Grand Cayman - Part 2

The beach sand was like white powder on my feet as I approached the aqua water. There was worn smooth and flat coral at the water line to cross before I entered the water carrying my fins. My snorkel mask was on my head already. I could see my feet quite clearly through the totally transparent Caribbean waters. There were hardly any waves in the protected lagoon and the bottom was sandy for some thirty feet or so out into the water. I waded out until the water was up to my thighs and then began putting on my bright pink fins. Some sand got in them and I had to rinse it out so it wouldn’t irritate my feet while kicking. Then, I pulled my snorkel mask over my face and lowered my chest in the water and began snorkeling! A whole new and glorious world opened up to me and I could see very clearly through the mask and water.

At first all I could see was white sand, but then I could also see grass and then what I initially thought were big rocks. They turned out to be living conches!

The sand here was hollowed out like a bowl and I free dove 10 feet or so to pick one up and look at its pink mouth. It was so beautiful. I replaced it carefully. There were also star fish. Then up ahead, I could swear I saw a small southern sting ray.
The owner said there was one here. It was just so exciting. Here I was never having seen anything like this at all and there was this sting ray! I mean holy shit!

Further ahead where the water was shallower again, I could see sea fans and brain corals and lots of tiny fish hovering around in the somewhat rougher surf near the outer edge of the lagoon. Sean and I had studied up a bit to know what fish would be out here.

I saw a parrot fish (green phase),

a small yellow tang,

blue tang,

a one spot butterfly fish,

a blue head wrasse,
a fairy basslet,

a yellow tail

and a sergeant major fish.

The water was really too rough to go closer to the edge of the reef and the corals too high; some even extended out of the water. We weren’t supposed to touch them as the whole sea around Grand Cayman is a marine park and is protected. I didn’t feel that I was a strong enough swimmer to get that close and not accidentally brush a fin or something. It was tantalizing however. Man, I did not want to come back in. I was just totally sold on snorkeling. But, I was starting to wonder where Sean had got to. So, I came back in.

There he was, sitting on the sea wall, all wet from his foray into saltwater paradise. We babbled at each other excitedly about the wonders that we had seen; he had seen everything I had except the sting ray (at least he was properly jealous about that) but he had seen a school of blue tangs out by the edge of the reef where I was to chicken to swim (um, decided not to). He said that he was just fine in the rough water (he is a very strong swimmer, was a life guard, competed in college, has coached, etc).

We were ravenous for dinner, so we hung up our wet things, showered, dressed and headed for the resort’s restaurant. You couldn’t go wrong on the island ordering fish. I don’t remember what fish we had but all of the fish we had on the island was exceptional. We sat in the common room for a while over drinks.

Then we returned to our room and settled in for the night. We left our louvered glass windows open so that the ocean breezes would sweep lightly over the bed. It was the most tiring, adventurous, beautiful and romantic day of my entire life. I could not believe that there were 8 more just like it on the way. Next time…Sting Ray City!

Bookfield, Lake Lanier - Part 1

The company wanted to provide us with a place to swim on Sunday so they planned a sales meeting at a place up near Lake Lanier. Before the meeting, Chip’s brother Davie picked me up on his motorcycle and took me to see Stone Mountain. Davie looked like this.

It was my first time on a motorcycle. So, I donned my helmet, hopped aboard, grabbed Davie around the waist and off we went down the highway. We had enough time to head for Stone Mountain to see hang gliders soar. We didn’t approach the side of Stone Mountain with the carving on it; we went up the other heavily wooded side to watch them take off. It was a pretty bumpy ride up that rutted dirt road, but that’s what made it fun. Four wheel drive vehicles had made it up with the hang gliders before us. I had never seen hang gliding before. It was strange to see these guys take a good run with all of their equipment flapping and jangling and jump off the top of a mountain only to soar quietly away. Somehow it was captivating. Davie looked at his watch and said it was time to go to the meeting.

We hopped back on the bike, and sped away for the meeting nearby. It seemed to me that we must be going pretty fast, as I could hardly hold my helmeted head out from behind the windbreak of Davie’s head. Davie got my attention and motioned that I should look at the speedometer. We were going 80 miles per hour! It was a real rush on the bike going that fast and I hung on for dear life.

We got to the hotel, and the lobby was full of Parchmenters waiting. There was only one big, square shaped easy chair left. Davie and I squeezed into it together and laughed when we realized both our asses fit in that chair together. We were sitting like that still giggling when Chip arrived. “Hey Davie, what are you doing? Are you moving in on my girl?”

“Your girl, I’m not your girl.” I told Chip. But he pulled me out of the chair by my arm and Davie slunk away, not wishing to even jokingly challenge Chip. Chip let go of me and we went into the meeting. It was a typical meeting. More testimonials, more motivational slogans; you get the picture. After the meeting we all went to Lake Lanier.

Valentine's Day On Grand Cayman - Part 1

It was well before dawn, February 12, 1996 and the snow was flying all around the car on the way to the airport. A couple of inches were on the ground already and a blizzard was forecast for the day. I just couldn’t wait to get away from it all.

We had planned the trip the past spring as is needed when planning any trip to the Caribbean. We had had a good year and decided to splurge. The LOML, whom we shall call Sean from now on, was interested in SCUBA diving and wanted to learn. Grand Cayman had the best water clarity (visibility to 80 feet) in the entire Caribbean. Also, a couple of project leaders where I work who frequented the Caribbean gave the island high marks. One of them was a diver and said that the walls were the best and Grand Cayman in particular was best for SCUBA in the Caribbean. A secretary in my department came up with a secluded place to stay, the Cayman Kai Resort on the north shore. We certainly didn’t want to stay on the busy and popular Seven Mile Beach in a high rise hotel with hundreds of other tourists! So we booked our Valentine’s Day vacation. Actually we were going to spend a glorious 9 days there!

We boarded the plane, taxied the runway and as we took off I was thinking, “Bye, bye snow and cold!”, as the flakes flew past my window and then turned to water as they do when taking off. Later, we landed in Miami and waited to board our connecting flight to Owen Roberts International Airport, Grand Cayman. That flight took off and we flew directly over Havana and then greater Cuba. For those of you who do not know, The Cayman Islands, Little Cayman, Grand Cayman, and Cayman Brac are sheltered to the northeast by Cuba. Cuba kind of arches over them, as if protecting them from the lunging Florida. As we flew over Cuba, I was struck by how pristine, undeveloped and environmentally undamaged the inland forests, lowlands and coastline appeared. There was also no smog to be seen. This added to my yen to visit Cuba someday. But the US government just keeps making it tougher to go there.

Then the plane quickly came around and we landed on Grand Cayman soon after passing Cuba. The passengers were very impatient to disembark and straight away got out of their seats, grabbed their luggage, unzipped their pant legs off into shorts (got to get a pair of those) donned sunglasses and hats and headed for the exits. What I didn’t know was that there were no jet ways to taxi to. The plane just stopped, the main front and back doors opened, the cold air of the north was released, the warm, humid tropical air streamed in, fogged up my glasses and people surged for the bright light of the exits. Delicious tropical air!

Sean and I got our things together (I had to stuff my winter coat into a bag; I am always cold on planes) and followed the rest. It was so bright and sunny and hot outside and best of all, I could see palm trees right away! I love it when I can see palm trees! It’s a big selling point for me. There was quite a line for customs, but once there it was a snap, since the Caymans are a British Colony. We had arranged to rent a Jeep nearby and we walked there with our luggage to do the paper work.
Our Jeep was a metallic blue with the windows removed and the steering wheel on the right. So, that meant that Sean was driving. Like the UK, traffic was to drive on the left not on the right as in the US. In went our luggage, and off we drove to our hotel, the tropical breezes blowing our hair, towards Cayman Kai on the secluded north shore.

We found the hotel with no problem, since the island is only 22 miles long with one road going the around the circumference and one cutting through south to north. Grand Cayman is a desert island with scrub trees for foliage. We were very pleased with the resort. It was quite secluded; we could see no other structures around it at all. There were little, attractive white bungalows right near the water on well tended grounds. The sand was white, the water that aqua blue, I was so there. We found the lady manager and she showed us to our bungalow, one that was right near the water; I would say our porch was within 30 feet of it. The interiors were adequate, nothing fancy, but the place was used like a time share, so with people coming and going, the furniture had to be sturdy, and it was. We stowed our stuff and went out to explore.

The resort had a swimming pool, but who would
want to use it when the Caribbean was just right there? There were the obligatory palm trees, seagrapes, lagoon encircled by a reef upon which the waves were crashing, stone sea wall, and restaurant.

I couldn’t wait to get into the water. I donned my new metallic sparkly Speedo and my sister’s snorkel gear (coordinated in hot pink of course!) and lots of sunscreen and headed out for the lagoon. Sean got his camera. To be continued...

Come On Baby Light My Fire

One day last fall, I decided to volunteer with our town’s all volunteer fire department. So, one night I went on down to the station and met with the Captain. He invited me to go out on a training run with the firefighters. Oh boy! A dream come true; it was so exciting!

I heard that Sue was thinking about becoming a firefighter. That is so hot!

Downstairs, where they keep the fire trucks, there were about 20 guys ranging in age from 16 to 70 (average age 30- 40 years) and one gal of about 18 years listing to tonight’s plan as given by the scene commander. We were going to the town’s garage parking lot to perform an extraction on a wrecked car that had been donated for this purpose. Everyone knew what they had to do, was putting on their turnouts, and where to go, except me.

Fortunately, an elder fire policeman took me under his wing and instructed me to get into the emergency truck, the one that carries fire rescue equipment, with the other guys. It was really narrow in the truck kind of like the inside of a boat. Equipment lined the truck from floor to ceiling: boots, tanks, helmets, water, flashlights, first aid kits, etc. The windows were really tiny. We took off from the firehouse with lights, but no sirens. We didn’t want to alarm the neighborhood. The truck swayed not unlike a boat and all eight or so of us flew back and forth into each other until I found a hand grip rail. One of the drivers hollered back, “No sea sickness now!”

All this time I was changing into big (the smallest ones they had), heavy, steel-shank and metal toed boots that went up to my crotch, donning a turnout jacket with metal toggles (which I did up wrong) and a helmet under the direction of the most senior guy on the truck. I was also handed a flash light and work gloves. The one gal was also on our truck and she was quite pretty with long blonde hair. Even though I know our town pretty well, I lost track of where we were with all that was going on.

Too hot for you, boy. I'll handle her.

Suddenly we arrived at our destination and the truck stopped. When I got out, the boots were so big and heavy that they slid off and hit the ground before I did. The other two trucks were already there, the site was brightly lit and gear was laid out in an organized fashion on tarps on the ground. I quickly found the elder fire policeman on the periphery and stayed with him out of everyone’s way. Apparently nothing could happen without our truck, since we had the Jaws of Life on board.

The car had been in a front end accident and was totaled. The firefighters had already had a head start on removing the wind shield before we arrived. Cars have three pairs of posts, the posts supporting the wind shield are the A posts, the ones between the front and back seats are the B posts, and the ones that support the rear wind shield are the C posts. There were two hydraulic Jaws of Life units on our truck. One was 80 pounds and the other was 60 pounds. The car doors were removed with the Jaws, the A posts were cut right and left, then the B’s.

When it came to cutting the C posts, the commander came over and invited me to try one with the 60 pound Jaws of Life. I was so excited all I could say is, “Really, can I?”

“Yes, you can.” answered the commander in charge of the scene.

Smokin' hot! I gotta cool off!

So, I went to it. I took the Jaws as handed carefully to me by the most senior guy on my truck, and spotted closely behind by the gal from my truck; I cut the C post as close to the car as possible in two nips, since the post flared at the bottom where it met the car body. I was stunned at how well the Jaws’ was ergonomically designed. One crosswise upright handle was at the midsection, supporting all of the weight, the other was a continuation at the end most distant from the cutting end and rotated to open or close the jaws. I could not even sense the weight at all. Maybe it was just my adrenaline. Plus, the machine does all of the work. It was kind of like using a chainsaw without the noise, vibration or kickback. I was instructed not to get in between the Jaws and the car and to cut as close to the body of the vehicle as possible so that no one could get cut on the car posts. Lengths of hose that lay on the ground were pointed out to me by the senior guy as to be used to put over the posts if this had not been training to prevent injury to victims or firefighters. I felt like such a part of the team; supported in all ways.

Then I was instructed to bring the Jaws back to the truck, which I did, careful not to tangle the wires with any others from lights or the other Jaws unit. So, there I stood, holding that piece of equipment facing away from the scene, while the other Jaws was stowed, wires were untangled. It was really sometime later that I turned around and saw the roof of the car had been totally removed while I was busy.

Then it was back into the truck for the ride back to the firehouse. We each slugged down a bottle of water on the way back as we took off our turnouts. We were debriefed once we arrived. At some point, the commander asked why lengths of hose would be placed on cut posts. No one answered and I thought that they’ve got to know it. But, the senior guy looked at me and said, “I know you know this one.” So I answered it correctly. Afterwards, we all chatted and I felt like a part of the team. There was an overwhelming sense of camaraderie and purpose that we were all there to save lives and property and each other that came across as old calls were discussed. What a pleasant change from office back stabbing and scheming.

The whole exercise took about 2 hours and was a complete blast. The next day, my body felt as if I had done some real physical labor. You know, good pains, like from a good work out.

Guys, I was so hot I had to get naked.

Please support your local Firefighters.

Photo credit for naked firefighter to Oh La La Paris

Cheerier Posts on the Way

One of my most ardent fans and commenters, Ryan, has commented, "I always love your stories even though most have been sad." Ryan, as a valued customer, your wish is my command! I will take a break from following my depressing health issues for now and roll out VALENTINES DAY ON GRAND CAYMAN! Sound like fun? It was; both the LOML and I had a great time. You will begin to hear all about it in Monday's post.

Rum Point Grand Cayman

Bookfield, Cedar Shoals

Finally I had covered my territory to where Cedar Shoals was the next neighborhood on my route. I had been there a couple of times before, and couldn’t wait to sell there. I turned my bike off of the main thoroughfare and onto the first side street I came to, Clarke Drive. Green lawns dotted with children’s playthings, thoughtfully landscaped shrubs and trees and newly painted houses welcomed me. I went to the first house on the left and nobody was home. Maybe it was too early in the morning. I would revisit the house on my way out later that day.

The next house had a big shady maple in the front. A car was in the driveway, so someone was home. I knocked on the door and stood back. A young woman opened the door. I gave my approach, but the young woman said that the people who owned the house were away on vacation and she was just checking in. “Fine.”, I said, “When will they be back?”

She seemed about to tell me when her eyes widened and she retreated from the door saying, “Just please go away.” With that, she closed the door. I made nothing of it and decided I would need to check back on this house in some after some weeks had gone by. It would keep.

I went to the next house, a white split level with brown eaves. It was surrounded by low, manicured yews. It had many windows facing the front, including a large bow shaped picture window. The woman who answered was downright friendly. Her face had an open quality, like the windows of the house. She offered me a coke and I accepted. We sat down in the living room, she on the sofa and me on a chair facing the picture window. I gave the demo for the Family Bible Library and she seemed interested. I was in the middle of writing out the order when I happened to glance out the window and see a police cruiser slowly drive by.

“What are you looking at dear?” Mrs. Jones asked.

I answered, even though I had qualms about it. “It’s the police; they just went by outside your window.” She had a ‘so what?’ look on her face so I continued. “I think they are after me.”

“Now why would that be?”

“I was just at a house across the street and a young woman told me that the owners were vacation. She probably thought that I was casing the joint because I asked her when they would be back. She looked worried and suspicious as I left. I never would have thought that someone would call the police on me for that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Those people are kind of strange over there and you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well but maybe I should go out there and explain it all to them.”

“That would only make you look guilty. You haven’t done anything wrong and should not let them know you think they’re here for you. Besides, the police here are very good at their jobs. If they are here for you, they’ll catch up to you sometime. So, don’t worry. Now, where were we? The deposit. Is half okay?”

By the time I finished the sale, and my coke, and got out of there the police drove by again. But they were nowhere in sight when I got out side. I reviewed what I had learned from sales school about handling the police. The saying was that you were not a man (or woman?) until you spent a night in jail. My twin sister was actually taken to jail for vagrancy while selling books last year. She had the police telephone Robbie to verify her employment. But they let her stew for a while before letting her go. Robbie used to say that the perfect response to the police was to try to sell them a book so they would send you on your way quickly. I took my Parchment employment card and sales permit out of my wallet and put them in my pocket. I was prepared.

So I moved on down the block. I managed to visit a couple more houses before they caught up to me standing on the side walk. There were two cops in the car. The passenger side cop got out of the car and asked, “Would you please get in the back of the car?” He opened the door.

“Hi there officer. What seems to be the problem?”

“We just want to talk to you. Please get in.” I put my bike down on the grass between the side walk and street and got in the car. The officer also got in. He turned to face me and continued, “Do you have a permit to sell books?”

I handed him my papers. They called my name in to the station and meanwhile, asked me some questions. “Where are you from?”

“Nassau County, New York, Sir.”

“How long do you plan on being in town?”

“Just for the summer. I go back to college at the end of August.”

“And where are you staying?”

“In Athens on Meigs Street.” I answered. His tone was so serious that I really began to wonder if they were going to take me in to the station. Then they stopped talking to me for a while.

“Did you ask a woman on this street about the owner’s return from vacation?”

“Yes Sir I did.”

“Well, you got the lady worried that you might have been making plans to burglarize that house. Why did you ask for that information?”

“I planned to return when they got back from vacation to sell them some books. I guess it wasn’t very smart of me to ask.” I offered.

“Nope. We’re just doing our duty checking out a complaint, but we trust you’re telling us the truth. Had you heard about the crime problem going on in Athens where you live?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well you be careful. There’s some nut on the loose out there raping women and stabbing them to death afterwards. There are five victims now.”

“Five?” I said a little shocked that these serial attacks had continued since I was there.

“Yeah. Try not to be out and about in your neighborhood after dark. Patrols have been increased. If you see anything strange while you’re out on the road let us know.”

“I will officer.” I was always back home after dark, but I never stopped riding for anyone or anything, until I reached my destination.

The passenger side officer then got out of the car and opened my door. What bragging rights it would be if I could sell a book to one of the officers. Leastways I wanted to be able to say that I had tried. I wanted to launch into a demo, but I had left my sales case outside on the bike. As I got out of the car and stood, I began a modified demo-approach to ease into showing the Bible Dictionary. The officer just waved me off. “Be careful now.” he said.

They drove off after a while, and I resumed knocking on doors. Many of the neighbors had seen me get in and out of the police car, but surprisingly, none were suspicious of me as a result. It was just their police doing their job, and I had passed inspection. In all, the greater Cedar Shoals area was great territory and I did rather well there. Mostly the people living there were young couples raising families. Today we would call them yuppies. There was no such term in 1976. I saved a small piece of territory in Cedar Shoals in case I found myself in the middle of a bad week at some time in the future. It was the last chunk of suburbia left in my territory. All the rest was rural.

Convalescence - Part 1

Back to Brush with Death - Part 8

They wheeled me out of the hospital and there was the LOML in our white 1991 Audi Quattro waiting to drive me home. I couldn’t be happier. The drive home was uneventful.

As soon as I got out of the car on our property, I noticed that when I left (you know, via chopper) there were no leaves on the trees. Now there were leaves on all of the trees (maples, oaks, beech, etc.) and flowers everywhere. Spring had sprung and the whole world was bright green again. It was really good to be home in spring-time with all of the flowers blooming. I felt as if I had never noticed them before. I walked around our property and examined each tree, shrub, flower and weed to see the progress from bud to flower to seed. The rhododendrons, azaleas, wild roses, lilacs, peonies, iris, and many other flowers were blooming. Even the lowly dandelion was in bloom. It felt as if I had never noticed them all before. Each day, I walked the property to note the progress into summer and fall.

Phil and the LOML had built a bed for me downstairs in the dining room while I was recovering. I remember sleeping there and the sun would rise and shine into the dining room windows too brightly waking me.

Some home care professionals visited me to see how I was getting along and examine the adequacy of my accommodations. They determined that I could stay at home instead of going to a step down. Thank God! A physical therapist also visited and walked me around as far as I could go. She decided that I needed to walk by myself and needed no help from a pro. I decided that I needed speech therapy to deal with my aphasia (inability to grasp words), but the other valuable result of the therapy was to instill confidence in my ability to concentrate. My sister visited me with my niece and it was really great to be alive. My brother visited also.

But over the next few days the rash quickly expanded from my torso to my limbs and was tremendously itchy. The LOML looked up Dilantin, the anticonvulsant I was on since being diagnosed in the hospital, in the Physician’s Desk Reference (which I owned because of my job at a pharmaceutical company) and found that Dilantin could cause a measles-like rash and fever. We telephoned Dr. G, my new neurovascular surgical attending in the hospital, and he agreed that Dilantin was the cause of my fevers and rash. He prescribed Tegretol and instructed me to discontinue Dilantin. Important lesson here readers: You or your family must be your own doctor at times and look out for your own health because no one cares more than you do.

We went to see our local doctor about something for the itching and she was impressed by the classic presentation of a Dilantin rash and called in a medical student to see it. Aim in life number one: don't be a classical presentation of anything for medical students. She prescribed cortisone containing lotion, Sarna, and Aveeno baths. She mentioned that the rash would last some weeks. Shit. That sucked because that sucker really itched. It was far worse than poison ivy. I couldn’t sleep at night. The LOML was up giving me baths all night. It seemed to last forever and it was worst when it was on my feet.

Once outside the doctor’s office, I finally admitted to the LOML the statement that the evil Dr. M had made about ‘no more short hairstyles’. He was appalled and called her later that day to tell her off. He pretty much told her that how could she say those things to a person who had had brain surgery only a few days before and being a doctor she should know better. There was really no excuse for what she did what-so-ever. He would not mention it to her boss at this point but she had some nerve and had better watch her step. Dr. M ate some crow, I guess, and offered to send me a free dinner from the restaurant of my choice to smooth over the issue. But since I was throwing up my dinner routinely (a side-effect of Tegretol) this was not an appealing option. So, we refused. Throwing up was also unacceptable, since I had lost so much weight in the hospital, so I decided to halve my dose of Tegretol, not believing that I would ever have a seizure.

Bookfield, Steve - Part 3

The week went by too quickly. I gave it my best shot, but I had a typical sales week for me. I could only avoid the pie ordeal if Brian had a really crappy week. Mary had her best week yet of the summer. Before we knew it, it was Sunday.

Back at the hotel in Marietta, it seemed as if we had never left. Gossip was sweeping our group. Steve had quit. The gossip was that he had faked all of his sales on his expense report, and the pie contest forced him to admit it. He could not bear to fake the results so that someone else would get the pie. I couldn’t say that I would miss him. Then, unexpected good news: I inherited his territory, the Northern part of Oconee County, since it bordered on mine. It was too late in the summer to assign a new sales person to it, and Robbie was aware that I was running out of territory.

The meeting began and results were announced. Mary had won her match. I had lost to Brian, who had his best week ever. I was busy trying to prepare myself for the pie humiliation, when Brian came up to me. “You know”, he said, “I’m not looking forward to doing this to you. Yes, I tried to out sell you to avoid getting the pie myself, but I am not going to enjoy this. I don’t think the contest is a good idea. If there is any way I can make this easier for you, please let me know.”

I asked that he not get pie in my hair. It made me feel better that he was sympathetic. We all went outside for the pie throwing. The fifty or so pies were stacked on conference tables at the pool side. We losers lined up for the humiliation, with our respective winners next to us, so that they would be in the right place for their turn to ‘pie’ us.

So many people got pies in the face, that when it came my turn, almost nobody was watching. There was humiliation overload, and it no longer amused anyone. When my turn came, Brian asked me to select a flavor, and I chose lemon. A lemon facial, I thought to myself. Brian stood to my left with the pie in both of his hands. He held the pie under my chin and raised it slowly until my chin was in the pie. He looked me in the eyes, and when I nodded and closed my eyes, he slowly covered the rest of my face in the pie, up to my eyebrows. The pie felt very nice, actually. It was a hot day as usual, and the icy coolness of the pie was refreshing. The lemon smelled nice to. Someone handed me some paper towels and I wiped most of the pie from my face. I thanked Brian for not getting any in my hair.

Most of the folks who received pies jumped straight into the pool to rinse off. I was avoiding the pool that day, after last week’s disaster, so I went into the hotel’s ladies room to wash off. I took a look at the pool at the end of the day. Meringue floated everywhere. It clogged the pool filters, and from then on we were barred from using the pool at that hotel.

Brush with Death - Part 8

The LOML tells me that he was at the hospital every day. So was our dear friend Dr. L. Also, the LOML’s eldest brother, Phil, came down from Chicago to see if he could help out. Evie also visited repeatedly while I was in the NICU and brought a poster drawn by her daughter. She was comforted that I could read what was on it. Flower arrangements arrived in droves. I don’t remember any of these events.

The following day, May 8th, the hospital staff decided that since I was so frisky, I would be taken on a walk. A cute, burly and fun physical therapist put me on a waist leash and let me roam around the hospital, or so it seemed to me. (My hospital physical therapy records indicated that I was taken on such walks every day; I just didn’t remember them until this day.) I felt so free. We did some stairs and ran around the floor. He was amazed by my excellent physical condition. My lack of memory seemed to amuse him also. But I didn’t mind. He used to say, “What is my name?”

“Bob.”

And we would laugh.

“Mark.”

And we would laugh again. He was a lot of fun.

Evie says she was there when we returned to my room. She has since told me that she thought he was a cutie pie too.

That day, I was moved to a private room in the neurology unit since I was doing so well. Actually I was their star patient. From this point on, I remember a bit more of what was happening to me.

I remember the first time I looked at myself in the mirror in my new room and saw that the front half of my head was shaved. I could also see my ear to ear incision closed with staples. It was a bit shocking at first, but I remember thinking, “Okay, this is how I look now.” Later on, when I was walking around the hospital, and I saw other patients with shaved heads, I felt proud, like I deserved to wear it like a medal or something. I survived brain surgery and here was my medal.

I also was wary of the bathroom. I was still a bit paranoid about the biological samples thing and didn’t quite remember what to do in there as far as washing up. But a kindly, experienced and understanding nurse came in and helped me through all of the steps. She was quite comforting and reassuring in a way that was exactly what I needed. It’s a funny thing when you lose such basic knowledge and have to relearn it. Then, she helped me back into bed.

Later that day, one of my surgeons, Dr. W visited me. (I had never met him before, even though he had been inside my head.) He was dressed in a kind of punk style, all in black, a belt with studs in it, etc. His black hair was up in spikes. He was so positive and upbeat that I could not help but feel better. He said that I was doing really well and that he would try to get me into the very best recovery step-down institution in the state, to speed my recovery. I told him thanks, but that I just really wanted to go home.

On Monday, my boss Dr. M telephoned me and wished me well. She then proceeded to tell me that it was my obligation to let her know if and when I would be returning to work. I felt that this line of questioning was very inappropriate and it bothered me, I mean, gee whiz, I had just relearned how to wash and was still in the hospital with my prognosis generally unknown. So I flippantly trumped her by saying that I was still trying to get accustomed to the huge crack of a scar across the top of my head.

Her response was, “yeah, I was going to tell you Sue; no more short hairstyles”. This remark was highly insensitive and inappropriate. As I was absolutely lacking anything near whatever it took to confront her on it, so I decided to agree with what ever she asked next. She requested that I ask my surgeon when I could return to work next time I saw him. I knew that I had an appointment with Dr. W a couple of months later, so I agreed. She became the evil Dr. M in my book at that time.

The next day, my ex-boss Dr. R visited me. I tried to sit up for him and found it difficult to operate the bed. He was very kind to me, a real human being. He brought me a book, Uppity Women of the Renaissance. He asked if I intended to visit work during my convalescence, to make sure to let him know. I gladly promised.

I now became driven to be discharged. But I had a fever that came and went. No one could figure out what it was from. I was treated with endless regimens of antibiotics. There was a plan to discharge me on May 14 and when I spiked a fever on that day, I was so pissed off that I refused to do my physical therapy.

One day, a doctor came in to remove my staples, and central line. I looked at my chest and noticed some rash there. I asked the doctor to look at it, but she misunderstood and thought I was talking about the holes from the central line which she remarked would heal. Perhaps it was the aphasia, my post surgical inability to produce words, but I did not have the wherewithal to make her understand me.

My sister gave me a hat and two scarves from the GAP to cover my head when I was discharged. I appreciated her thoughtfulness.

I was discharged the following Saturday morning, May 15. It was agreed that I could go home instead of to a step down institution since the LOML worked from a home office and would be available 24 hours a day. The Occupational Therapy Notes stated that I had been assessed as needing supervision and or cues for bathing, dressing, ambulation on level surfaces and stairs, home management, hygiene, eating, toileting, and getting out of bed. All I can say is picky, picky, picky. Sounds to me like somebody was making sure they wouldn’t get sued. You lose all of your rights as soon as you are a patient. I was also noted to have mild balance, mild endurance, significant complex problem solving, memory, slowed comprehension and mild cognitive deficits as well as mild aphasia. (With brain injuries some of these may heal within 3 - 6 months while others may take longer or not heal at all.) The LOML and Phil had to build a bed on the ground level of our house so that I would not have to climb stairs or “Architectural Barriers” to get to our room. An outpatient service was going to come by and inspect my living situation soon. Oh joy! But the most important thing of all was that I was free.

FREEDOM

Stay tuned for the convalescence...

The Most Twisted Thing I Ever Did

It was when I was in college and had three suitemates. One was my roommate, Kim (our school’s strongest female backstroke swimmer) and the other two roomed across the small lounge from us. The other two, Jan and Amy, were very pretty as far as features and figures, and always kept up their appearances, with makeup, attractive clothes, hair neatly done, nails perfect, and the whole nine yards as they say. Not like me; I just slapped on jeans and a tee and never wore a lick of makeup.

Our dorm was 10 stories tall and was coed. We lived on the "penthouse" level. The suite next to ours was a six and was all jock type party guys. They were okay for the most part. One of them was a bit of a problem, Mitch, but how much I did not know until Jan and Amy came to me one day.

“Sue, Mitch, has been following us around campus.” said Jan.

“So.”, I replied unimpressed.

“You don’t understand.” she said. “He’s really sick.” Then the whole story came out.

Let me just say here that Mitch was a handsome, well built, natural platinum blond, fair skinned, with blue eyes. He would have been a real stud muffin if he wasn't so repulsively egotistical. He was always wearing things in a banana yellow color to highlight his hair, like a fedora hat, or pants, bandanna, or his favorite converse canvas sneakers. He always wore those sneakers. He was pretty easy to spot on campus.

“He makes comments to us all of the time. He’ll say things like, ‘I know you babe’s want a piece of this, well, I’m right here just come and get me.’ Or ‘Hey I just came all over the bathroom in our suite, come and lick it off the walls’. Now he is just stalking us. We are afraid he will attack and rape us.”

“I had no idea all of this was going on. Have you reported it to the dorm's Resident Assistant?”

“Yes, but what can he do but give him warnings which Mitch just laughs off?” [Author’s note this was mid ‘70’s]

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. We thought maybe you could do something really sick to scare him off for good.” she said.

I knew what she was thinking. You ever know somebody where the communication was so much more than spoken? Just a look was all that was needed and you knew what the other person was thinking. That was what Jan was like. Jan was a psychology major. She was thinking that because I was a bio major I had access to really gross and disgusting stuff in the lab and would come up with something to scare him off for good. Clever of her that. We discussed it no further.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks Sue!” I could see relief in her face and it made me feel protective. My suitemates were really good friends and I would do just about anything to help them out.

So, some time went by.

One day when all four of us returned to our room together there was a used condom hanging from our door knob. That was it; time for action.

All during the fall season, Cedar Waxwing birds had been getting drunk eating fermenting berries out on the quad and then flying into the reflective windows of nearby campus buildings and inadvertently killing themselves. So, those of us taking ornithology collected the birds for dissection and study pelts. We had about thirty birds by now.

I went up to the lab with a Ziploc bag, gathered up all of the little frozen birds, snapped off their heads and cut off their feet, put the parts in the bag, and returned to the dorm. Entering Mitch’s unlocked room when everyone was at class, I stuffed his prized banana yellow sneakers’ with the heads and feet, tipping the shoes forward and fled the scene. My parting thought as I glanced into his shoes was that you couldn’t really see the bird parts well, as they only filled about the front half of each shoe, and would he have to actually put his foot into the shoe to discover them?

I also worried that the ornithology professor would notice the shortage of bird parts.

The next day, I was summoned into the RA’s office. He did not look happy.

“Sue, look here. We’ve had this terrible, sick thing happen and we know it was you. A resident of our dorm found bird heads and feet stuffed into his tennis shoes and he was completely shocked and sickened; he even had to go to the infirmary. He insisted that we look into who could have done this terrible thing. He thought we might have a serial killer on our hands. It didn’t take long for us to figure out it was you. You are a bio major; we know you had access to the biology lab and these bird parts…” Then he just burst out laughing. “To tell you the truth we’ve had lots of reports of harassment on him, even from your suitemates, and we could never take any action. We understand your motivation and don’t feel that you will do anything like this again, but I have to tell you that any other trouble from you and you will be expelled.” Then he just smiled.

I nodded and told him he had nothing to worry about as I left.

So, I went back to my suite and my suitemates were there. Jan said, “You were brilliant! You out-psychoed him. He is terrified of you now. Our own little serial killer. We are safe with you now.” I felt all warm inside; mission accomplished.

And that is the story of the most twisted thing I ever did.

Epilogue: The ornithology professor never did notice the shortage of heads and feet, thanks goodness, and Mitch made himself scarce after that; he really was terrified of me. That’s me the big scary, 5 foot 4 inch, 100 pound serial killer.

(Photo credit: Finnish Beef to Pete and appologies to fine young man for being used so inappropriately.)

Bookfield, Steve - Part 2

I decided to unwind by swimming in the hotel pool after the meeting. It was crowded with Parchment people. When I jumped in the three foot deep end, a splashing contest ensued. I really wasn’t into it, having never really liked splashing, so I tried to move away. Steve was in front of me, splashing.

His arm flew out, I thought to splash me, but instead he grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him. I gave him a stern look and he pushed my head under the water. Unfortunately, I had begun to inhale just as he did and I held what was left of the air in my lungs while I went under. I tried to get up quickly, but I couldn’t. I began to struggle to get up. He held me firmly, and eventually I found that I was on my hands and knees on the bottom, unable to budge. Now, I was synchronized swimmer in high school, so I can hold my breath, but I had not been able to get a good breath when I was forced under. Soon, my need for another breath outweighed my desire to struggle. I panicked. I began to punch Steve under the water, and still he did not let me up. I had to inhale; it was becoming an involuntary action. I inhaled water. I thought I was going to die. Just then, he pulled me up.

I tried to inhale and ended up just gasping, because the water in my wind pipe prevented the air from coming in. I could have used some help to the side, but everyone was standing there laughing at me. I made it to the side and threw my arms onto the concrete for support. I began coughing up the water I had inhaled. It was painful. One of the guys looked at my face and realized that I was in trouble. They helped me out of the pool. I continued coughing for about half an hour. Steve came over and said that he had known I was a strong swimmer and that the dunking was just a joke.

I kind of kept to myself for the rest of the day. To this day, I fight not to panic if someone touches me while I am in the water. I suppose I could have bit him; hindsight is twenty-twenty.

(Man splashing water photo credit to Aron Thanks!)

Brush with Death - Part 7

On Tuesday, my former boss from Oncology Clinical, Dr. D, visited me at the hospital. I forced myself to remember because he brought me American chocolates and I gave him a hard time because we had together experienced Belgian chocolates in Europe. He “force fed” me one, telling me that they were really okay. It was very sweet of him. God, I am so spoiled.

At some points during my hospitalization I had a high fever of unknown source and was treated with various antibiotics such as, ampicillin, cefazolin, and gentamicin and ciprofloxacin. During this time, the LOML tells me that he frequently changed my diapers (now if that is not love, I don’t know what is) and untied me from the restraints that held me down. When he inquired of the staff why I was tethered, they said that I was “restless”. I don’t remember when my good friend Karen visited me. She told me that I was sitting up talking to her and said that I said that I was “devastated” by all that had happened to me and that my bleak outlook concerned her.

My next surgery was scheduled for the following Thursday.

On May 6, my craniotomy was reopened and AVM was micro surgically excised by Dr. A, who flew in from his sabbatical, and Dr. W. The pathology report indicates that they received a 6 x 3 centimeter mass. Step two of the treatment plan completed. Hooray!

Evie was the first to see me after this operation and she noted that my lips were blue and that I looked grey. She notified hospital staff of my apparent anemia and my blood counts were run. My hemoglobin was 6.5 g/dl (normal is 12 g/dl – 16 g/dl) and HCT was 18.9% (normal is 36% - 48%). I was administered 2 units of packed red blood cells and that pinked me right up. Good call Evie!

After my surgery my family was relieved that I was still able to speak clearly, though hesitantly, and though weak, I remained in the neuro ICU spiking fevers, not eating that well, confused and without any recollection of events in the hospital. I could still move, stand and walk easily with only minimal assistance. But in retrospect, I guess that all I needed was some time to recover.

Bookfield, Steve - Part 1

Gregg and Bill picked us up for the next sales meeting. They came by the Epps’ house Saturday night. Gregg ran up to our room and jumped on my bed. He patted the sheet and gave me come hither look, and asked if I would join him. I laughed it off, and he got out of my bed.

Later that evening, when it became apparent that Bill and Gregg had no place to sleep, we shared our beds with them. Great, just great I thought. Bill was in Mary’s bed, Gregg in mine. At first Gregg was the perfect gentleman. Totally clothed, we spooned just to fit on the twin bed. He began breathing in my ear. His breath was warm, close, intoxicating. I turned to him and we kissed. The kisses were shallow at first, just soft lips, and then grew a bit deeper. I stifled a moan, since Mary and Bill were just across the room, as Gregg’s hands caressed my body through my clothes in a sensual way. My breathing grew deeper. He began to open my top jean button and then lower the zipper. He slid his hand in and found me wet. One of his fingers entered me and he whispered, “You are so tight.” I moved his hand away and he stopped immediately. I realized that I was lonely both for someone to talk to and to sleep with. We spooned again and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I wore my New York Yankees hat to the meeting for the first time. My shoulder length hair was tucked into it. That week, my sales had not been all that bad; good enough that I did not fear being ostracized, and low enough that I would not be called on to make a success testimonial. That suited me just fine. Mary and I strode into the lobby of the hotel in Marietta.

One of the guys, Steve, who’s territory was Northern Oconee County (just to the South of mine), came right up to me and put his arms around me. Out of the blue, he gave me a big wet kiss on the neck. He let me go and resumed walking past me. I was unaccustomed to so much attention from guys at home.

During the meeting, a contest was announced. Each person was assigned another to compete with during the following week. The two peoples’ sales for that week would be compared head to head. Results of the competition would be announced at next week’s meeting, and the winner would get to throw a pie into the face of the loser. Every one was paired. At first I thought that Mary and I would be paired. I would lose, as her sales were usually much better than mine, but I could live with the idea of her throwing a pie into my face.

To my surprise, I was paired with Brian, a second year salesman who was in a slump. Robbie announced the pairing something like this, “Sue and Brian are paired because Sue had a pretty good week, but we think she has potential to do much better. Being paired against Brian, who has had really big sales in the past, should motivate her to her best week of the summer. Brian was one of our top sales people last year, but is in a slump. We thought that the insult of being paired against a first year girl ought to motivate him.”

Just lovely, I thought. That is how much they thought of women on the bookfield; that being paired against a girl was insult enough to break a slump. And I was worried. There was no way that even if motivated I had any where near the sales talents that Brian had. I was already doing the best I could. I looked at Brian, but he did not look back. He had his game face on. He had been publicly insulted.

I couldn’t believe that the company would completely humiliate half of its sales people, the losers, for the benefit of the other half, the winners. The bottom line, however, was the company’s bottom line. Everyone would be motivated to avoid a terrible public humiliation, and the company would reap the profits. Disgusting.

I considered quitting at that point. I had made a commitment to see the summer through, though. So I looked at the whole situation unemotionally, which wasn’t easy. The pie in the face wouldn’t physically hurt me, and I would be in plenty of company. I didn’t really care what these people thought of me anyhow. Mary was enthusiastic about the contest.

Brush with Death - Part 6

On May 2^nd I had a physical therapy evaluation. It describes me as lying in bed, with wrist restraints and a Posey vest on (see picture, right, and you feel about that old with one on) lethargic and oriented to self, month, year, but I thought I was in my home town. Go figure. That day, I walked one hundred feet with minimal assistance for balance (using a gait belt see left, bottom) and stated that my goal was to return to my pre-hospitalization level of fitness.

Much later that day, I remember feeling really paranoid. I felt I was on a clinical study (which in reality I was going to be, the investigational embolization goop) and that the hospital staff, the LOML, everybody was in on it. I even confided to Evie about it. They wanted to take biological samples from me (urine, blood, brain tissue). I had to get away from the hospital fast. But it was the middle of the night and the rails were up on my bed in the neuro ICU. So, I stealthily leapt over them when the coast was clear and landed on my feet. Unknowingly, I had removed my IV lines and Foley catheter. I had only taken a couple of steps when a doctor walked in and asked me just where did I think I was going? He called for help, and lowered the rails and put me back to bed. The head ICU doctor came in and yelled at me for trying to run away as she tied me to the bed with this vest contraption (the Posey thing) and soft wrist restraints, the only time I remember being restrained. Did I mention that I don’t like hospitals very much these days? She pointed out that it was a good thing that I didn’t get away since I had a central venous line in my chest that and if it had pulled out I could have bled to death.

I decided to remember this episode because it was all so crazy and completely unlike me. But now when I hear that brain surgery patients run away, I can kind of understand it. There was a guy in Washington, DC, that ran away and was not found for a week or so. He found a hooded sweatshirt to hide his baldness and scar. Great idea, huh? The LOML asked me later what my plan was. Did I figure that I would make it out of the hospital in my gown with the back gaping open and then out onto the street? What would I do then? Where did I plan to go? Brain surgery can do funny things to you psychologically; none of which are rational.

So, we were back to square one and the embolization had to be done all over again. Dr. W arranged for an investigational embolization drug to be used Monday, May 3^rd, by a hand picked team from a nearby hospital. The team was able to embolize 95% of the AVM and the procedure was a complete success. Step one of the two step treatment plan was now complete.

Afterwards, the LOML telephoned work to give them the good news. Dr. L also updated Dr. R on what my status was.

Bookfield, Red Doberman

At another house, a large red Doberman came down the asphalt driveway in a strictly business like fashion to check me out. I stood still with my hands at my sides. It was a chance I took; typically a dog that walks up quietly is not to be trusted, but will not start by attacking. He sniffed every inch of me, and then pushed his wet nose under my hand. My hand came to rest on the dome of his head. I petted him, and he licked my hand. This dog’s owner said that his dog was able to use judgment too. He said that things would have been different if I was a man, or black.