Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Victorian Forfeits

Victorians love to play parlor games, and when one loses a game, one pays some sort of forfeit. These "hilarious" forfeits are the driving force behind the games, as is explained in the forward of the "Ninety and Five Forfeits" from the book Evening Amusements, which was given as a Christmas gift from Mrs. J.P. Haller in 1889.

The forward explains:

The most enjoyable pleasure of an evening's entertainment, or nearly so, is "Crying the Forfeits," as it usually concludes the holiday evening's gambols. The previous portion of the evening, as respects the games, being generally looked upon as a means for the collection of this description of mirth and glee, or bearing about the same relation to the forfeits that a preliminary drama does to a pantomime.

Here are some of my favorites from the list:

15. To act the part of a dumb servant. The descriptions says, "...the gentleman then asks her...questions...How do you wash?...All these questions must be answered by the lady by dumb motions, which of course cause great laughter."

19. To lay your whole length on the floor, and after calling all the company round you, to say quite loud, "Here I lay, the length of a looby, the breadth of a booby, and three parts of a loggerhead."

30. To perform the deaf man. "The person on whom this temporary infirmity is imposed must stand out in the middle of the room, and to all that is said must answer, three times following, 'I am deaf; I can't hear.' The fourth time, however, the answer must be, 'I can hear.'"

33. Hobson's choice. "The debtor is blindfolded and seated on a chair. The operating holding a cork burnt at one end, asks him which end he will have rubbed to his face...he must put his finger on the end he selects, and trust to his luck as to whether his face is blackened or not. This is a gentleman's forfeit only."

38. The perform the parrot.

39. To act the mute.

40. To enact the Grecian statue.

41. To act the death of the King of Morocco.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Value

I volunteered with a Hospice program shortly after graduating from college. I was connected with a family immediately after completing the training. My role was to help the oldest boy with his homework. He was nine. His younger brother was seven. Their little sister, the youngest in the family, was terminally ill.

I don't remember the name of the boy I tutored for over a year. I don't remember the parents' names, or the name of the younger boy either. I do remember the name of the little girl: Erin. When Erin was born, she was given only a few weeks to live. By the time I met her, she was almost four years old. Still the size of an infant, she could not see or hear or respond to most stimuli. She could not smile or stand on her own or roll over, and breathed only with the aid of equipment.

Erin's mother had gained over 100 pounds and developed diabetes as a result of the stress and of the sedentary lifestyle that caring for a terminally ill infant necessitates. With the type of equipment Erin needed, it was difficult to bring her places, and hiring a babysitter was out of the question. A Hospice nurse would come for several hours each day, and volunteers like me would arrive periodically to give the family a respite, too.

Shortly after Christmas, the older boy was showing me the family Christmas presents. "See," he said, showing me his new remote controlled car, "You can make it go around corners." As I praised his driving skills, I noticed a row of Barbies on one shelf, all in their original boxes.

"Whose are those?" I asked.

"Oh, those are Erin's. We give her presents every Christmas and birthday. Usually Barbies."

There is the family, carefully picking out Erin's Christmas Barbie. The trip to the toy store, the judicious examination of each sparkly dress before making the decision. The excitement on their faces as they slowly unwrap the package for Erin, holding it up to her half-closed eyes. "See? She's a ballerina. Like in Swan Lake! She's wearing little toe shoes."

One cold evening I arrived for my weekly visit, only to find that the mother had taken all three children out to have their pictures taken at Sears. Only the father was home. A tough, blue-collar guy, he hadn't said much the few times I had seen him. I knew that he was involved in the boys' sports, that he had worked at Safeway for years, and that he was good with his hands, having built a TV room addition onto the back of the house. We both apologized to one another for the miscommunication about the appointment. Then he invited me to have a seat in the shag-carpeted living room. Glass and china gleamed in the light from the Christmas tree that sat in the corner.

The sand-colored couch and the loveseat were set up in an L shape. We each sat, he on the smaller sofa, facing the sparkling tree. I could hear the TV in the background. "She wasn't always heavy, you know," he said suddenly. He walked across the room, picking up something from the shelf and handing it to me. He tapped a thin, blonde woman in the framed photo I was holding. The woman wore jeans and a white T-shirt. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with puffy bangs brushing her forehead. She looked perky and fun. Someone who liked steamed crabs and beer, maybe, or going dancing with her girlfriends.

"It's been hard on us, her most of all. It's made her sad. Depressed, you know?" I murmured something and nodded, looking across the dim room. "She got real heavy," he continued. He sighed. "But you know, I still love her, as much as ever. She's still beautiful to me. It just makes me sad sometimes."

"Of course, of course," I said, uncertain of the polite response. My eyes roamed across the shelves to the other photos: a pretty blonde in a wedding dress, kissing her new husband's bristly moustache; two toddler boys holding Easter baskets; the family smiling in a formal portrait, the boys missing teeth, the mother holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

"We heard about this home, once, a really great place, for kids like Erin. We decided it might be good for her. For us. We wouldn't worry so much." He looked down at his hands. "She has a real personality, you know. A strong will. We can tell when she's happy and when she's cranky. We know what she likes and doesn't like."

I laid the picture of the young blonde woman on the sofa beside me. My hands rested on my thighs.

Looking up, his eyes sought mine. "It's just that, when she was away, I couldn't stand it. I missed her. She's a part of our family. When she's not around I miss her."

Friday, June 12, 2009

When the Journey Began

I wrote this on October 1, 2008, but forgot to post it. Tomorrow I leave for my new life in LA. I had decided to move out there last summer, sight unseen. This is from my first trip out there to make sure that I was making the right decision.

I am sitting in the LAX airport, waiting to board my plane back to Boston. I feel certain about some things after coming here, which is why I came here. So there’s a sense of accomplishment. One is that LA is the right place for me. I know that I will be happy here; I can feel it. I had lunch with an old college acquaintance yesterday, and once we sat down, he looked at me and said, “You love LA, don’t you. I can tell. You look really happy.” It suits me.
At the moment, I am looking to my right, at three women, all with short white hair. Two out of three of them have strong Texas accents, and all three of them are talking on their cell phones. The one with the strongest accent is the loudest. She is probably about 80 years old, short and stout. LA is just a place where she is changing planes to someplace else. She keeps scrolling down her contacts list on her phone, and calls one person after another. Over her green polka-dot blouse, she is wearing a safari vest. She is excited to be back, excited to tell about her trip.
For my trip to LA, I booked a little villa in Los Feliz; it’s basically a beautiful apartment with a door code that is programmed to my visit. It was in a perfect neighborhood, exactly where I want to live. I walked to the grocery store every day, cooked myself meals in the kitchen, and did laundry, listened to music and drank cocktails on the patio. Had people over, figured out how to get places, found an acupuncturist and got my nails done. Made it my home.
I thought a lot about what this trip was going to be for me. I knew I was going to get a feel for LA, and to start making connections. I was going to go alone, and then I wasn’t, and ultimately I went without any kind of plan or agenda at all. I had a few loose ideas of people I was going to see at different points, but it was mostly open time. I had to keep reminding myself to use this as an actual vacation and an opportunity to rest. This was my first vacation since I separated, and just being in a new environment with time to myself each day, warm weather, and sunshine was enough to focus on. I didn’t need to add to my sense of duty, which is already heavy enough most of the time. I tend to think of myself as a failure if I spend a day doing nothing.
Somehow, an agenda slowly formed itself and I had all kinds of interesting experiences, connecting with people I didn’t know well, and walking away feeling like I have friends here. Feeling like I was meeting good, good people out here.
I think I was really surprised by how different it felt to be in this new city. The whole pace of things, the way people carry themselves, it feels very different from Boston. People are friendly, and nobody is ever in a hurry. No sense of urgency, even on the roads. Sometimes I found myself sitting in the car, clapping my hands and saying, “Ok, this is business, people. Come on. Let’s make it happen,” as though my unseen speech and motivational clapping would somehow unconsciously inspire the other drivers to pick up the pace.
One highlight of my trip was going to a small stand-up show that a friend, Steve, was hosting. It was in a dark little club called The Room, in Santa Monica. One of the comics took the stage, kind of an angry guy whose jokes really weren’t funny, because the level of bitterness was way too present. For example, if the punchline of a joke is, “I’m glad you were molested,” I’m not quite sure I’m totally on board with that. But this guy went up, and he started his whole bit with “I tend to be seen as pretty negative, but if you don’t like my act, you’re perfectly free to move to some totalitarian country where there isn’t free speech,” and then suddenly this woman calls out, “Yeah, like America!” And then starts shouting out things like “AmeriKKKa,” and stuff like that, and the comic tells her to shut up, although I can’t remember if he called her a cunt right away, or whether that came a bit later. So he got into it with her, and she wouldn’t stop, and then the guy who was with her got involved, after the comic said things like, “I don’t care if your dad gave you herpes, or whatever your problem is,” and called her a stupid bitch and whatnot, and then the two people were yelling things back, sort of dumb and drunk things. However, they were pointing out the irony of the comic railing on about free speech, but then telling them to shut up. At first, it seemed like a bit, or part of an act, because the lines seemed so contrived. So everyone was sort of sitting and awkwardly looking back and forth between the comic and the hecklers, and wondering what would happen next. Eventually, the comic explained that this was not, in fact, a bit, but it was actually happening. Everyone felt surprised and at a loss of what to do. Eventually Steve and another of the show’s hosts decided to ask the hecklers to leave, since they wouldn’t stop, and the comic was starting to threaten to get involved physically, which also would have been interesting, some kind of brawl, or knifing, maybe. But they got hustled out with some protests, and then the guy tried to shake hands in an “all is forgiven” gesture with the comic, but he refused.
I think the difficult part is that I have very carefully told myself that I don’t want to spend the next nine months feeling that I’m not present in the life I am living now. I don’t want to feel like I’m in some kind of waiting room, or purgatory, just waiting to make it out west. I didn’t think that traveling to LA would make me feel like that, because I am actually happy in Boston. But that is how I ended up feeling, like I couldn’t wait to move out here, and really felt like I didn’t want to come back to Boston. In my mind, I am trying to think of the next possible time I can return to California. It felt sad to leave. I did a lot of sighing.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary, Part 4: The Return

After her mission, she returned to her family in Salt Lake, and ultimately decided to leave Utah and settle in Washington, DC.

After I returned home from my mission, I moved back into my parents' house and started in on my senior year of college. I stayed very involved with the Church, and went to the Temple there quite frequently. Through the Church I became good friends with a young man who had also been a missionary. One Sunday we were in the Celestial Room, which is a room that is symbolic of Heaven, and this man asked me to marry him. It was completely unexpected. The Celestial Room is supposed to be the most special, serene place on Earth, but upon his proposal, I felt nothing but ambiguity, uncertainty, and fear. I just did not feel comfortable. My brain works more slowly than my emotions, and I was so surprised, I think I must have said yes. I spent half an hour after the ceremony getting dressed, wondering, "What am I going to do?" And I felt in my heart that what I needed to tell him was that I wasn't ready, and I needed more time.

When I went back out, he was waiting for me, and he pulled out a ring, and I sort of lost my grip on reality for a minute. I saw the beautiful diamond and I saw his sweet eyes and I just couldn't say no. And so I said yes. I had been all prepared to say, "Let's wait on this, let's think about it," but when he pulled out the ring I thought, "Well, jeez, being engaged sounds like fun. Let's do it!" Because I thought, "Oh, this is happy, this is what I've wanted!" I mean it was hard in Utah to have your younger brother get married before you do. I can't say that I hadn't been jealous, because that's what you grew up wanting, your own husband and your own family. And here was my opportunity to achieve that.

Even though I had accepted the proposal, it was not free of doubts. I think it took about two months before I was able to break it off. I don't think I would have known for certain that it was wrong had I not said yes. I think sometimes you have to make a decision and go with it. I think, had I said no, I would have been left wondering. Looking back, I was glad that I made the commitment for that short period of time.

It was around this time that I really felt drawn to return to the East Coast. It took about a year until the timing was right, but I really felt that I needed to be there. I believed in my heart that I was capable of doing things and I believed in my heart that there was something wonderful out there waiting for me. I think I also felt like I needed to be further away from my family, in some ways. I am still, to this day, treated as a child with limitations by my parents. I grew up in a household that it was best to play it safe and not try for things. If there was a chance you could fail, then don't even try at all, because the hurt you would feel if you didn't make it would be worse than if you hadn't tried. And so I grew up with a lot of inhibitions.

Moving back to DC and living on my own for the first time, I mean really on my own without the rules and structure of a mission, it was like a whole new world opened up. To try and promote myself, to go out and get jobs at places that my name wasn't known by anyone, and to apply for promotions and things like that, it really took a lot of courage and a lot of guts, because I hadn't had the experience or help in doing those sorts of things. And so I can't help but feel a little bit pleased with myself and those opportunities, even though not all of them worked out. But some of them did, and it was wonderful.

I think I grew up with a tendency, because my hand was always held, to expect to be taken care of. When there wasn't anyone to do it anymore, it was a different feeling, and I think I kept wanting that hand-holding for a while. I remember one hideous snowstorm morning in Washington where I'd spend the night at the house of a girlfriend from work. I needed to get to work, but she didn't need to be in until a few hours after I did. She lived out in the middle of Virginia, and I remember that I had to take a bus to get to the metro to get into town, and I had no idea where I was going. It was a complete blizzard, and half of the city was shut down, yet I did it. It took me literally two-and-a-half hours of tramping through the snow and waiting at the bus stop and at the metro. I remember feeling like, "I did it!" I was happy to be able to tough it out and make it happen. And I just loved the little things like that, whether it was personal or work-related, because I had never had those kinds of experiences, where I was in control and really had to depend on myself like that.

It was hard, initially. Everything had been removed from me: my piano students, my job, my friends from school, my family. I was essentially alone and learning to provide for myself in a very expensive city, finding a place to live, really finding a place in my world. I felt really alone and discouraged, but even though I felt scared, I wasn't about to quit. I may be emotional and have my quirks, but underneath it I really feel that I have a decent amount of strength there that really helped me make it though the hard times. In addition, of course, to my faith in the Lord and being able to turn to Him.

I got to know the Church on another level, living in Washington. It was amazing to be in a congregation in Washington, DC, because it really was so much more diverse. It was very eclectic, and it was technically a singles ward, so there were all these people , mostly between 25 and 45, many with advanced degrees, who had just incredible intellect and things to offer. It was inspiring and invigorating, and, even though I wasn't perfectly living the gospel standards at that time in my life, I don't think I had ever felt more loved and more cared for by people of the Church. Coming from the head-planted-in-the-sand state, where you're judged and criticized for any possible misstep, I was really amazed. And as that happened and as I developed more friendships, my confidence grew, and I just really felt like it became my second home with my new friends and my new life. I felt like it was possible for me to be the person that I tried to be, growing up and on my mission, and with the same expectations, but in a completely different environment, and without having to change who I am. I sort of felt like I had really come home.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary, Part 3: The Mission

Newly finished with her training, she heads out on an 18-month mission.

Once I arrived on my mission, I was on a completely different schedule. You had to be up at 6:00 AM, and, of course, with some companions, they insisted on being up at 5:30! You'd have an hour of personal study, an hour of companion study. You had to be out the door, dressed, at 9:00 AM, on the streets proselytizing, teaching, working, whatever. And you would have one hour for lunch. Depending on the companion, you could come home, stay an hour. Otherwise, depending on the companion, you packed a lunch and you included your driving time to the park! And then you were right back at it. It was really rigid. The days were long, but at the same time, they went by really fast. You were always busy. I don't think I've ever worked as hard. You were grateful for bedtime. I didn't have insomnia on my mission at all.

The rules and the structure made it really easy to focus. Sometimes I would just get worn out and overwhelmed by it all, but it was impossible to lose focus. As a missionary, you were expected to baptize new members into the Church every month. There were minimum numbers of discussions that you were to teach, and so many hours spent tracting and so many hours spent studying, alone and with your companion. There were a certain number of scriptures to memorize. There was quota after quota. That was a struggle, because I just couldn't get into that. Every once in a while, I would think, "I just can't do this anymore," but only if I was feeling really down and depressed. You're in such a different state of mind. All you do is eat, sleep, drink, preach religion, and it's such a change of lifestyle.

Living the missionary lifestyle was a huge adjustment for me. I'm a little bit stubborn, and even though I was technically a "good girl," I still was a little bit of a nonconformist and liked to do things my own way and very much did not like being told what to do. It just so happened that my mission president was basically the strictest, most controlling man. He ran his mission field like a drill sergeant would, like an army. There were very rigid expectations and structures. There are standard mission rules world-wide, but in addition to that, mission presidents are able to add anything else that they feel is necessary. And not to be able to listen to music, classical music, that was my life...not to be able to listen to music was very hard. I'm very much a "spirit of the law" type of person, where the president was very much the "letter of the law." We clashed a lot.

There was one instance where my mother's boss was in Washington, DC, visiting with his daughter, and he wanted to come and visit me at the Visitors' Center. I had permission for that, that was no problem. Well, it worked out that he wasn't able to make it up there. He got in a time crunch and he called me and asked if I could come into DC with my companion and meet him, and he'd take us out to dinner. I couldn't go without permission, but the president was in meetings all day when I called, and so his assistant answered. Although I did have permission to see my mom's boss, I didn't have permission to go into DC, and if you went outside of your assigned area at all, which sometimes was quite small, you had to get permission from whomever above you. So I told the assistant that I had permission to see this guy and then I told him where I was going, as thought I had already been given permission. My companion and I drove to the metro, hopped into town, met him in Union Square, and had a wonderful time and a wonderful visit.

I was so afraid of getting into trouble, even though I had told the assistant where we were going. I didn't know exactly what the communication was, or how it was going to get back to the president. I was feeling so guilty that I basically blew it myself. The same assistant called me for another reason, and I assumed it was to chew me out because he had found out. He quickly realized something was up, and it just made me feel horrible. The president called me the next day and called me a liar and said, "I don't even know why you're out on a mission," just completely scolded me. I was devastated, absolutely heartbroken. He said, "Well, I hope you can go out and baptize some people!" Oh, it was so bad. That took weeks, maybe even months to get over, because I worked hard and really, for the most part, did what I was supposed to and enjoyed it very much. It's hard enough being in that environment and having to give up everything and having to be so perfect and to accomplish so much, and yet have an incident like that tear you down. We eventually made up and I ended up having a good relationship with the president, but it was not without struggles the whole way through. It was not easy.

THere were so many hundreds and hundreds of rules that it was just impossible to follow them all. So that was where being a "spirit of the law" kind of person really helped me. I remember the first few months of my mission, around Christmastime, my parents sent me and Andy Williams Christmas tape, which was my absolute favorite. We were forbidden to listen to music except on our preparation day. It was not my preparation day and I was just dying to listen to it. At that time my companion and I were living with a really sweet lady and I said something like, "Well, if you were to put this on and to turn it on, and if we were in the room, there's nothing I could really do about it!" So she put in the tape and I was just so happy.

Another time I had a companion that I just adored, and we were being transferred from one another and we were both really upset about it. We were supposed to be in our apartment and in bed by 9:30, but we just couldn't go to sleep. We were so upset and it was just a beautiful warm spring night, and so we just went out on a midnight walk. We just went for a walk in the middle of the night. We had a wonderful time.

You are with your companion, this same person, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and oh, that was an experience. I'd never lived away from home. I'd never had college roommates or anything, and I was not quite prepared for that. Sometimes it was utter hell. I had three companions, all in the first half of my mission, that were horribly self-righteous and mean, critical and demeaning. They were the "letter of the law" type. My first companion wasn't so much that type, but she was just really tryping hard to be strict and obedient and set a good example because she was training me, and I was her last companion before she went home. The second one was like a drill sergeant, just a bitch. We clashed from the beginning and that was a horrible month. She would call the president and complain about me, and twice she dragged me up to his office. Looking back, I want to forget a lot of it. It was really hard. I prayed for transfers.

On companion I had was completely anorexic, and she would say how she loved being thin. This was at a point on my mission when I was at my heaviest, and she monitored everything I ate. She had all these mind tricks and mind games, and for someone like me, who doesn't think quickly on her feet, and is more emotional than rational, that was a really, really difficult time. I just really felt abandoned and forsaken by the Lord during that time. I felt like, "How can God even really be there if this is going on?" I just felt really disconnected from it. In a way, I was doubting, because I felt that the Lord wasn't helping me as much as He should.

After that time, I remember reading the Gospel Essentials Manual, which is what new members of the Church use in their Sunday school lessons. And I remember reading through the first lesson, and it was nothing more than that God lives and He loves us and He created this beautiful world. We're all brothers and sisters. And I just had this incredible sweet feeling of peace that He does, in fact, exist. And everything was OK>

I had other sources of help and support, too. After the incident with my mission president, when he called me a liar, he made me go to counseling, and it turned out great. And working in the Visitors' Center was helpful, too, because, if you didn't like your companion, you still could have affiliation with other friends, people who also worked in the Visitors' Center. That helped a lot, it was a break. It was hardest when you were out in the field 50 miles away from anyone. But there were always people that I felt drawn to or close to in the ward that were helpful and were nice. There were always people to connect with.

I really felt much closer to God as a result of my mission. It also ended up being an opportunity to really live the gospel and the Mormon lifestyle, which, it sounds silly, I didn't really think about when I decided to go on a mission. That wasn't my intent for going. My intent was that this was an opportunity to serve the Lord and to help people. I didn't go thinking, "This is really going to give me an incredible spiritual foundation," though that's what happened. It's weird, because when you grow up in a Mormon society, there's so much that you don't learn, that you take for granted. And much of what you're missing is really basic, the essence of the gospel. It really did give me a strong spiritual base, and I also felt much more confident in myself after I returned home to Salt Lake. And my mission is certainly what planted the seed for me to want to come back and settle on the East Coast.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary: Part 2 MTC

In this part, she describes her time at the Mission Training Center.

My brother and I went to the Mission Training Center together, and that was a wonderful experience. That's basically where the brainwashing begins! For whatever reason, good or bad, you certainly, as a missionary, are brainwashed. And it needs to be that way because you can't watch television, you can't watch the news, you can't read magazines or read newspapers or books. You could not call home with the exception of Mother's Day or Christmas. You could write letters home once a week. In the Mission Training Center is where you're instructed to teach missionary discussions. They're very structured and very set. They didn't want each missionary teaching their own variation, so there were great efforts made to keep things systematic and presentable in an organized way. Those that went on foreign-speaking missions were there for two months because they also learned a language. Those that served in English-speaking missions were there for two or three weeks.

Being at the Mission Training Center was hard, but it was also a party, because there were so many people. In addition to my brother, there were, at the time that I went, a lot of my girlfriends that also went on missions. There were so many connections and so many people that I knew that were friends. The Mission Training Center was really a party compared to the rest of my mission. I also had a sort of boyfriend at the time, and he would visit me at the MTC. He would sneak me diet coke, and bring me roses and sweet notes. I felt like a princess.

I don't think there was ever a time before or afterwards where women went on missions in that amount. Recently, women have been discouraged from going on missions again. The Church doesn't come right out and say it. I suspect that with the decline in family that we're seeing in society, with divorce rates being so high, I think that the Church more than ever is wanting its focus on family and motherhood. Before the time that I went, women only went on missions if they were old and not married or had no chance of marriage. It just wasn't common. But maybe about the two or three years when I went and about the two or three years after, that time was a really great opportunity to be a young woman and to be a missionary.

My brother left the Mission Training Center two days before I did, and oh, I bawled. I was a complete running faucet for about three days. But by the time I left, I think I had pulled it together, and I think I was excited. My boyfriend met me at the airport and kissed me goodbye a little bit extensively. My parents were having a fit and I was loving it!

Confessions of a Mormon Missionary: Part 1

A few years ago, I interviewed a former Mormon missionary. I transcribed the tapes of our interviews, and then took it all apart and wove it back together so that it could be constructed in the form of a narrative, all told in her voice and in her own words. The interview process is mostly digging at first, because you don't really know what you are looking for. Eventually, you hone in on it and start to pick apart the thread of a story in all of it. Laborious, difficult work, but one of my favorite things to do. Here is the first part of her story.

Growing up in Salt Lake in my family was pretty sheltered. I grew up with parents that were very...not necessarily structured, but demanded obedience and what they expected was pretty much how it was. There wasn't a lot of undermining. It was a lifestyle, it was definitely a lifestyle. Sundays we did not go to movies, we did not go shopping. We went to church and we spent it with our families. We didn't drink alcohol in our family, we didn't watch R-rated movies. Monday nights were set aside for families to be together. And that was frequently a part of our growing up. We would always have family prayer and blessings on the food. Our family wasn't as diligent about daily scripture reading. In fact, we weren't diligent about that at all. Many, many families are and we did that on occasion, but that took a huge play.

Some of my friends were in the Mormon Church, some were not. My family didn't discourage friendships with those that weren't of the same religion, in contrast to what is frequently the case [in Salt Lake]. There were always at least a couple of friends that weren't Mormon, and yet their values and their lives always seemed equally sheltered and equally similar.

My parents set a really wonderful example. They had both grown up in homes that were not particularly active in the Church. In fact, not at all active by Utah standards. They both drank and smoked and, even though they had many other family members that were active, it wasn't until my sisters were older that my parents decided that they really wanted to live the Gospel. They quit smoking and they prepared to get re-married in the Temple. When you're married in the Temple it's called a Sealing. That's a ceremony that seals a husband and wife together with their children under the covenants of the Temple. Children that are born after that are born under the covenant as well. There's not any need to go back with each new child as it's born. In fact, children are not permitted in the Temple; it's something intended for adults.

The covenants and promises you make in the Temple are permanent. They're forever. You promise to keep the commandments that are outlined in the Church, but to a higher level. For example, if you were to have premarital sex after going through the Temple, the consequences are going to be much graver than if you had not gone through the Temple. The covenants are similar to those you would make at baptism: that of following Jesus Christ, taking his name upon you, things like that. They all have ot do with just honoring the Lord. However, in the Temple, it's a higher commitment and higher expectations are made at that time. So you want to make sure that when you go through, that you're truly ready and it's not something you're fence-sitting about. Once you make that commitment, you never go back.

I went to the Temple just within a week of leaving for my mission. Going on a mission was not something that I had planned on. Women have to be at least 21 before they go and I had turned 21 early in my junior year of college. I had thought about going, but it just didn't feel right and I put the thoughts aside, since as you grow older in Utah, the expectation is that you get married and produce children, more or less, and so I didn't think that I would go if I didn't go right when I turned 21.

The summer after my junior year, literally out of the blue, I just started having very strong impressions that a mission was what I needed to do. I had some very strong promptings for the Lord that led me to that decision and everything fell into place very quickly. Usually it's something that young adults will prepare for all of their lives or at least for years, and I really hadn't done that. It had never been more than a few passing thoughts. Then one night I was praying and hand thought about it. The next evening, I went and spoke to my bishop, and just had this overwhelming peace in speaking with him, and just in feeling the spirit of the Lord, that that was what I needed to do.

When I decided to go, it just felt so incredibly right, and things fell into place so quickly that I just never questioned the decision. It worked really quite smoothly in the scheme of things. And it was nice to have my senior year of college to look forward to upon coming back from my mission. That way I wasn't faced with, "Oh, what am I going to do now?" There was still this place waiting for me, the social circles in the scholastic area where I was. And so it was very comfortable to leave and then to come back.

My parents were beside themselves. My brother was preparing to leave for his mission, and he had actually been called to go to Chile. My parents had planned on that and his date was set within the next couple of months to leave for the Mission Training Center (MTC). They had not prepared, however, for me to leave. First of all, they thought that they were going to have me at home alone and were looking forward to that. We had gotten to a point in our relationship that we were finally friends, after having quite a few turbulent years. So they were sad that I would be leaving, but also, financially, it was a shock to them. At that time, there wasn't a fixed monthly rate to support a missionary, and each mission was different financially. Washington DC, where I was called to serve, was about $400 a month, as opposed to a little less than $200 a month for my brother in South America. I had not saved for my mission, I had not prepared, so it put them in a really difficult situation financially to support both my brother and me at the same time.

Turtle Stove

I had a plastic oven shaped like a turtle. Green, like a turtle. Except that turtles aren't green. Green like we think a turtle ought to be. Green, because turtles are green animals. Things without feathers or fur are always red or green. Lobsters: red. Crabs: red. Snakes: green. Turtles: green. The oven wasn't a real oven, which is probably why it went so well with the turtle. Why bother to have a realistic oven, if you aren't even bothering with the realism of the turtle in whom you have implanted the oven? And why put those two things together? Who thought, "Hey, I know! We'll make a plastic turtle, and have it sort of squatting on his haunches, rearing up, because that's what turtles do. Then, inside the belly of the turtle, we'll put a fake oven!" But someone did. The turtle squatted on his hind legs, displaying his aproned bellly with the door inside opening cozily into a plastic, non-functional oven. His chef's hat sat at a jaunty angle on his round green head, encouraging me to cram pans of fake cookies into his midsection. I do not know why my parents bought this stove. It was useless and taught me nothing. Nothing about turtles, and nothing about cooking. 0 for 2. And yet, I loved it. Perhaps I loved it because my brother, who loved real turtles, also loved setting fire to things. And he had set a small fire in the belly of the green turtle oven. And turned it black. And imperfect. Like a real turtle.

For my Mother

I wrote this about my mother a few years ago. Also unrevised. She asked me to type it up for her, but I think I forgot to do it until now.

My parents' room
Had an alcove
Where my mother kept
Her sewing machine

My mother does not love to sew
But she likes things the way she likes them
And so she sews
When she wants to make something
That she wants
But doesn't want
The way she found it

The sound of my childhood
Is peppered with the sporadic whirring
Of the sewing machine
Like spatters of machine-gun fire
Ratta-tat-tat!
A Halloween costume
Ratta-tat-tat!
A bedspread
Ratta-tat-tat!
Curtains for the living room

Christmas Eve
Feverish reports from the alcove
Tommy guns
Epic battle
World War II

On Christmas morning
I padded down the stairs
Under the tree
The new doll
And the clothes
She had sewed
At night

Memory of my Father

A short one about my dad:

My father wore suits
Hundreds of suits
Dark blue
Grey
Conservative
Pin-striped suits

The First

This is a rough draft of a poem I was working on a few years ago, and never revised. I may get around to it someday.

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Who stole my name
Long before I was born
The dog who named me
Red like the cello I played
Red like the hair of a long-ago girl

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Irish like my ancestors
Irish and long-lived like my ancestors
An old dog, and patient
Outlived the disease
That withered in her strong and loyal heart

Heather was an old dog, and patient
Patient like my grandmother
A patient dog, veiny tumor on her leg
Patient with the cautious poking
Of my cringing finger
Daring to touch her age and imperfection

Heather was an old dog, a red dog
Old, like my grandmother, our Irish ancestors
Red like our front door, a cello, like long-ago hair
An old dog, and patient
Loyal and dignified
That I celebrated, and garlanded with flowers

Monday, January 26, 2009

The Procedure

At St. Elizabeth's I had to fill out some paperwork and sit in the waiting room for a bit. I felt embarrassed about my outfit, as though people thought that is what I had chosen to wear for my colonoscopy. The socks, particularly in combination with my strange, loafer-like slippers, were particularly unfortunate. I tried to strike up a conversation with the people around me, but it didn't go far. People who are about to get colonoscopies are not, as a general rule, interested in talking about them or in making new friends. A teenager was starting at me while I was reading, in a sort of challenging or interested way. I looked back and he had on an iPod and had a white tube coming out of his nose that seemed attached to the iPod somehow. I was so confused by this that I looked away hurriedly. Then I felt bad that I had somehow dehumanized him by looking away, so I was super-friendly to his mother, like that somehow proved something. I tried to bring the conversation around to medical issues, in the hopes that one of them would bring up the Nose iPod and explain what it was. They did not take the bait.

The nurses finally called me well after my 8:30 appointment time, and I had to go into the bathroom and change into two hospital johnnies, one open in front, and the other put over it, and open in back. While I was changing, I noticed that I still had all of the EKG nipple stickers all over my chest and peeled them off, leaving little circled outlines spotted about my torso. I got to keep on my Faulkner Hospital socks, but they cut of my Faulkner Hospital bracelet and replaced it with a St. Elizabeth's bracelet, which I found slightly disappointing. All of my stuff was placed on a chair and I hung up my coat in the waiting room. Then I had to lie down on a gurney and the nurses got me all settled in with blankets and things and put up the little fences on either side of the gurney so I wouldn't roll around and fall out of bed while they were pushing me. In case they had to make a quick, sharp turn or whatever.

The room was full of people in gurneys, in various stages of prep or recovery, like a factory of colonoscopies. I liked pretending that we were sort of like a Chinese orphanage, only filled with aging Americans with bowel problems. While I was waiting for the nurses, I had fun imagining what kind of family would pick me to come and live with them, clasping their hands to their chests as they leaned over me, sighing with pleasure at my adorable IV bruises and sunken belly.

Soon another nurse came over and took my blood pressure. She was surprised it was still so low, and was very sympathetic about my sad ER tale. She put the IV in my right arm, since my Faulkner IV arm was so badly bruised. She fussed around and did some other things and tucked the blanket around my feet. Then she left and I was lying there a bit, enjoying the delicious, life-giving fluids of the IV. Then a different nurse came and wheeled me away. She brought me to the room where the procedure was going to take place, and she asked me my name and birthdate, and why I was there, to make sure that I was the right person in the right place.

The little room I was in had some large machines and a different nurse. She asked me the same questions. She took my blood pressure, too and expressed further surprise at how low it was even after more than two full IV bags. She was friendly and warm, like all of the other nurses. Then my doctor came in. She was concerned about my ER visit, expressed sorrow over it, and assured me that it was not meant to happen. I clearly knew this, but I still felt reassured. She asked me the same questions the nurses had asked me, and as she was talking, she put on this yellow plastic smock and other kinds of protective gear, including a clear plastic catcher's mask-looking thing that made her voice sound muffled and hollow. At made me imagine a lot of violent spraying and squirting, but then I decided that it was just a precaution, as there didn't seem to be any stains anywhere, and it wasn't like the whole room was covered in porcelain tile or anything.

My doctor injected meds into my IV and told me I would start to feel woozy. She then asked me some questions, and I remember trying very hard to concentrate on the answers, and feeling a bit resentful that she was insisting on carrying on a conversation with me when she knew I was clearly losing consciousness. I felt dizzy and my eyes couldn't focus properly and I watched her fiddling with something on a large machine as I tried to answer. I wonder now how incoherent my responses were, and if they made any sense at all.

I remember almost waking up at one point, and not wanting the delicious sleepiness to be over. I thought, "Surely they've only done one of the two procedures. I don't want to wake up yet." I was all curled up and relaxed when I woke up in the recovery area. I didn't want to get up, but I had to pee. I remember the nurses were standing right there, but I couldn't seem to get their attention. I felt like I was calling loudly, "Hello? Excuse me? Help? I need to pee," but apparently I wasn't. Finally I did manage to call loudly enough to get their attention and I barely remember stumbling into the bathroom with my IV and peeing. On my way out I peeked into the trash can to see if my nipple stickers were still there. Outside the bathroom I saw Dien, who had come to pick me up. I greeted him warmly, but the nurses said I wasn't ready to go yet and they put me back to bed.

At one point I remember lying there and wanting to fart, but being afraid I would poop the bed. Then I remember not caring and just doing it anyway. I felt very pleased and relaxed to be farting at last and no longer pooping. Later I had to pee again and the nurses were all annoyed with me, saying, "But you just went!" like I could help it. I think I might have given them a little attitude, and said, "Well, sorry, but I have to go again." I wanted to go back to sleep after, but I think they determined that I was ready to go and had me stay sitting up. They brought me some cranberry juice, and when I had finished it, they unhooked me from the IV and helped me put on my slippers. I remember felt sad that I didn't get to finish the IV bag. My doctor came out to see me and talk to me about my results, but all I remember from the conversation was that she was kind of angry and frustrated, because I didn't have any of the diseases she had expected me to have. After that I put on my coat and the fleece Dien had brought for me to borrow, and padded out to the waiting room to find him.

I remember little of the car ride home, other than that I asked Dien to tell me about the time his mother put the cat in a trash bag in order to bring to the vet (it was fine) and about the haunted house he lived in in Hong Kong. Dien laughed long and loud when he remembered the cat story, and I laughed, too. Somehow, I was also able to give him directions, although sometimes I did it too slowly, so we had to keep making adjustments when I would tell him to take the turn he had just passed.

When I got home, I checked my email and started to do some work for school, then abruptly got up and crawled into bed, where I slept for three or four hours. I woke up to talk to my ex-husband, who called to tell me that when he plays the harmonica, our dog Lupe gets the blues and sings along. I told him about my adventures and misadventures of the past 24 hours, and he said that I could always call him if I needed a ride or help with anything. I felt appreciative, yet oddly guilty.

My landlord had picked up some food for me, and I got up to eat it around 5:30, my first solid food in 48 hours. Arielle, the other fifth-grade teacher called to tell me about some meeting at school she had attended, just as I was about to take my first bite. She wanted to talk for so long about this meeting and I could hardly bear it. I was drugged and starving and could not figure out why this woman wouldn't let me get off the phone.

A short time later I was playing Scrabble online, and felt that I had to fart, as I had been doing freely all day. I did, but instead, quite unexpectedly, I pooped my pants. Completely. Like a baby in a diaper. It felt like pudding. I stood up, hollering, "Aw, shit!" I was so angry about it. I waddled to the bathroom and had to sit, all soiled, on the toilet to finish. Then, naked and covered in my own excrement, I scampered past the uncurtained windows of the kitchen to throw my pants away, and hopped straight into the shower.

Immediately after my shower, I anticipated soon needing the toilet again, so, still nude, I put on rubber gloves and scrubbed both the toilet and the bathroom sink. This left me completely exhausted and I was ready to go to bed soon after.

Friday, January 23, 2009

The Preparation

The morning of December 10 was my appointment for a colonoscopy/END. To prep for it, I had to fast all day Tuesday--only clear liquids. I followed this, and although I felt hungry and irritable, it went OK. Then, starting at 5:00 PM, I began my regimen of laxatives: 1 bottle magnesium citrate, 24 ounces of water. At 7:00 or so, I took 4 laxative tablets with more water. I started to shiver, so I made myself hot broth. At 9:00, I was still drinking water and broth and was pooping out water steadily, but I was still supposed to drink one more bottle of magnesium citrate. I didn't want to finish it, because I was already pooping so much, and it was all liquid, but I called my mom and asked her if I had to, and she said that I probably should. We Knudsons are raised to listen to doctors.

I felt very full and sick and was having a hard time forcing down any water, but I kept sipping water and juice until I had to stop at 11:30. I felt so full that I was convinced that water was actually filling up my esophagus. (It probably wasn't.) I was still pooping out water every 20 minutes or so. Squirty! I went to sleep around midnight, totally exhausted, but getting up to poop throughout the night.

Around 3:30 or 4:00 AM, I woke up feeling very, very ill. It was drenched in sweat, panting, and felt like I was going to vomit. I also felt light-headed, like I was going in and out of consciousness. I tried to tell myself that I just had to hold out until 7:00 AM, when Josh would pick me up and take me to my appointment. I could ignore the pain and extreme nausea and discomfort, sleep outside the covers so I would stop sweating. However, I quickly realized that this was not normal and that something was wrong. I had gotten up to poop, and was so lightheaded that I had to crawl and rest on the way back to bed.

Lying in bed, I called 911, because I knew I needed a hospital, and there was no way I could drive myself. I was initially incoherent and confused when the dispatcher came on the line. I didn't understand the questions she asked me, and at one point she even asked me how old I was and if I had called by mistake. I was panting and I kept apologizing. I was finally able to articulate my problem and she put me on the phone with someone else, a man.

During this time, I realized that I had to poop again, and stumbled into the bathroom. I was so slick with cold sweat that I was sliding all over the toilet seat. I hadn't peed for hours, and I had been pooping water constantly. At one point, I remember the man asking me if I was sitting down and I said, "Yes, I am sitting on the toilet." For some reason, he chose that time to tell me that he would send an ambulance.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes and woke up. I remember having heard a loud cracking or crashing sound. I knew I was lying on my back on the floor, but didn't know where. I thought maybe I had decided to rest on the bathroom floor, but I realized that I was actually in the dining room. I had no memory of how I had gotten there, and the back of my head was hurting from where it had hit the ground. I do remember that when I heard that sound, I thought, "Oh, I must have dropped the phone." I lay there for a while, feeling pleasantly cool and relaxed and thinking maybe I could just stay there, resting on the wooden floor of the dining room. However, this only lasted for a few moments, and then the feeling of faintness returned, and I rolled around on the floor, feeling weak and very ill, panting and clammy. I reached for the phone, which was on the ground beside me, and called Eddie, leaving him some kind of awful message. It went something like, "I passed out. I'm on the dining room floor. An ambulance is on its way." Not at all terrifying. Then I saw red lights flashing outside and knew it was the ambulance. I got myself together enough to find my purse and some slippers, which was a supreme effort. I remember feeling very worried about my insurance card, wanting to make sure I had it. I was less worried about proper clothing beyond my thin pajama pants and sweat-soaked T shirt. They seemed fine, and besides, it was much to far to walk all the way back to the bedroom to find proper clothes and shoes.

I walked to the door and met the EMTs, both women. They refused to come inside, because of the dog. Just as I was about to leave, I realized that I had to poop again, and ran inside, begging them to wait while I went. They seemed annoyed, both by the dog and by the fact that I could walk. It was like it was some kind of rip-off that I called 911 for myself. If I wasn't dying, them I should damn well be driving myself to the hospital. When I explained that I couldn't drive (because I was worried I would pass out behind the wheel), they thought I was a child and asked me where my parents were, and how old I was. It took me a long time to remember, and I finally answered, "thirty.......four." It was difficult. The EMTs made me get my coat, even though it was at least ten miles from the door of my apartment to where my coat was hanging in the dining room, but they refused to help me, for fear of the dog, so I hobbled back, scrabbling at my coat with one hand and holding on to the furniture with the other. I told the EMTs that I was afraid that I would poop my pants in the ambulance, and asked them to tell me it was OK if I did. They didn't.

Because I had told the EMTs that I had hit my head when I had fainted, I had to be put on an orange backboard, all strapped and taped with a neck brace. I tried to tell them I was just dehydrated, but they said it was standard procedure. The backboard was very cold and hard, and I was shivering. At every bump in the road, I slammed up and down against the board. The women asked me to tell them what happened and I was so confused that I couldn't remember. I didn't know when I called 911, or why I had brought my phone to the bathroom with me. They were asking me questions the whole time, like were there children in the house, did I have a roommate, and how old I was. I asked if the ambulance could take me to St. Elizabeth's and they said they had to take me to the closest hospital, Faulkner. They kept me talking about my dog and different things and wouldn't let me rest. Probably in case I had some sort of concussion, which I didn't. I kept trying to give them my insurance card, and asking them to give me an IV on the ambulance. I do not think they liked me very much.

When we got the hospital, I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling as I was being wheeled in. I heard people talking about me as I was being pushed. Their voices seemed very loud, but echoey or muffled somehow. I was brought to a little cubicle, where it was much quieter.

People came to ask me questions, registering me and taking my insurance at last. The nurse put an IV in my arm and also took some blood. I'm not sure what they were testing with the blood. I started to feel better once the IV fluids started going in, and I could remember the sequence of events more clearly. I got all excited that I could sequence the events now, and wanted to tell the nurse properly what had happened. At this point, clearly, no one was interested.

I was shivering and my teeth were chattering, but no one offered me an extra blanket and I was afraid to ask. The liquid from the IV is room temperature, and it felt cold in my arm. I was given a pair of fuzzy blue socks with rubber on the bottom so I wouldn't slip on the floor. People came periodically to check my blood pressure and check my heart rate and stuff. They did some kind of EKG and stuck different kinds of things on my chest and other parts of my body, like my legs, to do different readings. The ones on my chest looked like nipples, but the ones on my legs were rectangular. Mostly the nurse did the readings, but there was a very kind doctor as well. I kept apologizing.

Sometimes the nurse seemed annoyed, and I wondered if I was annoying her, or if she was just tired. At some point they changed my IV bag, and she added a syringe of something to help with the nausea. I got good at slinging wires and tubes over my shoulder and dragging my IV with me as I padded to the bathroom to produce more diarrhea. At first it was just weird cloudy yellow stuff, almost like mucus, but eventually I started pooping out water again. I still wasn't peeing. I finally peed once, only once, and it felt like a triumph. I did not pee again.

The area I was in was mostly quiet. There was a big nurse's station surrounded by little cubicles where the patients were. It did not seem like there were many people, but I think that some were sleeping or just lying there quietly, like I was. Across from me, past the nurse's station, was a very old man with no teeth. He moaned plaintively on and off the whole time I was there. He did not speak English and this sometimes frustrated the nurses because I think they couldn't exactly tell what was wrong. The thing that was interesting about the old man was the way that he was moaning. There is an involuntary crying out from pain or distress, like the yelp I emitted during my first bikini wax. But this man's moans did not sound at all involuntary. They sounded more like a deliberate method of communicating his discomfort, like, "This hurts. I don't feel good. Do something." There was also an old woman who may have had a UTI.

I was there for several hours, just kind of lying there. I didn't sleep and I had nothing to read, but I wasn't really bored. I was content just to lie there and rest or look around. At one point I texted Eddie to reassure him, and I called to ask Scott to let Wesley out, and then I called Josh to ask him to pick me up at the hospital, instead of at my house.

They released me around 6:30, because they knew I had my appointment, so they just pointed the way to the waiting room and turned me loose. At first I accidentally walked into some private examination area, because the door to the waiting room had an eye chart on it, which didn't seem like the clearest way to indicate that this was the exit. I wandered out in my PJs, coat, slippers, and blue socks, feeling sheepish to be wearing this ensemble to my appointment. My diarrhea was back to yellow and small amounts, no more water. I waited on a bench outside for Josh, because the air was wet and warm, and I was afraid he would have difficulty finding me inside. It seemed odd to me that a woman in her coat and pajamas could just exit the hospital, no questions asked, but it worked out well for me, because I had somewhere to be. People needed to look at my spotless colon, and I could not be late for that.