Goodnight, Irene. NOT



NOT "finer" in Carolina



It's Friday.The last time we chatted, I took you down to our beach cottage via Memory Lane.  It's on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  Specifically, Corolla.  The memory, however, was all about Charlie-the-hurricane and how we weathered it.  Of course, hats off to the storm-savvy-harpist friend who was visiting - along with ten children, a grandfather and a Brittany spaniel.  So, as to Charlie, we had the 'right stuff' and a happy ending even.  In fact, without realizing/planning it, a la Mr. Frost, I bid you sweet dreams with a famous poem.  It referred to a famous double play - Tinker to Evers to Chance - called "Baseball's Sad Lexicon" by Franklin Pierce Adams.

      Did I mention today is Friday?  Right.  And it's been a most erratic/uncharacteristic day for your devoted teller of tales.  You see, rather than writing in the comfort of my cozy imagination, I've been alternately #1 mesmerized by input from the TV or, #2 cooking.  The driving force for #1 is ongoing reportage of an approaching devastation in the form of Hurricane Irene and the reason for #2 is an anticipation of the imminent loss of electricity and its attendant amenities like the ability to see, to have at hand edible sustenance as well as drinkable potables ALL perks that accompany #1.

      (Ironically, there was an excellent chance of my not being abreast of this potential crisis because just yesterday, my husband announced - in that 'glum-chum', defeatist tone that men acquire along with their wedding rings - "The TV isn't working.  No reception.  Wants a 'valid something-or-other card'."  Call me silly, but I'm from the school of 'if-it-breaks-fix-it'.  But in the wife department, after forty-three years and NOT, thank goodness, inherited the "dumb ass" gene in this arena, I knew better than to suggest calling a repair man.  That would cost money - scarce enough already these days.  No invoices, thank you.  No voices period, actually.  Silence is good at times like this.  That way the bearer of the negative news doesn't know what you're thinking. 

      Now my thoughts were actually quite mundane, desultory.  Nothing clever - like a solution was popping up.  BUT.  Although it's not my fave appliance, I'm not averse to talking on the phone in a situation like this.  I called the cable provider service department, in THIS case actually grateful to be interacting with a speaking robot.  Robot inquired as to the purpose of my call - even providing choices - and, once we were on the same blank, e-reader page, provided two alternatives.  I could push the red, lighted button adjacent to the 'valid something-or-other card'-holder - if my control box has one - OR turn the power completely off, count to thirty, turn the power back on and check for signs of life in the TV.  I elected the latter option and, as instructed by robot who announced she was still there and holding, duly noted that the search was on for the satellite accompanied by a horizontal progress bar which paraded across the screen, left to right, indicating progress in rising percentages.  Robot cheerfully reminded me to tell her when the process was complete.  I finally said yes and hung up.  Sounds abrupt, I know but does etiquette require an expression of gratitude to a telephone robot? The salient point of this exercise, the thing that elevates it to a class of things lovely is the TV was functioning flawlessly.  Repair person indeed.)

      So it was, then, that I had the ability to monitor the uninvited Irene's progress with visuals all day today. Unless I was cooking, and I would increase the volume during these interruptions.  It is five thirty, PM and I just heard a broadcaster say, "Nature always bats last" via, "You know what they say."  Well I don't.  Do you?  I mean who is this "they" to whom he blithely alludes?  And what of this cryptic "bats"? Is that some new age 'code' for something sinister to which I, for one, am not privy? Hmmmm?  At least MY baseball analogy was upbeat, artful, had "IT" even.

      The entire East Coast is currently a bit on edge, pal, as to the safety, fortunes, even well being of the population - young, old, loved, infirm ALL stripes.  I BETCHA they'd prefer you keep your little seriously unsettling old saws to yourself.  Hubby and I, while escorting Bridie on her constitutional through the neighborhood, couldn't help but notice the damage-mitigating precautions folks have effected - securing garden fixtures, removing deck furniture, storing cars in their garages.  The same ole same ole waving/smiling rituals were maintained, we picked up after our perambulating pets, but there was an eerie broken silence during such activity.  Our home - today - sits on a point of land jutting into the Lynkhorn Bay, contiguous with the Chesapeake whose shores may very well be re-sculpted by Sunday morn.  And still, we stare at the developing events and strain to hear the now reporting-in-the-rain talking, gelled and wind-blown heads.

      (Of course, looking at the bright side, as a family, an avid sports-fan-family, we would have been denied hours of good news and exciting 'plays' were it not for the TV.  And we owe

it all to the man my son - pictured left with his son - is fond of referring to as "TV Guy".  TV Guy was part of a wonderful Christmas present from the children, which, once installed, would allow us to see both cable and local Steelers' games.  Now you have to be special to know TV Guy and he had been here once with my son under some ruse and during much company and confusion.  I just recall asking him to help our daughter Julie - or ANYbody - to rotate and straighten the Christmas tree - glares all around - except for TV Guy. 

      I will also always recall the day he was to come to the house and install the present.  Son Philip called to say TV guy was running late.  Eileen was having trouble reaching the only nurse - surprised? - who knew the date and time of her next appointment.  I realized I'd fed the dog twice.  Perhaps as a reward, Bridie soon loudly announced the arrival of TV Guy, a dear friend/helper of Philip's in-laws.  He made a rather 'man-on-a-mission' entrance, armed with several boxes and four hours of chit-chat.  He installed, set, tested 'tv' things and instructed me about 'things TV' such that we got reception of local channels and cable beautifully.

      The side-dish to this main course, unfortunately, was that I then knew more about TV Guy's personal, psychological, social and professional life than anyone in the world.  Added to this bank of data was the same HIIPA-forbidden information about his former wife, "multi-personalitied" daughter and her seven year-old son.  TV Guy had raised this guitar-progeny lad since he was a fretfully young four months.  I guess it could have been worse.  I mean, the entire cast of dysfunctional characters could have been waiting for him in his van and, for any number of reasons, come in!)

      Rather, it was not, he finally went out and we can endure the tension and concern and "bat" baggage that are unique to folks who live quietly, in a lazily lovely community in a small home overlooking usually calming, brackish water and among similarly-uncomplicated people.  Of course, in the interest of levity, Phil and I talked as we walked about a few people who - as our offspring are wont to say - don't "roll the way" we do.  I guess my favorite of our musings was that a certain twosome, having the true misfortune of a wife recently afflicted with escalating Alzheimer's married to a husband who tended toward physical abuse even when she was not only sanguine but exceptionally gifted in the visual Arts, would not fare well.  Perhaps he would enthusiastically, even coyly, suggest to her impressionable/accommodating mind, that it would be fun - and good luck - if they went out to their secluded, manicured ornate atrium behind their home so that he could bind her with silk scarves to the seated statue of Buddha.  She'd be thrilled, poor dear.

      Mind's a tricky space, oft crowded with mischief-minded imps.  For now, I want to assure you that: Kathy D is safe - she was considering "riding it out" in Rockaway with a few cans of Spam and some wine; to our knowledge, the fam AND the community are following instructions and, for now, are dry and, to all of you who may chance upon these words, we ARE our brother's keeper and, til we meet again, I wish you "Bacon and tears in the morning, champagne and laughter at night."  Later, Lorane. . . .

STORMS

      The last time we met, it was all about birthdays, more specifically tributes to August birthday people and tributes in general.  I know you'll want to hear of Kathy's reaction to HER B-Day tribute.  Hubby Willie had returned home from their summer cottage while Kathy stayed behind to enjoy a visit with Ryan, the child whom she's been teaching since pre-K.  Ryan's parents brought him to Kathy's beach cottage for a most special visit.  He addresses her as "Miss Kathleen" - and that this formerly severely autistic child 'addresses' at all is a tribute to Kathy-the-teacher-lover-of-children.  He's a lucky little shaver who, like all those unfortunate among us who have a 'condition' or illness must seek help and depend on qualified caregivers.  Shortly after her guests departed, the MOST welcome guy, clad in brown shorts and shirt, arrived with a gift I'd sent her.  A token, really - funny book about grandmothers and a copy of her B-Day "tribute".  After 'shedding a few', she wrote a note of gratitude and inquired about our well being in regard to yesterday's quake.  Virginia Beach is but 90 miles from Richmond; Kathy's cottage, at the far end of Rockaway Beach in NY, had somewhat seized, appliances dancing, furniture following suit so she wondered how WE had fared.  In fact, we were on an errand and I barely noticed as Phil was driving.  More impressive was that there was an earthquake in Virginia at at all.  But we don't have time to ponder this because we're all revved up today about our - apparently - weekend guest, Hurricane Irene.  Could get sticky/tricky.  Been there.
      (Thinking of Ryan in the same discussion birthed an analogy I'd not considered before, ie, illness, its accompanying distress/stress, is also a 'storm'.  We 'weather' it; the outcome is often uncertain; we are at the mercy of qualified - or not - care/assistance-givers.  I was reminded of our experience with Phil's sister, Eileen's, protracted 'illness' and the 'weathering' of it.  The necessary reliance on/being at the mercy of others loomed large as I recalled dealing with the "money lady."

On this "special" day, Eileen (pictured left) was pacing & edgy prior to our meeting with the financial aid person. Naturally we were late. She had given us specific instructions - as was her wont - to be in the lobby of specific bldg X at specifically 10 AM whence we would dial a 10 digit number, followed by the cagey & specific "1 2 3 #" which would precipitate her appearance with specificity and punctuality and gracious leading of the way to our specific trysting place.

      Wellll, it was raining, we left our house @ roughly 9:45 AM and amused ourselves during the trek into downtown Norfolk fumbling through a manila envelope stuffed with sheaves of information in the form of documents, bills, various lists of things Eileen did not own - so very short lists - and official proffers of identification, ie, Birth Certificate, Social Security Card, Automobile Titles which she also did not have thereby lightening the manila load considerably.

      We were maneuvering this treasure less trove alternately with the large telephone book because we thought we were to use the magic number ONLY when we were once inside the lobby of Specific X so we were trying to find the general public's access to Ms. Susan M which was complicated by the fact that "the Stone Wall", as Eileen was fond of saying, is employed by "ChamberlinE", Eligibility Specialists.  And I do think they should have kept the 'a' in Chamberlin if they wanted to play with the big girls, don't you? It's of no moment as neither Ms. M nor her august employer were listed. We were getting frazzled - but almost there - it's so hard to scan tumbling pieces of paper AND "manage" a phone book search when you're driving a rented vehicle. (My poor little "back-end er" was still in ICU) with wipers going on when I thought I'd used a directional & vice versa).

      Unfortunately for our family,  we were no strangers to hurricanes either. Many years ago, I - along with a dear friend who played the harp in the Norfolk Symphony and, more importantly, was raised in Corpus Christi, Texas - were at our cottage with 10 children, including one French foreign exchange student, my 68 year-old father and our Brittany spaniel when TV programming was interrupted to bring us a special report on the 'comin -your-way' Charlie-beast-of-a-hurricane.  It was apparently supposed to touch land in Wilmington but had - ready? - changed course and was heading, in the broadcaster's last-heard words, "I wouldn't want to be anywhere near Duck, on the Outer Banks today."  Then. Blank screen.  "WHY, ED," my mind screamed, "what about Duck, Ed?  Ed?"  I'd been wondering why my friend had moved the grill in from the back porch early that morning so right after she said, "I'd best be on my way.  We have a matinee today," I swiftly, quietly, deftly snatched her car keys from the table and rooted them in a hanging plant.

      (Wellll, 3 blocks from the Medical Center Campus, the cell phone rang - somewhere between us - and I found it to be the M WOMAN HERSELF so we went right into gear using those terribly relieved, happy, embarrassed, nauseating tones of voice saved for such occasions as I relayed to Eileen how fortunate we were because you'll never believe. . ."oh, no, really? Please let ME explain to her. . .". And so it was that minutes later, I dropped Eileen off at the Main Hospital adjacent to the Childrens' Hospital, sporting its Charlie-and-the-Chocolate-Factory "look"and went off to the parking garage, visible in the far, bleak distance, telling her I'd meet them wherever. But no, after schlepping back, about to inquire as to Eileen's location, she called my name from behind, simply saying, "Lorane. There she is. She insisted on waiting for you."

      And after settling comfortably into 3 office desk chairs lined against the wall in a hallway, the 'Meeting' began. Forms, forms, forms. . .questions, questions, questions - state and federal - re: who are you, how did you get here, whom are those living at this address and this address? And cryptic comments, her favorite being, "I can only write down what you tell me.". We would take turns with what seemed to be feeble attempts at clarification - "Yes, she's not able to work because she is disabled. (one of her blank-tape glares) "Ah, I see." "She is disabled because the cancer causes a great deal of pain. . . because the cancer prevents her from using her right arm presently. . .because she doesn't have the stamina to point to an unruly student. . .". Finally, she scoured her notes with the order and dexterity of the astigmatic and said, "What was the first thing you said, 'the cancer completely interferes with her ability to function'"? that will have to do.

      After an overly extended discussion of "Of which state is Eileen a resident?" - a matter which will be decided by codified law & the state which harbors her person at this time, Eileen signed 20 or so forms which would be processed, ruled upon and either accepted or appealed.  Our "advocate" scurried off mumbling, to the Great Eligibility Shaman, her Supervisor, where they would chant, choose and chain the matter UP - perhaps to Chamberlin him/herself. . .)

      What with the winds picking up, the little children bellowing excitedly about the water in the commodes sloshing to and fro, the exchange student pestering with "Q'uest que c'est 'CHARLIE" to which I informed her "It's a storm.  We name them over here.  Like gerbals.", my son asking what he should be wearing and my friend's daughter announcing she'd lost contact with her Dad, the Texan took the helm.  First she ordered the 4 oldest to make a run to the nearby rip-off convenience store & buy ANYTHING labeled "to be used during a power outage/emergency"; then all tubs were filled with water; every piece of linen in the house was collected and stuffed along the doors and windows at floor level and the middle school group was ordered to go out and quickly gather any/all pieces of wood slats, etc.  The EMS van  driver arrived to tell us if we saw him return, we were to file into the van to be taken to the Corolla Lighthouse - which has 152 or so steps - as an evacuation destination.  And, chores completed by our excited crew, my friend ordered me to follow her and we went down the stairs - all cottages are on pilings - gripped each other's bodies for SOME stability as we barely made our way to our neighbor's cottage where we had moved her car, thus clearing the way for Charlie to gush under/away from ours should he drop up, retrieved a huge, thick, long rope from her car, then dragged back to our haven through the painfully stinging downpour.  Why/what up with the rope?  She used it to secure her harp.  BUT. if the need arises, we shall don life jackets - actually HAD them - and "tie ourselves one to another to the rope, and "Tally Ho" or some such.  MIND: WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?

      (It started slowly, this day. Lots of ennui. We sat. And sat. Started to get irritable listlessness, frenzy re: unfinished calender for Dr. Cross. But. Suddenly it was time to leave for the 2 PM progress appt. Calender still not done (to our satisfaction) so notes made re: info he might need; symptoms occurring during this "first round of chemo". We were on time; Eileen signed in @ 2:05 PM. Then we sat. And sat. And went uptstairs shopping for snacks. One hour. and 45 minutes later, she approached the crackerjack receptionist, reminded her that she signed in for a scheduled appointment with Dr. Cross @ 2: 05 PM and what the Hell!!

OOOPs. Lots of scurrying; what's her name? Doctor who?
Did she sign in? etc.

      Then a frenzied worker bee escorted us to Dr. Cross' examining area, muttering the while about checking the shedder, calling ahead to Dr. Cross, etc. . .

And Eileen announced as a 'tada!' to the waiting room, "I don't think I heard an apology, Lorane, did you?" We were ushered right in to the examining room ("You've been sitting too long!") Soon Dr. Cross came in, apologized for Eileen's incarceration in "Reception" and got down to the business of how she was doing.

      He's not a cartwheel kind of guy, but in his measured, dolcet tones he allowed as how, she hadn't had any bad, untoward effects from the chemo, her blood work was fine (what one expects) she seemed less lethargic (she was) and his plan was to start round 2 next week. The mass on he left scapula was smaller so the disease was not progressing and she had no new symptoms. The only pain was in her right arm (would wake her up from sleep) which was from the radiation of the large mass which also destroyed the brachial plexus in that arm.

      He answered questions (she'll have her blood work the afternoon before chemo AT VIRGINIA BEACH GENERAL - WALKABLE - AND HER THERAPY THERE AS WELL WHICH IS GREAT BECAUSE IF THE STRONGER, 2 DRUG TREATMENT HITS HARD, SHE'S CLOSE TO HOME) "Please call me ANY time for ANY thing. I'll see you next week. . .")

      Once back inside, everyone accounted for - Frenchie doing needle work, others playing cards, mostly poker - I had two burning questions:  Why the pieces of wood?  "Well, when the windows go, we'll have SOME protection from the boarding the kids did."  BRAIN: WINDOWS GO WHERE???  And, uh, why do we need the rope again?  Just had to hear THAT ONE REPEATED.  In sum, it was an extremely long 10 + hours.  Water poured through the window/door frames, sopping ALL precautionary absorbancy linens; the wind screamed; I prayed countless rosaries; my friend, by contrast, was a lounging Librium, gazing around at her accomplishments, occasionally seeming to scout around in search of her car keys but too respectable an agnostic to interrupt the silent pleas of the frantic Roman Catholic, pitifully-trying-to-seem-to-have-grace-under-pressure whilst clutching her wooden, papal-blessed beads; AND THEN. SILENCE.  Exhaustion, confusion, quizzical looks, but blessed silence.  She calmly explained, gazing out at the blinding sun and the emerging 'tourons', urging their toddlers to hunt for special shells in the surf, that THIS was the "Eye of the storm" into which one never ventures.

      All the while, my Dad had been calm, silent; Shamus, the Brittany, exceptionally alert. He was quite bright and I've always wondered if he KNEW there would NOT have been a life jacket for ALL human plus Shamus.  Was he planning to take Frenchie out?  We'll never know, dear readers.  But  I can only conclude that HAD Charlie NOT spared our little admixture of a sub-community of humanity, then the "saddest of possible words," would NEVER have been, "Tinker to Evers to Chance".  Later, Lorane