:: Dictated But Not Read ::
Musings from the ''Miracle Girl''| [::..archive..::] |
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| Things That Have Been Said About Me |
| You are the Minx. |
| She plays taller than her height. |
| You have a refreshing attitude. |
| You're such a renaissance woman. |
| She's not much of a biller. |
| You are very angry. |
| You are so self aware. |
| You need a more sophisticated haircut. |
| You are not afraid of anything. |
| You have a great attitude. |
| Your life is like a Seinfeld episode. |
| You are winsome. |
| You look great in hats. |
| Miracle girl. |
| I am belligerently conciliatory. |
| You've got it big time. |
Friday, February 21, 2003
Biting the TubeOn the Thursday after Thanksgiving I went home from work early because I felt tired. I really did not feel sick just tired and kind of inexplicably weird. I had the kind of job then where going home because you felt a little bit sick was not considered weak or lazy, just smart. So I went home. The next thing I remember after getting home and collapsing on the sofa is that my then husband, J., came home and did a double take. He was surprised to find me home and even more surprised to find that I still had my suit and panty hose on while sprawled on the sofa. I told him I thought I might be getting sick. I felt certain I would be fine after a good night of sleep.
The next morning I woke up feeling a bit weak but not awful. I went and got into the shower and immediately realized that was not going to work. The room started to spin and I did not feel like I could stand up. I made my way back to bed and asked my husband to get the phone so I could call my office and cancel my meetings. He also got the thermometer for me and I confirmed I had a fever. I took some aspirin and figured I would sleep off whatever it was, probably a bug, and be good for the weekend. Several people called me during the day and something in my voice was very alarming to them. To a number they all suggested I go to the doctor. It sounded crazy to me. I had not even been sick for 24 hours and though my chest hurt a little bit and I was coughing a bit I really could not point to any serious symptoms. Medical care seemed premature. At that time, I was not one to go to the doctor for a minor malady.
Unfortunately Saturday morning did not bring relief. I felt worse. The chest pain was more severe and the fever was higher. I was getting worried and told J. that maybe I should in fact go to the emergency room. J. called his father (hereinafter “Dr. Dad”), who, without even speaking to me, the patient, issued a phone diagnosis. Apparently I had the flu and just needed to take aspirin and drink plenty of fluids. So, I just rolled over and went back to my fitful sleep and rest. I should note here that Dr. Dad was and is a much respected cardiologist.
I got increasingly delirious during the day on Saturday but I do seem to recall several rounds of “I think I should go to the hospital” followed by “Dad says you just need to take aspirin and rest and if you go to the hospital you will just wait around and be told you have the flu.”
Saturday evening was a synagogue young couples Hanukah party at the rabbi’s house. I think we were “in charge” of the group at that time but it was not as if we had any particular role that night. It was the rabbi’s show to be sure. I am not, in general, one to ask for help unless I absolutely need it. It is not something I am proud of but it is me. I felt so frightened by how sick and delirious I was that I asked him to not go to the party. When he insisted that he needed to go I asked him not to be gone too long because I was afraid to be alone. He laughed.
I do not have any concept of how long J. was gone. I remember I had moved to the sofa from the bed before he left. I guess for a change of scene. Our friends’ dog was staying with us that weekend and our dog and their dog played wildly non-stop. Normally I loved to see that. These two great 90 pound dogs jumping around, as it was, I thought I was going insane. Despite the fact that they were in the room with me and I could not rest I could not muster the strength to get up and move or put them in another room. When J. came home my fever was at 104. He or Dr. Dad or someone decided an ice bath was a good idea. The ice bath is the most archaic and cruel pseudo-medical technique next to leeches. It did not bring my fever down.
Miraculously, I felt better the next morning, so much so that by about 11:00 a.m. when Dr. Dad came to pay a visit I was sitting up and dressed. Dr. Dad came in with his paper surgical mask, gloves and stethoscope, checked my pulse, listened to my chest, and declared me to be fine. I could not argue with the good doctor since I was feeling better. He made a hasty retreat to the other room to talk to J. about biking or some such. I spent the rest of the day resting and feeling lethargic but certainly believing I was on the mend.
Sunday evening as I lay in bed I felt sure I would go to work the next day. J. was in his dark room doing whatever he did in there and I was in bed flipping through magazines or something. I got up to go to the bathroom and as I went to sit down on the toilet I knew I was in trouble. I felt certain I was about to pass out. I yelled to J. on the other side of the wall in the dark room. According to him by the time he got there I was sitting on the toilet rocking back and forth, totally non-responsive. He managed to rouse me and told me he thought we should go to the hospital. Dr. Dad was summoned to meet us at the emergency room and J. asked me if I could dress myself. I am not sure what he felt he needed to do before leaving the house, something about the dogs I think. It seemed to take forever. I somehow managed to dress myself and J. inserted me in his ridiculous BMW Z-3 car.
When we arrived at the hospital he half carried me in and I had to drape myself across the admissions desk while they decided what to do with me. Eventually they took me back to a room in the emergency ward. I had to go to the bathroom. I think J. went with me and I don’t know if it happened on the way or the way back but I found myself waking up to several people lifting me on to a gurney. My prize for passing out was some increased attention and a catheter. Suddenly I felt like I was in the middle of an episode of E.R. There were an insane number of people in the room and none of them were my relatives. In no particular order I found I had an I.V., my bed was turned almost upside down to get some blood pumping, and I was given an oxygen mask. Finally, a kindly emergency room doctor came in, put a stethoscope to my chest, just like Dr. Dad had done a few hours earlier, and said, “pneumonia, she has pneumonia.” I think it was soon thereafter that an x-ray technician came in so that someone could get a look at my lungs and I vomited all over him.
I was admitted and taken up to the I.C.U. where I was hooked up to about a million machines and eventually left alone for about an hour at a time. My family was told that they could not stay with me. That night was terrifying. I was having some crazy delusions and could not sleep. I was desperate to sleep but vaguely afraid that if I did I might not wake.I stayed in the hospital for a total of 7 days and after that first night my family refused to leave me alone. I cannot recall with any kind of precision or chronological clarity everything that happened during those 7 days but certain things that changed my life and prognosticated the end of my marriage are etched in my memory.
J. did not go to work at all, did not attempt to do any work (I tried to do some, he did not), and he sat in my I.C.U. room playing video games even while I was trying to sleep. I knew he was close to loosing his job and even as I lay there coughing and breathing through a mask I knew this was his perfect excuse to do even less.
My mother sat in my I.C.U. room watching my oxygen monitor and told me to breathe differently so that my rate would go up.
J. was in constant contact with our network of friends and had a different one of them taking him to dinner each night. On of those nights, I think it was the first night I could sit up, he came back to my I.C.U. room with our friends who had just been to a Tony Robbins seminar and they all told me that J. was going to become a photographer. I was literally coughing into my oxygen mask as they told me this because sitting up caused me to cough quite a bit.
One day J. went to the eye doctor or the eye glass store and brought back several different frames for me to look at and help him choose.
I was stuck for blood tests so many times a day that both my arms and hands were black and blue from my elbows down and still no one could say what type of pneumonia I had and why it struck so hard and so suddenly.
I had to have my back slit open one day because when they put me on I.V. in the E.R. they gave me too much fluid too fast and it had to be drained out of my lungs. (I later learned from a doctor acquaintance that they could have killed me.)
I vividly remember a couple of the E.R. nurses coming up to see me in the I.C.U. and calling me “the miracle girl” and saying they had not thought that I would I “make it”.
When I started getting better I was switched from the oxygen mask to the oxygen tube in my nose and I realized the tubing was picking up a radio station.
The one memory I know I will never forget was what happened the day I was leaving the hospital. Anyone who has been in the hospital for even one day knows the overwhelming joy of the idea that you are going to get out of there. I was beside myself when they told me I seemed to be fine breathing on my own and my fever was long gone so I could go home. The fact that I still had a wracking cough and was extremely weak did not bother me. I knew I could rest much better at home. The final obstacle to my release was an examination by a doctor I had never met. It was a Sunday so none of my regular doctors were around. This young doctor (I wish I knew his name) gave me a cursory once over and then studied my chart for a few minutes. He made a few notes and then looked up and said, in a matter of fact tone, “well, you are pretty lucky, you almost bit the tube.”
I could have gone my whole life without anyone uttering those words, but he said it and that changed everything for me.
D.B.N.R.
Sunday, February 16, 2003
SepiaRecently I was having dinner at some friends’ house. Someone said something about bunnies. The conversation was a bit stilted. I am not sure why but it was. It was a Tuesday night and maybe we were all tired and stressed and consumed in our own thoughts. In any event it felt like pulling teeth so I jumped at the mention of bunnies. I told everyone I had a bunny when I was a kid. As soon as I said it I realized I did not have a whole lot more to say about my bunny and in fact she may have been more my sister’s bunny than mine. I do not recall how she got her name, Sepia. I vaguely remember her running up the long hallway in our house from the front door to the back door before she had to go back outside to her cage. My mother’s boyfriend at the time, later my step-father, built a huge wire and wood cage on legs for Sepia. Inside the wire cage was a wooden box with a very small hole for Sepia to climb in and out of. The box was filled with hay to keep her warm. This is all for my memories of the bunny, other than, of course, the memory of how she died. The memory of Sepia’s demise was what came to my mind immediately when I mentioned her at the dinner table. Without thinking I said, “I am not going to tell you how she died.” Of course that brought a chorus of, “Please tell us.” I felt really bad at this point, I honestly did. The memory of Sepia’s death is not sad for me. It is merely a story of something that happened many years ago, but to most people it would be a sad story. Sepia froze to death one winter night. Apparently, the wood box with the hay was not warm enough to withstand the Connecticut winter. Predictably when I told my friends they were a little bit horrified. I just reported the information in a matter of fact manner and moved on to something else. Later, reflecting, I realized how far away my childhood memories are. There are so few of them and they appear, not literally as black and white images, but as the sort of vague and distant images that I think of as being captured in black and white. Even the memories that should bring some vivid pain, like Sepia’s death, are just stories I can tell as a newspaper reporter reporting her story. A photo might accompany the story with a caption: Bunny freezes to death as temperatures drop in Hartford area.
D.B.N.R.
Thursday, February 06, 2003
Going Up?My office is on the 47th floor of a 55 story building. The building has 4 elevator banks. The lobby has a security/information desk in the center of the elevator banks. The other day when I was coming back from lunch I heard a man ask for the high power architecture firm at the security desk. “46th floor” the man behind the desk told him. “46th floor”, he repeated. He got on my elevator and I noticed he was carrying sample boards with what looked like little squares of flooring pasted on them. He was also carrying a briefcase. He seemed weighted down. He was 40ish. He had a nice face, darkish skin and thick dark hair. I would say classically good looking if I said such things. It is an express elevator, 43 and up, so I did not have a lot of time to think about him but long enough to feel a little bit bad for him. He was not sweating but he was on the verge. His nervousness was palpable. I thought that it must be difficult selling his wares. This was probably a big project. The 46th floor does not do small projects. Maybe he needs the sale really badly. I did not think he would get it in the state he was in. He needed a boost. I only had a second. I took a step closer, leaned in, opened my mouth and put it on his. He kissed me back. When I pulled away he was smiling. The doors opened on the 46th floor.
D.B.N.R.
Monday, February 03, 2003
A Proud Moment
During the height of what I call my post-divorce mania, I spent many a Saturday nights/Sunday mornings at my favorite biker bar. Being exactly the opposite of a biker in almost every way made me quite the curiosity at the bar. I befriended the bartender, Michael, who worked the bar in the back room. We often watched the late night edition of Battle Bots on Comedy Central. Michael would mix me a vodka and orange juice in a tall glass with only a trace of orange juice. At some point during the night I was likely to buy someone or several some ones a drink or three. My tab never seemed to reflect all the drinks I had consumed and/or purchased. Michael and I had a quiet understanding whereby his tip was always huge. I would meet and chat with all kinds of people in that bar. It is still one of the single friendliest places I know in my city.
For a period of several months I could be found sitting at the bar in the back room at 3:00 a.m. when the lights were turned up and the bar closed. Sometimes I had to find a ride home because I was not in any condition to drive. A few times I took a cab the 7 or so blocks to my apartment. One particular Sunday morning I suppose I was unusually inebriated to the point that some of the people I was talking to, complete strangers, were adamant that I could not drive. I was not really arguing, I was just reluctant to inconvenience a stranger so I was lobbying to take a cab. I was not concerned about my safety if I took a ride. The people who hang out in that bar are as trustworthy and upstanding in their way as anyone I know. I was not the least bit concerned about being taken advantage of in any way. I was just reluctant to impose. Eventually, I was bullied into taking a ride with a guy and his girlfriend. I should be honest that the only people who scared me at all in this particular bar were the girlfriends of the bikers. They are tough women. Once, in a less than proud moment, I kissed a man who was attached to such a woman. He egged me on by telling me repeatedly how beautiful I was, and I warned him if he did not stop, that I would lean over and kiss him. She was not around and nothing came of it, still I was happy not to run into them again at the bar.
So, I took the ride. It turned out she was driving. He was the one who volunteered to take me home. As soon as we were settled in the car she asked me in a not so friendly manner, how I knew Bob. Apparently, her boyfriend told her that they were taking me home because I was a friend of Bob’s. Presumably I had been talking to Bob at some point during the evening but I did not “know Bob”. The boyfriend came to my rescue (or his own rescue) with something lame about hanging around together at the bar. It quickly became clear that the girlfriend was not happy about giving me a ride and who could blame her? The situation worsened as we progressed because it was the weekend of Gay Pride. I live in a predominantly gay neighborhood and probably the neighborhood in my city with the highest concentration of gay bars, all of which close at the same time as the biker bar. Suddenly, there were hundreds of gay men in cars and on foot and it was virtually impossible to drive in a straight line.
Although my apartment was only a few blocks out of the way I began to get very uncomfortable. The girlfriend was getting increasingly irritated. I made a split second decision to jump out of the car and walk the last few blocks home. True it was 3:15 a.m. but I reasoned that I would be safe in the midst of a cabal of gay men. I thanked my gracious driver and hopped out. As soon as a I got out of the car I was spotted by a group of about 10 men. They were walking slightly ahead of me and whispering and pointing back at me. Finally, one man approached me and proceeded to admonish me for walking around alone at that hour. He was not particularly interested in my explanation. He was simply appalled at my idiocy. He introduced himself as Brad and introduced me to the rest of the crowd. Brad insisted that I come up to someone’s condo for a drink. I do not even remember the guy’s name. I hesitated, but Brad insisted that I come in and then they would ensure I got home safely. And so happily and bizarrely I found myself sitting on an overstuffed sofa, petting a small white dog and telling stories to 10 gay men. I was happy because they found me entertaining and they were glad to have someone around with new stories. We chatted for about an hour and the party broke up. One of the members of the party who was heading to the 24 hour club across the street from my apartment, was dispatched to walk me to my door. He saw me safely home.
Brad took my card and promised to call me. He claimed to know lots of straight men to fix me up with and worked down the street from me. We planned to have lunch. I never heard from him and concluded that gay men are just like straight men. They say they will call but never do. About six months later, right before Christmas, I was at a restaurant with some friends. We were waiting for a table and the bar area where we were waiting was very crowded. At one point, I bumped into someone and apologized. The guy and his partner kept looking over at me. I thought it was a bit much considering it was a small bump and I had apologized. After about ten minutes someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Aren’t you Margot? I met you on the street corner during Pride. I’m Brad.” I laughed and then turned to my friends and told them, “This is the guy I met on the street in June.” We talked and it turned out he had attempted to e-mail me and it had bounced back. I realized, a bit sadly, that we did not have a whole lot to talk about and though we agreed to meet up some time I knew we would not. All we were able to do that night was reminisce about our late night encounter but somehow that was enough. It was a moment in time shared with another person. I am pleased to remember moments when I have met someone, enjoyed some time with them, and then moved on without an excess of nostalgia or regret.
D.B.N.R.
