Blizzard 2010

New England had a blizzard this weekend. It started on Sunday afternoon and was done by early morning on Monday. 


I personally disagree.  I don't think blizzard was the best word. Yes, a lot of snow fell in a short amount of time with high wind speeds- the hallmarks of a blizzard, but really it didn't amount to much where I was. The word blizzard to me has connotations of violent and cruel weather- akin to a tornado in my book.  It brings up images of three to five feet of snow, people being stuck in their houses because the snow has buried the doors and is up over the windows.


I know there were many people who got close to twenty inches of snow. Many had trouble getting out of their driveways, a lot of the roads were horrible and a lot of people lost their electricity. And then there was that serious flooding in Scituate with house fires. I feel sad for those displaced families and hope that they will be able to get back to their houses soon and re-build their lives. I worry for any family members that they had to leave behind- I'm  talking about the family cat or dog or budgie. It will be difficult, not only for the people, but also for the pets who cannot fend for themselves.  These areas experienced a storm worthy of being called a blizzard.


Central Mass- say Worcester County- however, got ten inches- tops.  And it wasn't even heavy snow. It was the light fluffy stuff you could blow on and have it fly away. It was not worthy of being called a blizzard where I was. I am not denying that it is a pain in the ass, and that it has and will continue to cause problems for people. I just think that here it was a regular old everyday snowstorm. For us it could have been worse.  Anyone remember the ice storm? My family was without power for nearly three days, my grandparents close to a  week. Anyone remember the blizzard of 1978? (I think it was... I was only two.) From stories I heard, that was a whopper of a storm.  Cars were stuck on the highway and covered over like boulders and there were ten foot drifts of snow...


I remember living in Maine, Bangor, actually, and having a snowstorm begin on Friday night and end, say, Sunday afternoon.  I mean solid snow. Sometimes it would let up a bit, or turn to freezing rain, but for that period of time, there was always some form of precipitation falling from the sky.  I remember this because my very brave roommate would walk in the flying snow down to the local market to buy eggs, bacon, milk and pancake mix so that we could have pancakes and bacon. Yumm. Up in Maine they called it a snowstorm; what weather we just had in central Mass pales in comparison. 


I don't know where I was going with this. I had someplace when I started,but I lost it along the way.  I guess I was really hoping for two feet of snow- it has been so long since I have seen it.

Three Beautiful Things: 12.22.10

1. Going to the local garage to pick up my repaired car and being referred to as "Al's granddaughter." It is nice to know that there will always be a group of people who will remember my grandfather as fondly as I do.

2. Driving home from doctor's appointment and feeling as though I'm driving down a road found in a snow globe.

3. Fat snow flakes settling on my hair and jacket. Looking closely and seeing the tiny stars and crystals.

Three Beautiful Things: 12.18.10

1. Watching my cat go crazy for the freshly sprinkled catnip on his new cat scratcher.

2. The smell of pumpkin pie and figgy pudding in the house, and the anticipation that in a few days I'll get a taste of both.

3. Varnishing the step stool that I hand painted fish and seaweed on for my young nephew. Looking forward to teaching him the word "fish."

Inspired by "Three Beautiful Things".  See Recommended Reading on side scroll for link.

Becoming part cyborg: November 22, 2010

The day started off at 7:30 am with a dozy hug from Dad and a request to "give them hell, kid!"


Then a warm shower, a brush of teeth, pull the hair back into a tail. Getting dressed: clean underwear, check, clean bra, check, clean jeans, check, clean shirt, check, clean socks with flowers on that matches the shirt, coincidence, but check.


A remaking of the bed: clean sheets, clean blankets, clean comforter. All set for when I return home.


Then the meds: Digoxin and Carvidilol only this morning, last sip of water to swallow the pills down. The last drink I will have for the day.


Final check of the overnight bag. Done. Ready to go. Try not to think about being nervous.


Out the door, into the car, and off to McDonald's so Mom can have a breakfast sandwich. Very slow fast food this morning, worrying I'm going to be late. Then to Dunkin' Donuts for Mom's coffee. The smell of my favorite morning beverage driving me mad on the short trip to the hospital.


Running late; arrive at offices at 9:15, appointment was for 9:00, to check in. Sit down and wait. Sign papers to charge my insurance company, sit and wait. Sit in waiting room and try to pay attention to Mom's conversation, wait. People around me gabbing and drinking coffee and eating greasy smelling food. Wait. Hungry, so hungry, but I cannot eat.


I wait.


Finally moved to short stay ward. Stripped naked, put on a johnnie. 2 IV's in left arm. Now 11:30... I wait.


Meet Doctor, nice guy. "We'll be ready for you soon." Not long now. I wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.


Near tears with worry and frustration.  I want this to be over.


I wait.


I try to make casual conversation with Mom, but am too nervous to fully focus on what she is saying.


I wait.


Food cart is pushed by; the smell makes my stomach growl.


I wait.


2pm. Kris, the anesthesiologist, urges me to use bathroom one last time. I go. I get a ride into the operating room. Everyone in the hall turns to watch me go by.  I feel like a Thanksgiving float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.


Operating room: cold, sterile, large computer screens, bright lights. Four women including Kris bustle around me preparing.  Two help me shimmy onto the operating table and cage me in so that I don't roll off. The table is narrow and hard, only two inches of foam and plastic separate me from the hard metal underneath.


Time for prep. Blood oxygen monitior won't work over green nail polish chosen specifically for the day. "We can use your toe."  "I'm wearing my cheerful socks," I say as they uncover my feet and remove the pink and green striped socks and the flowered ones underneath; the ladies see them and laugh. They are trying so hard to keep me calm. I feel calm, like a sky before a big storm, its not going to last, I'm begining to crack. Blood monitor on my left big toe works well. "I knew your blood ox was better than 70%," one says.


Cold wetness on my left shoulder and upper chest. Large sticky pads on back and lower left abdomen, "We will use these for defribulation if anything goes wrong." IV's attached to fluid bags. Oxygen mask on nose- breathe in, smell the plastic. Blood pressure cuff wrapped around right arm- starts up. "It will go off every five minutes so we can watch your blood pressure," one voice says. I start counting.


Nerves attack, eyes water, I begin to hyperventalate. "Stefanie, just take deep breaths. We'll take good care of you. The doctor is almost ready, I'm going to give you a sedative now," says Kris. Calmer, eyes a bit heavy.


Layers of blue paper draped over me, like a child's tent. "We'll leave you a place to see." Blood pressure cuff starts again, third time, fifteen minutes. Then:


"Ok, Steff, the doctor is ready. He is going to numb the area. We will give you pain medications through the IV.  If you feel pain let us know."


Sharp prick of a needle surprises me, small gasp. Eyelids weigh 20 pounds, I close my eyes and fade away.


Come to.  Legs and lower back ache, stomach hurts. I shift my legs around to try to alleviate the discomfort. "Stefanie, whats wrong?" I mumble something about my stomach. I hear, "She says her stomach hurts." I fade for a moment and someone beyond the blue says, "Stefanie, we are going to put in a catheter." I feel hands between my legs and a sharp sudden pain in my urethra. I don't fade, I dissapear.


Come to. Feel pressure of something being shoved into my chest. Big push, I grunt. Not painful, just odd, and uncomfortable and peculiar. I fade again.


Come to. I'm back in short stay ward. Mom is near me. "I have to pee," I say. "You have a catheter," I hear in response. "I've got to go to the bathroom," I say again. "You have a catheter, so just go." The voice seems aggravated now. I let go.


I float.


I hear, "Stefanie we have a sandwich for you, what kind would you like? Turkey, egg or tuna?"  "Turkey," I mumble. "What do you want to drink?" "Water. My mouth is dry."  Water is produced.  My Mom holds the squat bottle up so I can take a sip from the straw.  And another.


I float again. I become more alert and ask for my iPod. My Mom produces it for me. Ear buds in ears, spin the wheel to find U2, turn volume down so that it is just background noise. Float away on the first chords of "Zoo Station" (Achtung Baby).


"What time is it?" "Around 4:30,  you were in there a long time." "Have you called my friends?" I ask Mom. "No, I left the numbers at home." "They are in my phone," I say. As I listen to my music, my Mom calls my friends. I hear: "Steff's out of surgery. She is doing fine. Asked for her iPod. Listening to U2."


I float. I drink more water.


A nurse come and takes out the catheter. They get ready to move me upstairs into my own room. I hear Dad's voice. Change of the guard, Mom goes, Dad stays.


New room, one bed. I have to pee again. Helped to toilet, sit down. Go. Stomach grumbles. I vomit. I try to reach for trash can in front of me. I can't reach. Head spinning. I vomit again. I call out, "I need help. I just threw up."  A nurse comes in and helps me stand up. She helps me into a new, clean johnnie. Brings a wet cloth, I wipe my face. Helps me back into bed, hands me my iPod. Dad comes in.


We chat until I float away. I drink more water. He gets ready to go. Takes the sandwich out of the paper bag. With it is apple sauce. Checks to make sure I have way to call nurse. Call button is missing. He goes out and comes back with a nurse who replaces missing call button. He leaves, he says something, but I don't remember.


I float. I sleep. I wake to hear the strains of "Grace" (All That You Can't Leave Behind). I decide to try the apple sauce.  I eat the cup full and sit and listen to more music. I decide that I am tired and tilt the bed back a fair bit. I lean back and try to get comfortable, moments later, I vomit up the water and apple sauce all over my lap. With each spasm, pressure is put on my bladder. I urinate all over myself. I press the call button, ashamed and dismayed. Nurse comes in. Helps me clean up in bathroom. New johnnie, wet towel to wash up. Clean sheets. I apologize. She says, "Its the anesthetic, it can make people sick. Don't worry.  We just couldn't understand how you wet yourself at the same time." She is young and has pretty eyes and dark hair. "The diaphram pushing when I got sick, I think,"  I say. She helps me back into bed.


I float. I sleep. I don't dream. Until the pain wakes me.


Morphine. Dreamless sleep.


Morning. 8:00. French toast. I don't eat it. Drink water and eat the fruit.


Doctor visits.

Cheryl, the nurse in charge of the study, visits.  Tells me that  everything went well and she will see me again in a month.

Technician comes in. Places a sensor over the incision in my chest. presses buttons on his little machine.  I can feel my heart speed up and slow down.

Nurse comes in. "You will be discharged soon," she says. I ask her if she could comb my hair for me. I sigh with gratitude and pleasure.


I get dressed, and Mom brings me home.  Now the proud owner of a Defribulator, Pacemaker, ICD, CRT. I'm now part cyborg.

Just for Shits and Giggles #5

This poem was inspired by a memory I have of a breezy day waiting at my bus stop when I was in high school. I wrote this while I was in college for a Poetry class.  We read and studied the "Masters" and then used that knowledge to write our own poem using specific poetry forms.  This is a "free verse" form.  I also wrote sestinas, sonnets, concrete and shape poems.  If I find them... I know I have them somewhere, I'll post them as well.

                    Leaves

On a windy fall day, I like to

watch the leaves scuttle

across the road like small

animals, mice, chipmunks and

squirrels.  They chase each other

around, and around, and

around, spiraling, spinning, lifting

into the air, floating like

multicolored angels, only to

settle, gently, noiselessly onto

the grass, where they wait for

the next gust of wind.  Cautious,

they creep across a road.

stopping, pausing, slowly,

ever so slowly, meandering,

weaving, crawling on their

bellies across the road.  At the

yellow line they pause, and

wait, restlessly, shifting, in the

slight breeze.  And then a car

rushes by, and they jump up

to ride the gust of wind to their

families on the other side.  When

they reach it, they dance in a

circle, going round and around,

prancing and dancing, lifting

themselves high, rejoicing,

exalted as they play in the wind.

3.18.98

100 Words: First Snow

When I was a child, the first snow of the season was the most magical. It signified the coming of a cold, crisp, fun filled winter of snow angels, snowball fights, sledding and hot cocoa. I remember building a snowman; carrot nose, acorn eyes dug up out of the snow, pebble mouth, branches for arms, dad's hat on its head and a striped scarf around its neck. My brother and I would run around it and sing "Frosty the Snowman;" being a fanciful girl, I always expected it to come alive and wander down the streets, people following along behind.

Three Beautiful Things 11.24.10

1. My good friends who called, emailed or texted me regarding my recovery. I can never be able to express my true appreciation for your support and love.  It made a frightening situation more bearable.


2. Percocet. Just enough to take the edge of pain off and allow for a reasonable night's sleep and a pleasant afternoon nap.


3. U2. Bono's voice, Edge's guitar, and Larry and Adam's rhythm section permeated through the foggy aftereffects of anesthesia Monday night and took some of the loneliness, pain and fear away during a night alone in the hospital.

Three Beautiful Things 11.17.10

1. Watching the sky turn from grey to blue in the morning light while birds chirp all around. Looks like it will be a beautiful day; I'll have to get outside.

2. Lounging in bed since I have no need to be up yet.

3. Hot shower. Good shampoo that leaves my hair shiny and goat's milk soap that helps battle the oncoming winter dry skin.

Inspired by Three Beautiful Things

Three Beautiful Things: 11.16.10

Inspired by Three Beautiful Things

1. Waking up to kitty snores. Wanting to poke him with a finger because he woke me and not doing so because he looked so cute.

2. Playing "soccer" with the family dog. She has an uncanny ability to push a basket ball up a set of garden stairs; I can't help but praise her. She makes me laugh. (Fetish)

3. A good wine: Willis Haag- Riesling. Shared a bottle- or two- with friends this weekend. Fantastic paired with homemade stir fry and blue cupcakes. (Three Beautiful Things 11.13.10)

Obsession

His name was Kevin. I never knew his last name.

I worked with him briefly in 2002 at Miller's Restaurant in Bangor, Maine. I had a horrible crush on him despite the fact that I had a boyfriend at the time.

He was my ideal- dark hair and the clearest blue eyes, a neatly trimmed goatee, and a body to drool over: lean, lithe, athletic without being bulky. He was short for a man, 5'6" or so, but he was the perfect height to me. I had to look up to speak with him, but I didn't have to crane my neck. He was just the right height that if I had hugged him, the top of my head would have snuggled up right under his chin. Perfectly.

He made me laugh. If I recall, his jokes weren't that funny, but I am easily amused and liked to laugh, so I laughed at his jokes all the time. He told me I was good for his ego. I liked that and often made comments to bolster his ego. He was insecure in some ways and needed the boost.

He used to help me close the buffet. He would drain the water out of the steam baths, and haul the buckets to the kitchen to dump it. He used soup spoons to pry the metal chafing pans out of the steam baths; when he was done he would walk up to me, reach around me, and stick the spoon in my back pocket. I'd forget it was there at the end of the night and bring it home with me, only finding it later in the week when I did my laundry. When I moved into my apartment last June, I rediscovered them again; I have five.

He was flirty with me. I think he liked to make me laugh and smile, so he would pull pranks on the other people in the buffet kitchen. He would spin up dish towels and snap them at people- but only if I was watching.  I would laugh and shake my head in amusement. He was a show off.

He suggested I apply for a job at the mall after I told him I was leaving the job at the restaurant. I applied at Filene's and was given a job working in the intimate apparel department. He came to visit me there once. He stood and looked around at all the different bras while he waited for me to finish a sale. He was wearing blue jeans, a belt, and a white tee shirt. He had a tan. We chatted. He talked about getting a job in Hermon, Maine, or maybe moving to Florida. It was the last time I ever saw or spoke with him.

He made me feel good about myself.

I think I may have been halfway in love with him.

Now, I still look for him in every male face I see, on every street, on the T, on the evening news, and every dating site I visit.

I wonder where he is. I miss him.

Just for Shits and Giggles # 4

I wrote this piece many years ago.  It was an assignment from my writing professor- I think her name was March- when I was a freshman at University of Maine (Orono- Go Black Bears!).  The assignment was to write a piece of exposition or a paragraph on a topic of our own choosing and end it with a quote; that quote was to be the only quote in the piece.  This is one of the favorite pieces that I have written. A few years ago I began a sequel to it that I did not complete- though the urge is still there nudging me every now and again. I actually had the original published years ago in a small, local, literary journal called The Sink. I am sharing it here because the image of the trees came up in a conversation I recently had with my friend Melinda.

After re-reading it, it seems to me that something is missing from it... Hmmm, I'm wondering if I didn't try to edit it and in doing so, mess it up. At any rate, it is still one of my favorite writings.

I hope you like it.

Enchanted Forest

There is this forest glen that I know of; I know it well.  I used to play there as a child.  The forest was enchanted; the trees curved around each other, like lovers.  In the fall the leaves would be the golds and reds of precious gemstones, and the warm sun would shine through them, and dance on the lush, soft bed of green grass.  There were flowers there, too.  All kinds.  I used to pick the daisies, weave them into a crown and become Princess of the Enchanted Forest.  The wind would float through the branches of the trees like a fairy, only slowing to shake a leaf or two.  It would caress my cheeks and play with my hair.  As I grew older, I visited the enchanted forest less often.  Each time when I left, the fairy wind would whisper to me, “Don’t forget us.

 1.20.97

There is hope

Over the last couple of days I have spent a lot of time with two of my girlfriends M. and E. They met each other about a year ago and very quickly a very beautiful relationship sprang up between them.  It has been an absolute privilege to watch them fall in love.


I remember when I met E. She was the assistant in the library of the college that I work in. I first noticed that she was so very lovely and had beautiful skin and a pixieish face. It is hard not to look at her and smile. I thought she was sweet and helpful and enjoyed talking with her about books and the students and random history nerd stuff- like King Phillip's war- which most people don't know anything about (look it up- it took place in Massachusetts)- It was a great time. I had so much fun with her. 


About six months to a year later, M. was hired.  Now, M. is an incredibly gorgeous woman- I equate her with a supermodel- she is just absolutely stunning. Dark hair, perfect body, darkly mysterious, and before I knew her, incredibly intimidating. This intimidation was based mostly on her appearance.  I saw her and said to myself, she won't want to talk to me- no one who looks like her would want to talk to a dumpling...  How wrong I was.  She, apparently, (though I still don't fully understand why) was intimidated by me. What she said was that I seemed like I had it all together- I was confidant and showed it- while at the time, she was still very unsure of herself. I still don't get it, but whatever. 


Often times, before and after I was finished teaching I would go and hide in the library because it was quiet and allowed me to grade papers and tests.  While I was there, I would have these great conversations with E. Eventually, M. started showing up in the library.  At first, I was jealous.  I really liked E. and felt as though M. was stealing her from me.  But the more I spoke with the two of them, the more that I realized that something absolutely beautiful was developing between them.  I would sit and watch them interact with each other.  The way that M. would tease E. and E would be coy and sweet was heart warming and engrossing, and so beautiful.


One day, while I was in the library with them I noticed a change and I commented on it. "Are you guys dating? Because if you are, that's great!" I asked.  They just sort of looked at each other and shared a secret little smile and E. said, "No, we're just friends." I knew otherwise...  The sexual tension was incredible.  I felt like an interloper, a voyeur, an intruder. At the same time, I found it amusing to see their minor discomfort at the comment and felt lucky to watch what I knew was developing.


A couple of days later, again, I said: "If you guys are a couple, you can tell me.  I don't judge."  Again came the uncomfortable silence, secret smiles and denial. Again, I felt amusement at their discomfort with the question- I'm a bit sadistic at times.  I knew something was happening.  I still felt like an interloper, but a part of me thinks that they really didn't mind that I was watching. By this point M. and I had discovered that we both saw and interacted in the world in a similar manner, so she was, I'm sure, keenly aware, and not surprised, that I truly knew what was developing and that they really couldn't hide it.


Weekly, I would ask them the couple question and weekly they would deny it, all along knowing that it was only an eventuality and I must wait. It was like watching a soap opera or reading a romance; the reader knows that eventually they will get together, but the how and when are the question.


E. and M. finally confessed their love for each other to me while visiting me in my hospital room. (Just another day)  I asked them straight out: "Are you guys a couple yet, or what?"  They looked at each other, and grinned and said yes.  I said, "Its about time!"


Now they live together and seem so much in love.  I go to visit them and watch them with each other.  M. looks at E. with such passion and devotion and intensity- it is overwhelming sometimes. It's like being in a room where a thunderstorm is rolling in- dark, intense with sparks of energy floating about. The air changes, it becomes almost substantial, almost solid. I can feel her passion from across a room.  E. looks at M. like there is no one else in the room. She just glows with pure joy, she's like a candle in the dark.  Her love lights up the room.  Looking at E. I can't help but feel her happiness, she overflows with it.  If M. is the thunderstorm, E. is the clean fresh air that follows. It is so beautiful to watch and behold.


A part of me is insanely jealous of their relationship, but a bigger part is just enjoying it all and so happy for them. I am a survivor of some very bad interactions and relationships with men, because of this, I felt that true love was an absolute myth, and that romantic love in itself was a falsehood created by Hollywood and romance writers.  Watching E. and M. this weekend has changed my view- I now believe in love and the power it has.  There is hope for all who seek love. A simple guide is that it may be found where you don't expect it.

Three Beautiful Things: 11.13.10

1. Good friends, good wine, good food. An abundance of all three makes for a fantastic evening out.  Add amazing conversation and happiness ensues.

2. Having fun with cooking and food coloring.  Blue cupcakes, why the hell not? Homemade buttercream frosting makes the color irrelevant. 

3. One and a half year old nephew giggling and playing peek- a- boo.  Seeing my newly widowed grandmother laughing and smiling at the simple life of a happy child. A bit of joy can be a balm for pain.

Inspired by blog: Three Beautiful Things 

Three Beautiful Things: 11.10.10

1. Birds chirping, beautiful yellow leaves, waking up to the warm body of my cat curled up at my back. No wonder I was so warm all night; he's my walking personal heater. If only he'd sleep near my feet.

2. Nurses who know how to use a needle so that it doesn't even hurt to have blood drawn. Of course friendly banter and a good bedside manner always helps.

3. A good book, a cup of cocoa and a pair of warm socks.  Terry Pratchett, a brilliant man, who can take the everyday and twist it into something fanciful. You are my favorite author.

Just another day.

So. Today is my birthday. I'm 34.


As a child, I remember my birthday being a magical day, a day of presents and surprises and cake and friends and, at home, my favorite meal. Now: Just another day.


Though this year, I really have a lot more to be grateful for.


A year ago I was very ill and sick on my birthday. It was only the beginning, but I felt like shit, and didn't realize how much worse it could get. I was having trouble breathing, I had no energy and I was struggling to remember everyday things.  I felt as though I had a flu or bronchitis or both. 


By the time Thanksgiving arrived I couldn't climb a set of stairs without coughing and coughing and coughing. I remember sitting at the bottom of my parent's stairs, because the hard steps made it easier to breathe then sitting in the cushy couch, and coughing so much that my Dad was worried that I had pneumonia.


After the new year, work at the bookstore was supposed to slow down a bit, but it just kept going.  I was working about forty hours a week at the bookstore and another fifteen to twenty hours at the college. Hauling boxes and filling shelves, in itself, is exhausting, but add on another four hours of standing and lecturing and I was dead on my feet by nine pm. I was having trouble keeping up. I wasn't sleeping well, I wasn't eating well, and I was always exhausted.  There were days where I wouldn't eat anything all day, except for a medium skim chai. I'd get to the college before classes, and if I were lucky, I'd have a chance to grab a cup of soup, or even a sandwich.  On most days, I didn't eat at all, except for the chai, until I got home at 9:45 pm. Then I would heat up a can of soup, or make eggs or just a PB&J. 


At night, I couldn't sleep because I couldn't breathe when I lay down. I would spend 45 minutes in the shower under the hot water because it soothed me and helped me to breathe.  Or I would lay in the bath tub filled with hot water and doze off there- a dangerous situation, I know, but I couldn't sleep in my own bed.  I experimented with sleeping sitting up on a chair with my head on a table or I sat backwards on the chair and tried to sleep with a pillow leaning against the back of the chair.  Eventually, I would be so tired, that I would somehow manage to get three or four hours of sleep in bed, propped up by two or three pillows.


You may be asking, "Why the hell didn't you go to the doctor?"  The thing is, I did.  I saw my doctor almost every other week.  She would listen to my heart and lungs, and take my temperature and couldn't hear or see anything wrong. She assumed, since I had been so sick with a cold, that it was just a cough that didn't want to go away, and treated me with antibiotics to deal with any lasting infection.  She did all that she could to try to figure it all out.  She'd call me frequently to check up on me.  She just mistook the signs.


I remember going into Boston with the girls, Kate and Kerry, for a non-profit meeting.  I was miserable. I was struggling to carry my bag- it had my tiny wallet, my Nintendo DS, tissues and cough drops in it.  It probably only weighed three or four pounds at the most- but it felt like it weighed thirty or forty. I was struggling to walk through the mall, I had no appetite and I was just plain sick. Every step was torture, I just wanted to sit and rest.  It was cold in Boston, the wind was whipping everywhere, and it caught me, just so. I started coughing, I couldn't get my breath, I couldn't stop coughing. I was having trouble keeping my feet below my legs, on the ground.  I held onto a lamp post for dear life and coughed  and coughed and coughed.  I felt like I was dying. I don't remember what happened, but the girls pulled me into the train station, where it was warm and after some time in the warm I was able to breathe again. When I got home that night I cried, I almost called 911. But since my doctor had just diagnosed a possible latent lung infection and asthma, I put it off. Lets see if the antibiotics will help, I said to myself.


I didn't go into Boston again, for the next meeting.  I stayed at home and tried to catch up on grading papers and getting well.  Chicken soup, Tomato soup, tea.


Late February the girls, Kate, Catherine and Kerry, came over to my apartment to watch the opening  ceremonies for the Winter Olympics. That morning I had noticed that my ankles were puffy. I remember pointing it out to Kerry and Kerry poking them with her finger and giggling.  It was kind of weird. I had always had very slim ankles. The following Monday or Tuesday I went in to see my doctor again.  She was Baffled- and yes, it deserves a capital B. She again listened to my lungs and still there was no fluid sounds. My heart and blood pressure was fine. She looked at all of my symptoms, and they just did not add up to equal anything.  She could not figure out what was wrong with me.  She prescribed a water pill to try to get my body to release fluid.


By this point, I was having some very serious  problems going pee. I always had the urge to pee and never had the ability- the urine would not come out.  I  remember sitting in the stall in a public ladies room and hearing the lady next to me peeing and thinking to myself, "Oh, that sounds like it would feel so good." 


A day after my doctor prescribed the water pill, I laid down in bed and tried to sleep. As I lay down, I felt a baseball under my stomach.  My body was so sick and tired that I remember actually reaching around under me to grab it and thinking: "Why is there a baseball in my bed?" There wasn't anything there, but it sure felt like there was.


The next day, I began to get sick. I woke up with vomiting, and diarrhea and so I took the next two days off from work due to a stomach bug. I went back to work the next week, but was still vomiting.  But it was different.  I was vomiting up white foam- it looked like soap suds. By the ninth of March I had been vomiting frequently, and living on apple sauce and apple juice and water and tea for about a week. I was having trouble walking down halls at the college, I couldn't walk across the bookstore without struggling and forcing every single step.  I was sick. Very sick, and I still didn't know what was wrong with me. 


On March 10, I went to work, but left early because I couldn't stop vomiting- it was still the white foamy stuff.  I hadn't been taking the water pill because every time I tried to eat or drink anything solid I vomited.
I went to the college to teach my evening classes, because it was the second week of a new term, and my students needed me. I vomited again in the bathroom.  I sat and waited in the lounge for class time to come.  Other faculty members came in and asked me if I was feeling OK- I must have looked awful.  I told them I was just tired. My heart had begun a weird fluttering over the last few months; it was not painful, just distracting, and peculiar, and uncomfortable.


The President of the college came in, saw me sitting there and said: "Steff, you don't look to good."
Up until this point I didn't think she even knew my name.  I responded, "I don't feel too good, but I am OK."
She said, "Why are you rubbing your chest over your heart?"
I said, "Oh, its nothing, it just does this when I am tired or stressed."
She said, "Are you really OK?"
I said, "I don't know, I don't think so," and I began to cry.
She said, "That's it, I'm calling 911. You are going to the hospital."
I said, "No, I can't go I have to teach a class in ten minutes."
She said, "Don't worry about your class, your health is more important than any class, we can find people to cover a class."
I said, "OK."


The ambulance came and brought me to the hospital.  I waited for 30 minutes for triage.  The nurse in triage almost sent me home. He listened to my heart and lungs, took my blood pressure and said, "All of your stats are normal.  You're fine." I responded, with as much acid as I could manage, "I don't feel fine." I sat in the waiting room for another two hours until they found a bed for me.  Both my mom and dad were there waiting with me.  When I finally got a bed, the nurse listened to my hear and lungs and took my blood pressure and said, "You seem fine, everything is normal, but we're still going to do more tests.  We need to find out why you still have a cough from a cold you had back in November."


They brought me to xray and xrayed me.  Twenty minutes later the nurse came back and said, "I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is: you don't have Pneumonia, the bad news is: you have a Cardio Myopathy and blood clots in your lungs."


It Is strange, but I was so relieved to hear that.  My mother has been living with a Cardio Myopathy for sixteen years. I knew what it was, I knew what it meant, I knew how it would impact my life. I had an answer to the illness that I had been suffering with since my birthday the previous November. 


It turns out, that if the President of the college had not called the ambulance, I could have died. I would have pretty much drowned to death on my own bodily fluids.  I am forever grateful to her.  She saved my life.


Here it is, a year later.  I am still struggling with the Idiopathic Dilated Cardio Myopathy. I am on a slew of drugs, and my heart is still not functioning as strongly as it should. Its function fluctuates between 15 and 20% of the normal capacity of a healthy heart. My doctors are worried, because of this, that I could develop an arrhythmia and go into cardiac arrest, or suffer from Sudden death.  For this reason, on November 22, nearly a year after all of my symptoms started to impact my life, I will be having a Defibrillator/Pacemaker implanted in my heart.


Lets hope that age 34 will be better to me than age 33.

Its a start.

The Curse of the Blinking Cursor

It blinks and winks;

disappearing and reappearing

at

regular intervals,

it drives even the most accomplished

writer mad as she

strains

and

stretches

to find something worthwhile

to

write.

10.30.10

Just for Shits and Giggles #3

I wrote this Poem after my then boyfriend and fiance told me that he was thinking about becoming a priest. I think it sums up the whole moment rather neatly. We didn't break up until some years later.  If I had broken it off then, the next several years would have been much better.  Who knows, maybe I could have found my knight in shining armor.

It is strange, re-reading these poems is making me remember the moments and emotions so clearly.  I wasn't aware of how easily I can connect words to feelings and emotions. Perhaps this is a talent I should explore more; perhaps it will help me find my voice again. 

Fear

He speaks to me with his eyes,

His posture speaks too,

He has something hard to say,

and is afraid.

I listen with my ears,

As well as with my heart,

I am listening to something hard

and am afraid.

4.8.96

Just for Shits and Giggles #2

I wrote this poem many years ago, 1998 according to my dating on the last line. It is more than it seems: see if you can figure out what it is really about.  

I haven't read it in years.  It amazes me that I actually had/have the ability to write like this. The imagery and words are powerful and evoke such strong emotion.  I wonder, now, where the fuck did my talent go?  I used to see myself as a writer first, before all things, including friend.  Now, writing is such a challenge; the words do not flow the way they used to in the past.  I still have moments of  inspiration, moments when the words flow out of me like water (See post: Naked).  Lately, I have felt verbally constipated.  I have ideas, great ideas.  I sketch them down and think about them, but when the time comes to put words to paper or keyboard... I get... stuck.  I need some lube. Send me an idea, and if it inspires me, I'll use it in my blog. I'll  even give you credit for the idea.

Until then, enjoy my poem. It is one of my favorites. 
                  
           Thunderstorm

In the distance, yet, but a dream,
it waits.  Gathering, dark clouds about its
feet, the sky presses forward with a soft
rumble of life, a whisper of what is to come.

Electricity crackles, arching from cloud to
cloud, as they grow, and darken.  The rumble
is louder now, a murmur of intensity,
a growl of suppressed frenzy.  Closer, it

moves, building, gaining, growing, darker
and darker.  The thunder is not far off now,
lightening flashes in the sky.  Fat drops
of rain begin to fall, dampening the dirt

with an earthy, primal reek.  The growl
crescendos, a great roar, the grumbling
bass of a powerful beast.  Exploding in the
air, cracking, crashing, the rain pounds down,

forcefully, seemingly unceasing.  Lightening
strikes the ground, a powerful spike.  The
frenzied thunder rolls on, getting softer.
The downpour passes, too, moving on.

Only soft rain remains, a gentle shower,
a mellowed reminder of the awesome storm.
          
                    3.26.98

Just for Shits and Giggles #1

Today, I was rooting around in my e-mail folders looking for a recent copy of my resume for the Librarian at the college I work at. (I am currently on a leave of absence, but thats a story for later.)  While rooting, I came across some old poetry and stuff that I had written years ago.  Just for Shits and Giggles I am going to post them here... Also, because I think some of them are pretty Awesome!  Part of being a writer is introspection and revisiting old writings so as I post these I will include current day thoughts on the piece at hand- I may even make small corrections, if I feel they are necessary. The writings will be in this color, and my comments in this color. So this is Post #1 of the series.  enjoy!

I wrote this piece back in July 2004 as a meet the cast sort of thing for this independent theater production called "Only Me Beside You" I did with a very good friend of mine.  I think it is indicative of my personality at the time.

Steff is thrilled to be performing with Matt C. again.  For the last fifteen years She has been in his shadow, while he has been in the spotlight; she has enjoyed every moment of his success.

It seems I have spent a good portion of my life in Matt's shadow. Despite his self deprecation, he really is very good at getting himself out there and in touch with the public. He is also an incredible actor: he can tear the heart out of anyone... I miss being on stage with him.

Steff is returning to this stage once again.  You may remember her powerful, scene stealing portrayal of the “Anonymous Fruit and Cheese Lady” in Caliope’s 2003 production of “Scrooge!” (I assure you that this is sarcasm)  Sharing the stage with her were Matt C. as the utterly unforgettable “Tom Jenkins,” (True- see below) and Ken G. as the personable “Toy Shop Keeper.”

So, months after "Scrooge!", Matt and I went out to dinner together. We were sitting there at the table eating and someone walked by and said, "Hey, are you the guy that danced on the coffin?"

and Matt responded: "Yes." 

"You did a great job! Stole the show!"

and Matt pointed at me and responded: "Thanks. She was in the show, too."

"Oh. I don't remember you."

This is what I mean by Matt being able to put himself out there, and what I mean by being in his shadow. Those moments made me very uncomfortable.  I was proud of him for being such a great actor, but in my heart I would be seething: I worked just as hard as he did for the shows we did together, I deserved the praise as equally. 

Steff has also appeared in productions of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat,” and “Like Winter Waiting.”  She has been a member of several choirs and, with Matt C., has toured throughout Europe with the Bangor Theological Seminary Festival Choir.

Steff’s best performance to date was in 1995 when she portrayed the emotionally distraught murderess “Sweet Pea Meadowbrook” in “Death By Chocolate.  For her performance she received a Matt C. Award for Best Supporting Actress.

I wasn't supposed to get this role; I never auditioned. What happened was this: Auditions took place, Matt was cast. Another classmate of ours was cast as "Sweet Pea Medowbrook."  The character Sweet Pea is described as a fat woman.  The girl who was cast, being average in weight, was upset at being cast as a fat person and pitched a fit (so, I heard) and quit.  In comes me to save the day. I said to Matt, "I could do it" and being that I am what is commonly refered to as fat, I was not at all upset with the prospect of being called fat.  So, Matt being the director, without actually supposing to be, basically said: Steff is going to be Sweet Pea Meadowbrook. No one argued; you never argue with Matt over theater things.  To increase the size of my character (since I really am not nearly as fat as I felt the characher was called to be), I added two pillows: one to the front and one to the back of my body...  I went from mearly fat to rather obese in a matter of five minutes of swearing and tying and strapping.  I've seen the pictures and I think the pillows were fairly convincing for a High School production.

Steff received professional voice training from Kathy Ludt. It is with sincere thanks and appreciation that Steff dedicates her performance of “Somewhere” to the memory of Kathy, who taught her this song.

Kathy was one of the most important influences in my life.  As a high schooler, I didn't feel that I was good at anything- Kathy helped me realize that I had an ability for song.  She helped me, without ever knowing it, to build and maintain my self-esteem.  Just that little thing made me feel as though I had worth, and kept the darkness and depression at bay.

Steff is no longer in Matt’s shadow.  She has found her spotlight.  “My turn!” 

Yeah, so I'm still in his shadow, but I get to see more sun now.  I've come into my own as an English Professor, and now get recognized for that over theater. This pleases me.  Not to knock theater, since it can and will change you, but some of my biggest heroes in life have been my teachers.  I like to think I have influenced and changed the lives of others the way that my teachers influenced and changed my life. 

Starkers on a warm boulder

A while back I wrote a fantastic (not really) piece about addiction.  It was a prompt given to me by my very good friend Matt. My flash drive ate the essay; bad flashy, bad!  Here is the setup: I was bored.  Matt told me to write (he is always telling me to write- he has better faith in my writing abilities than I do) and I asked him for a topic. And the topic was addiction...  Huh.  That was a stumper for me. I don't do drugs, smoke cigarettes, or drink copious amounts of alcohol.  I don't have any addictions; obsessions, yes, addictions: not so much. Despite this, I will still call it an addiction.


I have an addiction to fantasy.  I'm not talking about the genre of entertainment- books, movies, games, etc.  Yes, I enjoy those, but the fantasy that I am talking about is of a different nature. 


It is the fantasy that can turn a person on.  I suppose the easiest way to say it would be: sexual fantasy.  Now to be clear, I am not currently sexually active, so fantasy is just that, fantasy.  Will I ever want to act out one of my fantasies, you may ask.  Well now, I don't really know. I suppose that if the right individual- read: male- came along I might just consider it.  But there is a comfort zone that I would have to breech- and that takes a lot of courage and guts for me.  I am not the most comfortable with men. I've had some very bad relationships that were damaging to my psyche. Due to these bad relationships, I have trouble opening up to men.  It is a failing, and I am working on it.  This blog is part of my therapy.  Emotional scars are not sexy, so lets move on, shall we.


My addiction: fantasy.  You might be wondering why I chose fantasy as an addiction.  It is because it is the one thing that I can't seem to leave behind me.  It is the one thing that weasels its way into my mind every day.  I could be doing the most banal chores, such as folding towels, lets say, when all of a sudden my brain will fire and there in my minds eye is a hottie standing there dripping wet from a shower, with a towel slung low around his hips so just a hint of pubic hair is visible, his chest and stomach glistening with drops of water and his belly button...oh God, his belly button... and then the towel drops... 


I challenge you to not continue this image in your mind. See what I mean.  It is addictive. 


This addiction can lead to bad things...  As I said earlier, it can be very intrusive in my life.  For example, in my past life, I used to drive an hour and a half one way to get to a store that I worked in once a week.  During that drive, since I did it so often, my brain would begin to wander.  Next thing I know, the fantasies creep in.  Flirting turns into heavy petting, into hot, hot foreplay and then full on sex. I could very nearly feel Hottie's hands in my hair, his tongue on my skin...   It could be very distracting. It possesses me; I am mesmerized and pretty much hypnotized by the full color images that flash through my mind. There were days where I would be driving along and all of a sudden I would come to and say, "Huh, how did I end up here already?  I don't remember going past the Dunkin Donuts."  I was so drawn in by the fantasy that I was lucky that I didn't end up in a accident. 


Some of my favorite fantasies circle around water.  Shower, pool, ocean, pond and most recently, a river. Up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire there are a lot of rivers that have large boulders in them.  After two visits to that area, and a very boring four hour ride home, my brain conjured up many different scenarios concerning these rivers.  Hot day, laying starkers on a smooth boulder warmed by the sun with cool water running over my feet and a hottie cradled between my legs... Mmmm.


Yeah. That one kept me occupied for the long ride home.


I have attempted to break myself of this addiction. For a while, every time a fantasy popped into my mind, I would push it away, hide it in some dark corner of my mind.  This worked, but with an unfortunate result. I became super bitchy and irritable and when the fantasy inevitably broke through the confines of the box I had put it in, it would disrupt my entire day..  Instead of working, I would find myself sitting there and fantasizing... sometimes, I could multi task. But most often, I would surface to realize that I had rearranged the same bookshelf four times, or find myself sitting or standing there frozen in the process of doing some trivial bit of work. I'm lucky that the powers that be never caught on...


I have mentioned how my fantasies can be a problem, but to be truthful, I enjoy them. They are a fun, relaxing break from reality, and honestly they keep boredom away. And besides, since I am single, I've got to get off somehow, right? Lately though, the fantasies have become stale and uneventful.  I think I need a new hottie. Any applicants?