HAIL TO THE OWL!!

I still have the God-awful owl lamp that was so prominently displayed smack dab in the middle of the living room of the house I grew up in.  Or shall I say the house I was raised in because, let’s face it, I still haven’t grown up.  This isn’t your run-of-the-mill owl lamp, and yet it’s so ugly and plain that it defies description (of course the plastic wrap remained on the shade so as not to diminish it's tackiness).  I wound up with it by default. Of my Mother’s numerous collections, the Owl Collection was one of the first and most plentiful and included owls of every sort that provided every function of every thing you never even knew existed and wished you didn’t.

After my Mom died, my sisters, father, and I set about the task of going through her various collections of things.  I was shocked to hear that QVC still reported profits in the absence of my Mother’s support. Not only did she go about collecting stuff for herself, but she lived to bestow crazy, random stuff on all of us as well.  Of course, none of us had the heart to say, “Look, Mom, I really don’t need a rhinestone-encrusted tampon holder, or a “music box” from CVS that plays “Love Me Tender” while a porcelain replica of Elvis (looking a lot more like Dracula, I might add) twirls on top.”  I’m serious, this is what we were dealing with! Speaking of Elvis, I have (or, have had, as I’ve finally had the wherewithal to part with most of it) a vast collection of Elvis memorabilia, thanks to my Mom.  I think the conversation went something like this:  Mom: “Paula, do you like Elvis Presley?”  Me:  “Yeah, he’s ok, I guess.”  Translation: Mom: “Paula, do you like Elvis Presley?”  Me: “OMG!!! I love him SO much and want anything and everything about him no matter how ridiculous! In fact, I never want anything that’s not Elvis-related for my birthday or Christmas ever again!!”  

Year after year, that’s what I got: an Elvis watch, many commemorative issues of magazines entirely devoted to Elvis, a cassette of Elvis Does Christmas with the Chipmunks, Elvis earrings, an Elvis phone and numerous series’ of Elvis “baseball” cards and, well, yeah, you get the picture.  I must admit that the phone was pretty cool and I also had an amazing clock where Elvis was decked out in a blue and white checkered jacket and his hips and legs swung as the pendulum. Of course, that broke somewhere along the way, along with the phone, but by God all that other stuff remained intact! There are actually scads of old Christmas and birthday photos of me opening yet another Elvis gift and it has became one of the all-time favorite inside jokes between my sisters and I. And guess what proudly stands in the background of so many of these photos? The treasured owl lamp! It lived on the end table by the rocking chair from Mexico which was by the Stereo Console. Over the years it became like another family member.
So, my sisters and I found ourselves staring dumfoundedly at all this stuff to go through, including the owl lamp.  It was impossible to get rid of, despite it’s hideousness (not unlike some actual family members who shall remain anonymous....).  How I became the Anointed One escapes me. However, there was plenty more to go around. “Oh, my God, do you remember this?” I cried, holding up a stained crocheted owl kitchen towel.  It had a tab at the top that folded over the drawer handle and then buttoned, keeping it in place.  Stuff surfaced that we hadn’t seen in years and we took turns crying out, "Look at this! The roast beef fork!" and "Ohhhh, it's the old toothpick holder!" and "Look! It's the owl folk art burlap thing!!" (another score on my my part).  Things that had seemed so inconsequential now held such strong memories for all of us.  Here was all this stuff that we would never use and really didn’t even vaguely like, but couldn’t bear to part with. This whole owl lineage was something tangible we could hold onto from our childhoods when all other traces seemed to evaporate a little more with each passing year.
The owl lamp now lives in my basement, collecting dust, but, hey, it’s still there, keeping watch.  And Elvis? Well, he hasn't completely left the building yet either...

WALLY

This week I dug into the vaults...this is a piece that I wrote in 1996 (I know!) about a particular shift when I worked as a caregiver at a family care home for people living with AIDS in North Carolina.  The disease was like a tornado then, and strides were just beginning to be made toward managing it.  As I revisit this era, I'm reflecting on how far we've come since then and also how far we have yet to go....


Someone must have died, I think, pulling into the driveway at 8 a.m. on Friday.  There are way too many cars; that’s always a giveaway.  I’m suddenly anxious, not knowing what I’m walking into.  But as a caregiver for people with AIDS, you never do know what to expect.  You only know it’ll be a ride smack dab into the center of chaos.
When I walk in the door of the Chapel Hill “AIDS House,” Craig is stretched out on the couch, glassy-eyed, ready to hand me the reigns.  “Hi, sweetie,” he says.  “Come give me a hug.”  Craig kisses me on the cheek.  Wally is dying, he says, and his friends have gathered around to keep vigil.
Craig and I have been through this before, and yet it’s all new.  Every person’s transition from life to death is different.  The pain is different, the fears are different, the level of acceptance is different.  So I know I’m going into this as a beginner; Wally will have plenty to teach me before it’s over.
We walk back to Wally’s room.  It’s been a week since I’ve seen him.  He looks like a baby bird in a nest, huddled under blankets and buffered on all sides by big pillows.  I kneel beside him and take his hand.  “Hi, Wally.”
He opens his eyes and smiles.  “I waited for you to come,” he says.
“I’m glad you did.”
My throat is closing up.  We sit for a minute in silence.  Wally and I haven’t become especially close, but we’ve had some meaningful talks.  Our time together these past two months has been easy and comfortable, free of the awkwardness that sometimes accompanies a new resident.
When Wally’s friends come in to chat, Craig and I go to the caregivers’ room to do our changeover.  Craig is exhausted.  We have a new resident who needs a dressing change three times a day.  Another is semi-paralyzed, non-ambulatory and in diapers.  We have three others with their own special sets of needs.  And then there’s Wally.
Craig gives me the update:  Wally hasn’t been taking his meds for the last week.  His morphine has been upped to two milliliters every two hours for pain.  When you give it to him you have to steer the dropper along the inside of this right cheek and get it as far down this throat as possible; the thrush has gotten so bad that he gags if you do it any other way.
Changeover done, Craig heads home to sleep.  The phone doesn’t stop ringing all day.  Visitors come, go, come back again.  The residents are attended to.  In the midst of it all is Wally:  in and out of sleep, in and out of dementia, in and out of fighting for his life.
When awake, he smokes continuously.  This makes me crazy, but I can’t begrudge it:  After all, this is one of the last choices Wally has.  He can choose to eat, but he’ll throw it up.  He can choose to get up and visit the bathroom, but he’ll go all over himself before he gets there.  He can still smoke, though, even if he chokes on every drag.
Wally and I argue about diapers.  He says he won’t wear one, and rips it off.  I explain that it’s just a precaution, that it’ll help him get to the bathroom when he needs to go.  I remind him how he unknowingly went while he was asleep, how we don’t always make it to the bathroom on time.
“No,” he says.
I pull out my ace:  “What if you ruin your favorite paisley robe?”
Wally glares at me.  “OK!” he yells.
We put another diaper on.  He is visibly embarrassed.  “I’m only 27,” he says.
“I know,” I say as I stroke his hair, struggling for a way to make it better.  “I’m sorry.”

The doorbell rings.  It’s Wally’s mother and two aunts.  I’ve never met them before, but you can’t miss the resemblance between Wally and his mother.  She’s shorter, though, and wears a navy polyester sweatsuit with big appliques on it--an outfit her son would not be caught dead in.
The visitors make me angry.  Why do people flock to the side of the dying instead of celebrating them while they’re alive?  But I’m cordial, expressing my sympathy as Aunt No. 1 unpacks needlepoint from an old macrame bag, plants herself on the couch in front of the TV and flips through the channels.  She finally settles on Jerry Springer.  Great.
Seeing Mom and Aunt No. 2 heading toward Wally’s room, I rush ahead to make sure he wants to see them.  He says yes; he has things to say.  I close the door and leave them.
When I check on Wally after supper, he’s sleeping, his mother by his side, Aunt No. 2 sits stiffly in Wally’s antique chair.  His breathing is shallow now, his eyes half glazed over with “that look.”  He’s leaving soon.  When I tell the family I’ll give them some privacy, they ask me to stay.  I hate this; I hate being a witness to their guilt.  But as we sit in silence, my anger gives way to compassion.  Wally’s mother touches his face, gingerly at first.  Tears stream down her own face.  She is doing the best she can.  She probably always has.  Besides, who am I to judge?  I don’t know their story.  At least they’re here.

They stay till midnight.  Wally’s mother practically has to be carried to their van.  Aunt No. 1, finally roused from the couch in the other room, says they’ll return tomorrow.  Would I call her if Wally dies in the night, so she can tell his mother herself?  Of course.
Wally lapses in and out of consciousness all night.  Most of the time he’s in a coma; other times, he suddenly decides to get up and rearrange his room.  Around 3 a.m., he sits up and announces that he isn’t taking any more morphine.  He wants to get back on his regular medication schedule, he says.  He is not giving up.
I tell him I’ll do whatever he wants.  But I do try to talk him into continuing the morphine for the pain.
“You’re trying to kill me!” he barks.
“I am not trying to kill you, for Christ’s sake.  I just don’t want you to hurt.”
“Well, I’m not hurting and I want you to leave me alone.”
I resist the urge to reason with him.  You don’t argue with a dying person.  I turn to leave, then stop.  Wally is staring at me.  “I’m scared to die,” he says.  “I’m not ready to die.”  His eyes well up.  He’s kept up a strong front for so long.
A professed Agnostic, Wally starts to talk about God.  Is it too late to strike a bargain? Will God be there to greet him?  I hold his hand, assuring him he’s loved, telling him I’ll stay with him if that’s what he wants.  We’re interrupted by Kim, his best friend for years.  Wally asks to be alone with her.  I go cook breakfast.  It’s 4 a.m.

By 7 the next morning, I’m fading fast.  It’s been a long night.  One of the residents fell out of bed twice.  My body aches from transferring another from bed to wheelchair to toilet and back again, and from helping Wally up and down.  I’ve been running for 24 hours, with nine more to go.
The day goes by quickly:  Wally decides he wants his morphine.  His mother and aunts return, Aunt No. 1 making a beeline for the remote control.  Today Wally’s mother is a wreck, crying hysterically, barely able to walk.  She asks for some time alone before going to see her son.  Meanwhile, Wally’s friends are losing it.  They feel guilty because they’re tired and frustrated, ready for him to die.
Finally, it’s 4 p.m., and Sarah arrives to relieve me.  I almost weep with relief as I pack up my car and give Sarah the updates.  After our changeover, I say my goodbyes to each of the residents, saving Wally for last.
I know this is truly goodbye.  I kiss Wally’s forehead, tell him I love him and I’m going home.  He says he loves me, too, and he wants to know:  Can we continue our conversation on my next shift?  I tell him it’s a date.

TRICKY DICKY: CHAPTER THREE

Tricky Dicky wrenched the dildo from my hands. “Now look here,” he said, unrolling his window. “This is what I like to do when I see a car of college girls coming. I can spot a car load of them girls a mile away.” He slung one end of the dildo out the window while holding the other end in his lap. The wind whipped it up and I could hear it thumping against the side of the truck. Genius, I thought. Those college girls were sure to be wanting some of that. He took his other hand off the wheel and began making a jerking-off gesture. He laughed, eyes darting between Lori and I, grabbing hold of the wheel just as we started swerving into the other lane.
“Wow, that’s quite a trick; being able to lasso that thing while keeping the truck on the road!” I shouted, hoping for the power of suggestion.
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” he said.
Good God!  In the name of all that is Sacred and Holy get us the fuck out of here, I thought. Or did I say it out loud...
“You know,” I said,  “as entertaining as that is, all I can think about is how hungry we are; we haven’t eaten all day. Right, Lori, aren’t you starving?”  I kicked the hell out of her seat, overriding my hesitation to scuff up the toes of my brand new Uggs any more than they already were.  Who knew what could be smeared on the back of that seat?  I loved my Uggs, but let’s face it, once they were marred or stained, that was it.
“Yeah, I’m starving,” Lori mumbled.
“So,” I continued, “my sister is planning a huge breakfast for us and the Efland exit is just a few exits up, right?”
“Well, why didn’t you say y’all was hungry? Tricky Dicky isn’t going to let you go away hungry! I’m gonna get y’all breakfast at one of the best truck stops in North Carolina. I could use a little sumthin-sumthin myself.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s awfully nice of you, but like I said, my sister is fixing us a welcome breakfast...”
He slammed on the brakes and turned on the right turn signal.  A huge sign ahead said “The Flying J! Best ham biscuits in the whole U.S! Cheapest gas! Breakfast all day!”  We flew into the parking lot, brakes hissing and farting, and pulled up next to one of many tractor trailers. The Flying J. appeared to be in full swing.  Tricky Dicky hopped out and came around and opened Lori’s door.
“After you, my darlin’,” he said, bowing. Lori took his hand and climbed down. We have to make a break for it, I thought, looking around. The parking lot was illuminated but, other than the restaurant, there didn’t seem to be anything else around. I climbed down, ignoring the helping hand. God knows where that hand has been, I thought.
The parking lot resembled a huge tail-gate party. Truckers milled around holding steaming cups of coffee and biscuits tucked into greasy wax paper pockets. Music played in the background; we appeared to have landed in country heaven.
“That’s my favorite song right there,Take Me Away,”  said Tricky Dicky.  “Sofie Montana can take me anywhere her little heart desires!”
I sensed another coughing fit coming on. A huge phlegm ball flew out of his mouth and splattered on the blacktop next to my feet. “Hey,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “I read in one of them star papers that Miss Sophie has a daughter named Berkely that must be about your age.” He looked me up and down.  “I bet she’s not as fine as you are though.”
“Well,” I said, “Actually, that’s me. Sophie Montana is my mom.”  I shot Lori a look of steel.
“Get outta town!” he yelled, “Stick a fork in me and call me done! C’mon, you ain’t really, are you?” He started jumping up and down like an excited toddler.
“Yeah,” I said, “that would be me.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so!” he said. “Here I’ve been actin’ a fool!”
“Um, I didn’t really want to say anything. You know...Maybe now you can understand how important it is for us to get to my sister’s. We’re planning to surprise Mom.”
“I’ll be damned! Your mama is here? Right now?”
“Well...she’s not actually here yet,” I stammered, “but, you know, when she gets here she’ll have all kinds of security guards and police following her. They keep tabs on our whole family.”
He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the restaurant. “C’mon,” he said, “I gotta hear this over some sausage gravy. I can’t believe that I have a real live celebrity in my midst; darlin’ ain’t this somethin’!”
The lights inside were way too bright and it was way too crowded for the middle of the night.  Aisles were crammed full of racks of Moon Pies and jerky; burlap sacks of country ham hung from twine. Rows of shellacked baby alligator heads with their jaws frozen open sat next to an array of charming bumper stickers like “Ass, Grass or Gas, Nobody Rides For Free.”  Looks like I’ll be filling up the tank, I thought, cause this ass is going nowhere near that crazy motherfucker and, unfortunately, Lori and I had smoked our last joint hours ago. Speaking of Lori, where the hell was she? I spotted her across the store rifling through a bin of God-knows-what. I made a beeline for her while Tricky Dicky dialed his cell phone.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whispered. “In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been trapped in pervert hell with Jethro here, not to mention his amazing talking dildo, and you’ve just sat there saying nothing! And now you’re shopping?”
“But look!” said Lori, holding up an Elvis paint-by-number. “How cool is this? And it’s black light activated!”
“Get a grip!” I said, grabbing the Elvis from her and throwing him back in the bin. “We need to get out of here, seriously.” I scanned the store for Tricky Dicky but didn’t see him anywhere. “Let’s go to the bathroom and figure out what we’re going to do.”
“But what about our stuff?” said Lori. “All of our stuff is in his truck; I have the quilt Grandma made me rolled up in my bag.”
“You what?” I asked. “Oh, never mind,” I said, taking her by the arm, “just come on.”
I had to admit that my heart shrank when I thought about abandoning my beloved Latchel, not to mention everything that was in it. My heart-shaped rose colored glasses, a la Elton John were in there, wrapped up in my favorite purple sheepskin boa. I had begged for the glasses; throwing a toddler tantrum until I got them.  I’d be damned if I’d leave them behind.
“Let’s just find the bathroom and regroup,” I said.

TRICKY DICKY: CHAPTER TWO

Sophie Montana rolled over and looked at the clock.  She sat up too quickly and just as quickly plopped back down, stretched full out and burrowed deep under her custom-made Vera Wang comforter. “I’m not rushing today,” she thought.  “No more rushing. I have all the time in the world,” she chanted to herself. She had made a commitment to Estelle, her therapist, to use the affirmations they wrote out together just yesterday; at this point she would have stood on her head while reciting Deepak Chopra if that’s what it took to simplify her life.
She looked out at the courtyard off her bedroom and relaxed a little. She would get up in a minute and take her espresso out there in the sun. Mornings like this used to be her favorite part of the day, when she could leisurely ease into the day.  At Estelle’s urging, she had hired Oprah’s landscaper to create the sanctuary she had always dreamed of.  She loved the sound of the wind as it rustled through the banana trees and bamboo; the water as it bubbled over smooth stones into the pond dotted with lilies and lotus. Bright peonies and camellias popped up unexpectedly among drooping willows, jasmine and pine.  When she inhaled the scent of the magnolias and sweet olive her body automatically unclenched. It had been months since she had spent any time out there. Well, that was all about to change, starting today, regardless of what Richard said.
It was time to put her foot down and start managing her own career; that was one of the perks of her level of success, that she was finally in a position to call the shots. Not that she wasn’t grateful for all Richard had done and, yeah, she still needed him to manage the details. But as far as what she was going to do and when she was going to do it, well, it was high time to start steering her own limo.
She flipped back the covers and climbed out of bed, stretched up to the ceiling and then slowly folded her body down, one vertebrae at a time, until her fingers swept the floor. This was some sort of yoga “hang” that she was supposed to practice several times a day. No time like the present and wow, it really did feel good. It felt like there was a steel band wrapped around her midsection. Time to schedule an appointment with Sergio to try to unknot this mess. Her body and psyche were screaming for attention. This last tour has really kicked my ass, she thought. But who could’ve ever imagined that she, little Sophie Montana from Bumfuck, Egypt, would be playing to packed houses and sold-out shows everywhere? It still seemed like a dream and she was determined to revel in it, to slow down enough to really savor the ride. Plus, she needed to rest, to recharge her batteries in order to write some new songs. She hardly had time to think these past 9 months, let alone write anything. She had a few bits and pieces on scraps of paper here and there, but nothing substantial. What she needed was some time alone, completely alone, to let her creativity unfurl. The problem was, she didn’t know how to be alone, especially now after being bombarded by people 24/7 for so long. Well, I’ll figure it out, she thought. Right now what I need is some good, strong coffee.
Marcella was in the kitchen and had already cleaned up most of the mess from last night’s welcome home soiree. She turned, a big smile on her face, with arms outstretched, soapy hands and all. “Good morning sweetheart! Oh, it’s so good to have you home!” She wrapped her arms around Sophie, about swallowing her up. Marcella had been with Sophie since the beginning and was truly like family. She was so kind and loving but also thought it her job to protect Sophie from anyone she considered less than sincere. In fact, last night she had sent Mr. Jimmy packing for making a series of snide remarks about Sophie’s latest single, Take Me Away. “Not in this house,” Marcella told him while leading him to the door. She had no problem making those sorts of judgement calls and Sophie allowed it; in fact, she had come to depend on it. One less thing for her to have to worry about.
“It’s great to be home,” Sophie said. “I can’t tell you how good it felt to sleep in my own bed; I woke up in the night and really thought I was in the middle of a dream.”
Marcella handed Sophie her espresso. “Here you go, love,” she said,  “you go on outside and I’ll bring you out a pitcher of water. You need to drink lots of water. Today you relax.”
Sophie took the saucer and gave Marcella another hug. “Thanks, really, for everything.” She was almost out the door when she stopped. “Hey, did Berkely ever call? I left her three messages yesterday, but I can’t find my phone. Did Richard say anything?”
“I have your phone right here,” said Marcella, holding up the embellished iPhone. “Hopefully Berkely is one of your 102 messages...”
“Oh, shit,” said Sophie, reaching for the phone. “I can’t believe I missed her! Where the hell is she? Where the hell is Richard?”
“Not so fast,” said Marcella, holding the phone in the air. “First, you go out and enjoy your coffee. Then, I’ll bring you the phone. There’s nothing that can’t wait a few minutes.”
“You’re right,” said Sophie, remembering her plan to ease into the day. “I’ll be outside. But come and get me if she calls.”
I’m sure she’s on her way, Sophie thought.