I had surgery on Monday to pin my ankle back together. Everything went well, I guess. I don’t remember much of it, thanks to some very good drugs. Someone dressed me in a paper gown that had an air hose attached to it, blowing warm air up my crotch and over my chest. It felt pretty good. My voice is hoarse today so I’m assuming they put me completely out and inserted an air tube down my throat. The ankle hurts quite a bit, even with narcotics, and I am supposed to keep my leg elevated above the level of my heart unless I get up to the pot by the couch. Tom continues to cook for me, keep ice on the ankle and track my medications. A good mate is a blessing.
There is a cherry tree outside my living room window so I can watch the birds come to the bird feeder. I found this poem several months back and have been waiting for a chance to share it. It really is addressed “for Carol”.
Cardinals
for Carol
I had seen them in the tree,
and heard they mate for life,
so I hung a bird feeder
and waited.
By the third day,
sparrows and purple finches
hovered and jockeyed
like a swarm of bees
fighting over one flower.
So I hung another feeder,
but the squabbling continued
and the seed spilled
like a shower
of tiny meteors
onto the ground
where starlings
had congregated,
and blue jays,
annoyed at the world,
disrupted everyone
except the mourning doves,
who ambled around
like plump old women
poking for the firmest
head of lettuce.
Then early one evening
they came,
the only ones—
she stood
on the periphery
of the small galaxy of seed;
he hopped
among the nuggets,
calmly chose
one seed at a time,
carried it to her,
placed it in her beak;
she, head tilted,
accepted it.
Then they fluffed,
hopped together,
did it all over again.
And filled with love,
I phoned to tell you,
over and over,
about each time
he celebrated
being there,
all alone,
with her.
by John L. Stanizzi
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Saturday, October 03, 2009
My Left Ankle
Last Sunday I broke my left ankle. My husband and I were grilling bratwurst and fresh pineapple on the barbecue. Tom said as he came from lighting the fire, “Be careful, the deck is slippery”. I wish I had paid attention. I put the pineapple skewers on the grill, came back across the deck, slipped on a wet leaf and went down. I landed on my butt with my left leg twisted under me.
When I tried to move my leg I discovered two things: It hurt like hell, and my ankle was flopping in unnatural directions. Tom tried to get me into the house, but the flopping and screaming convinced him to call 911 instead. A fire rescue truck and an ambulance soon showed up. Some nice young medics carefully got me onto a stretcher and on the way to the hospital.
Let me say that if you arrive in an ambulance, the ER will let you by-pass the waiting room. A nurse showed up pretty much right away to make sure I wasn’t dying and to take my medical history. It saves time if you have a list of your medications with you, but I spent some time explaining why in the last six months I had seen a dermatologist and plastic surgeon (skin cancer), a neurologist (ophthalmic migraines), an internal medicine doctor and a vascular doctor (cellulitis and swelling in my right leg). I sounded like a hypochondriac even to me, but the flopping ankle could not be ignored.
A portable x-ray machine showed up to take some pictures and I was told that my ankle was broken in at least two places. (Later x-rays showed three breaks.) The resident doctor said not to eat or drink, then ordered an oral pain medication. I took it with water. No one started an IV, probably just as well considering my uncooperative veins. I was shaking with cold and asked for a heated blanket. The nurse promptly produced two of them, bless her heart. I’d have given her more points if she’d thought of it herself.
There was talk of a shot of morphine, but it never materialized. An orthopedic doctor showed up to “put a splint” on my ankle. This seemed to involve dripping strips of plaster and a great deal of pain. You can’t put a splint on until the bones are maneuvered back into place, although this wasn’t mentioned by the doctor ahead of time. When I say a great deal of pain, I mean really real pain: having-a-baby pain, having-a-gall-bladder-attack pain, I’m-being-tortured-and-I’m-screaming-about-it pain. The splint did stop the flopping.
I was given a pain pill prescription, a pair of crutches, and a referral to an orthopedic surgeon, and sent home. The pain pills work well, the crutches are useless and I found my own orthopedic surgeon. The surgery is scheduled for Monday.
My husband is a saint. I can’t make it up and down the stairs, so he has fixed up the living room for my crippled self and is waiting on me hand and ankle.
This poem is a little dark, but seems to fit.
After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
Emily Dickinson
When I tried to move my leg I discovered two things: It hurt like hell, and my ankle was flopping in unnatural directions. Tom tried to get me into the house, but the flopping and screaming convinced him to call 911 instead. A fire rescue truck and an ambulance soon showed up. Some nice young medics carefully got me onto a stretcher and on the way to the hospital.
Let me say that if you arrive in an ambulance, the ER will let you by-pass the waiting room. A nurse showed up pretty much right away to make sure I wasn’t dying and to take my medical history. It saves time if you have a list of your medications with you, but I spent some time explaining why in the last six months I had seen a dermatologist and plastic surgeon (skin cancer), a neurologist (ophthalmic migraines), an internal medicine doctor and a vascular doctor (cellulitis and swelling in my right leg). I sounded like a hypochondriac even to me, but the flopping ankle could not be ignored.
A portable x-ray machine showed up to take some pictures and I was told that my ankle was broken in at least two places. (Later x-rays showed three breaks.) The resident doctor said not to eat or drink, then ordered an oral pain medication. I took it with water. No one started an IV, probably just as well considering my uncooperative veins. I was shaking with cold and asked for a heated blanket. The nurse promptly produced two of them, bless her heart. I’d have given her more points if she’d thought of it herself.
There was talk of a shot of morphine, but it never materialized. An orthopedic doctor showed up to “put a splint” on my ankle. This seemed to involve dripping strips of plaster and a great deal of pain. You can’t put a splint on until the bones are maneuvered back into place, although this wasn’t mentioned by the doctor ahead of time. When I say a great deal of pain, I mean really real pain: having-a-baby pain, having-a-gall-bladder-attack pain, I’m-being-tortured-and-I’m-screaming-about-it pain. The splint did stop the flopping.
I was given a pain pill prescription, a pair of crutches, and a referral to an orthopedic surgeon, and sent home. The pain pills work well, the crutches are useless and I found my own orthopedic surgeon. The surgery is scheduled for Monday.
My husband is a saint. I can’t make it up and down the stairs, so he has fixed up the living room for my crippled self and is waiting on me hand and ankle.
This poem is a little dark, but seems to fit.
After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Faking the Leave
Whenever my husband and I are trying to leave the house we seem to find other things that need to be done first. For example: we are going out to the grocery store and my husband will need to go to the bathroom. Then I will start unloading the dishwasher, so my husband will go to the basement to switch the laundry into the dryer and suddenly I will need to go to the bathroom. This is such a regular habit of ours that the kids named it - faking the leave: as in “are you ready to go or are you still faking the leave?”
I thought maybe ours was the only family where this happened until I found the following poem in the Washington Post Book World Poet’s Corner. The author is Kay Ryan, Poet Laureate of the United States. She says she wrote the poem because of her habit of “suddenly having to do all kinds of things” when it was time to go someplace. She says she was “spurred to action by not having time”. She says she could “now read it as a meditation on the approach of death” but that’s not where it started.
The Edges of Time
It is at the edges
that time thins.
Time which had been
dense and viscous
as amber suspending
intentions like bees
unseizes them. A
humming begins,
apparently coming
from stacks of
put-off things or
just in back. A
racket of claims now,
as time flattens. A
glittering fan of things
competing to happen,
brilliant and urgent
as fish when seas
retreat.
My father, who is 95 years old, has been hospitalized 3 or 4 times since Christmas. Every time he goes in I am frightened that this will be his last trip. But a couple days of intravenous antibiotics and he bounces right back. He will go when he is ready. Until then he is just faking the leave.
I thought maybe ours was the only family where this happened until I found the following poem in the Washington Post Book World Poet’s Corner. The author is Kay Ryan, Poet Laureate of the United States. She says she wrote the poem because of her habit of “suddenly having to do all kinds of things” when it was time to go someplace. She says she was “spurred to action by not having time”. She says she could “now read it as a meditation on the approach of death” but that’s not where it started.
The Edges of Time
It is at the edges
that time thins.
Time which had been
dense and viscous
as amber suspending
intentions like bees
unseizes them. A
humming begins,
apparently coming
from stacks of
put-off things or
just in back. A
racket of claims now,
as time flattens. A
glittering fan of things
competing to happen,
brilliant and urgent
as fish when seas
retreat.
My father, who is 95 years old, has been hospitalized 3 or 4 times since Christmas. Every time he goes in I am frightened that this will be his last trip. But a couple days of intravenous antibiotics and he bounces right back. He will go when he is ready. Until then he is just faking the leave.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
WWJD?
If Jesus Christ were president, the Republicans would call him a Socialist. "Sell what you have and give to the poor" sure sounds like redistibution of wealth to me.
And they would worry that he was soft on foreign policy. The greatest nation on earth doesn't have to turn the other cheek for anyone.
If Jesus Christ were president, the Democrats would complain that he hasn't fixed the economy yet. What does he mean, "The poor will always be with you"?
And they would fret because he hasn't said anything yet about Gays in the military.
So I'm not surprised that people are disappointed in Obama.
All of which is just an excuse to share a poem I have enjoyed for a long time.
e e cummings
no time ago
or else a life
walking in the dark
i met christ
jesus ) my heart
flopped over
and lay still
while he passed (as
close as I’m to you
yes closer
made of nothing
except loneliness
And they would worry that he was soft on foreign policy. The greatest nation on earth doesn't have to turn the other cheek for anyone.
If Jesus Christ were president, the Democrats would complain that he hasn't fixed the economy yet. What does he mean, "The poor will always be with you"?
And they would fret because he hasn't said anything yet about Gays in the military.
So I'm not surprised that people are disappointed in Obama.
All of which is just an excuse to share a poem I have enjoyed for a long time.
e e cummings
no time ago
or else a life
walking in the dark
i met christ
jesus ) my heart
flopped over
and lay still
while he passed (as
close as I’m to you
yes closer
made of nothing
except loneliness
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
It's About Time
I was listening to Willie Nelson in the car today. I'm not a big fan of country music, but I like some of it, and this song by Willie Nelson is a favorite of mine:
Funny How Time Slips Away
Well hello there. My, it’s been a long, long time.
How am I doing? Oh I guess that I’m doing fine.
It’s been so long now, but it seems like only yesterday.
Gee, ain’t it funny how time slips away?
How’s your new love? I hope that he’s doing fine.
I heard you told him that you’d love him until the end of time.
Now that’s the same thing that you told me, seems like just the other day.
Gee, ain’t it funny how time slips away.
I gotta go now. I guess I’ll see you around.
Don’t know when though; never know when I’ll be back in town.
But remember what I tell you; in time you’re gonna pay.
And it’s surprising how time slips away.
Hearing that song got me thinking about other bits of poetry I like. Please take the time to read them.
On An Old Sun Dial
Time flies,
Suns rise,
And shadows fall.
Let time go by.
Love is forever over all.
From the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
Awake! for morning in the bowl of night
Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight:
And lo! the hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.
Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of spring
Your winter-garment of repentance fling;
The bird of time has but a little way
To flutter—and the bird is on the wing.
Cervantes
The Time
There is a time for some things,
And a time for all things;
A time for great things
And a time for small things.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.
Funny How Time Slips Away
Well hello there. My, it’s been a long, long time.
How am I doing? Oh I guess that I’m doing fine.
It’s been so long now, but it seems like only yesterday.
Gee, ain’t it funny how time slips away?
How’s your new love? I hope that he’s doing fine.
I heard you told him that you’d love him until the end of time.
Now that’s the same thing that you told me, seems like just the other day.
Gee, ain’t it funny how time slips away.
I gotta go now. I guess I’ll see you around.
Don’t know when though; never know when I’ll be back in town.
But remember what I tell you; in time you’re gonna pay.
And it’s surprising how time slips away.
Hearing that song got me thinking about other bits of poetry I like. Please take the time to read them.
On An Old Sun Dial
Time flies,
Suns rise,
And shadows fall.
Let time go by.
Love is forever over all.
From the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
Awake! for morning in the bowl of night
Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight:
And lo! the hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.
Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of spring
Your winter-garment of repentance fling;
The bird of time has but a little way
To flutter—and the bird is on the wing.
Cervantes
The Time
There is a time for some things,
And a time for all things;
A time for great things
And a time for small things.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.
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