Fake It Till You Make It

 

I couldn't get through the supermarket without seeing people I knew or who knew me. The encounters could add forty-five minutes of hellos to my mission on the weekends. I was a hospital nurse and had kids in the public school in a community I had lived for half my life; I knew everyone, or they knew me.

On return from the supermarket, my husband, The Unpleasable, invariably asked who I had seen. He was not interested socially. My usual response was, "Oh, no one, really. Mary from work." 

“Mary who?”

“Mary Kadigan. Works in tech.”

He didn’t know there was no Mary Kadigan in tech. She was fictional, my placeholder, a social thingamajig.  “Mary” satisfied him enough to stop hassling me. Though he sensed this was incomplete, Mary and I weren’t worth his time to pursue further. He made his point: he kept tabs on me when I was out of our house.

On a Saturday grocery expedition, I turned my cart into the pickle aisle. A cheerful, attractive woman turned from studying jars of Mount Olive.

“Oh my gosh! Hi! I haven’t seen you in ages! How are you? And the kids?” She had a generous smile and a stylish haircut.

I drew a total blank; I had no idea who she was. As she chattered, I listened for clues to tip me off to her identity. I learned long ago that instead of saying, "I'm sorry, I forgot your name," if I waited and listened, the other person would reveal personal details, and I'd figure it out. Confessing that I don't remember implies they weren't significant enough to retain their name. It was too uncomfortable; the pulse of my being was people pleasing.  

But there was no hint forthcoming.

"Oh, listen," she broke off. "I've got to run! See you again soon!"

She touched my hand resting on the cart handle and went on her way. I expected her name would come to me eventually.

I crossed paths with her at the supermarket, the pharmacy, or other generic places every few weeks. I did not see her at work or the schools, places with context.

Still, I did not confess to her that I was clueless about who she was. She was always so upbeat and pleased to see me that it was engaging and distracting. Eventually, dread began to eclipse my curiosity and pleasure. Sometimes, I would see her before she saw me, giving me a second or two to avoid her. I liked her, but not to get caught as a fraud.

 I perfected the supermarket end-aisle-dodge. I'd spy her jacket or hair from a distance or hear her speaking in her distinctive chirpy voice and scurry around the corner, unseen. Even when it meant skipping an item on my list, that was better than the "I'm going to get caught" anxiety.

 Once, when my twelve-year-old daughter was with me, I panicked. I grabbed her by the arm. "Come here, quick! Around the corner!" She resisted, pulling her arm back.

 “Mom! What’s with you? Let go!” I pulled her two aisles over. “Come on!” I hissed.

I made her sneak back with me so that she could see the Mystery Woman. “See her? Who is she? Do you know her?” I demanded. 

“No, Mom! Let go of me! You tell me!”

"I don't know; that's why I'm asking you. Her kids are in school with you."

"Okay. What're their names?"

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”

"How would I know then? Get real, Mom. You can be such a weirdo! Why don't you ask her?" It was a statement of the obvious to her, not a question.

Over five or six years, Mystery Woman and I changed hairstyles, gained, and lost weight, joined and dropped out of Jazzercise, Curves, and Zoomba. We dished out endless "You look greats!" and encouragement like bottomless bar drinks. We raised kids from single digits to young teenagers on our platforms of failing marriages. And then alone when we got divorced (I learned her husband's name was Jim). We hugged and told each other that it would all be okay; things would get better. I wasn't always sure of that, and she probably wasn't either. But it's what you say in public. I withheld comment when she looked like hell, clearly wrung out by life. I'm sure she did the same for me. And all of this while buying Sloppy Joe mix, SpaghettiOs, and coffee. We'd heft our loaded grocery carts to the side, letting others pass by so we could update. I worried my frozen food items would thaw. She probably did, too. But my need for connection trumped my peas and corn. I hope she felt the same about her frozen pizza and Weight Watcher's meals. Though I knew her grocery preferences and had affection for her, I still didn't know her name.

At work, I told my friend Sharon about my dilemma. Thinking she might know her, I described Mystery Woman in detail, which I could do right down to her taste in jewelry and shoes. "Does she sound familiar?"

“No. Who is she?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you! I have no idea who she is. It’s gone on so long I can’t tell her I don’t know her name!”   I was a little shrill.

Sharon laughed. “Are you kidding me? You haven’t asked her? Why the hell not! That’s so crazy!”

I winced. Crazy? No, not crazy.

"I feel like a jerk! I never admit to people I don't know who they are. It's dismissive and sounds like they weren't worth my attention. It feels wrong. I don't want to be the cause of that, so I fake it. Don't you?"

"Hell no!" She declared. "I don't care what they think. I ask who they are. I'm not rude; I just admit I don't remember. What's wrong with that? It's honest."

“I don’t know…it just feels crappy, like I’m being insulting.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Get over it. Tell her you don’t know who the F she is! Uh…not like that, obviously. You know what I mean.” She shook her head, chuckling as she went about her business.

I continued to run into Mystery Woman, my fear compounding with each encounter. I'd tell myself every time that I was finally going to fess up. I'd make a clever joke out of it, always my default. I was quick-witted, bawdy, irreverent, whatever it took to divert the other person. People said I was funny, but I didn't feel funny. I had dug a deep hole from which I could not get the courage to haul myself.

I knew there would be a day of reckoning for my dishonesty, my failure to own a less than perfect part of myself. I would be outed as a fraud. And that day did come. My neighbor Deanna's car, broke down, so we went to the supermarket. In the store lobby, we each got a cart. As I pulled mine out and turned, there was the Mystery Woman. I felt sick to my stomach. I prayed Deanna would go ahead into the store. I stalled, exchanging pleasantries hoping to avoid an introduction. Deanna wasn't moving along, and it was now awkward.

Touching the Mystery Woman's arm, I said, "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! I'm such a dope! I should introduce you!" Gesturing to my friend, I said, "This is my friend, Deanna. And Deanna, this is, uh…." Looking the Mystery Woman in the eye, I giggled. "Oh geez! I don't remember your maiden name! Are you using that or your married name?" Of course, I was full of bull. I didn't know any of her names, only that she was divorced. She giggled heartily, reaching to shake Deanna's hand.

“Ha! It’s Johnson again. Julie Johnson. Isn’t that easier than when it was Rigelletoni? What a nightmare that was! And not just the name!" Pleased with her double entendre, she laughed hard. I was so relieved to have saved face and pulled it off. After a few minutes, she went on her way.

Deanna said, “She’s delightful! I don’t remember you mentioning her before.”

"Oh, ah, I don't know her that well." Which wasn't exactly true anymore. I did know her well and had become quite fond of her; we were friends now. And so, I had to come clean. I was relieved.

A month later, I ran into Julie Johnson at the hardware store. For the first time, I called to her in an aisle. "Hey, Julie! How are ya?"  Her usual lighthearted, cheerful self, she prattled about her teenaged daughter giving her a headache, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation

“Ya, daughters will do that to you!” I laughed. “Listen, uh…I want to tell you something,” I started.

It came easily. I told Julie the whole thing, how I had never known her name, how I faked it thinking I'd figure it out until I boxed myself in and couldn't admit that I didn't. I told her because I lied, I always gave full attention to what she said to me so I wouldn't be caught. Because of that, I got to know her more deeply than I would have otherwise. And I really liked her. I knew in my heart that we were now true friends. "I hope you forgive me, Julie."

Of course, she did and thought it was all hilarious. "You goof! You could have told me!"

She forgave me; our friends forgive us things for which we do not forgive ourselves. It’s love. Now, when I don’t know someone’s name, I tell them. It’s not that hard. Because I forgive myself. Forgiveness is at the root of love.

Supermarket Trauma #124

**

 

The Bomb in Aisle Seven

 

It was the week before Thanksgiving. I was to host the family, again as it was one of my “take care of everything” compulsions. Holiday hosting was always followed by a hefty wave of visceral panic about all I had to get done, but it never occurred to me not to make absurd commitments. I worked full time, was miserably married to an unpleasable man, and had three children. Nonetheless, I summoned the drive and strength to “git ‘er done” including a massive grocery shopping trip.

On any ordinary day, I tend to overbuy food, afraid there won’t be enough. Social events whip that anxiety into high gear. Plus, I wanted to wow my mother-in-law and father-in-law, (the OG Unpleasables) thus, to please my unpleasable husband. I was giddy, high on adrenaline being out of the house shopping - unfettered by children, a schedule, or his rules. So, I was haphazard about how I put items into my cart. Usually, I'm not a willy-nilly type; I think ahead and plan carefully toward the end game constrained by a need to be orderly, but not that day. I was inebriated with cortisol while operating a grocery cart.

Inhibitions lowered; I grabbed an impulse item that was presented as soon as I entered the store. This is almost always a mistake, but it was on my list, so with wanton recklessness, into the cart it went. The first item crossed off; I was emboldened.

Approaching an hour later, at about two-thirds Mission Accomplished, I realized I was going to run out of room in the cart and had yet to choose the turkey. I did not want to drag around a second wagon. I’ve done the double-cart-drag before and it’s no fun. It’s, well…a drag. Grocery cart wheels on their best days have their own minds. When there are two together, they conspire to go in opposite directions, striking people and shelving as they wobble along. Pack behavior in play, they will take out an entire display of say…cat food cans, or Tampons. Not that I have experience with that.

I sobered up and focused on getting the star of the show, The Bird. My husband insisted on the biggest turkey possible, the behemoth of fowl, a point of macho pride. Historically, no matter how big a bird I brought home, The Unpleasable questioned that I had certainly overlooked a specimen bigger than the bird I presented. We gave no thought to the hormones, antibiotics, and hideous husbandry responsible for the gargantuan birds. 

If the size meant a week of advance thawing, so be it. There would be no room for anything in the refrigerator other than the massive fleshy bird and a quarter jar of congealed mayonnaise. If it meant last-minute cavity spelunking with my hands red and frozen to excavate icy giblets, so be it. If the size meant getting up at 2:00AM to preheat the oven and wait to put the beast in, so be it.

In New England, we have abundant fieldstone walls. Our forefathers were obliged to create pastures from mean rocky land. The walls were a by-product of rock encountered while plowing. Split off from glacial ledges, most of it is comparatively flat so good for stacked walls. Occasionally from far north, rocks tumbled with the glaciers and then settled here. In their travels rolling as the ice brought them, they were rounded, their corners have broken off, and their character changed. They don’t make good walls as they are too round to stay in place. We call them turkey rocks:  spherical, cumbersome, and semi-useless. They have little utility as they don’t fit and don’t stay put.

So, it was with the twenty-seven pounder I spied in the far corner of the freezer bin, passed over by other shoppers as absurd. Yes. That was my bird, a massive glacial turkey rock. Even the Unpleasable should be impressed.

At five feet tall, I struggled to reach the back side of the bin. Bending forward over the wall I teetered off my feet. The turkey rock sheathed with plastic was hard to grasp but grasp I did. My hands numb and frozen, I wrested it to the edge and with a grunt heaved it toward the cart.

    The slick boulder crashed to the floor narrowly missed my foot then hit the cart wheel and bent the axle. The wonky wanderer was to be ever more, pulling like a hard-to-walk dog.

Panicked and adrenaline-fueled, I lifted the bird from the floor to the top edge of the cart. From there it fell with a troubling crunch onto the accumulated groceries and sundries. Thankful that I had not yet bought eggs, I reviewed my list while warming my hands in my armpits, glad I was nearing the end. Stuffing mix. Oh ya, can’t forget that.

There were so many choices I could not focus. Whole wheat? Cornbread? Mixed bread? Sage? Traditional? Turkey rock trauma and general fatigue muddled my decision skills. Wild mushroom and sweet onion? That’s a flavor profile I would love, but it would never pass with The Unpleasables. I sighed and took a safe bag of traditional white bread mix, not a decision so much as a resignation.

I became aware of an odd noise – static or hissing. Was it the public address system? I looked upward pensively awaiting an announcement from on high. I was nervous. The static continued but nothing happened. I stood still afraid to miss the announcement. I’ll admit to being overly concerned about what would likely be a flash sale alert. But the last time I missed an announcement in the supermarket (before cell phones) the Space Shuttle Challenger had blown up. The second time, my husband was trying to find me. He had almost castrated himself and was in an emergency room.

Right then, I realized the sound was not coming from the celestial heights of the store but much lower, near the floor. And getting quickly louder, more insistent. The hissing was issuing from under my cart! I stooped almost standing on my head to see what it was. The source was immediately obvious – my first purchase.

Supermarkets are Masters of Marketing, encouraging customers to buy things they might otherwise not. Around major holidays, they create mood-setting displays to provoke impulse buys. A baking display included all the fixings for pies: crusts, fillings, nuts, pans, whipped cream, and tubs of Coolwhip. It was an array to make your dental amalgams jingle. I skipped the premade crusts and pie fillings; I always do it myself. To not do it myself was cheating and immoral. “Do it myself” included whipped cream from scratch, but as they predicted, on an impulse I grabbed a can of whipped cream to save prep time. The Unpleasables would prefer it anyway and besides, who doesn’t like creamy sweet RediWhip? It was the first item I put into my cart.

The pressurized dream-cream-in-a-can was at the bottom. When the turkey rock meteor crashed into my cart, the cover popped off, bent the nozzle, and forced it at an angle through the steel cart grid. Under the cart, the contents were discharged into a rapidly expanding mountain of dairy delight. There is remarkably more product in those pressurized cans than one might think. I couldn’t access the can to stop it, nor the Himalayan Cream Heap. The cart like a paralyzed cow with a burst udder straddled the mess.  I couldn’t move around it (remember the wonky wheel and maimed axle). Before discovering the cause of the noise, I left a meandering trail of cream along the floor, the invisible white cream on cream-colored linoleum. I didn’t dare go for help for fear that a fellow shopper might slip and fall on my cream fiasco. To leave the scene would be negligent and possibly legally actionable because I know I’m responsible for everything. I laughed to myself. Then I lost it completely and erupted into a full hysterical laughing jag. Tears rolled, and I gasped for breath unable to stop. I hiccuped.

Two customers appeared in the aisle, where I was blocking access to the stuffing mixes. They eyed me and my mess with confusion and suspicion. 

I pointed to the puffy pile and gasped, “It’s whipped cream! It’s just whipped cream!” 

The looks of uncertainty and full-on fear made me laugh harder. An elderly couple grabbed each other by the elbows, backed up to the shelving as far from me as they could, and crab-scurried away. A man walked by and stopped. He looked at the floor then at me. 

I hiccuped. “It’s just whipped cream. Really,” I defended.

“You should stick to the stuff in the tubs, Lady. Just stick to the tubs.” He walked away shaking his head. I laid my head on the cart handle and squeezed my legs trying not to pee myself. I hiccuped again.

When a manager appeared with a roll of paper towels and an orange safety cone, I was fighting for control of my hysteria.

On the safety cone was a flailing stick figure falling backward limbs akimbo in mid-fall. “CUIDADO!” and “PELIGRO,” cautioned the cone. My face contorted into relapse, but I managed to squelch the fit.

 “Oh, thank god!” I exclaimed. But realizing I didn’t call for help, I asked, “How did you know?” I pointed toward the cream mountain. She didn’t make eye contact.

“Oh, uh…a customer said there was a problem... by the stuffing, aisle 7.”

        Struggling not to lose control again I laughed. “Oh ya! Understatement! There’s a problem alright!” Compulsively, I apologized and then over apologized because I believe I’m responsible for everything. I should have seen this coming with my haphazard shopping. Who puts a refrigerated item at the beginning of a mega shop? I know to go to dairy last; I had lost my mind.

“Oh no, it wasn’t you,” she reassured me. Turning from swabbing the mess she looked squarely at me. “These things are really volatile. They go off in the warehouse all the time. If you go out there you can hear them. They call them “cream bombs.”

Yes. A bomb. As I headed to check out, the manager asked if she could replace the can of RediWhip. I winced. “No, thanks. I’ve had enough for today. I’ll stick to the tubs.”

Thereafter, when I needed whipped cream I used my grandmother’s hand beater, worked up a sweat, and did it the old-fashioned way, punishing myself with labor for my sloth and corner-cutting, reliving The Bomb. It was years before I bought another can of Dream Cream.

Supermarket trauma #123

 

**

Dirty Girl

 

Dirty little girl

scabby knees, tangled curls

nervous nail biter

darting eyes don’t land

waiting for the violent hand

To strike - words to tear.

 

I needed food,

Stole, from playmates’ mothers,

Whole milk quickly poured,

From thick bottles

shaped like women

A brief cool antidote.

 

Trembling, in open fridge doors,

Wiped my lips and lied,

Waiting for the anger

To arrive.

The mothers knew

I did not want

To go home.

 

The library lady

Fed me books

Thick slabs of smooth pages

Encyclopedias - rainforest to Antarctic

Bees, butterflies, penguins,

Elephant rampages.

She gave to me

All that I could carry.

 

Kipling, Steinbeck, Poe

At close, before she locked the door,

She’d say, “Oh, here’s one more.”

She knew

I did not want

To go home.

 

Miss Welner, fifth-grade goddess

Let me stay

Put things away, pick up the room,

Bang erasers free of chalk

Clouds of dust soared aloft

Or nervousness made me cough

She listened while I talked

Leaking hurried words

I told her everything,

Made her bear my witness.

 

When my words

Choaked me more than chalk,

She watched me draw -

My father as the Minotaur,

My whole mean little life -

Then talk some more

When she had to

Lock the door.

She knew

I did not want

To go home.

Cat One

        Cats are free. No matter where they live or who they live with, they are free. People dislike the characteristic of apparent disregard for others, the impression of being in the cat's space, that you are an outsider in your own home. I think that’s a misinterpretation: what looks like detachment is the constantly shifting calculation of their environment. It's an essential survival strategy requiring a keen eye for detail and objective consideration.

When I was a kid, I didn't know this about cats. To me, they were snuggly lovie fur balls; I desperately wanted one, but my mother was allergic. My children’s father hated cats, so there went another couple of catless decades. To be fair, we had one cat while we lived with him, the father of my children.

*

A neighbor’s son had a long-haired orange cat that went missing, or rather, had not returned from a night out. The youngster, a playmate of my son, was distraught. My son was a kind boy who empathized with his pained pal.

“Joe’s so sad,” he lamented. “He won’t even play. We've looked all around the woods, calling and calling. ‘Leo! Leo! Leo!’ My throat’s scratchy from it. I hope he comes back.” He poured a glass of red Kool-Aid and coughed.

I figured a car hit Leo, and he died in the woods, but I said, "Oh, Leo will probably be back soon. It's not unusual for male cats to be gone for a while in the spring.”

“Hope so.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a red drink stain across his cheek. He headed for the door, hopeful and energetic. “Hey! I’m going to look under our shed," and he was gone.

But no, Leo. 

Days later, My son went to a self-storage facility a few miles from our house to unload furniture with his father. He sulked, unhappy about going, wanting to play with Joe. Plus, it wasn't fun being with his father.

While there, a long-haired orange cat appeared. Friendly, it cried and twined around their legs. His dad stomped his foot and hissed to drive the cat away.

 “Beat it!” he commanded. It vanished behind a dumpster.

 “Dad! It’s Leo!” my son crept around the dumpster calling softly, "Leo, Leo, come here, kitty. It's okay,” making pursed-lipped come-to-me sounds. The cat reappeared meowing and rubbing against him. It did not resist nor struggle when he scooped it into his arms.

“Hey! Throw that damned thing down,” yelled his father. “For Christ’s sake! You know better than that; it’s filthy! You don’t pick up stray cats.”

“But Dad,” he protested. “It’s not a stray; he’s Leo!” The cat rubbed its head against his chin and purred like there was no tomorrow. It nestled hard into the safety of his arms. He did not put the cat down. “See? He knows me!”

“Who the hell’s Leo?” His father asked, disinterested. My son explained and begged to take the cat to Joe. “I found him! I found Leo!” Smiling, his eyes shining, he cradled the cat like the Holy Grail.

“Ya. Okay. Whatever. Unload this table; then you can take the cat to Joe.”

Reluctant to put down his purring prize, my son set him onto the front seat of the truck. The cat waited patiently, sensing this rescue would stick. Beaming and proud, my son scratched the cat’s head and ears and stroked his burr-filled fur. At Joe's house, his father dropped them off. "Don't be screwing around for long. It's suppertime.”

Shortly, as I pulled golden mac and cheese from the oven, my boy came through the kitchen door. He made no eye contact, shoulders slumped, and sullen.

           "What's the matter, honey? What did Joe say? He must have been excited about Leo.” My son looked crushed.

“It’s not Leo; it’s not his cat."

Sliding the hot pan onto the stovetop, I turned to face him. “What do you mean?” He explained: though the cat looked just like Leo, it was not Leo. He was despondent and edgy. He failed his friend and now had a problem: the UnLeo cat and what to do with it.

“Well then where is it? Did the Gallants keep it? You were so sure it was theirs. Is it? Really?” He shook his head no, eyes to the floor.

“Nope, it’s not. They're sure... and they don't want him." Before I could ask, he told me he left the cat in our shed. "Dad won't let us keep it, so I put it in the shed. It's super friendly, just like Leo. I wish he was Leo." He was so sad it broke my heart.

"Well, look, it needs to eat something. Did you feed it? Here…" I pulled a can of tuna from the cupboard. "Let's give him this. And some water. After supper, we can figure out litter. Come on, go feed him, then let's eat."

By then, my daughter appeared and asked what was going on. My son, opening the can of tuna, was revitalized as a savior once again as he explained. "A kitty? Really?" Incredulous, she squealed, pulling the boy from his funk.  He took her outside to see the cat; the music of their merry voices trailed away toward the shed. I smiled.

But I knew trouble was brewing. The children's father hated cats; he hated change, and he hated giving over control.

My daughter bounced back into the house, jubilant. “Kitty needs milk!” She declared, digging for a dish. “And I need a brush. He’s got prickers in his fur, so I need to brush him."

“Whoa, missy! No milk for him yet, and we'll find a brush. But supper first. We'll have to talk to Dad about the cat." Her shoulders dropped knowing we would face the great joy killer. At supper, the kids were silent. My daughter fidgeted, her mind on the shed. My son was unenthusiastic about his favorite mac and cheese.

They both were in caretaking mode and in love. The cat, the UnLeo, was also in love with them, at home with people, even before his sumptuous tuna meal. He was ravenous but not timid or skittish. He wanted to be with them. Cats have intuition about humans; they know precisely who to cosey up to and who to avoid. Observant of body language and nuances, they sense who to manipulate toward their ends. They adjust on a case-by-case basis. And so it was with UnLeo and us.

At supper, I announced to their father that the cat, as it turned out, was not the Gallants’ Leo and was in our shed. The air suddenly changed, ionized with tension. It was subtle. Did we detect body language, a corner of his eyes narrowing, a sound? I could not have said. But we all knew it. Always followed by silence, the usual choking silence.   

My daughter couldn’t restrain herself. “Daddy, can we keep him? Pleeeeease? I love him so much! And he loves me!” She was at her cutest and most endearing when faced with the obstacle of her father. Even the Prince of Darkness could succumb to her. “We’ll take care of him, we promise. Say yes…please?” Her voice now soft and trailing away with flawless timing. Little girls can be as clever as cats.

But it was I who pronounced a reality check. "Well, wait just a minute. First, we’ve got to find out whose cat it is. It may belong to someone." I bound their yearning desire to duty with the light of hope in one sentence. I didn’t think for a minute that we would find UnLeo’s owner, but it was a lesson in managing the intensity of their desire.         They crafted signs to post - “Lost Cat” with wonky text and crayon drawings of a cat that resembled an fat cheese puff. The notices were to be posted for two weeks, then taken down (message: don't leave your garbage behind). Like a cat, I was manipulating their father. The distance of time might soften his resistance.

The phone did not ring for UnLeo. I prepared the kids for the probability that soon, we would take the cat to the shelter. Privately, I hoped to finagle a workaround. I wanted the cat in our lives, too.

At supper, without prelude, their father said "Bring that cat into the house. I don’t want it pissing in the shed, and it better not piss in the house. No stinking litter box either. I won't have it shitting in this house.” He didn’t look up from his plate of chilli. “And take it to the vet.”

 The air eddied with joy and confusion. I had expected him to demand we take the cat to the shelter. Then, I'd either have to be confrontational or help the kids deal with the grief of parting with UnLeo (who they were already sneaking into the house). But not this. We never knew with their father which direction he’d come from. 

 The vet said that UnLeo was most likely abandoned at the self-storage unit. He saw it often: people moving, harried, out of options for their pets, left them in the hope they would find new homes. Powerful are the delusions spawned by desperation. Of course, many of the cats died. This emaciated cat was otherwise healthy and neutered. With his free affection, UnLeo jostled the vet from his perfunctory state of "one more stray cat."

 "What a sweetheart he is! He'll make a great cat,” he pronounced with a finality that sealed UnLeo's place. 

Just like that, UnLeo slid into our lives. The kids renamed him Sandy (cats are flexible about names), and he was a fine feline. He deftly maneuvered around Daddy Darkness successfully most of the time, as did we. Sandy gave us comfort as if it was his job. He never failed to deliver and knew when it was needed. While I recovered from a hysterectomy, he curled gingerly into my stomach, the warmth better than drugs. Sandy knew the perfect distance from my son’s head for rhythmic purring when my boy's migraines struck. On weekends, my daughter dressed him in baby clothes and carted him around in a doll carriage. A good soldier, he did not resist, his golden eyes shining with love.

Eventually, I changed our lives and removed the children's father. Sandy stayed with us, but he did not. While we struggled through a time of sorrow, fear, and chaos, Sandy was a golden thread.

When he slept in patches of sun, he glowed. The movement from his soft breathing rippled his fur like amber, gold, and tangerine flames, flames so tender one might touch. He was absorbing the energy for the balance he radiated to us.

After our lives stabilized, Sandy died, his mission complete. Though I couldn't spare the money, I had him cremated. I told myself my daughter needed the box of ashes, a transitional object for closure.

But I needed the box. I carried the talisman through my life for over twenty years, the soft pine edges rounded and grungy from the touch of our hands. When I was healed enough to know that Sandy's glow came from inside of me, I released him and spread his ashes.

*

 

How The Hell Are Ya?

 

UPDATE: How The Hell Are Ya?

I willllllllll livvvvvvvvve! 

    So, don't be making any plans. I didn't think that I wouldn't honestly. But it has not been a good time. We live a couple of blocks from Dr. Shah, our CDC director. I see him driving to work occasionally, his mom sitting on their porch, recognized him and his wife and dog when they went for walks. I took comfort in that. This is of course ridiculous. In the end, we are all vulnerable to COVID. Vaccines, boosters, masks, social distancing, and good general health will only get you so far.  This virus is not for wimps, nor this tale for the faint of heart. You've been advised. 

    David is doing great. He has taken his last dose of antiviral and is back to his usual activity. He does still test positive though. If you see him up in a tree or biking with the dog, he's sure to bellow at you "How the hell are ya" as is his trademark. But don't go near him yet. 

    I'm getting slowly better. It's been 13 days since my symptoms started. I still have a productive cough, a vague occasional headache, and fatigue. But the worst has been severe vertigo that started about 3-4 days in. I got worse fast. Friday, I was directed by a triage nurse to urgent care in Boothbay (an hour away) for monoclonal antibody therapy. 

    Barely up Route One, I started vomiting an eruption. My entire insides (ALL of the insides) became outsides faster than I could open the ubiquitous doggy poop bags. Vomit dripped from my glasses, my hands, my chin, the dashboard, and plastered the car seat. I floated like an untethered astronaut in an antigravity spaceship. I wanted David to pull over and stop the car so I could lie on the asphalt, not moving in the breakdown lane. I knew I could make him do it as a temporary fix. But I also knew eventually I'd have to get up. That would not happen; I'd die on Route one between closed antique shops in the no-man's-land between Dunkin' Donuts and Red's Eats. All of which seemed just fine, truthfully. Between rounds, I clutched the cup holder to keep from moving, though I wasn't moving. My head was a balloon drifting far from my body, lolling side to side. I think the car picked up speed. I don't know. The dog stopped whining in the back. I didn't know where I was. I felt David's hand tentatively on my back when I lurched forward to heave. And heave. And heave. 

The car slammed to a stop at Saint Andrews Urgent Care (The attachment of saints' names makes me nervous). "We're here, I'm going in," David jumped out leaving the door open. A wheelchair appeared. Shaking, I slipped to the seat clutching a doggy poop bag and my purse into which I had already vomited. We were whisked into a tiny negative pressure room with a huge roaring fan sucking away our diseased air.  I started crying when the plastic ID bracelet was put on because my arm dripped vomit. I apologized because that's what I do. "Don't worry about it, we've seen much worse," some admission clerk said. 

     A nurse standing over me told David, "She's got to go to the ER. She's too sick for us to treat. She needs more than we can give her here." I heard her as if far away. "We'll call an ambulance," she said. 

    "Can I drive her," David asked uncertainly.  I pondered if an ambulance would be better; I could lie down. Would that be better? I was too weak to voice my thoughts. She checked my vital signs and breathing assessing if I could make the trip. 

    "Where is it," David asked her. I heard the fear. 

    "Damariscotta," she said. "How do we get there," he asked. 

    "Do you know the area at all? Did you just move here?" She asked. I hoped David wouldn't try to explain. It was too much. "Do you have GPS in your car?"

    "Yes...but," was David's overwhelmed response. 

    "I'll write it down for you," she said. I wondered if he'd be able to read it. As she explained, I heard "thirty-five miles, " and "the River Road." I don't remember much of the ride except swooping corners and jarring potholes. I think I heard the car's hazard lights clicking time for what felt endless. 

    Somewhere along the way, David said, "ten minutes, it's ten minutes away." He started a countdown, "Five more minutes, we're almost there." "Two minutes..." "We're here." He left for a wheelchair. I thought about walking, but could not. In the lobby, a voice from behind a shielded desk yelled "Stop! Stay right where you are! Are you coming from Boothbay?" 

    I couldn't answer. David said "Yes, yes we are! We have COVID!" as if that declaration explained everything. A nurse appeared gesturing for us to come with her. David careened off several door frames over-correcting with each strike. The wheelchairs are all super-sized now. It used to be that only one in a fleet of chairs was allotted for the large. Now, they are all huge. Small in the chair, I was Alice in Wonderland on a mushroom trip, riding in a gigantic Adirondack chair for tourists, oddly on wheels, an out-of-body experience. Into another tiny room with a roaring fan. Onto a stretcher. 

    "You have to leave, Sir," David was informed. 

    "Where?" he sounded small, too. 

    "You have to leave the hospital. You can't be here. You have COVID." and with that, they ushered him to the door. I found out later that he had to go pee in the bushes because they wouldn't let him in to use the restroom. He sat in the car sick himself, for hours, with the dog. I cried. I cried because I was worried about him, being alone, and afraid for me. 

    IV hydration, IV push monoclonal antibodies, and antiemetics were administered. I was closely monitored for adverse reactions. "We haven't given much of this because it's so new. We just don't know yet how people will react to it. That's why we gave you all that information," explained the nurse. They had given to me five or six pages of small font text. After the first three lines, I lost it in the sheets somewhere, unable to continue. I would have consented to IV Draino. "You'll wake up feeling like a new woman tomorrow," I was assured. 

    But that was not to be so. I went home, still spinning hard but with an upgraded vomit container. I don't remember the ride until the dog announced we were pulling into the driveway. I took a brief shower and went to bed for three full days. I lived on Meclizine and broth. I lost 9 pounds. David calls it the COVID diet. It's effective, but I don't recommend it.  Five days since the ER, I'm getting better but it's slow. I still have the spins. I have started eating again. I got out of bed by 2pm today. I looked around in my gardens, afraid to bend down. But hey, I'm alive. People have said the gardens can wait. But, I know that time, tide, and weeds wait for no one. 

    My gratitude can't be adequately expressed for David's care and love. I forgave his bad driving. I'm grateful for the healthcare system we have, flaws and all, and that I have access to it. I'm grateful for my friends and neighbors who looked out for us, brought us food, went to the pharmacy, sent cards, flowers, and the best hot cross buns I've ever had (kicked my appetite back into gear), and so much more. Add that I'm alive to garden another day.