Don’t Cry

Don’t Cry

by | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

Don’t Cry

“It hurts, it really hurts.” I bite my lip, trying to contain the pain. The ground beneath me is damp, the air thick. It’s hard to breathe.

“Don’t cry,” he said, glancing around with eyes wide and alert. “If they hear us, we’re done for.” He gently cups his hand over my mouth; dirt drips down in the creases of his face.

“I won’t cry, don’t worry,” I assure him.

“You mustn’t cry. They’ll find you.” He whispers.

“I know,” I replied.

An owl cries in the distance. He turns to look for it, his dark eyes tell me his fear. 

I pushed myself to a sitting position and looked down at my leg. I was losing a lot of blood. If I didn’t get it taken care of, it wouldn’t matter if I cried. The metal claws were biting deeply into my leg. I thought they’d hit the bone. I leaned down to try and get the trap off, but I couldn’t manage it.

The damp leaves air their earthy scent, reminding us where we are. We hear a crack from a branch nearby. He stands quickly, looking all around. He pulls out his Swiss army knife, his weapon. We can’t get caught.

“Oh damn, this hurts,” I tell him, pleading with my eyes.

He pulls out one tool at a time on his knife. “Here, I think we can use this one. Do you think you can hold this tool tight in the hole here?” He points to the metal entrapment. The owl hoots again, its warning is louder, closer. “I think if you—

I whimper.

He looks at me, his eyes soften, moist with fear and determination, “Don’t cry, just don’t cry. We’ll get out of here, don’t worry.” He brushes my sticky hair off my face. The air is damp, it makes everything ache. “I need your help, though. I need you to push on this while I try to open the trap.”

“It’s burning,” and I yelp. The owl shrieks, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the forest like a mournful dirge—a sound that always seemed to accompany the patrols when they swept the woods.He listens for the sound of the enforcers coming, then turns to me, putting his hand on my shoulder. 

He encourages me with his eyes, his small smile,”I know. Don’t cry, though. They’ll find us.”

“I know, I know. I know. I won’t cry. It hurts, please hurry.” A drizzle falls down on us, we barely notice.

He hands me the knife and guides it into the hole. “Okay, hold tight now, keep pushing,” he says.

I push with all my strength. He takes both his hands with all his strength and might,  and pries the trap open, freeing my leg. Pools of sweat drip down his face, and he wipes it away with his shoulder.

“Okay. Let’s get this off,” he says, “Now pull your legs toward you.”

“Oh, that hurts!” I say, my face wincing, I bite my lip hard.

He looks at me, then rips his shirt off and ties it around my leg to stop the bleeding.The rain drizzles on his bare back. The owl lands on the tree branch above. Its brown and white plumage stained the color of dried blood. Its glowing yellow eyes fixate on them with chilling intensity, its gaze unwavering as if assessing its prey.

He pulls me up to stand, staying calm but quickening his pace. The owl swoops down toward us. 

I scream, he quickly puts his hand over my mouth and shushes me. “Okay, it’s okay. Now let’s get out of here,” he whispers, tightening his grip on me as he watches the owl with wary eyes. “It may be too late, but we can’t let them find us.” Faint voices rise in the distance, streams of light, cut through the trees. He lifts me on his bare back. “We’ll be quicker this way. Are you okay? We have to escape. Whatever happens, don’t cry.”

 

 I Don’t Know How You Do It

 I Don’t Know How You Do It

by | Nov 23, 2024 | Writing

 I Don’t Know How You Do It

People have always said to you, “I don’t know how you do it.” Solo parent your two kids, take your kid to all their doctor appointments, produce a multidisciplinary arts festival, work, and run a household.  You thought you could, you felt fine, if not a bit stressed and worried, but now you say, “Well, I guess I didn’t.” Look at me, I’m crying. Maybe doing it all, didn’t cause this for you, maybe it’s a coincidence. “There are no coincidences,” you tell me, annoyed by my diminishing statement. But you were on top of your game.

You saw other people, their ambitions solidifying into success and stability. But yours, without a solid foundation—or maybe Foundation—seem to have crumbled. Any words of wisdom? I wish I knew what to say, you can’t look at it like that, maybe it did take its toll on you, and this is how it chose to, not by heart attack, cancer, or stroke, but by attacking your nervous system. It’s a cruel irony, isn’t it? That your strength and perseverance would be met with betrayal by your own body.

You thought you were a bundle of nerves, but then you realize that they aren’t working, so maybe it was something else.

 If your body is telling you it’s too much, then it probably is. But you didn’t have a choice. So many things landed on your plate, and you received them with grace and patience. Your attention to detail, for so long, went unnoticed. Reading medical journals to inform yourself about health issues with loved ones, your websites, the clothes you wear. I wish I had your drive.

I don’t have advice for you, I’ve never been through this. Don’t give up. I remember you saying you were dead inside, maybe you were right, you said you felt lonely and that nobody held you, but you I’m holding now. I hope it’s not too late.

Could it have been different? It’s so hard to know, after all ,this could be epigenetics.But you spent most of your life fighting those inner battles, telling yourself all the go-to pep talk phrases, but deep down, you knew it was just lip service. Don’t let yourself spiral into blame. This isn’t your fault. 

What if it was…? What if I could…? What if I didn’t…? Your lists are a mile long and counting.I don’t know if you should have regrets, but you have so many. Regrets are an awful thing.

Sometimes these things happen. It isn’t the choices you made; it’s just bad luck, I suppose. 

Don’t forget your gifts. Let’s focus on what’s ahead, let’s make your bucket list.

  • Get published.
  • Land on the New York Times bestseller list.
  • Publish your plays and have them picked up by Broadway.

With all your imagination, it’s bound to happen. Oh, and go to France? I’ll try to get you there—but the economy, the political atmosphere, the money, the dogs… There are a lot of obstacles, but let’s get there while you can still walk. 

You’re wasting away here, let me feed you. I made you some nourishing food. How else can I help? Did you take your vitamins? What about your medications? Of course it still matters. You’re here now, and that’s what we’ll deal with. You look fine on the outside, but I know the truth—that it’s creeping up on you, quietly, insidiously.

And when you’re too tired to get out of bed, I’ll bring you my acoustic and sing your favorite songs. I know, you want me to sing “Creep” by Radiohead and “Waltz #2” by Elliott Smith.

How’s the chicken? I made it your favorite way. I know you love vodka sauce. And next time, I’ll make you eggplant parmesan. Don’t worry, I’ll make it gluten-free and slice the eggplant nice and thin. I’ll use tomato chunks so there’s lots of texture and taste.

For now, we’ll take it day by day. I’ll hold you, cook for you, and remind you of everything you still are—and everything you still can be.

Tears of a Dragon

Tears of a Dragon

by | Nov 22, 2024 | Writing

Tears of a Dragon

You used to never cry, and now you cry every day. At the drop of a particular word or phrase, at a chore or errand you struggle with now. I know why you’re crying now, but why didn’t you cry before?

“I think I was numb to it. Maybe I had to be strong? Maybe I couldn’t give that person the satisfaction?”

There are dozens of reasons why we shut off our water pipes. But you’re firehosing it now. I’m drowning in your tears. Come here, let me hold you tight. I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. If we face the dragon together, will we win?

“How can we beat the dragon?” you ask. “I really want to know.”

It’s as if somehow my reply would have the right answer. I didn’t have the answers or solutions. But I’ll try to sneak you into its cave, along the edge, and then sneak up beneath its purple skin and towering head, stories above us, and you jab it right in the jugular. I’ll help you thrust it; I know you’ve lost strength.

“The dragon’s blood holds the antidote,” I say with a smile. You lean into me on your teal blue couch. “Oh, your feet are cold, here, I brought you a gift.” I reach into the bag I brought, sitting at my feet. “They’re slipper socks, made of the softest wool,” I tell you and your eyes get wide and a smile sneaks past your lips.

“Polka dots,” you say, and I gently put them on your feet.

And lean forward and give you a healing kiss. You smile at me and hug me tight. I hold you and hold you, I’ll never let go.

“I don’t know how to do anything anymore. And the waiting on doctors, orders, and referrals isn’t helping anything.” Your smile fades. Your eyes settle back down to their sad resting position.

“I know the waiting is intense,” I say, putting my hand on your thigh. You lean back, your face tightens, your eyes crush your eyelashes, and the tears appear in the corner of your eye, wait to make their debut, then drizzle down your cheek.

“What’s going to happen next?” you implore. You wrap your arms around your ribs. “How am I going to get it all done?”

“Does it all have to be done? With your timeline? I’ll help as much as I can.” I reach out and hold your hand. “Let’s just worry about one thing. Let’s prioritize.”

“It’s also overwhelming.” You look across the room, looking for answers. “They’re not there,” you say, your voice so quiet.

“No, the answers aren’t there. But we’ll battle the dragon together.”



Diagnosis: You’re F*cked

Diagnosis: You’re F*cked

by | Nov 15, 2024 | Writing

Diagnosis: You’re F*cked

It’s hard to know when it started. Subtle changes can be hard to notice. Looking back, maybe it was when you started coughing when taking sips of water or all of a sudden couldn’t open a bottle. You’ve always been sprightly, capable of almost anything your petite stature could take on: New York, San Francisco, London. You threw yourself into the whirlpool of life, one adventure at a time. 

You didn’t realize you were on a new adventure. That day last July, when suddenly, your hands weren’t working. You couldn’t turn the key in your car. Your electric toothbrush refused to turn off. It must have been faulty. Not you. Opening milk bottles became impossible. Tearing open a letter? Forget it. 

There must be a reason, you thought. Your intuition told you not to ignore it.

“It could be an impinged nerve or Parsonage-Turner syndrome. Let’s order an MRI and an EMG,” the mediocre doctor said. You looked at him, sizing him up—calm, efficient, entitled. Not the type you’d marry—such uptightness. The kind who leaves work at 5:00 p.m. sharp, gets home, takes off his shoes on a leather bench, and switches to his indoor slippers that have never set foot in the great outdoors. No adventure for those cozy foot coverings. Then he goes to the wine cabinet, pours himself a glass, and listens to calming, classical music. Everything with him is efficient.

The MRI was unremarkable. You began to suspect this was all in your head. Your EMG was unexpectedly painful, with electric zaps on your elbows making you wince. It won’t show anything, you thought. 

You couldn’t believe when the doctor mentioned you had “diffuse findings” and pointed out those little twitches: fasciculations, she said. It would take you weeks to spell it correctly, let alone remember its name. She flicked your middle finger, and your thumb did a little dance.

“That’s a Hoffman sign. Your thumb shouldn’t move,” the doctor said. She was warm and friendly, with long, straight, auburn hair put up in a twist. “You need a referral to a neuromuscular doctor. You have issues everywhere, which suggests this is something coming from your brain or spinal cord.”

You always thought your brain was odd, perhaps tap-dancing aliens with typewriters, but you never expected this. When people used to say to you, It’s all in your head, you took that as a mental problem—not a brain problem.

“This could be a sign of a motor neuron disease, but I don’t know how your EDS or autoimmunity factors in,” she said. She told you she’d submit the referral and work on her report. You had a knot in your stomach, and your mind started to race, but the devil on your shoulder said, Be positive.

The following week, you twiddled your thumbs, you bit your lip, you ate coffee ice cream, and convinced yourself it must be something else. Mind over matter. Then the report came. It was pretty meaningless to you, but Chat GPT told you it looked pretty okay.

“Well, I can’t wait to see the specialist and get to the bottom of this,” you said. You always thought something was underlying but assumed it was depression or ADHD.

You were nervous heading into the follow-up with the mediocre doctor who left at 5:00 on the dot. “My geneticist says it’s EDS,” you told him, but he dismissed it. You and the mediocre doctor engaged in friendly conversation, but he seemed clueless, like he didn’t know anything beyond what he learned in medical school.

You felt at ease despite knowing that not just anyone gets a referral to a neuromuscular specialist. You hit the big time now.

“If you can’t get in with the top-notch specialist in the next month or so, I can ask my office mate if she can pull some strings at the local yokel hospital, her husband works there, but I can’t make any promises.” He smiled in his jovial, mediocre way. You noticed his shirt was iron-pressed flat without a crease. You could never get an iron to work that well. Must be the settings, you suggested. 

You had the biggest eye roll inside your brain, smiling back at the mediocre doctor with the well-pressed shirt.

“Well, since this is out of my area of expertise, I see no reason to see you again,” he said, his thin lips producing a crooked smile. His eyes must have been brown, but you couldn’t recall, and you didn’t care. “I’ll turn you back to your PCP, and she can coordinate with you.” And just like that, the visit was over. You didn’t learn anything new. It felt like time wasted, like surfing the web. 

You left the office, and he returned to his shared office, where he didn’t mention the referral to his officemate. He efficiently dictated his note without checking for typos and errors and moved on to room 27 for the next patient he’d provide mediocre care to, with his crooked smile, possibly brown eyes, and perfectly pressed shirt.

You headed back home and asked me to open the pickles. You were craving salt. You carried on with your day, hoping to get in with a specialist soon to get some answers. Some have waiting lists of 18 months. What the hell is going on with the medical field? 15-minute appointments. Time to go. Next.

Then your phone lit up—a new letter from the mediocre doctor. You logged into the portal and began to read his note. You notice the grammatical errors and have to look up certain terms. Then—you screamed. “No!” 

You screamed so loud the neighbors complained. Don’t mind them—you deserved that scream. You weren’t sure what to say out loud, so in your mind, you shot missiles: I’m going to die. I can’t live in my house. My kids, my husband—who will run things? You tried to picture yourself in a different light, but the only light cast was from the mediocre doctor—who, in brown loafers, appeared on your computer screen—and you processed this news alone. You cried; buckets and rivers. You screamed like a colicky baby, or a red fox, or a sonic device. You threw things. The way you did when you were a child having a tantrum because nobody would listen to you. I understand; your pain is real.

How could this be? This was never in my stars. Why did it land here? Maybe a meteor destroyed your star. I’m sorry for the leftovers. This new star is dirty. You questioned your mistakes: Too many drugs drowning out your teenagedom? Thyroid meds failing, causing your TSH to hit 354? Maybe it was your negative attitude, but you insisted you were a realist. 

“If it’s not genetic, then it must be something I did myself,” you said as your face tightened and twisted, as quiet tears streamed down your face. But you can’t think that way. That’s demonstrative, and it won’t do you any good, but you insist it must have been something you did. I held you tight; you needed that.

To be continued…

Worst Week Ever

Worst Week Ever

by | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

Worst Week Ever

The mind is a powerful tool, they say. Tara watches her thoughts turn to reality as if by magic. She wonders if a lobotomy would make life more bearable or electroshock therapy might be enough, it’s come back in fashion.She’d recently had a nerve conduction test, and those zaps felt like repetitively sticking her wet finger in an electric socket. And why would my finger be wet? And why would I do that repetitively?

She spends time every day with tools to help her: meditation, a vision board, visualization, journaling, and a rubber mallet to the head. She doesn’t always make the best choices. 

She feels like she’s been saying for five years solid, “This is the worst week ever.” But she feels that, maybe, just maybe this week takes the cake.

She also complains sometimes, maybe she’s a bit negative, but maybe anyone in her situation would be. She loves to say, “I just want someone to take care of me.” Recently, she had a birthday that put her into the next age bracket. She doesn’t think she was being negative by saying,”I don’t want to age! I don’t want to get old!” 

She’s hoping these thoughts that become reality as if by magic haven’t come true as she opens her health portal and reads the doctor’s note.

“A terminal, debilitating disease is suspected as a cause for symptoms. Tara must see a neurologist as soon as possible.” She remembers that moment quite well. She mutters,  “No. What the fuck?” Then the tears fall slowly down her cheeks–her children.. Grief and fear take over.

But her sick child calls from the other room, “Mommy?” Tara wipes her tears off her face and composes herself. Then, she throws something—anything—angrily across the room and walks in to see her kid.

The kid spiked a high fever, 103.8, a flu-like virus taking over their febrile body. The flu turns into an infected lymph node, and after eight days of fever, pneumonia, and an ear infection. Oxygen level is 92%, respiratory rate is 30, and sounds in the left lung are diminished. Two antibiotics and a follow-up in two days.

Tara’s other child met with the rheumatologist. Their lupus is flared, and the fatigue and joint pain are unrelenting—the nerves are raw, on fire, shooting missiles of pain. Now, even holding a fork feels like a chore. The doctor said, “If we don’t get your symptoms managed soon, we might need to admit you to the hospital.” 

Her 6-month-old puppy had her left eye removed yesterday and has to have a cone on her head for two weeks. It’s squishing her ears, and she can’t smell or touch the ground. So she’s lost her ability to use her other senses that she relied on when her blinded, glaucoma eye was still intact.

Tara is pretty sure this is the worst week ever, and that’s not all.

Tara grapples with the looming suspected diagnosis she read in her chart. Why would the doctor put it in her chart that he discussed it with her and that she fully understood the cause of her symptoms? That’s false. He never told her anything.

“That’s malpractice,” people have told her. Yes, maybe. But then she remembers those thoughts that turned into reality as if by magic, and she wonders if this terminal disease is how her thoughts turned into reality as if by magic. “I want  someone to take care of me,” and “I don’t want to age!” 

Terminal thoughts and she scrambles to visualize better outcomes; she forces thoughts of independence and old age. “If my thoughts turn into reality as if by magic, then I’m going to imagine the best week ever.” She sits there squeezing her brain, searching for positive thoughts and an open mind. She tries to squeeze the scary thoughts out of her head but can’t squeeze hard enough.

She hopes that next week will be the best week ever because she’s done with shitty weeks filled with stress and fear. She’s ready to throw off her shoes and socks and ground herself on the ground outside. But she steps on a small stick, then a sharp rock cuts into the bottom of her foot, and she bleeds.

She sits on the ground, squeezing her foot, thinking to herself: It’s going to get better; life will be blissful… and suddenly, she’s swallowed into the ground. A crevice opens, the Earth beneath her, and she gets pulled into a strange underworld. It’s warm, maybe a little too warm, but she likes it. A man walks up to her. He’s wearing a scarf that says, “Go Devils.”

“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been controlling your life down here. I had the wrong Tara. All that stuff was meant for the Tara two streets over. Please forgive me.”