The Kindness of Strangers

(I was using the                                       adjacent  mat but distinctly heard the kitty mutter, "Hmph!  USED to drink water from the garden hose but NOW I have to use the 'bottle' because          I  USED to be playing OUTside but    NOW I have to be INside -                 exercising, staying in shape.  And       good health.  I chant, do mantras and breathe deeply.  And I STILL feel like scratching someone in the face,           ya  know?  Like maybe one of              those Vet Hospital Administrators in charge of Managed Cat, er, Care.  "I have always depended upon the kindness of       strangers."  In the classic drama, "A Streetcar Named          Desire", these are the final words of Blanche DuBois, a        faded  Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic,            genteel pretensions.  She speaks these words as she is being escorted out of her sister, Stella's, home to a  sanitarium by a doctor and a nurse.  They are the "strangers" to whom she ostensibly refers.  Having just witnessed this   tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one can't    help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of  prostitution in her   fateful parting line.  But the GOOD news  for ole Blanche was that she didn't have to wait around for -                             precertification.  That is, the strangers came to get her            and her sanitarium bed was waiting.  Her family didn't have    to   endure the railings of her tortured mind, unable to ease her suffering.  That was 1948.)                                                    
     On April 6, 2011, I drove up to Richmond to be with my     granddaughter, Mia Lorane, and her parents - Julie and Matt(certifiable in another sense for several months now) - for an old-fashioned, home-made, Italian Four Cheese Ravioli           supper on pre-op evening.  We even had Puttanesca Red         Sauce - the MOST flavorful (but not SPICY) of the reds.         Got its name in the Old Country.  The 'Ladies of the              Evening'  would spend the day whipping up a batch of red       sauce that would outdo ALL competitors in the AROMA    department. The heavy, iron pot would then be set out on the window sill to 'cool'.  'Gentlemen', as was their wont,          followed their noses, filled their bellies and lingered to enjoy an after dinner aperitif.                                                                                              
     And so it was on the night before our Mia was FINALLY      going to lose her tonsils and adenoids - those glands we have in the back of our throats and below our ears that FIGHT       INFECTION when they are working.  I know this stuff.  You remember.  You did "the cap" ordeal?  The Neurology ICU?  And how WE were worried about potential 'Doctor' (Joe)        Zivagos on the ward? NOW our worry was just getting Mia     ON TO a ward.  The months were long, tedious and, MOST concerning, detrimental and dangerous for Mia as SHE          endured the repeated 'sick time' with temps of 104-105,        feeling miserable while accumulating the EIGHT                documented, required - by the insurance company - Strep    Throat infections that netted her the sought-after referral to an ENT specialist who would remove these glands - while we could only watch, unable to ease her suffering.                          
(Because of changes in the health care delivery system over    the past forty years, we arrived at the threshold of the new     century embracing Blanche's coda.  We, too, depend on the   "kindness of strangers.  We depend on decisions made by        amorphous group of overseers - let's call them medical         directors - to adequately address our symptoms, make us       whole, cut out the malignancy, truss the splintered bone,       guide our children into the world.  Then, it is hoped, they'll   see to it that their journey into adulthood, plagued with its    own particularized and threatening set of medical/surgical     misadventures, is as safe and negative incident-free as             possible.  This because of due diligence, vigilence and the       absence of vapid indifference.  We can ONLY hope they          make the right call because they are the SUPREME call-         makers.  And if they don't?  IF SYMPTOMS ARE NOT              PURSUED AGGRESSIVELY, the malignancy festers, the        bone deforms or decays, the bough BREAKS AND THE          BABY FALLS?  Quite simply, the medical director - and the   'Care' Organization whose costs he is charged to contain -      DID IT.  IN THE NURSERY. WITH THE 'MAGIC' DENIAL    WAND.)                                                                                             
     So Wednesday night, those four cheeses, in their                   Puttanesca-dripping pillows, slid down with roller coaster-     ease, washed down by chilled, fruit-flavored water with many glass-tingling "Saluts!"  A joy to watch.  Mia had lost at least     12 pounds.  Those "necessary, documented" antibiotics can     confiscate even the best of two year-old, raw tuna-loving         appetites.    And although beautiful AND bright, the constant pain (doc said she'd probably NOT been without throat pain    for SIX months) can put a dent in the sunniest of                       dispositions in the most popular of "Princesses" in any pre-    school.  So, even though she told me that Rocco - the pre-        school boyfriend - was in "Time Out" again that day for             taking her hair bow, her heart just wasn't in it.  But her            HANDS are another story.  Between my Italian heritage          'hand-speak', the Rocco affair and that ravioli, she was             HAND-EMBELLISHING during ALL communication with     
us and the staff until the OR doors dropped the curtain on       her baby-blue paper capped bobbing head, her face                   punctuated with her usual grin of expectant                               adventure.                                                                                        
(And what is the role played by the doctors and nurses             today?  As you may recall, back in the day, when Millie pil=  
ferred my cap but I was still a crisp, white, moving container  
of concern for MY PATIENTS, we still depend on them. But,  
interestingly, they are doing the bidding of the medical 'care' 
organizations that cut their checks.  This, so the cutting does  
NOT involve their jobs because of a misunderstanding about  
priorities.  They must provide the care deemed necessary        and appropriate by the call makers.  Whereas, to put it ano-  
ther way, there was once a clear delineation of where the "I"  
stopped and the "thou began", NOW "I" is all there is and      
"thou" no longer has an existence.  You see, "I" will only pay  
for treatment and testing that IT has pre-ordained. There-    
fore, the hands-on (formerly 'real' doctors and nurses)            treaters provide a sanctioned service and THEN, they are     
PAID!  They, too, depend on the "kindness of strangers",         much like Blanche did in HER profession.)                                
     Fortunately, the surgery went smoothly.  The doctor was   
QUITE surprised, however, at the SIZE of the adenoids           (twice normal) noting as well that they were wearing a        
foul coat of bacterial film, which, as you can imagine,               scotched any notion that they could have been functioning   
as part of Mia's immune system.  Once home, she could           depend on familiar family, free care and one-on-one loving,  
un-managed care.  And she, as is HER wont, had plenty of       whine to go with her post-op cheese.  I daresay, late at night  
we did as well.  That Mia was on her way to hearty health was apparent by the increasing number of princess costume           
changes per diem.  I returned home - humming Disney tunes in lieu of Dory Previn - tired but oh-so-glad to have been part of the healing-cum-loving experience again.  Where DID I        store my cat, er, cap?  Later, Lorane. . . .                                           

The Kindness of Strangers

( I was using the adjacent mat but distinctly heard Kitty mutter, "Hmph. USED to drink water from the garden hose but NOW I have to use the 'bottle' because I USED to be outside playing but NOW I have to be INside, exercising, staying in shape. And good health. I chant, do mantras and deep breathe. And I STILL feel like scratching someone in the face, ya know? Like maybe one of those Vet Hospital Administrators in charge of "Managed Cats, er Care".

"I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Those were the final words of Blanche DuBois, a faded Southern beauty who is plagued by neurotic, genteel pretensions. She speaks these words as she is being escorted out of her sister's home to a sanitarium by a doctor and a nurse. They are the 'strangers' to whom she ostensibly refers. Having just witnessed this tragic heroine's mental and moral disintegration, one can't help but see an allusion to Blanche's sordid history of prostitution in her fateful parting line. The GOOD news for ole Blanche was that she didn't have to wait around for pre-certification. That is, the strangers came to get her and her sanitarium bed was waiting. Her family didn't have to endure the railings of her tortured mind, unable to ease her suffering. That was 1948.)

On Wednesday, April 6, 2011, I drove up to Richmond to be with my granddaughter, Mia Lorane, and her parents - Julie and Matt (certifiable, in another sense for several months now) - for an old fashioned, home-made Italian four cheese ravioli supper on pre-op evening. We even had Putanesca Sauce - the MOST flavorful (but not SPICY) of the red sauces. Got its name in the Old Country. The "Ladies of the Evening" would whip up a batch of red sauce that would outdo ALL competitors in the AROMA department. It would then be set out on the window sill to 'cool'. The 'gentlemen' as is their wont, followed their noses, filled their bellies and so on. And so it was the night before Mia was to FINALLY have her tonsils and adenoids - those glands we have in the back of the throat and below the ears that FIGHT INFECTION when working. I know this stuff. You've been. Remember the cap? The Neurology Unit? And WE were worried about the potential Dr. (Joe) Zivagos on a ward! It had taken months of repeated "sore throats" until Mia had the EIGHT documented, required - by the insurance company- Strep Throat infections that netted her the sought-after referral to an ENT specialist who would remove these glands.

(Because of changes in health care delivery over the past forty years, we arrived at the threshold of the new century embracing Blanche's coda. We, too, depend on "the kindness of strangers". We depend on the decisions made by an amorphous group of overseers - let's call them 'medical directors' - to adequately address our symptoms, make us whole, cut out the malignancy, truss the splintered bone, guide our children into the world - and then, hopefully, - see to it that their journey into adulthood, plagued with its particularized and threatening set of medical/surgical misadventures, is as safe and negative incident-free as possible. This because of due diligence, vigilance and the absence of vapid indifference. We can only HOPE they make the right call because they are the SUPREME 'call-makers'. And if they don't? IF SYMPTOMS ARE NOT PURSUED AGGRESSIVELY, the malignancy festers, the bone deforms or decays, the bough BREAKS AND THE BABY FALLS? Quite simply, the 'medical director' - and the "Care" Organization whose costs he is charged with containing - DID IT. IN THE NURSERY. WITH THE 'MAGIC DENIAL WAND'.)

So Wednesday night, those four cheeses in their Putanesca-dripping pillows slid down with roller-coaster ease, washed down by chilled fruit-flavored water and lots of glass-tinkling "Saluts!" A joy to watch. Mia had lost at least 12 pounds. Those "necessary, documented" antibiotics can rob even the best of two year-old, raw tuna-loving appetites. And although beautiful AND bright, the constant pain (doc said she'd probably NOT been without throat pain for SIX months) can put a dent in the sunniest of dispositions in the most popular of "Princesses" in any pre-school. So, even though she told me Rocco - the pre-school boyfriend - was in "Time Out" again that day because he took her hair bow, her heart just wasn't in it. Her HANDS are another story. Between my Italian heritage 'hand-speak', the Rocco affair and that ravioli, she was 'HAND-EMBELLISHING' during ALL communication with us and the staff until the double OR doors dropped the curtain on her baby-blue, paper-capped bobbing head.

(And what is the role played by the doctor and the nurse today? As you may recall, back in the day when Millie pilfered my cap but I was still a crisp, white moving container of concern for MY PATIENTS, we still depend on them. But, increasingly, they are doing the bidding of the medical 'care' organizations who cut their checks. This so the cutting doesn't involve their jobs because of a misunderstanding re: priorities. They are to provide the care deemed necessary and appropriate by the call-makers. Whereas, to put it another way, there was once a clear delineation of where the "I stopped" and the "thou began", NOW "I" is all there is and "thou" does not have an existence. And "I" will only pay for treatment and testing that IT has pre-ordained. Therefore, the hands-on (formerly existent doctors and nurses) treaters provide a sanctioned service and then , THEY ARE PAID! They, too, depend on the "kindness of strangers", much like Blanche did in HER profession.)

Fortunately, the surgery went smoothly. The doctor was QUITE surprised, however, at the SIZE of the adenoids (twice normal) and noted that they were wearing a foul coat of bacterial film which, as you can imagine, scotched any notion that they could have been functioning as part of Mia's immune system. Once home, she could depend on familiar family, free care and one-on-one loving, un-managed care. And she, naturally, had plenty of whine to go with her cheese. I daresay, late at night, we did as well. That she was on her way to hearty health was apparent by the increasing number of Princess costume-changes per diem. I returned home - humming Disney tunes in lieu of Dorey Previn - tired but oh-so-glad to have been part of the healing-cum-loving experience again. Where DID I put my cat, er cap? Later, Lorane. . . .

EVERYTHING OLD IS OLD AGAIN

We've been playing a little game on Facebook which involves 'grabbing the nearest book to you, opening to pg. 56 and typing the fifth sentence. You then put the instructions, followed by your sentence in your 'Status" box. We then read each other's status info & play a rollicking round of "Who-wrote-that?'. The other day, a friend posted a panicked msg, to wit, I grabbed the nearest book (a computer manual) and page 56 was BLANK! NOW what? there are a multitude of good and sufficient reasons why a computer manual should not be classified as a "book" for our 'fun & games" purposes but I shared her dilemma with you ONLY because it mirrors the situation I find myself in with today's post. I was thinking - after my last foray into quill work, that I rather miss keeping a Dream Journal, particularly the value of incorporating what is called the "day's residue". This would be your daily life experience - whether dealt with or not consciously - and regardless of seeming relevance/importance. I think people would find their dream stories and characters far less strange if they'd take the time to see the pun, tie-in, remote source of the 'exotic' and chaotic material of which our dreams are composed. Our waking lives are not just worthy of note but of recognition, repetition, dramatization even. You might even 'get' a joke you missed or see the importance of a relationship/situation. Soooo, I was all set - notebook at the ready - to begin last night. Unfortunately, I fell asleep sitting up and my co-antiquity quietly turned off the light, closed my book & drifted off. An hour later, my eyes slammed open in response to the intense low back pain I was having in response to NOT having taken nite-nite meds and sleeping flat. What to do? Well I corrected omission #1 and then stared into the plaster at reams of blank pages. Finally, I wondered what would I have dreamed about if I'd begun this project last week? Day's residue: overshot turn-off street returning from B-Day brunch & passed the Old Cavalier Hotel - where Scott & Zelda danced? You remember, the "Burning Trolley" chapter of our lives? OBVIOUSLY, I'd have been dreaming of the Roaring Twenties! (And 'dancing' - like Isadora Duncan. Actually she was not at her best in the twenties. She'd entered into an ill-fated marriage to a Russian poet, many years her junior, and was touring the country in her endless efforts to start a school for her Art - Dance. Fantasy and reality were given equal time in her program of life; the primitive and the instinctual neatly woven into her aesthetics. Her Art - she ALWAYS capitalized that word) was spontaneous beauty. In her 1928 biography, in her faulting yet honest brand of prose, she shared her life experiences with such intensity that YOU felt HER drama. She said over and over again to her students "Art must come from the soul.". And she knew only a few would understand. Which ones? ) Of course the Roaring Twenties was not ONLY about dancing. And certainly my biography has and will always be about the young, the old, the dramatic, the joy, the tragedies, the "Gates of Hell" and of Heaven. In this regard, the "Twenties" roar, cry, run, sit motionless, approach and bid farewell - as metaphors go - and come. (Isadora's two children drowned in a car accident when their car rolled off a bridge. She never recovered. She died in a tragic car accident as well by the sea - in 1929. Hers was a great love, a great Art. But the Jazz Age headlined children in general. Just as the world mourned the death of Isadora's children, it mourned for the Lindberg baby as well. The trial of "little Gloria" Vanderbilt was followed closely. We were entertained by Shirley Temple and Betty Boop and Little Orphan Annie. The "Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh" were widely read. Mickey Mouse was born in 1929. Did they all represent the creative, moving toward new possibilities? Or were they collectively the SHADOW of the Child - that had to be left behind? I would say they rather 'grew up'. We meet the female spirit again in Clare Booth Luce's play, "The Women" in 1933 but I don't think she was speaking ONLY of 1933 women. In fact, in 1975 The Actors' Theatre of Norfolk mounted her production and I was assigned the role of the wronged and oh-so-right Mary Haines. A tough assignment as it was hard to believe ANY woman could be as naive and devoted as dear Mary. Ms. Luce trots out thirty-five brands of femininity - hat-check gals, debutantes, chorus girls, authors, countesses, mothers and daughters and, of course, poor, jilted Mary. It is a marvelous satirical tableau, dedicated to the female spirit. The ladies lunched and played bridge and had affairs and went in and out of analysis - wearing Jungle Red nail polish. The show was held over, so many playgoers wanted to come and see themselves. You see women never change. Only hem lines do.) And last night there I sat - NO polish, NO dream, in full focus but, lately NOT about children. Rather about original things. Old things. German things So, were I to have been dreaming of THAT residue. . . . (Well, we COULD go back to the Twenties. I recall having to do a 'required' paper once on German architecture. I wrote about Bauhaus - a school of Art form AND a building. Now there is NO question but that the visual arts are my VERY short suit - except for a Chanel given to me in the sixties by a lady for whom I babysat. BUT. I have some VERY first-hand, up-close-and-personal experience with a production set designed by Liubov Popova in 1922. How does this relate to the Roaring Twenties, you might ask, legitimately? Well Bauhaus believed that the inner structure - the soul - of a building, must be reflected on the outside. Now follow closely. The set to which I referred was for the play "The Magnificent Cuckold", first performed in Russia. It was a free interpretation of a windmill, which included slides, platforms, ladders and several discs and wheels in addition to the windmill itself, upstage. It was called constructivism in the art world. In 1974, the Actors' Theater mounted THIS production at the Chrysler Museum and Walter Chrysler borrowed the original set from its home in the Albright-Knox Museum in Buffalo, New York. And you ask 'How does it relate?' Bite your tongue. Everyone was thrilled and the set was a complete success. I was a member of the cast and can tell you when this thing arrived (and did it have "IT"!) we were stunned. It was like a Rube Goldberg MONSTERPIECE. I hated the 'art'. It sprawled the width of the stage, almost spilling over the apron. All of its parts moved and buzzed and creaked and seemed to hiss viciously, "Caution! Menacing genius crossing.". I mean, it was one thing to be upstaged by this inanimate beast, but worse, we risked our lives every time we walked out there. (I PAID Aaron Norris - in town to open one of his brother's Studios - to teach me how to fall without breaking a hip) One made entrances on ladders and exited down a slide. A cross was invariably interrupted by one or the other rude, triangular swinging doors. And the hummmm. Every part moved electrically, you see, and each character had its partner "moving part". Popova's plan was to have the set react/relate to the drama. So when the actor was "on", his wheel or flap or whatever began doing its thing. Such a treat - acting your little heart out over this mechanical din while the audience sat mesmerized by the technical hi jinx going on behind you. I am not a violent person but WILL confess to kicking a 'work of art' several times during that run. Indeed, were it to appear via my subconscious in the wee hours, NIGHTMARE would be the heading in the "Dream Journal". As to what would it MEAN? Well, let's just say it was the most 'felt' experience of the art of the "Twenties" I have ever had. And it was a 'feeling' I still had six months after the show closed.) Rather like the physical bruises I'm still nursing since a visiting Christmas relative returned home. Psychologically, analysis might compare the entire experience, like portions of the "Twenties" Dreams, to my feelings about our involvement in the Mid-East. Yet, geographically, the emotional 'hot spots' of the Christmas visit hang more around what was at one time 'Slovania'. He was invited because it was known he needed help. He's also a very proud, independent sort. Soooo, we concocted a story about how I NEEDED HELP as I was post-op back surgery. And what with the Holiday bustle and Noel visits keeping everyone distracted, all went as partially planned. He was evaluated for needed eye surgery and a date was selected/confirmed. Almost blind from birth, he now had cataracts which just about obliterated his sight. Just about. During the pre-op waiting period guest did nothing constructive but had a funny little breakage/mess-making thing going. Hostess went to P.T. 3 times a week and K.P. 7 days a week. However, God is Good, surgery went well and we dined out departure eve. We asked questions that went to whether guest had needed assistance at home; guest asked what ever happened to Grandmother's vases - the German antique ones with the painted tulips on them. We were happily assured that guest would be fine at home. Guest was sad to hear vases must have broken. I reckon three times a week I exercised at P. T. while guest exercised at home - mine - snooping. Imagine if he could SEE? Those vases have beautiful irises painted on them. And the study and evaluation of antiquities is passionately absorbing. Later, L. . . .