic cancer.  By acceptance, I do not mean surrender.  He was, as Brodi said, a fierce warrior.  It was merely a tip of the gladiator’s helmet to a sinister opponent prior to waging combat.

This was his grace.  Grace has its own power.  Victory without grace is hollow.  Ultimately, Dennis was triumphant.

Our grandchildren sing primary songs reminding us that we are each a Child of God.  But Dennis was an Adult of God.  Lacking the grace that defined him, I am more a Juvenile of God, trying in vain to curtail my harsh-language mechanism triggered by fear and anguish in a futile effort to snuff this disease with smothering obscenities.

 In the end, “cancer” is the greatest obscenity.

Dennis knew intuitively that, as Viktor Frankl said, “When we are no longer able to change a situation – we are challenged to change ourselves.”

He succeeded.  I struggle.

Dennis’ passing alters everything, myself included.  But then, I was altered by our life together. 

Dennis reverenced all the things in life that he held sacred – his Friends, his Faith, and his Family.  His was a gentleman’s code, which did not allow him to compromise the personal integrity that comprised his wholeness.  He possessed quiet modesty, infusing  our lives with texture and richness. 

We are frequently asked how our family is getting through each of the holidays since April.  The answer is – quite well.  But much like Emily, the main character in Thornton Wilder’s play “Our Town,” who is allowed to relive her 12^th birthday, with all its painful beauty, it is the poignant, endearing, fulfilling, ordinary moments of ordinary days that give meaning to life…not necessarily the arbitrary special occasions dictated by calendars.  Our life was comprised mostly of 12^th birthdays.

For a long time I concurred with William Faulkner when he said, “Between grief and nothing, I’ll take grief.”  But now, I sometimes wonder.  Bereavement is not imminent.  Sorrow has been a companion for so long.  It is not new or raw or angry, but seasoned, aged.  It no longer has the power to suffocate by paralyzing our lungs, or swallow us by the immensity of his not-thereness.

  There is a surprising, unexpected element of joy in sorrow.  Sometimes, however, I think a momentary anesthetic of nothingness to numb and harness the sadness that disgorges itself at random might be useful.

But, of course, the only way out is through.

The eternal mathematical equations of life usually insist that the degree of grief is in direct proportion to the amount of love.  If I embraced the one, I am compelled to accept the other.  I’m bound by the terms of the contract.

Our hearts are broken.  Of that, there is no doubt.  But the tightness of shrunken scar tissue will form around the wounds, and our hearts will heal and be stronger.

 Someone received his corneas.  Perhaps they will see the world through his eyes.  I hope so.

It is pleasant to think about.

I understand about seasons.  Dennis left in the season of lilacs, a rather splendid goal we shared, but were saving for an April in the future. Dennis accomplished our objective much too soon.  He never seemed to master the fine art of procrastination.

What I DON’T understand is “a time for every purpose under heaven.” Dennis had purpose beyond the moment. Purpose is perplexing. How does loss serve purpose, loss that leaves us tilted and dim? That information is not available to the common man.  I guess I’ll have to wait for all to be revealed.  But when it is, it better come with some plump comfort!

Dennis was not perfect.  He had flaws.  But for the life of me, I can’t recall at the moment what they were.  He was wise, warm and witty…”a quiet man, a fierce warrior.”

Quite simply, he was what he seemed to be. 

  

Dad. We are not sad because it's over, but we smile because he lived.

Thank you to everyone for all the kind words, notes, meals, and visits. The Clot loves you all.

Voyages

Of late I’ve been thinking a lot about voyages, due, no doubt, to the centennial commemoration of the sinking of the Titanic. The Titanic was the largest movable man-made object on earth…and pronounced unsinkable. It was a pitiless deception.

The ship was launched in early April on a great and ambitious adventure, with passengers representing all strata of society, from plutocrats to peasants. The Titanic was an exceedingly ornate and elaborate structure…a model of robust architectural busyness.

A recent documentary concluded that this grand ocean voyager sank because of “negative buoyancy.” Well, Duuh-uh! I always considered “negative buoyancy” a euphemism for age-related geriatric sag. I know well that feeling of betrayal when all things once thought eternally perky eventually sink.

There is an inherent comedic element to natural bodily functions and the tyranny of time…a sort of humorous chagrin about skin like beef jerky or limbs with dimples like inverted Braille. And frequently one’s social calendar is at the mercy of one’s regularity. The finest minds that ever lived have created structures specifically designed to cantilever our bodies to a state of perfect eternal float, until we ferment and fossilize. Women especially are expected to morph into fanciful hybrids of unrelenting youth and graceful maturity. The creations render us anatomically incorrect. Also, they’re anatomically inhumane. These are unrealistic expectations. Anatomy undulates. Our personal architecture loses some of its power, energy and force. We must deal with it, not conceal it. In fact, I think we ought to flaunt it, like medals of honor worn by veterans who have survived the extended warfare of simply getting through this life. What I wouldn’t give to be in charge of selecting the cover for Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.

Sometimes I think we sign on for voyages assuming it will be a phantasmagoria of festivities and clear sailing on calm seas. But if we take the time to read the fine print on the agreement, we find there are no guarantees. Last week the waters became rather turbulent for us. Dennis had some issues that, at first, seemed to indicate a possible bowel blockage. The doctor at the Acute Care Center also made casual reference to a scan that possibly showed some irregularities (tumors?) in his peritoneum. No matter how frequently such incidents occur, it is never routine. We were stunned. This was news to us, since we had read the scan reports, and there was no mention of peritoneum involvement. The information came like a series of javelins thrown so fast we hardly had time to register collision.

And so we approached Dennis’ PET/CT scan on Monday with a degree of trepidation, preparing ourselves for the blow by conversation omission. We simply did not make our apprehensions audible. Sometimes not naming our demons makes them easier to abide, but my innards were a swollen knot. I did retreat to a small corner of my heart, where I could salvage enough composure to absorb the impact of the impending specifics and remain an intact entity. Not an easy task.

Wednesday we got the radiologist’s report of the scans. We read and re-read the information imbedded on those pages. Apparently, there is no evidence of spread to the peritoneum. There is some lung involvement that indicates a nodule in the left lung has enlarged somewhat. We expected this since Dennis has been off chemo for four months. And we have a battle plan. We are going for complete and utter obliteration.

I have a picture of a river so full of crocodiles that one can hardly see the water. The caption underneath reads, “The only way out is through.” It is by Robert Frost. Our family has adopted that philosophy as our mantra. Often one’s only viable option when trying to get to the other side is to go through.

A dear friend, Sam Arishita, suffered a freak fall that rendered him a quadriplegic. We talk regularly, sharing each other’s triumphs and disappointments. Recently he told me he was able to crawl across the floor. A monumental achievement. We were euphoric. Sam is a cherished and trusted friend, and we care deeply for each other. He is like a strong magnetic field that attracts what is positive and reflects it. He knows better than most how to navigate through treacherous, croc-infested waters. All our lives are interconnected. We were meant to learn from one another. If it is true that, as has been said, we attract what we dread, it is simple logic to stop dreading. If Sam can crawl across the floor and the heavens rejoice, surely I can put one foot in front of the other. There is a certain grace and power that comes with perseverance. It would be an offence to Sam’s miracles, not to mention our own, if we did not keep heading toward the other side of the river.

There are times in this voyage that I wonder if I actually signed up for the adventure, if I cross-checked the weather forecast and prepared for the perils. But I know our destination, and perhaps that knowledge, along with our compass, are the most crucial instruments of the journey. Possibly tempests are the most efficient means of reaching the Promised Land. Still, the only way out is through.

Sometimes I feel like a consort battleship. Other times I feel like I’m a little dingy. But in commemoration of the Titanic, and ALL things once thought unsinkable that have gone down, I’m going braless.

The Art of Aversion

Last Thursday, Dr. Suri determined that the abscess on Dennis’ liver was sufficiently “offed” by potent medicines (whose main ingredients are arsenic and toxic waste) and he could safely transition from IV antibiotics to oral. I was so thrilled, I made a wanton display of delight, high-fiving the entire office staff from the front desk to the latrine.  For almost eight straight weeks now, we have been cocooning Dennis’ picc line (the portal where the medications are injected) in saran wrap for his daily shower, until he looked like a tightly-bound chrysalis waiting for Mothra to emerge.  Bathing will be greatly simplified.

This whole antibiotics thing has taken its toll.  The medication is potent enough to knock out the monster infection, but it dang near took out his digestive tract, too.  Dennis looks slightly malnourished, because he is. One of the most flagrant side effects of rocephin is, to put it delicately, diarrhea.  I have tried everything, from ransacking health food stores to resorting to dumpster dives in an effort to discover something edible that he can absorb nutritionally, and that will not “come to pass.” This is a monumental task. Desperation has even had me investigating the potential health benefits of yak urine and marshmallows. Dennis has been wary understandably of anything yellow I place on his plate.  He always was a picky eater!

By a happy coincidence, one day on the news, I heard of a new culinary technique from, of all people, Alicia Silverstone.  Apparently, she chews her food until it’s the consistency of pink slime, similar to the pre-digested liquid worm broth mother birds regurgitate down the gullets of their chicks.  Then, in an act of severe depravity and utter disgust, she transfers the wad of simulated cheese curds and fat globules directly into her child’s palette for his nourishment and enjoyment.  She claims it is in the child’s best interest.  OHH-KAYYY.  Did I mention she starred in the movie “Clueless?”

However, always open to innovative ways to show my love AND supplement Dennis’ body mass, I volunteered to do the same for him. Because it’s Easter time, I could substitute “Peeps” for the marshmallows. Perhaps it could be considered an act of affection and triage, the outer manifestation of inner celestial fire…a higher state of decorum and moral virtue. Why not?  Nothing else seemed to be working. 

Unable to appreciate the possibilities, Dennis politely declined my offer, suggesting that Alicia Silverstone suffers from socially disruptive narcissism, and maybe with our combined intellect, we could invent other ways of generating flesh on his bones than by totally grossing ourselves out. That made sense. He suggested that I continue in my official capacity as the “bowel whisperer” in order to mitigate the “liquid assets,” and hinted that I should stop listening to Entertainment Tonight as a viable news source. Wow.  Way to harsh my mellow!  But he’s right.  From now on, I’m sticking with Barbara Walters for truth and guidance.

It takes courage to get through tough times.  The Art of Aversion helps me navigate my way through gray and weary places.  I find that if I don’t look too closely or think too clearly, I am able to do what needs to be done without imprinting painful things.  I simply put on the therapeutic blinders, looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead, and place one foot in front of the other. This is not to be confused with therapeutic denial. Oh no. Aversion is just a coping mechanism that assists one in inculcating the practice of perfect self-control.  And self-control is crucial in trying to avoid spontaneous combustion during times of trial.  It is a viable alternative to mainlining dopamine in the face of a cacophony of lab values.

Although, that higher order of intelligence (aversion) can backfire at times.  Recently, a dear friend of mine passed away.  I was determined to attend the viewing without weeping.  Eyes of cork. Total self control. So I decided not to look closely at anything or anyone.  I would just go through the line, pay my respects, and try to remain composed. 

Well, I signed our names in the Book of Remembrance, and moved, head down, toward the casket.  When we got there, we saw, to our chagrin, that we were at the wrong viewing. It was a man we did not know and had never seen before. His family was so gracious and friendly. And  we were so mortified.  The only thing I could think of to do was grab a handful of Kleenex, cover my face to conceal my embarrassment and humiliation, (not to mention stifle my laughter) and depart quickly, hopefully without being cited by the Behavior Nazis for a flagrant social faux pas.  The whole incident gave new meaning to the term “exit wound.” Dennis just rolled his eyes and continued down the family line. He’s used to frequent mental power outages. His patience should be a controlled substance.

I have been reading Brodi’s sequel to “Everneath.”  It is terrific, and reveals the lay-out of the Hades that was referenced in her first book.  A while ago, she asked our family to give her suggestions as to how we imagined this underworld. I was thrilled to offer my assistance. I came up with ideas that were nothing short of riveting inspiration. My creative juices were on steroids.  I presented these ideas in an uninterrupted monologue worthy of a senate filibuster. Then I sat back in hubristic and bloated self-satisfaction and waited for her grateful ratification. 

Brodi listened patiently, and then made the acerbic observation that Nikki went to Hell, not the ICU!  “Well,” I huffed, “it’s all the same to me.”  Actually, she was right.  The kingdom I had created involved being confined by tethers of plastic tubing to frightening machines which spewed forth alarming numbers and great noise. Her realm was far superior, as if all nine Muses had inspired her to organize an underneath of various geographical locations with different degrees of awfulness. It was brilliant. I deferred and ratified.

The Art of Aversion is a very useful tool when one is trying to pass through the tunnels of despair. 

Dennis and I have turned our clocks to OFST (Old Fart Standard Time) and continue to celebrate joyful things. Adversity has a way of distinguishing between things that matter and things that don’t. And it is at these times that I want to see most clearly.  

  

CAESAR

Yesterday was the Ides of March.  In 44 B.C., a soothsayer warned Julius Caesar to “beware the Ides of March,” and not go to the Senate. More important, SO DID HIS WIFE! Actually, not much has changed in the two millennia since that day.  It doesn’t take Deepak Chopak to espouse the wisdom of avoiding politics…and listening to one’s wife.  However, Caesar disregarded the warnings and did not beware.  Big Mistake!  Bad Caesar. The consequences of that little decision really made a mess for housekeeping.

Yesterday was also our anniversary.  As avid archivists, we have learned a lot from history, and, unlike Caesar, we bewared (bewore?  Whatev!)  We decided not to tempt fate by doing anything fun.  Instead, just to be safe, we went straight to the University Hospital for another paracentesis!  It is better to suck out three more liters of fluid from Dennis’ midsection, than to risk being eviscerated by guys wearing white togas and carrying concealed daggers. 

Actually, the more I think about it, there were some striking similarities.  Of course, there was no blind man on the steps leading up to the hospital predicting the future by reading the entrails of a chicken. But there were a bunch of guys wearing white lab coats interpreting the growth patterns of a Petri dish and carrying concealed scalpels whose sole intention was to carve portals in Dennis’ lower hemisphere in order to drain his abscess pockets.  Thankfully, in this case, nothing soaked the floor, and Mark Antony didn’t take the podium with his “Dr. Brutus is an honorable man” speech.  That was reassuring.

And as if being down a quart of precious bodily fluids isn’t enough to generate paroxysms of jubilation, the “Technicians at Delphi” informed us that the ultrasound showed the abscess is significantly diminished.  In unrestrained delight, we did a victory lap around the lobby of the hospital.  We had to check our velocity, however, because Dennis was in hospital attire, whose construction is anything but modest and can at an unguarded moment reveal the lay of the land.  It is wise to temper one’s speed with prudence lest things are revealed to an unsuspecting public which are best left concealed.  But Dennis really rocks those hospital gowns!

Good news is the new prozac.  Dennis has been on a powerful antibiotic, rocephin, which is specifically designed to target strep anginosis, an evil bug akin to Ellen Ripley’s alien nemesis.  As innocuous as this drug’s name seems, (it sounds like something one would plant in a garden) it has done some serious damage to the abscess.  Unfortunately, it is harsh on Dennis’ already compromised system, and challenges both of us to constantly re-invent appropriate obscenities for talk bubbles over our heads.  We’ve tried channeling our inner Julius Caesar for his inspirational final words, but neither of us speaks Latin, and “Etu Brute!” just doesn’t cut it. We’re big-time into words consisting of four letters.

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we chose to postpone our elaborate anniversary celebration pageantry until today.  This works for me.  “Sympathetic diarrhea syndrome” has caused me to temporarily relinquish the title of “Our Lady of Perpetual Perkiness.”  Daylight Savings Time seems to extract an hour out of EVERY day, and settling our weary carcasses into matching recliners in a synchronized collapse is a major part of our afternoon protocol.  Dennis is particularly angular, and we are constantly shielding him from paleontologists who might be tempted to excavate and carbon-date his bones.

This afternoon, however, we are going to see a live theatrical production of “Zorro,” the musical.  We can’t wait to be swashbuckled by Don Diego de la Vega, who rights wrongs and brings justice to the tyranny in his town.  (Yeah, yeah, but can he tolerate massive doses of rocephin for six straight weeks without the runs?  Now that’s something to sing about!)

We had considered going to see “Hunger Games,” but after a steady diet of rainwater and rice gruel, we much prefer Bacchanalian Excess Games.

And we are preparing for the production big time, donning masks and practicing our thrust and parry like we learned in our correspondence course, En Garde for Dummies. In the absence of rapiers or daggers, we opted for some dull steak knives I resurrected from a kitchen drawer. 

It was rather an amusing exercise in foolishness to slash imaginary Z’s in each other’s underwear while singing “Out of the night/ When the full moon is bright/ Comes a horseman known as Zorro!” with decibels that exceeded city ordinances.  (Too much leisure time creates all kind of mischief on weak minds.) But then in an errant and misguided parry, my new Spanx got snagged. SNAGGED!!!  AAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH! Dang.  Those suckers are expensive.  They’re greater inventions than even the ShamWOW! And, they’re architecturally correct. I grieved.  But, although it felt like death by a thousand paper cuts, I decided to release my angst into the universe and tried not to mourn the loss of the garment that allows me to go into polite society without too much body dismorphia.  We put the knives away, along with our dreams of being adopted by a tribe of Massai warriors.

I know, I know, running with knives is never a good idea.

Every anniversary I ponder the longevity of our marriage. How has it endured?  Why do two people decide each year to remain together? There must be many reasons.  I’m sure a contributing factor must have been my “pre-nup/post partum” vow to give Dennis sole custody of the kids in the event of divorce.  That always gave him pause. The only other plausible explanation is Dennis’ incredible gift of patience, and our strict avoidance of soothsayers, disgruntled senators, and sharp objects.

Mars, Hares and Madness

It’s March already.  It arrived a little late this year because of Leap Day, although it seems the first two months of 2012 have passed at the speed of light.  And speaking of light, on March 11^th, we will all lose an hour of sleep to pick up extra sun at the end of the day.  I guess the exchange is worth it.

March is actually named after a rather angry fellow, Mars, the Roman god of war, and it is known for madness, hatters, hares and ides. 

It is also the month Dennis and I chose to get married.  In fact, our anniversary falls exactly on the Ides of March, the date when Brutus murdered his friend, Julius Caesar.  Brutus must have been madder than a March hare.  Is this a bad omen?  Not necessarily, although we tend to avoid asylums, haberdashers, the Senate, and senators, especially on an election year.

It was nice to have leap day, a bonus 24-hour respite to catch our breath.  We invested that extra time NOT going to the Huntsman.  Not going certain places is nice, especially when we had been there so many times this past week.  I admit I began to understand the probable cause of Mars’ anger.

Last Friday, Dr. Sharma arranged to have Dennis’ portacathe removed, suspecting it could be the source of the abscess on his liver.  Having an adversarial relationship with abscesses on livers, we ratified that recommendation and showed up on the doorstep of HCH early in the morning…fasting. 

A very competent doctor entered the exam room as the designated predatory surgeon.   By virtue of its simplicity, I was invited to remain in the room for the procedure.  The nurse asked me if I would be all right, since they were just going to inject some xylacaine to deaden the surrounding area. No big deal.

Oh puhhhleeeeze!  After everything we’ve been through, nothing bothers me.  Besides, I wanted Dennis to have the benefit of the potent power of my presence to give an aura of strength and stability.  The doc had me at, “Now this is a pretty simple procedure.”  I opted to stay. 

I mean, how bad could it be?  I would simply avert my eyes by reading an out-of-date smut mag (in this particular issue, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston were still together) and go to an alternate universe for the duration.

There were just two teeny weeny problems I had not factored in to my decision. 

1. I  had not eaten.
2. Because Dennis is a physician, the doctor felt compelled to deliver a play-by-play account of what he was doing in maniacally graphic detail.

So, while I could avert my eyes, I could not avert my ears.

The first thing I heard was, “Now Dennis, you’ll feel a little poke and then a slight burning sensation.”  I realized at that point I had made a very bad decision.  I wanted to adopt my daughter Erin’s technique of cupping her hands over her ears and shrieking “LA LA LA LA LA!  I’m not LISTening!” when I tried to tell her the facts of life.

“A little poke??!!!”  I heard a puncture and the nauseating sucking sound of a plumber’s friend being plunged into a backed-up sewer pipe.  He must have been using the trident of Beelzebub! 

“A slight burning sensation??!!!”  The flames of the underworld flared up from the depths of Hades licking at my pant legs and threatened to engulf the entire third floor.  What a backdraft!

This good surgeon, who no doubt was valedictorian of his graduating medical school class because of his gymnastically acute verbal descriptive prowess, then announced he was going to make a slight incision at the port site. 

What I heard was, “And now I will open a gaping cavernous wound which will hereafter be known as The Yawning and Cavernous Black Hole with the gravitational sucking power capable of engulfing the entire universe into everlasting darkness.”

Even his ornate medical terms could not obscure the facts of this “simple little procedure.”  Dennis uttered not a word.  No doubt his hearing was impaired.

The doctor then referred to a “scalpel,” but I testify I heard a Samarai sword slash through the air with predatory force cleaving the atmosphere in two as his voice went all “Miss Piggy” screaming “HYYYYYYY-YAH!”  Never allowing my eyes to wander from the magazine, I had no doubt he was conducting a total evisceration.

The metal tray was heavy with scalpels and adhesives, giving a whole new meaning to “cut and paste.”  And he described shades of pulsating pink, evoking images reminiscent of internal organs at work.  I was sure the incision would have the bite radius of a Great White. The room was suffused with the fusty aroma of alcohol and something orange and pungent. 

In the wild excess of self-indulgent narcissism, I noticed the room getting smaller and swaying slightly, as if it had been chloroformed.  The nurse thought I looked pale.  I explained I was just extremely blond.

I tried channeling my inner Whitney by belting out “They can’t take away my dignity!”  Apparently, they can.

I exited the room clinging tightly to Dennis’ arm…so he wouldn’t fall.  He endured the ordeal well, which restored our credibility. 

But the next time I’m invited to listen to a procedure, I’m going to eat breakfast, get REALLY angry, and then go to a universe far, far away, where there are no ides, hares, madness or senators.