Of Human Bandage

Just wanted to explain why I haven't written in a while. And, I don't have to tell YOU, dear reader, how TRUE that old saw "A picture is worth. . .". And truth be told, THAT amount/kind of Frolic can lead to Fatigue, Foot cramps, Phony explanations even.

I'll just 'fess up'. Frustrating interruptions are the villains. You know how it goes - If it's not an arm - or some such - it's an elbow. Indeed - and anon - I MUST tell you of a most distressing missive I received from a friend this week. To say it 'gave me pause' (and I don't mean the "mena" variety) would be bordering on rudely blithe. It seems that what was to be a long-awaited, well-deserved and chocked-with-chuckles family ski trip morphed into a painful, life-threatening, embarrassing 'slush show'. Did I mention painful? Broken limbs, six to eight-inch long pins, MONTHS of dreary recuperation - not even able to weight bear for SIX more weeks! And this dear soul, you wonder, with hungry curiosity? The Dougger. Doug Reidel. I just wanted to find that damned old CAP, get on a plane & lend a few 'practiced' hands in Columbus.

(Of course, while sitting at my desk, trying to find some words of comfort, potentially POSITIVE sequelae to such a "life-comes-to-a-screeching-halt" event, a ?soupcon of humor/irony? - my eyes (dragging my mind along) wandered to a framed poem, presented to me by my children, on the occasion of having my very own office. Started reading it - you know how your thoughts stray (Hell mine have gone missing for MONTHS!), I focused on their first two stanzas, the 'medical' memories of this Coda. To wit: "If I were a Cadillac/ I'd be pink with wheels of black./ A white ragtop and leather seats/ I'd sing with Jimmy in the heat.

If I were a nurse one day/I'd mend the heart/ wash tears away./ Hold the hand of people scared/ And comfort the souls of those who pray." And I thought, "Wow. Marge REALLY needs to hop into that car & groove with the Parrotheads. (Doug & Marge, you guys, I do believe, will in fact share a GRIN or two, when the one who penned most of this opus is revealed.)

I guess it reveals a lot about 1. our feelings about ageing (as far as we're concerned, we don't.) and 2. the classic "Father-Son" relationship, wherein the teacher often becomes the student; the kid "could never beat/keep up with the old man; the only difference between 52 and 26 is numerical. Because apparently 'Old Dougger' was still "young" Dougger but 'dem bones' were hiding a few surprises. Mr. Brittle was there carrying on high with Ms. Inflexibility; The Reaction/Reflex Twins were feeling feisty in tow; Fight AND flight had hung back at the lodge, laughingly insensitive to their respective responsibilities while all-too-enthusiastically sloshing toddies. And, to be sure "Blinding (bitch) Fear" totally OUT-GLARED the usually lovely "Sun-Induced (bleached) Squintess-of-the-Downhill" so Marge, daunted but devoted, could only bribe Mr. Willpower to enlist Ms. Action whilst nullifying the tip-toe-approaching Nausea Groupies. So when all was said and done - we could ALL hit our knees and say "a few" to St. Bernard et al.

(THAT kind of near-miss loses NOTHING in the re-telling. Again I was drawn to the framed things said: "If I took up writing verse/ It wouldn't have to be for purse./ I'd write with love, and thought, and pain/ I'd share my heart with the universe./ I'd write 'bout numbers and letters and lives,/ my writing style would be alive,/ Not in one place, two place, three,/ But on any page it wants to be./ With flair and muster, I'd pen a few, writing 'bout ones whom we once knew." Marge, best friend of my husband's favorite (of four) sister, Eileen, has been part of his family since the girls were in kindergarten and part of ours - through Eileen - for lo these 41 years. So, then, I guess - as my kids hinted - I write 'bout those I knew yesterday, today and tomorrow. Just recently, I used the salutation "My New Best Friend, Marge" in an email.)

Tough as it will be, these LONG, arduous weeks of recovery will be lightened by the love and relationships that are PRIMO in "the kids", ie, Marge's AND Eileen's. They are not just CLOSE, they are united by shared lives and the baggage (happy and sad) that they share. They'll visit, hang out, PUSH Marge & the Dougger through pitiful remorse (I'd give it 7 - 10 minutes) right into perseverance and the PRIDE worthy of hard-fought-for recovery. And they'll laugh - because they-are-FUNNY AND FUN and because the alternative nets you 'nada' and they're too SMART for that. The Dougger's rehab will be 'all it can be' and NEVER an "act". Not that 'strutting one's hour across a stage signifies nothing.'

(In "My Life According to My Offspring", I read how that works: "And if I chose to act on stage,/ My passion would be all the rage./ 'She made me cry.' the people'd say,/ and made them laugh for tricks next day../ I'd sing and dance for legion crowds/ or just a few,/ if it's allowed. /It wouldn't be for them, you see?/ It would be for ME to see. For if life's a play, and I'm on stage,/ then I'M the one to write the page/ of goods and bads to happen next./ You might say mine's a living text." Ah, Marge, you must be getting warm re: the largest contributor. (No pun but it's true in size) It's the God-child of Eileen (who gave the very EARLY instruction in elf-like devilry and Irish artistic humor and YOUR favorite drinkin', memory-lane-'n buddy in Cleveland.)

Now there is ALTERNATIVE assistance for the Dougger, Marge and Fam. We DO have "connections". Yes, Eileen WAS "fun and games" BUT - as we ALL know - both she AND her favorite brother only PLAYED after the 'brain work' was 'fait accompli'. In THIS instance, I'm certain - & know that Eileen's FOUR wonderful sons, friends as well to the Reidels - will agree that in a "blink" of a jaundiced, blurred but loving EYE, we can have an experienced, strong, faithful AND related aide 'in the house', cooking, cleaning, wershing AND executing the doctors' rehab orders relating to the Dougger. Marge's onus eases, Dougger is in capable hands and progress goes forth ALL THE WHILE obviating the need for that drudge of "all-work-and-no-play". Moreover, we are more than happy to help. Just say the word. (Pick any word you like.).

(I speak from experience here. Even as I gaze fondly at my framed, inchoate literary masterpiece, 'proud as PUNCH' of my little ones, I again pass along THEIR WISDOM: "I'd play with cards till hours dark/ Calling bluffs with winning spark./ I'd play the game of life, you see?/ with balls and chips - and cookbooks, too, / (although I'd rather BUY the stew!)/ I'd read and play and think and BE/ For that is what life IS for me.)

You simply need not worry another sec about the Dougger, Marge. You two have raised wonderful little 'copers' whose love, dedication and abilities will dovetail nicely with the "HELPER" whom we shall send forth. It will be like - well - EXTENDING the Fam!

(I KNOW, Marge, that you, like me, are the subject of these last poetic words of homage written from the hearts of babes: "And if I were a Mother, my name would be Lorane/ My life would be to catch the games/ and hold the hand and ease the pains/ of my OWN kids and others', too/ A mother's job is never through./ I'd help fix toys of wood and tin,/ hold my course through thick and thin./ For 'mothering's' a chore for some,/ For me, I'd play with more aplomb./ Life could throw me things for worse,/ but life goes straight, not in reverse./ I'd stay my course with passion strong,/ steering clear through right and wrong./ See, they could never break my back/ or drive my new pink Cadillac.")

There you have IT and you, and Dougger and the KIDS - ALL of them. And now, take a deep breath, relax and know that from this point forward, whilst the Dougger heals, you'll beam with your brood and enjoy the culinary (and OTHER) surprises of your NEW helper, a guardian angel who just HAPPENS to be ready, willing and able to fit in, white glove-like, perhaps in time to dec the house in merry GREEN!

Later, Lorane. . .. .

Reincarnation: Yes? No?

Do you ever just NOT want to play? Tired? A bit down? Wishing you were someone. . . .WHERE else? Tonight was going that way and then I

checked mail, started a neat chat with a favorite pal and - almost a BONUS - 'ran into' one of my nephews on Facebook. And Bingo I started feeling like my usual responsible, reliable, ln-touch-with-reality self. (Please see photo at left)
(One of the things - of all things - I spoke with my nephew about was literery references. And how he had just recognized one that I'd tossed out inadvertantly, actually reflexively as I had just re-noticed some recent photos of him. He was all duded up for his "Barristers' Ball" affair. Of course MY style of free association took me back - not to my law school days where the normal mind might venture - but to the Roaring Twenties-Dorothy Parker-Algonquin Table Set-quotes arena. Anyway, I suggested a little diversion. So whilst I drivel on about my strong affinity/familiarity with this Era, I'll toss out some literary tripe of the time and we can ALL play, "Who Said That?" Here we go: "I was an indifferent caretaker of my talents." That's the toss, not a glimpse of autobiography.)
As Mom worked, I had many babysitters - starting at an early age. My Grandpa was my favorite but I had a pretty, smart, athletic and very 'into' song/dance second cousin who frequently had the duty. And it was Joan - in truth Joanie - who taught me a slew of songs and the many and not-so-easy moves that went with the WONDERFUL Charleston. It was the BEST of History lessons and Joanie was an accomplished instructor. We'd 'do it up' withheadbands, feathers, long strands of pearls, MAKEUP. Whew! five, six, seven eight. . . .
("Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.")
We'd get books with lots of pictures from the library; I began reading more biographies of gals who were the real deal - Isadora Duncan, of course, although not "known" for her Charleston, was a particular favorite; go to Marx Brothers movies, hoping for a "ballroom scene"; I even learned about the Lah-Dee-Dahs who danced and played "in full dress" on the Hindenberg. It's true. Those people dined and danced and played "in style". so by the time I was in MY teens, I was all about Elvis and Motown and sock hops BUT, I saved all of MY extra earnings to go into the City and see a Broadway musical. Because THOSE people had "IT". Actually, "It" was a book by an English author, Eleanor Glyn, published in 1927. I submit, however, that this "quality" of 'IT' was around long before then. I guess Clara Bow was the 'official "IT" Girl, but 1. I don't believe it was restricted to women and 2. The quality was not acquired - "IT" was HAD or NOT.
("Would you like to sin/ with Eleanor Glyn/On a tiger skin/Or would you prefer/to err with her/on some other fur?")
I wanted and sought "IT". I've already mentioned the Marx Brothers. They certainly had "IT". But so did Fanny Hurst, Babe Ruth, Clare Booth Luce and charles Lindberg, to name a few. This strange quality attracts both sexes; the possessor is totally un-selfconscious, full of self confidence and indifferent to the effect they have on others. For me, the Charleston was the physical manifestation of these qualities - the movements say indeed require, reckless abandon of discipline and overdone structure. Look at Ernest Hemingway, Zelda Fitzgerald, Thomas Wolfe - yes, they were also usually drunk but with panache, "IT", if you will. They were also hugely talented and bright. Most contributed to Harpers and The New Yorker. They were even called "The Smart Set." They were also capable of the "lows" that were equal to their "highs." They suffered, one might say, at the hands of their talents. I was hoping I'd be able to skip THIS PART and just perfect that funky "knee-move" in the Charleston.

("These are the saddest of possible words:

'Tinker to Evers to Chance.'

Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,

Tinker and Evers and Chance.

Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,

Making a Giant hit into a double -

Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:

Tinker to Evers to Chance.")

As time went on and our lives moved along - Joanie married and moved to Peoria; I went to Georgetown, married a Hoya who still practices Emergency

Medicine because he didn't become the shortstop for the Pittsburgh Pirates; we
had four beautiful children and I ALWAYS sang Joanie's songs to them and made
certain they at least had the exposure to learn/love dance if they so
chose. And although I tried - hard - and loved and laughed alot, I couldn't
avoid the suffering. Had to make time for the pain. One of our
children was taken from us. It will always hurt. But I'll always
sing and dance and continue to teach our six grandkids the same "numbers".
Bye the way, are they the Kids who have "IT"!

(

("there's little in taking or giving,

There's little in water or wine;

This living, this living, this living

Was never a project of mine.

Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is

The gain of the one at the top,

For art is a form of catharsis,

And love is a permanent flop,

And work is the province of cattle,

And rest's for a clam in a shell,

So, I'm thinking of throwing the battle -

Would you kindly direct me to Hell?")

I still think I was a part of "IT" - The Jazz Age, Roaring
Twenties - the whole picture including the music and dancing. But at
times it presents a picture of nervous angularityI recall reading that Isadora Duncan suggested mating the
beautiful, creative people of the world - outside of marriage of course, thereby perpetuating the beautiful and creative. In fact, she wrote to
George Bernard Shaw suggesting the kind of children the two of them might produce, honestly expecting him to father one of her children. GBS was not to be the man.

("What if they had my beauty and your brains?")

A Little Night Magic

Oy. The last post I got up here was. . . well WASN'T what I'd intended. I was ATTEMPTING to introduce a "style" of column-writing that I used 'back-in-the-day' when I indeed wrote a regular, monthly column published by HAMPTON ROADS SURROUNDINGS MAGAZINE. The format was the execution of TWO different 'stories' running together (a Dorothy Parker specialty) distinguished by the main 'story' sans indicators while story #2 set off by parentheses & interspersed at intervals. Well. End result: dismal failure. Now in fairness to me, dear reader, a large part of the formatting failure was secondary to a computer virus. In fact, I couldn't use my trusty friend for several days and TLC by a competent tech. But i, too am to blame for not at least prefacing this awkward literary technique with a bit of warning/explanation.


So, by way of - it is hoped - remedy, I've elected to re-write a 'story' originally done in my column and utilizing that elusive but effective-when-you-get-it technique. It is about a REAL personality, popular in the 80's who did what I oh-so-envied: hosted a radio call-in news talk show. What follows, then, is nothin' but the truth.

A Little Night Magic from the Call-In Man

(Ham and wry from Charlie, the wizard of words who keeps half of Hampton Roads huddling around their radios half the night.)

First of all, scotch any rumors that Charlie Huddle is a fat, old inflammatory commentator. He's tall (6'5"), of medium build, and only forty-four. Perhaps expecting a Howard-the-Wolf-Cosell, one is instead faced with a warm, brown-eyed, bespecled 'panda' of a man who speaks slowly, deliberately, in a full, resonant voice.

"I'd rather be quoted than swooned over any day," he tells me so you can see that Charlie is just the boy who was cut out for interviewing and, more importantly, hosting a news talk show.

Now for some, a news talk show would rank as entertainment somewhere between a sprig of mint and a single roller skate. But the ratings of WTAR's "Call-In Show" would lead us to believe that those people would be in the minority. And the powers that be, showing a convincingly aristocratic disregard for the minority, went out on something of a broadcasting limb in their placing of Charlie Huddle at the helm of a four-hour call-in talk show, six nights a week.

In talking with Charlie, it is borne home that his is (at least) a dual career. But a choice had to be made for our purposes - such as they are - so you will be meeting Charlie Huddle, host of the "Call-In Show". That's how it must be. I will NOT discuss Charlie Huddle, the magician. Some other time, maybe. By no means a parvenu in the broadcasting arena - he was doing live interviews of restaurant patrons at The Green Derby in his hometown of Ivanhoe, Virginia when he was just a cunning little shaver of sixteen, Charlie has had a rather flamboyant track record which has had him hired and fired at least ten times in as many cities over the past fifteen years. The recurrent impedimenta to his tenure seem to be his strong anti-racist and anti-war sentiments and not-so-strong tendency to keep his opinions to himself.

In Charlottesville, during the late sixties and early seventies, he was fired nine different times - rather ceremonially - by WINA without actually leaving the station's employ. He was outspoken, abrasive, argumentative and had a little way of attending anti-war demonstrations and sit-ins and then refusing to disburse that got him arrested several times. You can see where that would make his employers edgy in Charlottesville although they were edgy in Minneapolis as well. He finally left Charlottesville for a variety of reasons he says - "advancement and more money in Minneapolis" plus a "small cadre of white supremacists " who had a little way of applying pressure to the station.

Charlie neither boasts nor laments his alleged approbrium. He likes to think of himself as successful - and not just successive - at what he does. He's interesting because he's interested. He's been an announcer, an actor - Shakespearean and non, a lighting and set designer, a welder, a farmer. His formal education was at UVA in engineering. Some type of Renaissance Man, is what we may have here, folks.

(I DO wish I could tell you about his magic act. You'd LOVE hearing him say, "When we do something like dividing a girl into six parts, we don't emphasize the cutting or the torture." Was I glad to hear that! Or about how he "did the buzz saw years ago and had actually contrived for it to throw a stream of tiny bits of blood and flesh out into the front rows.")

Enough of the past. Currently, the man is a monitor of sorts, plugged in to the people and events of Hampton Roads via those telephone lines. With a relaxed candor that is met with infrequently, he spoke of his callers and guests.

"Sometimes a caller is being such a buffoon that I just heap the most extravagant harshness on him." As the brands of buffoonery range from the idiopathic to the drug-and-alcohol-induced, one can extrapolate to the type and intensity of harshness. In the more serious discussions on politics and economics, he tries to avoid name-calling. This is especially true of race issues and peace and war. THERE run the long fibers of Huddle's prejudices! He concludes, "After you've called someone a racist, what remains of the conversation?" What indeed.

People DO go on. If, after Charlie says, "Go ahead. You're on the air," some caller counters with, "Stop me if you've heard this," the "Call-In Show" would be two instead of four hours. But they don't when he does, so it isn't. Even his guests often display too rich a gift for utterance. Charlie cuts them off - sometimes smoothly, sometimes not so.

"I feel an obligation to be civil to my guests . . . I don't invite what I consider to be 'garbage' into my studio." Elaborating on that point - with a furrow in his brow, his face assuming a slightly soiled look - he spat, "If I had had Robin Cook on when he said 'Andrew Young was Jimmy Carter's pet Coon', I'd have said 'You're garbage and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out'." He feels it would be more public-spirited of Cook and others like him to mail such comments to the zoo.

Rather than resort to unpleasant scenes and repercussions - apparently there were some doozies in South Boston and Minneapolis - he avoids having his 'bete-noires' on his show. Tom Johnson, President of the School Board, for example, will not have an invitation forthcoming. "If I voiced all my thoughts about or to him," Charlie allows, "he'd probably be able to sue and collect." Speaking of which, I asked him whether he was sometimes a little bit short of spontaneous, more guarded, HERE than in other cities. "Yes. I am. It would be a wrong thing for me to do otherwise. If I were to place (my employers) in an indefensible position. . . .I could bring down the castle." And, too, Charlie has his health to consider.

(If I WERE telling you about his magic, you'd see those other sides of Charlie - the puckish, the lyrical. But I must refrain. From telling you his favorite illusion is levitation. "I lean in the direction of having a beautiful girl in a diaphanous costume, stretch out full-length who floats in the manner of a person who would float when sleeping. . . . It's poetic, enchanting.")

We were talking about health. Charlie is genuinely impressed with the facilities and people in the medical profession in Hampton Roads. He is concerned, however with, "What would happen if the funding ever dried up?" He loves having doctors on the show to discuss such potential crises, although his invitations have been ignored of late. It seems lawyers are advising their clients NOT to go on talk shows. What physician, one wonders, would want to miss the opportunity of sparring with the caller who asked Charlie, "Would you agree that the AMA is a capitalist pig organization?" The shores of the Chesapeake Bay remain as moist as ever in the face of such observations. And I guess there would be takers but it was clear that nothing THAT caller said could detain Charlie past bus time.

And isn't THAT something that has this town a-whisper. Busing. His intensity HERE makes the Robin Cook thing sound like a sneaking, tip-toe performance. "I keep trying to tell myself that the School Board isn't villainous; isn't just like the 'old Norfolk Establishment' trying to re-segregate schools, but I can't make a case for them and they seem completely disinterested in making a case for themselves." Then, in an interesting glimpse of autobiography, he went on to say, "It's only because I'm too civilized, and old and tired, to bring myself to picket their homes and throw eggs at them." Furthermore, "As a parent, I would not have been able to get terribly excited about the inconvenience. It seems to me that busing is a tiny, tiny, tiny price to pay."

Charlie lives in an integrated section of Norfolk. He sees improvement in race relations in Hampton Roads but it is slow. "Each generation will be just a little bit better because the parents work so hard to inculcate the children.." By way of illustration he spoke of "a beautiful little black girl who rode past me on her bicycle the other day. She was smiling and when she reached me, she hissed, 'Mother . . . . . .!' That's so sad, you know? Because it wasn't a prank. It was hate."

While his emotional oil was running hot, he mentioned a few things around town that annoy him, although compared with what he calls "massive resistance" to integration, most other 'problems' leave the gentleman with hair unturned. He cavils with the Blue Laws which he sees as "ridiculous and contributory to the breakdown of law and order." He indicts religious groups in this area as well as in the horse racing and parimutuel betting in Virginia. Charlie LOVES horse people - not the underworld types and touts - and does NOT believe horse racing would bring an influx of criminals to the area. More strongly than his feelings about these issues, are those on interference by any large, too powerful, organized religion.

(Did you know that the rabbits used in the magic acts are of the same sex? So they don't get on one another's nerves? AND that they undergo negative training: ie, ". . .a fresh rabbit is better. It looks more bewildered and astonished.")

Having finished our probing into the people and life of Hampton Roads, Charlie began to wax philosophical. "I try to figure out what I really think about things rather than just what I SAY I think." He has, as a companion piece to THIS metaphysical inquiry, a favorite example. It has to do with species and how some are endangered. "In theory, although I value people more than animals, and there are very few imaginable cases where I would say a person and an animal are on a par, (AND THEY MIGHT BE???) I value species more than I value people in my hierarchy." I'm sure you're curious as to what brought on all of THIS bruhaha. Well, I had heard Charlie ask the question, "Given the choice, would you kill the last ten people or the last ten tigers?" He said HE would kill the people, preferably ones he did not know.

Now I yield to no one in my admiration for tigers as a species, but I was strangely comforted to be among the KNOWN in Charlie's life. I asked which ten people would make the job easier for him. He chuckled, as if to toss the query off as rhetorical but then added, "Well Tom Johnson and some School Board cronies would be primo candidates." He was laughing. And not to worry. We still have lots more than ten tigers around. Right? Remember, this is a guy who's good at what he does AND a guy who doesn't think it's bad to say something outrageous.

(He's also the guy who said, "This is what life IS for me - doing a magic show and getting a standing ovation which is honestly motivated." But that's another Charlie. . .uh. . .story.)

Hope ya 'got' it! L. . . .

Don't Move!

Seems like days since we last communicated. (Think it was EASY getting my cap back? Huh?) It's the PACE we keep these days. And I know you'll agree, dear reader, some days are "pace-ier" than others. Or SEEM to be. I mean who can remember when "hectic" becomes a way of life rather than a description. Here, in our little fam corner, we were all set for an axciting stream of 'Kodak Moments' as it was one of those RARE occasions when the entire crew would be in one place. By way of celebration as well as 'never-to-be-forgotten' group learning experiences, I had purchased tickets to a professional production, on tour, of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown". It was for the 2 P.M. Saturday performance. Our daughter Julie, having had time to settle-in with 2 year-old Mia by then, I thought two was a good time. Molly (6 and a half years very old) would have played her 9:30 A. M basketball game at the Y and been with cousin Emma ( 3.5 years and VERY excited) to dress-for-the-theater. We would meet at the theater, retrieve tickets and MAYBE have time for a 'bite' pre-curtain. It would be 'hurry-up-and-wait' but SO worth it.

(On a different note, that reminds me of today because it was more of a RARE 'wait-and-then-hurry-up' kind of occasion - the NOT exciting but 'oh-so-worth-it-nevertheless' annual mammogram. Screening for ANYone's potential cancer never shows up on a "favorite things' list but then. . . . I got there in a timely fashion - always a plus - and just have to say that it was the most UNUSUAL of experiences. I actually left the facility LAUGHING!)

As it turned out, we easily found parking close to the theater, Julie and I got a table & ordered lunch for us and Mia (that would be "yunch" for Mia), and Jen arrived with Molly and Emma just in time to share and squeal and squirm and SO on. They were color-co-ordinated) a totally desultory development), creatures of total 'theatrical' decorum - given the fact that they couldn't WAIT to see Charlie Brown but 'tolerated cheeseburgers sans childish 'theatrics', and conducted themselves with tolerance and patience (walk, stop, "smile girls!", snap, snap, walk , stop, "Stand with GiGi - Mia's still having a struggle with 'hard "g's" so we gave up on 'Grams' until she's 'there - ladies!", "and look at Mommy and smile!", snap, snap and I know you get THAT PICTURE) until we were FINALLY in the beautiful, deco, marble/plush carpeted Roper Theater - where Charlie Brown had been for HOURS, to be sure, waiting for them. (It's probably only fair to say, at this juncture, that Mia LOVES and is quite the devotee of Charlie & the gang. Venue, you may fairly ask? She watches the ANIMATED cartoon productions on cable TV. And Emma is an equally loving follower - and a precocious, tenacious reader. She is also completing her FIRST year of "Creative Movement" a wonderful combination of "Introcuction to Ballet and Tap" incorporated with musical theater components. Molly, a three-year veteran of ballet, tap and jazz who is deleriously excited about adding "Musical Theater" to her repertoire next year AND is Big Sister to 3 year-old Patrick, had a 'trunkful' of 'smell-of-the-greasepaint'-reasons to get her 'Playbill', to her seat and a real-life gander at the 'gang' dancing and singing - on stage, live - as Charlie and his friends. Good Man, indeed!

(And you know the folks who man the mammogram department at the hospital are more than "good". They are very special. They are acutely aware that those entrusted to their care will have with them emotions that run the gamut from dispassionate 'sense of duty' to emotional stability-stripping, all-encompasing FEAR and - often 'WITHOUT THEM' proper proof of identification, insurance, a sense of comity or courtesy stemming from the former - such that this 'staff' must be willing, accepting, loving, understanding, gentle and, if at all poossible, reassuring to the point of changeing fear into forbearance - freedom, even, from distress. Well, unfortunately, today the beginning of the process was snagged, causing delay. The (very dear lady) in charge of the registration/recordation of one's profile, ie, "who are ya and how're you gonna pay", information, was not familiar with one of my insurance payors and it took a while to render this data valid and "enter" it in the proper order. I was fine. No pressing appointments until physical therapy in almost 3 hours - necessary after the merry "exposure-to-the-Arts" weekend).

Upon entering the theater - having departed the lobby - we set about snagging some GOOD self-seats. Center, orchestra had availability - as well as a great view of the orchestra pit with its inhabitants busy tuning, testing, page-flipping which got MIA'S attention for a bit before she noticed that THE thing to be doing was leafing through the program - like her 'big cousins were doing. Jennie had entered the row first so she was at 'stage-right-guard, while Julie assumed 'stage-left-guard' with GiGi in the aisle seat. While the Moms used had signals and "mouthing" of key words to exchange information re: what diversionary props (edible & non) they each had secreted in their respective purses, GiGi wondered whether they served alcoholic libations at intermission. Julie asked me, "What's the over/under on making it to Intermission?", thereby dashing my hopes of any LIQUID relief. She then (as the little thespian-ytes seemed to be getting into some seat-changeing, stand-up/sit-down, drop-stuff-on-floor movement) inquired of the VERY patient, seemingly-bemused, patrons in the row behind us, "Betcha didn't know you'd payed to see THIS show, too, right???"

("We'll start with the right.", from the very competent technician. You see, finally, paperwork/legitimacy-litmus-tested activity completed, a pleasant, cheerful, Donna called my name. I gathered my "stuff" and followed her 'back' to the undressing area. We were good. No deodorant, oils, whatever. Just don gown - which opens in the front (NO!) & come out when you're ready. OK's all around. "Did you bring a purse?" (BRAIN: No. Just all of my ID cards stuffed in my bra. MOUTH: "Why, yes." "Well, you'd best bring that with you.") And we trundled down to the computerized-to-the-max 'imagery' suite.)

We were two minutes from 'curtain' and I prayed that as the house lights came down, the stage lights would contemporaneously come up. We were still dealing with 'scared-of-the-dark' issues in our group and GiGi, for one, would have a bona fide panic attack if those engineers didn't respect the fact that it is de rigueur to maintain a lighted ambience during performances for children. But they were bright - the engineers. And no one had to endure a theater going 'black' pre-"SHOWTIME, FOLKS". Now - in order of AGE - Mia squinted in that "What the . . .?" way when the cartoons did NOT appear on this epic-sized TV; Emma, lover of music & movement, gave it about 15 munutes before telling Mommy, "This is fun! I'm gonna go up and dance WITH them; Molly, eyes huge, entranced, smiled dreamily and laughed/applauded appropriately. The Moms fidgeted - but watched the show. GiGi was enamored of the quality of the whole schtick - actors, sound, choreography, score, lighting. The people behind us seemed entertained - and quietly so. Of course all manner of goldfish, Puffs, whatever, were consumed, spilled enjoyed. And everyone - albeit at varying and different times - laughed, clapped, climbed, danced etc., randomly but truly enthusiastically. At one point, Julie whispered, "We-re sitting in those empty seats to the left for Act II. If we're here."

("Here we go. It's really amazing. The radiologist will be able to pull up LAST year's digital of the right and it will be on the same screen as this year's. OK. Now just relax - (BRAIN: You have just locked my right boob in a VERY strong vice.) - and "DON'T MOVE." (BRAIN: You're KILLING me. Who the H___? What moron would/could MOVE under these circumstances?? Huh?") "OK." She approached to change the machine's angle; explained why; RE-CLAMPED right boob; walked to safety of non-radiated imagery area to say, "Here we go. Now just relax and DON'T MOVE!". As she appoached to get going on the other side, I lost it. "What's so funny? "Well every year - and I'm a former nurse, I can't help but wonder who writes your script? I mean "Don't MOVE?" "Oh, you'd be surprised. Your 'gum chewers. Did you know your whole body moves when you're chewing gum?' (BRAIN: "How about a 'No gum chewing during exam" sign?) MOUTH: "Right. Didn't think of that." And then she actually rambled on - with consumate 'perk' (this staff is nothing if not perky.) about the many OTHER REASONS women 'move' during the exam. I focused with every fiber of determination on NOT moving because I was laughing. (Not yet on her list). Bottom line in mammo suite: DON'T MOVE.")

And Intermission came. And conferences were held in the lobby. Decisions made. Julie would take Mia and Emma (who WOULD have made it to the end but NOT without Mia) and Jennie, Molly and GiGi would remain for Act II. Bottom line in Live Theater. When taking three very bright, talented, cute, entertaining grandpeeps to see "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown": Delegate to the "good other, real MEN in the family." They can handle ANYTHING. They're just 'naturals'.

Later. L. . . .

Don't Move!

Don't Move!

Don't Move!

"Where's my CAP, Millie." or Lorane, RN (Part II)

We were being thrown to the 'lions' you may recall (although I dare say our representative Millie, here - even yellowed with age - has something of a ;kitten quality; about her). And 'Red Riding Hood' was straightening her cap and some things out. I barely heard Clara's droning account of the night shift so RIVETED was my focus on the room. There were monitors, respirators, tubes, tubes, tubes. They sprang from noses, curled out of urethras, burst from chest walls, drifted into veins and out of arteries. Seven lives were "in here." Eight, counting me. Clara exited, on, "No aide today, sweetie."

I made solo, solemn bedside chart-rounds. Four of the five UNCONSCIOUS patients had been in this "unit" for months, monitored and maintained after sustaining irreversible brain damage. Leaning over the first of them, I took Mr. Goldberg's cold hand into mine and whispered dire ctly into his ear. "I'm Miss Clarke. I'll be taking care of you today (and who will take care of ME tomorrow?) and make you as comfortable as possible. This litany was repeated with the other three, while checking the artificially regular heart and breathing rates keeping time in their waltzing chests. Pupils stolidly fixed, finally dilated. That they could not respond was obvious. But I believed they could perceive. No one had proven otherwise.

Next up (or not), Frank Ryan. "Mr. Ryan, you were sleeping when I came in. I'm Miss Clarke." He looked like Stan Laurel, frail body resting on a Stryker Frame - special bed; rotated 180 degrees so you could flip the paralyzed body, sandwiched between two stretchers, then remove the top one from the back once landing-on-the-abdomen was safely completed. Frank's buttocks were now two gangrenous cavities - testimony to a time when he was NOT being turned. I assured him his dressing change/wound treatment would be the FIRST thing I did after completing 'rounds'. From his gaunt, stubbled face, his eyes shined. "Miss Clarke, I'm 'Frank'."

"Frank it is. would you like to stay on your back for a while this morning, look around?"

"Oh, how nice. . . .if you have the time," he added apologetically.

Joe Kazinski was next to Frank. No tubes. No machines. Just smiling at me from under his sheet - which was tied to the bed at all four corners. A broad forehead and black, handlebar mustache made his dark, good looks seem aristocratic.

"Clarke, " he said. "Nursie Clarke." Then as if to introduce himselt, he said, "I'm FINE!" And he winked. Skimming his admit notes, I learned he was initially treated for a concussion - subsequent to a fall. Currently, his diagnosis was "Rule out Organic Brain Syndrome." Apparently, he'd remained confused, disoriented LONG after his injuries healed. This "chronic" degenerative brain disease was being entertained. There were orders for restraints and sedation but he demonstrated no need for "critical" care, as I understood the term.

"Mr. Kazinski, have you been in the hospitalk. . ."

"Joe. Call me Joe. Or Zhivago. The supervisor calls me DOCtor."

"Joe, who is the President of the United States?" He lifted his head and squinted around the room.

"He's not in HERE. Nope. You must've missed him."

"I'll help you with your tray when it comes up, Joe."

"NEver eat before a game. But I'll be glad to help you." He was taking orders, now. "What'll it be? Just juice and coffee? We got HOT danish, today, boys."

Turning to check on the newest admission, I noticed the policeman, sprawled on a low lounge chair wedged between the bed and the wall. Arms folded across his dark blue, wrinkled uniform, hat covering his face, with head back, he slept. I thought "How did I miss THIS?" The patient's chart had a pink sticker on the front announcing, "Twenty-four-hour surveillance - N.Y.P.D" Above it, his ID: Warburton, Michael; Age: 18; Dx: Multiple Trauma/Cerebral Hemorrhage. As with his fellow unconscious patients, Michael was only alive because of the respirator. However, in this case, the admitting doctor's notes indicated his losses were "temporary."

A long, muscular youth, his body was curled into a fetal position. Head shaved, a small dressing denoted the point at which the surgeon had drilled into his skull to stop the bleeding. His bruised, swollen face was contorted, set in a grimace - one that reflected the grotesque images of the cold nightmare he was enduring, of the scenes. . . . and the I realized I was just STANDING THERE, STARING, with everything I had to DO! Pulling back his sheets, I saw that he was tied to the bed at wrists and ankle and had a wide canvas strap securing his motionlessbody to the bed. "Michael," I began, "You're in the hospital. Thesere was an accident. You MUST WAKE UP!"

Then I gently extended his arm. It immediately sprang into a flex that slammed his fist into my neck. He was refexively combative.

"Shouldn't get too close," the cop spat. I had finished what had to be done to Michael and walked around the bed to confront his 'keeper'.

"WHY is Michael under surveillance?" He looked at Michael, at me, at his shoes. Then, with disgust coloring his rsponse, "Warburton's a hit-and-run. Ran a stop sign and hit someone." He paused, awaiting an answer. Getting silence, he continued,

"Hit a NURSE. She's CRITICAL!" "I see," I said dismissively while turning away. "And hope YOU see you could have had TWO 'critical' nurses if his neck chop hadn't been blunted by my quick movement away. And YOU just sat there!"

"He-is-a-CRIMINAL. And I get paid ONLY to make sure he ain't goin' nowhere."

Enough. I got to work - quickly, efficiently, against the predictable backdrop of machinery cacaphony. Monitors beeped 70 to 90 heart squeezes per minute. I knew what 60 or 100 would sound like. And the respirators - hiss/click, hiss/click, hiss/click - 5 variations on THAT theme and I didn't even have to look up to know that the right amount of breathing was going on. An orchestra conducted electrically. A band that performed while nobody played.

After bathing, changeing & turning Frank, "Both areas look angry now, Frank. But I think with regular care and turning, we'll get you back into a real bed before long."

"Miss Clarke, do you know who's playing in the World Series?" I bent to put his bath things away. "But I'll find out." Now standing, "And I'll see what I can do to get a barber up here." But Frank was fast asleep.

Joe ate unassisted while I got the morning care of the others going. I was starting to panic as "morning" duties were becoming "afternoon" chores. (Their dead weight was hard to maneuver alone.) Visiting hours were from 2 to 4 and I wanted time to spend with what I thought would be a desponded group. Finally, I GOT TO Joe, who'd been observing my rushed ministrations all morning.

"Here, Nursie. Let me help you turn George." "Thanks, Joe. I'm fine. . . .Uh, Joe, will you be able to stay in bed if I don't tie ALL 4 cxorners of your sheet?" (I had really struggled to undo the knots in his sheets,)

"Well, of course. Unless I'm going out. If I'm going out, I have to get out of the bed." Actually, I'd been told the measure was taken to prevent his falling OUT of bed, Probably from a time when he was more heavily sedated, weaker. Siderails will be sufficient, I mentally decided.

"Joe, you just tell me if you want to get out of bed."

"Sure. Sure, I'll tell you. You know I LOVE to play in the World Series. Frank is right, Nursie Clarke. I mean we SHOULD DO something."

Hiss/click, hiss/click. COMMUNICATE; REACH THE PATIENT. RESPECT HIS INDIVIDUALITY. HA! IT'S 2:30 AND WHAT HAVE I DONE? Hiss/click. EVERYONE IS CLEAN, HAD THEIR MEDS, TREATMENTS, WERE FED BY MOUTH OR TUBE. AND EXCEPT FOR FRANK, AND POSSIBLY JOE, THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW IT. I'M CHECKING VITAL SIGNS BUT THERE ARE VERY FEW SIGNS OF VITALITY. Hiss/click. Hiss/click. I HAVE TO BE BETTER ORGANIZED, THAT'S IT. TOMORROW. . . .

I made a list of calls to make after report: Joe, Frank and Michael should have physical therapy; (muscles waste from lack of activity); Dietician for Frank - things he can safely eat in a prone position; the barber; Social Services. (WHY had there been no visitors?) housekeeping - Joe could use an armchair. I just then looked up and through the glass partition of the nurses' station & saw Joe talking to Mulvehill. (Well THAT'S one call I won't have to make. You're not getting out of here today without promising me an aide!) Then I finished report notes.

"You seem to have everything under control." Mulvehill's porcine bulk filled the doorway. She'd startled me but I started my pitch.

"I was just jotting down some thins I . . ."

"You're not having any trouble with Kazinski, are you?" I thought he must be a pet. And she was leaving! Panicked, I shouted her name, started an approach and stumbled. She stared at me which gave me the time/nerve to regain balance/sense of reason, for

"I MUST have an aide tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do," she threw back over her meaty, cold shoulder.

It was 5 o'clock when I was finally ready to leave. I'd given report at 3 to a wary and disinterested LPN. Then I made detailed notes in each patient's chart and my calls. Only the evening dietician could be reached. She referred me to the day staff. Thoroughly frustrated, I went home. My frustration sank into depression, spiced by fatigue. After a hot bath and boullion, I sat in bed with a legal pad, mapping out the next day's strategy. It was a sterling Nursing Plan. Damn-it! I'll be lucky to get one third of it done! Critical care? Come come. How about "custodial" or, worse, "criminal" care. And then I spid a framed needlepoint Connie had made for me. "Those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad." I laughed. And scouredstorage boxes until I found an old trasistor radio. "This is for you, Frank. I'll be damned if I'll let your mind rot along with your ass!"

The gods smiled the next day. I had an aide, Mattie. We did the baths and linen changes together, brisquely. Mattie sulked. I ignored her. When we'd finished with Frank, I sent her on a ten-minute break. The woman had seemed nervous - especially around Joe. "Apparently, his charm is eluding you, my dear" I thought. I poured the sugar and Gantrisin mix into the holes on Frank's buttocks and left him using his urinal (which was strapped to the under-side of his stretcher - listening to his radio.

Then on to Michael - who had to be turned. Officer Heeley had made it clear that he had NO intention/obligstion to assist me, so I stood on the arm of his cushy chair, having let the siderails crash merallically down, and boosted myself to a kneeling position from which - now ON Michael's level - I could lean over to roll him toward me. Then. A moan. I looked up, listening. Hiss/click times 5 and, yes, Frank was moaning. Mattie had turned the crank, flipping his body & thus flooding his body with the contents of his urinal. I was there in seconds. Too many to prevent Frank's getting a mouthful.

"Get OUT!" Mattie fled. I helped Frank with some oral cleansing. Then we heard chuckling. Joe, sitting in the lotus position on his pillow, observed, "You're pissed off. Frank'

s pissed on!" Finally, Frank grinned back and I somehow allowed myself to relax.

"Joe, I don't know what we'd do without you."

(Indeed, having learned that the supervisor called him "doctor", I'd asked Jack the origin of THIS sobriquet. Jack just laughed, He was remembering that day when the barber,mhired by the city, was bored and feeling naughty - and had recently seen the hit movie "Dr. Zhivago" - decided Joe needed an Omar Sariff mustache. The resemblance was SO stunning, folks began calling Joe Dr. Z, then just "doctor." Guess Joe thought it MORE than appropriate and started accompanyi ng the attendings and residents when the 'rounded'in the "Unit". Jack said you'd hear, What doe Dr. Zhivago think we should do? and Joe ALWAYS HAD a serious suggestion. It really was hard NOT to like Joe.)

"Would you like to sit in your chair and listen to the radio with Frank?"

"Sure. Sure, I love to listen to Frank. When I'm not busy."

In a way, I was pleased. Joe's response to the situation, all things considered, had beenappropriate and timely. Might even be worth mentioning it to the 'other' doctors. Having fallen hopelessly behind schedule after righting Frank's wrongs, I went back to Michael, mounting the bed more vigorously this time, pulling him onto his back. With the sudden movement, Michael's knee swung up forcefully into my abdomen. I collapsed on top of him, his freed arm locked around my neck. Heeley just WATCHED and my hatred of him gave me strength. I struggled free & used Michael's body to push myself off the bed.

"Don't tell me what your job is, Heeley. You restrain his arm ior I'll report your . . . ."

A new and cold emotion gripped me - FEAR. SOMETHING, what is it? MISSING? DOESN'T BELONG? Hiss/click, Hiss/click times . . .4? I distinctly heard FOUR respirators - and now a low buzz - that terrifying buzz of a straight line going across an ascilliscope. I SCANNED THE ROOM. THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE. THEY'RE ALL ON AUTOMATIC TRIGGER. THEY DON'T TURN OFF! And then I saw Joe - he saluted, proud, teacher's pet. And to his right - Mr. Goldberg and silence.

"I fixed it, Nursie. You see - I just pulled this plug here. . . .and that noise stopped. My pleasure, Nursie." Running to Mr. Goldberg, I fought a violent shaking.

"No! Mr. Goldberg. No. How long. . . When did he. . .?" Thrusting the plug back into its socket, I heard, Hiss/click, click, click, click. The lungs were rigid, resisting the pressurized gas. I thumped his chest vigorously a few times. Then I was on the bed, straddling him, doing - what I knew was futile - massage. Hiss/ click, click, click, click. Finally, someone's hands were around my waist. Heeley set me down and silently walked back to his chair.

"Mr. Goldberg has expired. It was the frosty voice of Mulvehill as she disconnected the respirator plug - again.

I sank down on Joe's bed beside him. "It's okay, Nursie. I'm always happy to help. . . ."

"No. Joe, Mr. Godberg expired because. . ." and I was being force-led to the Nurses' Station bt Mulvehill as she spoke through a nauseating, clenched grin, "Dob;t you think we should talk while phoning in our report?"

Once seated, the supervisor smiled briefly, unctuously through the glass at Joe and then addressed me, tutorially, impersonally,

"Not everyone ARRESTS, Ms. Clarke. "People die." She began to smooth stray hairs back from my brow.

"Mr. Goldberg is better off. You mustn't upset yourself." I raised my eyes and saw Joe - grinning at the face that was above and behind mine. He held his fist with his thumb pointing toward the ceiling in a winning gesture. I heard,

"You must learn to handle these things, dear." and I saw, reflected in the glass, the fat face nodding approval to Joe.

My GOD! This is daemonic! I shoved the chair back into Mulvehill's belly, standing to confront her. She never budged. I searched the sober moonface for some sign of emotion - fear, anger, shame - anything that might alter the sinister possibility - inchoate and repulsive - that was emerging from my messy thoughts. There were none. I forced myself to demand,

:Has Joe ever done this before?"

Undaunted, she calmly said, "I'll finish up in there. Mattie and I can give report. You had better. . . "

"Is THAT why Joe is IN there?"

"You may be interested to know there's been an opening in Critical Care. . ."

"And then again," I countered fiercely, "I may NOT be interested." I spun, walked out feeling relief, sorrow, hope and - most of all - the THRILL of averting a VERY close call - and headed for Frank. "Good luck, Ms. Clarke." and I squeezed his hand. Then I looked at Joe. He smiled broadly.

"Goodbye, Joe." He put his head down and smiled sheepishly,

"Then you won't marry me?"

I stared at him for a few seconds, "God HELP you! There is NOTHING I can do here." Going down in the elevator, I realized my cap had fallen off during the commotion.

"I'll get a new one. And I'll practice nursing in a place where they practice Medicine!"

"Where's my CAP, Millie." or Lorane, RN (Part I)

I received another reminder email from the coordinator of our 45th "GUNS '66 (Georgetown University School of Nursing, Class of 1966) Reunion". Joan was recalling that while we were doing our psychiatric rotation at Walter Reed Hospital -where they treated our military's sickest of the sick - I had suggested she audition for the University's annual musical production. She did, got a part and met her husband of 44 years - also a member of the cast. I was ruminating about my first job after graduation - back home in NYC.

I peeled my nurses' cap off the refrigerator door. It was the first step in what had become a ritual of preparation and, that day, prelude to the commencement of a career. In 2 hours I would report for duty as a registered nurse. The cap had been scrubbed then soaked in a starch solution and finally spread carefully onto the door - all wrinkles kneaded into disappearance - to dry and stiffen overnight. It felt good - hard and stiff, ready to take on its winged shape. It was five A.M and the night still had a tentative grasp on the apartment. Only the fluorescent beam from the oven door shot through the shadowy room to where my hands worked deftly, creasing, folding and securing the fabric with relentless little studs. I placed a rolled sock into each of the wings to discipline curves into submission.. Then, for the first time, I affixed the narrow blue-over-gray grosgrain ribbon which sliced the white span horizontally announcing its wearer was a graduate. I slipped the cap into its plastic bag and shuddered. "What if I can't handle it?"

An hour later I was walking quickly to the subway (there is only ONE pace in 'the city' - "quick") bound for Queens and one of the city's largest city-owned hospitals, Elmhurst General. The "zoo", her former roommate, Connie had called it. Trundling under the East River, I thought of my interview. I'd been appalled by the woman's appearance. Miss Mulvehill was a cartoon of all of the short, plump supervisors I'd ever met. Her yellowed, long-sleeved uniform seemed to strain at the task of containing the abundance of lipoid tissue, which, if ever freed, would roll back and down, slamming her dyed-red curls into the wall behind her chair. Leaning forward on ink and grease-stained elbows, her mass was firmly anchored by the voluminous, pendulous breasts which gripped the blotter upon which my application risked envelopment.

"Interested in Critical Care.," she asked impassively. My trim figure was so tensed I hardly needed the chair from which I leaned forward in confrontation.

"Coronary Care, actually. We had a very progressive program at Georgetown, as you may know, and I . . . "

Ms. Mulvehill thrust her meaty lower lip out and down and slowly slid her finger across its moist surface. Hesitating just a second - to focus on her target - the wet nub then impressed itself on the application, an assist to the movement that would flip the pages to where my assignment would be scratched. Exhaling her interruption, I heard,

"What makes you think you'd like critical care?" I smiled: enthusiasm conquers annoyance.

"Oh Ms. Mulvehill. It's such a CHALLENGE. Those patients are SO fragile, vulnerable and frightened by their illness. And the MACHINES. We forget how threatened they are by the machines. There's such a . . .a RISK of depersonalization. We, I mean the NURSE must keep the patient's individuality in the forefront. (I know. I'd like to slap me shut, too. We were just sooo programmed.) Of course the doctors are SO busy. And the families - loved ones are too often shut out." (BRAIN: SHUT UP!) She had allowed her squeezed eyes to study me during this diatribe. They reported thick, chocolate hair, eased back into a bun at the crown, high cheekbones, walnut eyes framed by thick brows, glazed lips, barely tinted coral and even, 'Chicelet' teeth. She thought, "She's got a ball on the tip of her nose, and on HER it's cute." Reaching for her pen, she scribbled in a manner that precluded recourse. Noticing the definitive move, I heard my voice grow thin as I concluded. Then, speaking as she wrote,

"There are no openings in Critical Care at the moment. You'll be working on N-6. Report is at 7. I think you'll find the experience invaluable." My train of thought completely de-railed, I fought for the presence to ask a pertinent question. "At the moment?" What does that mean. Would there be an opening in a few weeks? By Christmas" Next summer? When? Mulvehill was not inclined toward elaboration. I thought, "She's right. I need a job - now. And the experience."

"N-6. Is that a Med-Surg Floor?" She glanced up and beyond at the wall clock, then rested her gluttonous gaze on a rusted lunch pail which dominated her cluttered desk.

"N-6 is Neurology-Neurosurgery. Call me if you're having any problems."

The train screamed to a halt and I bolted for the doors, aware I'd almost missed my stop. Tried to calm myself as I walked (quickly). "The first day of ANY job is always rough. I'd be even more of a mess if I were starting in Critical Care. Mulvehill did me a favor. I need time to get used to their routines. But Neuro! The damage is so OFTEN irreversible. It's so. . . long-TERM. But now I'm a graduate. More time to REACH people, coax them out of their oblivion. Time. We'd had too many conferences, interruptions. But NOW."

"Did you want six?" snapped a stranger in scrubs. "Six? Six what? . . .Oh, sorry, half asleep," as I backed out of the elevator. Squinting, I approached a deserted Nurses' Station. Noting the disarray of metal charts, lab slips and medication cards, I proceeded to a door marked "Lounge". Must have had a busy night. Maybe an arrest. I hung my coat in a tall, narrow metal locker. The room was "done" in late dirty, torn, unkempt distress-type decor topped with some variety of eating, drinking and smoking debris. Having secured my ("the") cap, I blessed myself and marched out to the patient area. Closing the door behind me, I was staring into a pair of dull, brown eyes about four inches from my own. "I'm Brite. You must be Clarke. C'mon, I'll show you the floor."

I followed the chubby, shuffling frame, fascinated by the black woman's shoes. They plopped. The backs of the laced, white oxfords were pressed in and flat, the feet resting on a now-opened surface, like a bedroom slipper. The brief spell was broken when I started choking on the air. The combo of Pine-Sol and urine stung the sinuses, watered the eyes. (Have not used Pine-Sol to THIS VERY DAY) Steeling myself, I asked the back of Brite's head,

"How many beds on this ward?"

"We got forty beds on this ward. This here is the treatment room," as she kept plopping. Stopping, I pushed the door open a bit. Then. I gasped and smacked my hand so hard against my mouth, my lips were already puffing out.

"Ms. Brite," spoken deliberately and to no one, "this man is dead." The corpse - no covering or ID tag - had been parked for a while, so hard and set were the open eyes and mouth. Closing the door, I caught up with Brite.

"Ms. Brite, you DO realize. . . "

"Jack, here, is the night orderly. Clara's the night charge. We'll make rounds with them and get report." Jack chewed a toothpick, Clara a donut and I my now-swollen lip as we walked to the end of the ward. From the faded-green, rusted, metal beds, the glassy, glazed, confused, unfocused eyes of some twenty-odd human beings stared. Most were diapered, drooling and disoriented.

"What's the current census, Brite?" I was hoarse, stunned by this suffering montage.

"Don't know."

"Jack?"

"ROUND . . .uh . . .thirty-five."

My thoughts sizzled. Around? Well I guess it would vary. We'd just passed two unmade, vacant beds. Their occupants. . . . down in x-ray? Out for breakfast? In the closet? And what about that guy in the treatment room? Isn't anybody going to SAY anything?

"Excuse me, Clara." She stopped, head down, tapping a bed footrail with her pen.

"What happened to the patient in the treatment room?"

"Spired."

Bristling, "I can SEE that he's expired, Clara. Was it during the night? What happened. . ."

"Don't know. He 'spired on evenings and they put him in there. We didn't have time to take him to the morgue."

My thoughts continued their hot race. Don't KNOW? Dear GOD! Poor man probably couldn't take it any more, stole down there - easily un-noticed - and, after clumsily hoisting himself onto the stretcher, blissfully dropped dead. A zoo.

We'd reached the Nurses' Station again. I was making some mental care plans when Brite said, "You'll be in here."

"In here" was a room contiguous with the nurses' station. I'd noticed it in passing. The door had been closed. Thought it was a conference or med room. Brite was gone and Clara lounged on the door jamb for,

"This is Neuro's 'tensive care'," the way a centurion might tell a Christian, "These are cats."

Don't know about y'all, but I'm thinking (I lied. Actually, I've made a decision.) that the COMPLETE title of this post was left off - inadvertently, to be sure. Following "RN" I neglected to type: "Part I ". And I know you'll enjoy "Part II" - hard to imagine, but there's some funny (tho at the time 'black funny') stuff to come that you'll not want to miss. (Of course there have been times I've wished I HAD; just a very few, TEENY times) So then, Later, L. . . .

Nary a Word was Spoken

Just got a wonderful-scary-Enuff!-info-mail from a dear friend. It was a Public Service type of info-sharing dealing with "Smart Phones" - color me oh-so grateful- to be the humble owner of a very DUMB one - and some, a smattering I should imagine, of the perils which they are capable of inflicting on their smart owners. Perish any/all rumors that this writer is/was ever described (with accuracy) as an alarmist. I have far too much respect for the neurotic among us. Indeed when it comes to SELF respect, I confess to being an abject egotist in this arena, ie, the pain of neuroses and I are/have been in a life-long "affair". (. . .five, six, seven, eight SEGUE!)

You see, quite literally, I fear, the daily affairs of one's life become PUBLIC fodder, in-the-world's-face, EVERYONE'S business, just by pressing a button. It's that special button that these special SmartPhones apparently have that (PRESTO!) take a PICTURE which the smart owner can then immediately 'share' (a word I swore off of with the birth of our first grand child. Grams taught 'sharing' & its value to HER children; they can teach it to THEIRS) with one and all. And it seems, ALL is taking facile advantage of this 'Smart' feature. NO MORE SECRETS, FOLKS. EVERYBODY plays/shares. Thus the illustration. Mom & junior share chores. Mom and the world share junior and ALL of Mom's affairs. Just by using your 'Smarts'. Because wherever these casual snaps show up - electronically, the viewer right-clicks ('New-Age' verb), selects "Properties", records the URL ("New-Age noun) and visits same. Before you know it, Smart owner has company - and maybe even 'mail', too!

Pictures. You know the cliche. "Thousand words. . ." Started me recalling. (Surprised?) Had a kitchen window like that, once. Actually for around 25 years. We'll call it my SmartWindow. After marriage & baby # 1, you may recall we landed in Hampton Roads. Bought our 'starter mansion' (white brick, 2-story, 2-BR, black-shuttered number) near the big teaching hospital in West Ghent, Norfolk. Lived there 4 yrs. NEVER got furniture for the living room or dining room. All the kids played at our house. Soooo much space to run around in - on wall-to-wall carpeting, no less. And I did theater, made 'friends', watched their doctor/lawyer/Indian-Chief marriages fall apart - affairs & booze - even started jogging. (In my dotage, I can see now how metaphoric THAT little undertaking was. I was running away from THAT SCENE.) Finally blessed, after ? miscarriages w/ a viable pregnancy, we needed a larger house. (See, you should NEVER "rush in" and furnish a house. You NEVER know when you'd have wasted $ b/c it wouldn't work in a different, properly-sized home.) Our new - and what would be our 25-yr. address: 1125 Westover Avenue. Close to the hospital, Catholic church AND school, populated with young families - future playmates - 4 bedrooms, basement, attic AND buildable 2nd lot behind the main house.

We'd had 'den' furniture and a new den; bought dining room furniture, a breakfast room table & chairs, 'big-boy' furniture for Philip & set up the "nursery" for our second-born, Julie. The living room WAS empty - again - but then there came that show with Pat O'Brien so we quickly purschased a sofa & 2 chairs to plop down on the lovely Pakistani carpet Phil had brought back from his tour with the Commodore. Whew! FA-TI-GUE, TRES FA-TI-GUE! But this time, post-partum (I'd weighed 186 lbs. when we delivered Philip and 176 when Julia made HER Lamaze, posterior-lie entrance) I was determined to whip into shape, Back to jogging and took up racquetball! It was ALL the rage. We had a new "Downtown Athletic Club". We were charter members. I took exercise classes 3 x/wk (there was a manned nursery) and lessons. LOVED it! (Terrified of bees/wasps so the white, pristine, INDOOR racquetball courts were my metier.) I played whenever & with whomever I could. (Once I was in a tournament and had made it to the last round. Soooo excited. Looked @ the elim board & my opponent was NOT the feared-newly-divoed-newly-svelte-always-adorable & super-athletic Helen, but chunky-tres-old-$-ubiquitously-toting-can-of-"TAB"- Bridgette, mother of "Trip", with whom I had no relationship, shared interests or raquetball experience.

Well, en route to our appointed high noon play-off, I was aware of acute, severe, low back pain. Apparently didn't hide it well. Served, lost first point and Bridgette retrieves and ROLLS the ball to me. I WILLED THE PAIN AWAY. AND WON MY DIVISION! (That New Year's Eve we had the BEST party. At the "Club" playing raquetball. And I FINALLY beat Helen. She was as happy as I.) During this time I also played with my next door neighbor, Kathy - gorgeous, warm, true friend and damned good at sports as well and young Cindy, the wife of a new partner in Phil's group. Wifely duty and all that. John, her husband was a good, if bland - by my standards - guy and doc. (Apparently she shared my sentiments but who KNEW?) We began playing more & more often & when not playing, Cindy would take lessons from the club Pro - she & John had no children as yet.) And I had Philip & baby Julie and new, dear friend Ivey - whom I met doing volunteer work for a cancer group - and was pleasantly 'booked' & so glad Cindy had the Pro to keep her busy.

We'd also had baby # 3, Jennie, and it was on the occasion of her first birthday that 'SmartWindow" had its day in the rain. My father had been living with us since Mom's death in '79 and he had taken Philip and Julie on a little vacation to Omaha to visit with my Air Force brother and fam, Phil was working a day shift so Jennie (Bean) and I would be alone on the July 9 First Anniversary of her birth. I dressed her in a pale blue-and-white gingham dress, white bonnet with ruffled brim (a few of her unruly, cork-screw curls forcing their way out around her temples), planted her in the exta-lot grass and took some adorable (what else?) pics. Then we had to venture to -ing">$#@(!?>-ing Newport News on an errand, got lost, hot, thirsty, cranky and ONLY kept going b/c Aunt Ivey had said, "You bring that child over heeya today, hear? I am bakin' my grandmother's special chocolate B-Day cake. And that chile is just gonna HAVE AT IT!"

And so we/she did. Jennie was put in a high chair; entire cake placed ceremoniously in front of her; cameras aimed; SHE HAD A YUMMY BALL, DIGGIN', STUFFING, PAINTIN' HERSELF. LAUUGHING THRU IT ALL! As were we. And all of a sudden, the skies got black (it was around 4 PM); a typical "Nor'easter" was comin' through. (Oh-my-God-I left-the-vinegar-drenched/wrapped-leg-of-lamb-on-the-sill-of-the OPENED-kitchen window to thaw for a B-Day dinner. And it's about to POUR gallons into the kitchen. Gotta go! Love ya, Ivey! Grab chocolate-cake/icing Jennie; throw her into car seat; speed the 20 minutes home during the blinding downpour) As always, enter via back door, Jennie into high chair, proceed to kitchen. Grab roast; dump it into sink; slam window - but: NOT BEFORE SEEING KATHY SCURRYING AROUND HER DRIVEWAY/YARD COLLECTING FOLDING CHAIRS, TABLES, UMBRELLA, ETC & THROWING SAME INTO GARAGE BEFORE LOOKING UP @ "SmartWindow" perfectly-mascara-ed-eyes popping wide at vision of John (Cindy's hubby) fervently-hugging equally eye-popping Lorane.

Quick choice. Focus on Kathy. (John obviously wasn't going anywhere) Start miming wildly while pointing at now dissolving, muttering John: he's not well (tap finger to temple); VERY UPSET - CRYING EVEN, SEE? - Oh-my-God! (wiping my brow, holding chin) "WHAT-AM=I=GOING-TO-DO-WITH-HIM???" Kathy, God Bless her, was the epitome of understanding, aplomb, "heard-THIS-one-before" and just smiled, did the "lips-zipped " pantomime and 'zipped' into the safety of HER back door.

Livid, chocolate-covered-Jennie screaming, I demanded to know what the HELL John was doing in my home. (It seems he'd found some torrid letters from the Pro in a dresser drawer, called Phil - hysterical- and was instructed to call me - lost-in-Newport News - & if I was not home/reach-able - get the key from under front door mat, go into our house, leave notes EVERYWHERE re: his presence/situation (so Lorane wouldn't be be frightened upon 'running-in to him', have a beer & try to relax until Phil got home.) Oh, I see. "Poor thing, can I get you anything?", I did NOT say. It was more along the lines of dis-jointed utterings about a terrified, messed-up one yr-old baby; her mother's now "HOTTEST SCANDAL SCOOP"-circulating in rapid drawl as we live and breathe -YOUR latter of dubious duration; who the F____ looks around the house for notes during a storm when she's trying to rescue a leg-of-lamb + the kitchen in which it is floating; It never occurred to you that 6 days per wk of racquetball was a tad "overkill"???, and so on. And 'SmartWindow" got and had already circulated THAT picture.

So today's infomail - albeit MUCH appreciated - was, for this kiddo, just 'same old'. Even with NO cell phone or a DUMB one, I've been a champ at inadvertent privacy invasion for YEARS!

Later, L. . . .