The other story

Sean, 23, bought a new-to-him truck. Exactly the truck he'd always wanted. Of course, he looked it over carefully. So did his friend John, a mechanic, along with Sean's girlfriend. They even crawled underneath. They all said it looked great.

Sean and his girlfriend took a drive on the freeway. The left front end dropped out--wheel, axle, all that goes with that assembly. The truck went toward the median, crossed it, and faced a semi, which hit Sean's truck. Sean was thrown out and was killed. The truck was destroyed, except for the little cocoon-like place where his girlfriend was sitting. She had some bruises. That's all, except for her great loss. Sean.

Sean is the son of my dr's nurse. Her only boy. She told me many things last Friday, including the above account, and cried all through our visit. Says her husband is devastated; he had plans for all that he was going to pass on to his son--not things. "Now what?" he asks.

I can still learn

It isn't always about you. That is, it isn't always about me. Sometimes I think it is, or I behave as though that's what I think.

Last Friday's dr appointment was all about me, and I didn't want to go, didn't need to go, had been to the cardiac dr on Wednesday. So I called and said, "I want to know what this appointment is about."

"The nurse says this is a follow up to your heart attack."

"But I have just been to the cardiac clinic. Just today."

"I will have the nurse call you."

No call. Next day I call again with the same questions.

"I'll check with the nurse." I'm on hold. Kind of impatiently on hold. You know.

"The nurse says you need to come."

I could have said, "Tough, I'm not coming." But I didn't. Friday morning I went. I was right, though. I didn't need to be there, but since they said I needed to come--you know, like they made me come--I decided to tell the truth about something that has irked me there. So I told the dr I have a problem with drs who come in, hand extended (the glad hand approach, I call it), to show the patient, me, they really care. "I figure it's something they're told to do. But I only like handshakes that are genuine." He said it wasn't that way with him. No one told him to do it (I didn't believe it. Dr Burr, Dr Funke, PA Carmichael--they all do it, like somebody told them to.) Then he said, "And it is genuine."

"Hmph," I thought. And I was sure I didn't need to be there.

Then the dr asked me if I'd been writing much lately.

"I have."

"What have you been writing?" he asked.

"Well, I have written four poems in the last several months. All pretty much the same theme. Death." So then we talked about death. I told him a few lines from the latest poem. The conversation was all about me, really, because I know so much about the subject, you know.

Then I asked him if he had experienced the death of anyone close or anyone in his family.

"My father died three weeks ago," he said. And suddenly, it wasn't about me.

I gasped, couldn't help it, and said with heartfelt sympathy that I was sorry. I asked why he had died--"aneurism in his abdomen; it burst, and you don't live through that."

I asked his dad's age. "Sixty-one." I gasped again, couldn't help it. "Oh, I am so sorry." I said it again. "Then you're just a kid," I said. "You're not 40, are you."

"I just turned 40," he said. And he was starting to cry, doing his best not to, but his eyes welled with tears. I asked if he cries every day. "Not any more," he said.

He told me he knows all the technical stuff about aneurisms and about people dying. "But it isn't the same when it's your dad. Those things don't help."

I said again I was sorry and hoped he would always shake my hand, which he did before he left the room.

That was why I needed to go, so he could talk about his dad, cry a little bit. It wasn't really about me at all.

There's more, but I have to write it tomorrow or another time. It's about his nurse, whose only son was killed in June.

It's about writing

Last night a young man--would-be lawyer--came over for help with his two-page essay, required as part of the application process.

What he had written showed he was trying to do too much in those two pages. But there was a lot to work with. He said he had rewritten two or three times. I say, good for him, but it was very much like a dumping out draft. Just getting ideas down on paper.

I told him he had work to do. We talked about many things. I asked many questions.

Thank goodness he is willing to keep working on it. Not all people are willing to do that with their writing. But he's 26 and very serious about getting into law school. Shows some maturity.

I told him he had to write this one--the not so good one--before he could write a better one. Duh.

But some folks don't accept that. They think either a) I'm done or b) this stinks. The ones who think a are just that. Done. For better or worse, usually worse. The ones who think b get discouraged and think they should throw it away.

This guy is neither a nor b. He's c) willing to work on it. He'll be back in a few days with a new draft. I'm encouraged.

Update

One day last week I could see my owl in the tree. I knew where to look, of course, because of what was on the walkway. He spent the day there, mostly sleeping. Not his first day there, as you know. He is gone now. I don't know where owls go. Is it south?

This is the third time I have had owls hang out here. Did I say that before? Always the small grey screech owls. I quite like it, except for the cleaning up after them.

Speaking of owls. My fake owl had lost his head; I have just now put it back on and I don't know why. That scare-away-the-birds-and-squirrels device never worked. Not on the back deck, not on the front porch. But I guess he is sort of part of my place now. No, I have not named him.

Speaking of frogs, and we weren't, a tiny green frog perched on the window slat of my front door for most of the day today. Now he is sitting on the walkway close to the front porch. I told him he should move because he might get stepped on where he is. He ignored me. I do not want to be the one who steps on him.

Speaking of my skin cancer surgery, and we weren't, I got the stitches out today. The doctor says everything looks good. What did you expect her to say? The black eye/lid/cheek looks horrible, but she didn't mention that. Her assistant said to do the heat and ice packs. Okay. I will.

Good things:

• today's phone call from Richard, his story about Axel
• Friday's phone call from Wayne and what he said to Alyce and Ben (we were in my car together)
• the entire weekend, including the Brimley bonding
• Andrew taking me to the rehearsal last night; Andrew singing in my choir
• Lola playing for it
• The music we're singing
• my telephone chat with Ann today
• I can now get my entire face wet

A New Resident on My Property

So now I have an owl. He sits in the ash tree that hangs over my front walkway. Here's what he--cute little guy that he is--has meant to my life.

•  The sparrows who have and raise up their babies in the bird house on my back deck are out of here. Quit their nest building mid-task. And they are nowhere to be seen, not on my deck, not in the backyard trees, not on my porch or flower pots.
• No robins or starlings peck around the yards.
• Flickers and quail I occasionally see in the neighborhood, but not at my place.
• I hear no finches outside my writing room window.
• The mourning doves have quieted and do not sit on my roof.
• Squirrels are scarcer. I'm not weeping over it.
• I heard the owl calling in the early dark one morning, no doubt signaling these other animals to stay clear of his territory.
• I have told him this is my house. I know he heard me because he was looking right at me.
• I have to wash and scrub the front walkway daily. And for a little owl, I mean, he is a cute little owl, he leaves a lot of stuff. Large splatty poops and small brown bundles of regurgitated animal parts. Did you want to know about that?
• The other day, when I turned on the sprinkler to wet down the place and start my scrubbing, he watched the water move across the lawn.
• I do not yell at him. Not yet, at least.

I like him and I don't like him.

P.S.

I still care about a lot of things.

And she's right about my legs.

At choir practice

We sat together in the alto section. She pointed to the music, measure 30.
"That's 30," she said.
"Yes," I said, "I see it. A three and a zero."
Suddenly we weren't talking about music.
She: Thirty. After that everything goes down, down, down.
Me: Oh. And how old are you?
She: Thirty.
Me: (Thinking that thirty is not the point in life after which everything goes down, down, down.) Oh, yes. I see. But really, it's not so old.
She: I hope I live to be your age, when you just don't care about anything anymore.
Me: (More than a little taken aback.) Oh, you can see that by looking at me? (Thinking I looked pretty good, thank you, and knowing I had taken a bath that morning.)
She: It's just that I was shocked when I heard how old you are because you still have really good-looking legs.
Me: (Half under my breath) That's not all.

Thank goodness we had to sing again, and this strange conversation was ended.

Obviously, I have reflected on the conversation a time or two. And I do not know what it means.

Like, what does she mean by "when you don't care about anything anymore"?
Why does she think her life is nearly over at age 30 and on the down, down, down path?
Does she not know that she has 40 years before she's my age and can do SO MUCH in 40 years? Forty years!
And why and how often is she looking at my legs?