the short story of waiting

I shuffled into the NOLA ER. I'm fairly familiar with the emergency room drill. Intake, triage, wait, room, wait, wait, nurse, doctor, nurse, wait, doctor, discharge. There may be some peculiarities to each experience, but the general pace is usually the same. The waiting is what fills the time. It's like a drip that just won't quit.

It had been pouring rain that day, and apparently this had affected the emergency room; I stepped over wet, dirty towels as I made my way past the security desk, and sat down at the check-in booth.

"What's the matter, baby?" The staffer was a giant man with a sharp mustache and an earring. My eyes welled with tears, and I told him I just couldn't stop being sick.

"Where are you from?"

"Minneapolis."

He asked me for my social security number. My name. No inquiries of insurance or anything. He asked me why I was in New Orleans.

"Work," I croaked.

"Well, you'll just have to come back sometime when you can have some fun," he said.

"I haven't even gotten to eat a muffuletta," I whimpered. This was one of the most important things I had not been able to accomplish. Because I'm just that petty and obsessed.

"You'll come back and have one."

A loud voice bellowed behind me, and I didn't turn around: "What happened to Lori's file?!"

The man before me raised one eyebrow.

"She had the ultrasound and she was just here."

Flashes of HIPAA violations flooded my brain.

"I don't know, I just got here, I don't know anything," he said in a high-pitched lull. Then he directed his attention back to me, the puddle of Minneapolis pathetic goo before him.

"Please go with Mr. Henry, he's the triage nurse and he'll take care of you, baby."

I turned around to see the most massive man in nurse scrubs. He was easily 6'4". He could have crushed me like a can, and he didn't look like he would call me "baby."

We walked through a doorway into a dark room that could be seen from the waiting room. I saw five women there, and I wondered if they all knew each other. They didn't look sick, and they were all chatting away like they were sitting on a breezy street, fanning themselves just because they had the means.

The nurse began the questions, most of which I'll skip. The only one worth mentioning was the obligatory, "Are you pregnant?" To which the answer was, "No," and which elicited the response, "Perfect."

"You're number 668, you need to remember this number," he said as he slipped the hospital bracelet around my wrist. I looked down and there it was, a 668. Touro. Minneapolis.

Out to the waiting room I went, sitting in the same section as the five familiar women. I watched a young, pregnant woman walk painfully toward another bank of chairs with her friend or sister or someone who clearly cared, and three perfect children under the age of 6. She held the underside of her belly like a bad cramp had caught her there and just wouldn't budge. Across from them was a woman in a wheelchair who had busted her arm, sitting in discomfort. Next to me was a guy in Homer Simpson PJs with a bum leg. There was no T.V., no magazines. No distractions.

I listened to the women because really, what else could I do?

"I was in Dallas when Katrina came. And the doors of my house opened up and let the storm in, but I wasn't there to see it."

"PRAISE the Lord."

"The Lord took care of us. He knows what to do. Always."

I leaned my head on the front of my fist and closed my eyes. I wanted to listen but not to intrude. Apparently, the did not know each other. There was some conversation about how familiar she seemed and she seemed, too, and maybe they had met at the market, the place where they said they spent all their money. Child, that's where I've seen you. Of course it is.

By some amazing chance, every one of them had four children. I did the math. That's a lot of people in the world.

"My four boys are all grown and there ain't but one who doesn't live with me."

I thought about the economic implications of this scheme. I imagined myself with three grown adults in my two-bedroom home, and thought about how angry I would be. I wondered what she did for all of them. Turns out one of her sons is blind, but according to her:

"He knows EXACTLY what's going on, and he could get the services."

The woman closest to me piped up. According to her looks, she was the oldest of the five, maybe late 60s, with curlers still in her hair and really, really nice shoes.

And a voice like treacle.

"My first child...was a love child. My second child I had because the first was too attached to her daddy. The third was an accident. And the fourth was a fuck-up."

The other four howled with laughter. I grinned and peeked at them. They saw me and smiled back as their amusement softened.

A doctor came out to see the woman who had been in Dallas when Katrina hit. They stepped out of sight, near the wet towels at the entrance. When she came back, she was clutching her chest. I know because I decided to look.

"He said to call whoever needs to be here and tell them to come."

She walked away in tears. And we all closed our eyes together.

thirty-five seconds

I was in New Orleans last week. It's a beautiful part of the earth, that city. I fell in love very deeply and I want to go back.

When I first arrived, I had dinner with a friend who I don't get to see so much. He's the best kind of egg, and we had a grand time sitting atop a balcony on Bourbon street talking, listening, and taking in the senses from below.

Fast-forward to me being very, very sick for the rest of the week. And me needing to be "on" at 8 a.m. on Saturday for work. This transition takes you to where I was Friday night: the emergency room of Touro Hospital, New Orleans, trying to get some drugs.

I have a lot of stories from this night, but this will be the first.

Three cab drivers I met that night, and how they hit me deep down inside the tender parts of my soul. Right in the spot I needed to be touched, and when I needed to be noticed.

* * *

I had been crying on the phone to my husband because I was so sick and tired. I couldn't stop being ill and I still had so much to do and I had nothing left.

"You need to go to the doctor," he said.

"I don't want to go," I said.

So the conversation continued with lots of support in other areas until we parted. And then I made up my mind to do as he said, and go get help.

The ER. Dammit.

I went to the concierge to find my way. Urgent care was closed, of course. You'll have to go to the hospital, doll. They're so nice in the South. Even when they're telling you how royally fucked you are.

He took out a map and showed me the cross streets.

"Tell the cab driver to take you right here, and to take St. Charles street. You know how some of these guys are," he said.

I had no idea how they are, because I'm from someplace else and we only talk like that in veiled slips of passive-aggressive mysteries. But I was grateful for the map all the same.

To my left I saw four friends pass by and out the doors, including my good egg from the first night. They were off to dinner and a show. Next time, I thought. I'll go with them the next time we're together.

I caught my cab in front of the hotel, a red minivan. I showed the driver the map and asked him to take St. Charles street to Touro hospital.

"Are you sick?" he said.

"Don't worry, I won't get sick in here," I said.

"I'm not worried."

We drove awhile, and it was clear we weren't on St. Charles.

There were mansions and weeping trees that fell heavy with rain. It was just how I felt. Full of lead that weighed down the promise I might have had within.

"Where are we?"

"The Garden District."

It was magnificent. Above ground cemeteries and pages from an Ann Rice novel. Everything around me seemed deep without color, all white and pale yellows. We passed the urgent care, boarded up for the night, or had it been closed for longer? I didn't know if Katrina had gotten this far.

"You know, you are sick and you're not from here. You just don't know when that's going to happen to you."

I shook a little inside and acknowledged with a sigh.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Haiti."

"Do you still have family there?"

"Yes."

Some more silence. And then he said:

"It took 35 seconds. It was like you closed your eyes and then you opened them, and everything was gone."

I cried openly but held back the whimpers. It was just that fast. And then he said:

"Like here. Like the hurricane. You think you have control. Some men, I think, they just get curious and they think they can do it. They think they have control and then they open their eyes and there is nothing there."

I thought about this underneath my own emotions. It has been a month of profound loss. More than I will ever be able to talk about here. But I thought of something in response to this.

"We have control over ourselves," I said.

"Oh yes. We can choose to be good or evil. Every day."

And just as fast as we had left, we were at the hospital.

I wanted him to come back and get me when I was done, but I was fairly certain this wouldn't be a short trip. He told me to call a United Cab because they take credit cards, but he gave me his number if I got in a bind. He said he'd pick me up any time I wanted. I thanked him and left, walking a block away so he didn't have to go the wrong way down a one way. He waited until I got inside, and then he said good-bye.

* * *

Four hours later and I was done with the ER. I had been waiting for my cab for an hour.

The first one had shown up and didn't take credit cards. Apparently, this is something you have to request when you call. I had no idea, but it makes sense now. So I was waiting for my credit card-taking cab in front of Touro. And up pulls a beautiful United Cab with a lovely elderly lady in the back. I held the heavy door open for her and started to climb in. And the driver, a guy younger than me with nothing but gold for teeth, an straight-brimmed Reds cap and black tattoos everywhere looked at me in confusion.

"Are you my cab?" I said.

"Uhhh, no."

Of course you're not. Because this is where I'm going to wait for the rest of my life.

"Do you take credit cards?"

"No."

I sighed, told him I was waiting for a United Cab that took credit cards. He wished me luck and drove away. I stood in the warm wind and waited. 11 p.m. I was so exhausted. I thought about calling my first driver but something didn't seem right about it. I felt like I was trouble.

A catering van had pulled up in front of the ER entrance, promising hot wings, corn on the cob, various fried things and soda and coffee. Amazing, I thought. People waited in line as though they were expecting it. I turned away and watched some nurses smoke and a guy dance and sing aloud to himself.

"HEY!"

I looked at the catering van and saw the United Cab driver with the Reds hat.

"I'll give you a ride."

My hope shot through the sky, and I walked quickly toward him. I promised him that if he gave me a ride, I'd run inside to the cash machine and tip him well. He said it wasn't a problem. He had gotten stiffed for $140 on credit card trips before and he didn't like to do it, but he didn't want to leave me stranded. His order came through the catering van window.

"I'll buy you dinner," I said.

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Do you want cheese on your broccoli?" asked the catering van owner.

"Whatever's easy," he said.

"Do you want cheese or don't you?"

"Sure," he grinned all gold.

I stuck out my hand and told him my name.

"I'm Cedric," he said. And we shook. He commented that a) He had never had a woman buy him dinner before and b) My handshake was so strong it hurt his arm. This was particularly hilarious because the physical advantage did not lay with me. About the dinner, I said there was a first time for everything. That's something I really believe in.

We stood there and talked while his order came through. About being nice to people and why it's important. He had a wonderful way about him, and he teased me about my handshake some more, and punched me lightly on the arm to let me know he was just foolin'.

And then my cab pulled up.

Cedric told me he would still take me if I wanted to. I said I didn't want to stiff the other cab, and walked over to make sure he had the credit card machine. Sure enough, the new driver held up the swiper. I felt like I was in Tron all of the sudden.

"Bye, Cedric!" I yelled.

He yelled and waved good-bye. I'm glad I got to buy him dinner. It felt good to make Cedric smile.

* * *

I settled into the deep seat of my final cab of the evening. The driver was silent, except to ask me which way I wanted to go. I asked him to take Magazine Street. So up we went, looking at all the beautiful people just beginning their night. It was 11:30 now, and there was still so much life around. I breathed and took it all in, thinking of Cedric and my first driver whose name I never got. There was everything else in-between that I haven't shared yet. An adventure. I swallowed it all and decided it had been a good night. I was on the other side of that evening's tears. We pulled into the cul-de-sac of the hotel, and I gave him my credit card, that which had delayed my arrival by an hour and a half.

"Which one of these is your first name?" he asked.

I set him straight. I guess they're both strange names.

"Where is that from?"

"It's Swedish," I said.

"You're Swedish?"

I never know how to answer this, being an American. No, I'm not Swedish. I'm no more Swedish than the way the letters scramble together. My great-grandparents were from Sweden. But me? I'm so far from anyplace not Midwest, it's immeasurable.

"Yes, I'm Swedish."

"Is that why you're so beautiful?"

I snorted and blushed and laughed my obnoxious laugh.

"No," I said. "I'm beautiful because of my mother."

"Is she Swedish?"

I bellowed and signed the slip.

"Why are you so beautiful?" I asked.

"From my father," he said.

I laughed and thanked him. It was a good answer. We all look like Christmas to someone.

here begins the lesson

He and I. We've been talking a lot about what we have learned. And how everything we did before that was petty and personal, now just has done "poof-ed" into the thin. There are no arguments to be had. It just isn't worth it.

I don't think I believe in lessons. Or meaning. Or "everything happens for a reason." If you're a regular reader, I think you know I believe this entire idea is a crock mixed with...organic matter.

Yet, we are still here. And we have to go on after all of the bigness of the moment.

Two years ago, we lost a child. "Alone in a room" is the entry. Right after this, I had to go away for work. Two weeks after. It was soon after, and I was tender all over. While I was gone, I completely let go of every reasonable feeling I had. I stayed up until the next morning drinking, sulking. In hot tubs and bars where you can't help but be trapped, because there's nothing else to do there. I was in the middle of nowhere doing the middle of nothing. Feeling sorry for myself and silent in the shadow. Consumed by this first big thing that had happened to me. The loss of a child. A person I wouldn't know ever.

These past two weeks, we lost someone with a name and a past and a future before her. And we watched the unbelievable grace of her mother. The Mother. Telling stories in the middle of making decisions about what would happen next, and the even next after that. She gains a brief moment of strength, I think, when we talk about what it was like to be with her daughter. Silly stuff. The person she was and will always be, and what she gave to all and the imprint of her experience on our adult selves. More profound than we knew at the time, because if you thought about it too hard...about how much you take for granted the people you love with every piece of yourself...I think you might explode, and be gone forever.

I spoke with her today, and she doesn't want us to go away. We made a tether, together. The remembering is a string of life. A cord that has some give, but keeps a joining.

"Meaning." Bullshit, that is. "Meant to happen?" I simply will not believe it.

But the lesson.

Let's hold each other close, shall we? Let us keep the bonds tight like nerves and systems and corporeal vines.

The ones who are closest.

My love, my sweetest child's father and my partner in all that is good and otherwise. He is the one I keep wrapped to my heart. He knows everything about me that is good and oh-so-very-wrong. He loves me for all the bruises on the inside and out. He tells me I am amazing.

And our friends on Tuesday nights. You're right, gorgeous; we have kind of grown up together. I can't tell you how lucky I feel that my daughter has such beautiful women around to show her how to be in this crazy world.

The Family Game Night friends who I don't get to see. I eat the leftovers he brings home. They're magnificent.

Next week, I have to go away for work again. Shortly after, a repeated verse. To a different place but for the same thing. I think I will have a balance, this time, between the disconnecting from reality and the hunt for home. It's good to be gone, I suppose. To be selfish and blaming my absence on needing to be there for some reason that isn't connected to "me." Pushing away with anger and feeling pulled by in all directions.

But I promise a balance. I swear I will remain tethered so you're never afraid. Pick out the things she will wear for the season; tell me how she was that day. Every single detail. Tell me she was perfect Tuesday night, playing on the floor of the kitchen. Face-to-face minutes where we say we wish I were home and we were together.

The lesson; it's that I have everything right in front of me. And at any moment. I could lose it all forever.

she is quite wonderful

Sweetness is like sand.

Through your fingers and onto your toes. Little pebbles that turn into delicate piles, forming here and there. And then, all of the sudden, you think it's gone. But that's not the case, really. You find it in the most unexpected places. In-between your sheets and on the baseboards. Your shoes. Everywhere, even. All over the god-damned place.

A very dear person we know has passed away. Or, perhaps, she is in the middle of it all as she continues to give herself to others. In the process of one place to the next.

But neverthemind.

The point of the matter is we cannot see her.

We cannot hear her.

No new challenges between you and one of us to be meted out over time. She belongs to something else. And we all want to see her again. A whole big lot.

Sarah.

The nexus of my life is you, and I had no idea until I came home Monday and looked around the space I see everyday. And the life I have. All that is here. Everything from the walls around me to the person I kiss goodnight. In some way, it all connects to you.

I don't know if this was the way you wanted it to be; that everyone would be so affected by your "you." But you did it.

There was some point over the last two days when I was walking and thinking about what I would say. I'm sure there were some poignant things, crafted in such a way to make me seem on the inside of it all. I knew you when she knew you when and everybody knew you. That's just not the way it was. But you made me feel like I mattered.

Sarah, sweetest darling girl.

You gave me more than you probably planned.

I'm public hiding behind a private me, or perhaps its the other way around. Whichever way I was you turned me inside out. You flipped it all so wherever I thought I had landed, really it was someplace else. And that place was so good. There were concerts and parties and dinners. Friends that last. And there were moments between you and "the him" who is mine that I get to share. Twins games underneath the covers. Frozen candy bars and bad teen pop. Jesus, Sarah. You gave me a history of the person I'll be with forever. You gave him a past that isn't high school.

We have had the Family Room. A condensed version of life with stories and muffins and fruit and homemade truffles. These times of immense intense, vivid memories, plucked sharply with silence and tears that just won't end. A word or two will set us off into a sobbing jag, where we need a shoulder even though we don't want it. I want to be with everyone at all at once, I just want to be alone, too.

There is so much love for you. Abounding and amazing. Profound and everlasting.

Whatever happens after all of this, you know it now. Before any of us.

Sarah, everyone is very sad.

If you could do one last thing. If you could give us a moment to transcend the days in the Family Room. Where we see you smiling and saying something we would quote later when telling a story of Sarah to each other. Putting your hand just barely to your mouth in a faux "shocked" way of being, more for effect than for anything. If you could just give us one more moment of you, I think we would make it to wherever we need to be much sooner than we probably will.

As it is, all we have is each other. It is intense and important to be here. As good as it can be. I love to tell you all that I love you. I love that it is ok to say those words.

But Sarah, it would be better with you here.

It would be so good with you. To tell you that we love you.

He and I; we just said good-bye, and didn't say we would miss you.

No regrets. But for the record, the missing lasts forever. The whole life long.

The sweetness piles up between our toes. We will build a castle right on the part of the shore where it wears away slowly. One wave at a time.