More adventures in rent-stabilized living

Sirens are always blaring in Brooklyn. I've learned, to my amazement, to sleep through them, or at least not remember them when I wake. Sometimes they're even accompanied with the low hum of large truck engines in the street which shake the floor and mirror and the windows. And I ignore them, because it's just another neighbor who had a heat attack.

This morning was no different. Until I heard Colin, next to me: "Do you smell smoke?"

Why yes, I did. I noticed the acrid smell of burning oil greeting my one unstuffed nostril in the late morning air. And - coincidentally? Three fire trucks parked outside the building, lights flashing. And the sound of large boots coming up the stairs.

Clothes first, then bathroom. I pulled a shirt over my head while on the toilet, and listening to the boots get closer - surely fire fighters coming to evacuate me and all the neighbors - made a mental list of the things I should insist on grabbing before being cast onto the cold, wet street for hours.

Coat, cell phone, a bottle of water. Wallet. Last, shoes. The trucks were a good sign, I theorized, that little would be destroyed in a blaze. Fire is something we often consider as a distinct possibility in our building. There are a lot of people living in close proximity, in an old building, not to mention adjoining buildings, and any one of us could make a mistake. That's why we have insurance.

We skip the whole feel the door thing and open it to several voices echoing in the hallway. Three firefighters, donning thick jackets with glow-in-the dark yellow stripes and wielding axes, are gathering information as best they can from our disabled neighbor across the hall. There is a loud beeping noise coming from downstairs.

One man steps forward, carrying in his right hand a small object that looks like a weapon from Start Trek. As he comes through our doorway, it's making alarming squacking noises. A CO2 detector.

Now, lest you should judge us, I want to say right here that we do keep a CO2 detector like any good citizens. But last week it started babbling at us that the batteries were dead. And I'm on this new kick to replace all batteries in the house with rechargeable ones, right? And do you think they carry them at the hardware store down the street? Nope. So it went "on the list" And the CO2 detector, unused for several years, has sat open, waiting for batteries, on the kitchen table, since exactly last Tuesday.

And here the writer began to smell smoke again. At first she was sure it was just sensory recall from writing the story of this morning, but...no...open the hallway door. CHUCK full of smoke again.

So if I should die and my laptop be recovered, let this be a lesson to all - when there's smoke, leave the building.

Where was I? Star trek device, squacking, beeping...strapping, dripping men with big boots tromping into the bedroom. Not such a bad thing, that part.

"Set phasers to stun!" he said as he crossed the threshold. No, he didn't.

"It's registering at 90 parts per million," states the strapping, dripping man authoritatively. He never takes his eyes off the machine. "We turned off the boiler. You should be OK if you air out." He brings the Star Trek device into the kitchen. "Open the windows," he commands. We do it.

Now our windows aren't all graceful to get at. I wasn't sure what happened until later when Colin, who witnessed from behind, described it, but I remember turning on the big white fan, leaning over the bed toward a window and disturbing the big green ball which lives rather precariously, perched between the bed and the wall. The big green ball, in turn, disturbed the big white fan, which went face down on the floor and stated making a sound like, "Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!"

Thinking one of the blades was broken, I turned it off, quick-like. Then I started thinking about Jessica's dogs, upstairs. And then about Kristina's dog, downstairs. I don't wait or the blades to stop moving.

"What was in the fan?" I ask Colin, who has gone to investigate.

"You don't wanna know," he says.

We have recently begun a campaign of Shock and Awe in an attempt to control the mouse population recently on the rise, quite possibly because there are several walls open in several apartments due to leaks which are as yet still leaking into walls which are as yet cracked and broken open.

I asked Colin to bring home traps one night last week, and I meant snap traps. He brought glue traps.

"This is all they had at the grocery store," he explained, and started placing them about the kitchen in corners.

"I don't like glue traps," I said. "I thought you would got to the hardware store."

"I'll deal with them," he said.

"Okay..." I said.

And so when, a few hours later, I heard this teensy, horrid little SCREAMING coming from the corner in the kitchen, I naturally turned straight on my heel and called in the resident Man. The screaming intensified as The Man did whatever he did to that mouse and I shuddered, and then cried in the next room.

These creatures have relatively developed nervous systems. There's a reason why a mouse -why any creature - screams like that. He knows he's in trouble, he knows he's trapped. I've seen studies on what happens to animals when they're rendered helpless - cortisol levels, heart rates, dilated pupils, and so on; Dude. They KNOW.

And there's reason why mice are used as surrogate humans in experiments. They are similar to us.

"No more glue traps." I said to Colin in a measured voice as we left the apartment that night.

And so it is we've since gone at them with snap traps, and poison, and yes there's still a -torture- trap sitting on the counter which hasn't caught anyone, yet, thank god.

But we never expected that THE FAN was also a weapon in our arsenal.

"I can't figure out how to get it out," calls The Man as I search for shoes and grab my phone and the spare keys to Jessica's apartment. "Here, you can wear my slippers..." he offers. I hear him THUNKing at the fan as I make my way into the smoky hallway, up one flight of stairs to my neighbor's.

There are more fire fighters in the hallway up there. "You have access to the basement now," they laugh, responding to Colin's earlier comment that last week we couldn't let the cable guy into the back yard because Orazzio (the landlord) keeps a stiff padlock on the basement door - the basement being the only way to the back yard.

So far I've accounted for two doors and a window which have fallen under one of those wicked looking axes. They say they're relieved I have keys, because they could hear the little dogs barking, but maybe were also looking forward to busting down something else, I can't really tell behind the masks.

I can already hear the newly broken door to the roof upstairs, swinging in the rain against the building. THUUUUNk. THUUUNk. Thunk - beeeep - someone's CO2 detector is still going off. BAm - BAM- BAm go the dripping hot men's boots on the hollow wooden stairs. Voices ring in the hallway. Acrid, oily smoke. Jessica's chijuajuas must be freaking out.

But they merely seem happy to see me, as I run around opening windows with one hand and calling Kristina, owner of the dog downstairs, with the other. These tiny dogs seem puzzled, but they're all right. Stuart is far more frail than the last time I saw him, but I know it is because he has conjestive heart failure and nothing to do with the current crisis. His ribs shift too easily and his heart is beating fast and a little irregularly when I pick him up for a closer inspection, but I hold him and talk in what I hope are soothing tones between cell phone calls, and ultimately he seems like his old self.

I don't have a key to Kristina's apartment, so she grabs a car and speeds home from work. Her dog, although younger, is considerably less delicate than the chijuajuas, so we're not too worried about him, but it seems advisable to get him some Carbon with two Oxygens instead of one, somehow. Hank, all spring and cluelessness, jumps eagerly at my face as Kristina hands me a set of spare keys. In case of next time.

Which we didn't expect tonight.

Post-script: The boiler man arrived, (landlord called me to let him in - why? because none of the buzzers are working...) he broke the lock to the basement, (second time today) says the boiler is badly maintained and we should call the department of Buildings. Whatever that is.

Then he told me where the emergency shut-off switch is.

"See ya," he says. "Good luck!"

It Takes a Village

February has come to Brooklyn with a flurry of teensy hard, penetrating, freezing objects and a hungry wind. From my window I watch a teenager wearing a leather jacket and no scarf bursts out of his apartment across the street, squinting hard and shouting "whoooooooo!" and he and his rebel yell disappear up toward 5th Avenue. I hope he doesn't have far to go.

The first line of defense against the cold - I learned this growing up in Wisconsin, though maybe not as well as you'd think - is to not go out.

This can be a dubious tactic in our apartment. The one radiator which operates "normally" is in the far corner of the place, in the kitchen. The one in the living room has never worked at all, and the one in the bedroom is turned either all ON or all OFF with a wrench, and only a wrench. (I cursed Colin out load when he borrowed that wrench for a the load-in of a show last week and didn't bring it back for a whole day and a half.)

Then sometimes, to get your core temperature up above 75 or so, you just have to take a bath. You know what I mean. You get that kind of cold at the cellular level, the same cold you feel in that shank of pork when you grab it out of the freezer, and the only way to get it warm enough to cook is to defrost it slowly in hot water. My arm feels like that today.

So I need a soak, but it takes planning. A bath in our apartment begins with boiling water on the stove - as many pots as you can find clean. Then you open the tap in the bathroom about half way, let it run until it's warm. Then you start with the tub. Fill it until the water turns cold, or about 1/4 way. Then you wait.

In about ten minutes, if you're lucky, there will be another spot of hot water. Sometimes we sit around with our neighbors and argue about whether the best way to get at this next "layer" of hot water is to continue running water into the bathroom sink, or turn it off completely for ten minutes and turn it on again. But in the period of about ten minutes, by some miracle, out comes warm water again. Usually.

The trouble is you have to be there when it hits, or you may miss it, so I sit on the toilet with my finger under the tap and protect the bathroom like it's a cave and I'm a mother grizzly looking after her young. I fill the bath until it runs cold again, wait.

Now the trick is to get the third fill in before the first two are cold. Again, the dilemma of whether to run the water, or turn it off.? Either way it must be checked every few minutes. After all, now I'm really invested and I'll cry if I don't get my bath. Have cried.

On the third fill one can usually get the tub almost brimming with warm water. But to get it truly hot enough for a real bath? Well, that's where your boiling water comes in. I learned about that after crying the first couple times, about the third time Colin said, "why don't you jsut boil some water?" I guess it was some primal need to feel too sophisticated, at arms length from the elements.

This time of year you can almost feel Mother Earth waddling with the weight of spring not yet ready to come. Even in New York City, the city of lights, everything is laden with cold and dark.

I wonder if it's my mission teach these people something. Why are they wearing jeans in 20 degree weather? Is it because they are a mostly indoor- dwelling people? Where are their Turtle Furs? (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-url/index=apparel-index&field-keywords=turtle%20fur%20neck&results-process=bin&dispatch=search/ref=pd_sl_aw_tops-1_apparel-index_29143143_2&results-process=default)

If my personal heating and cooling systems were powered by oil, we'd have outgrown our foreign dependence long ago. My systems can hardly be bothered to hicchough out a little heat in a snowstorm, or break out a few beads of sweat to cool me down in the citified heat of August. So, as they say in Colorado ...It's all about the "pro" (a.k.a. "protection," as climbers call weather gear.)

I got hypothermic in a pool once. It was the last class of my diver's certification training, the last time I'd be in the "comfort" of a pool before being led into the murky depths of the 45 degree Racine quarry with no one but my instructor. John sent me to the showers when he swears he saw my lips turn blue. I remember standing in the showers of the high school gym when the warm water hit by chest, trying desperately not to pee before I managed to peel off my gear with numb fingers and run to the toilet . But as it's said in the diver world, there are two kinds of divers: Those who pee in their wetsuits and those who say they don't pee in their wetsuits.

So I don't go out in this kind of weather without "the works": My winter coat weighs maybe 5 pounds by itself. Add boots, a Wind Stopper hat (http://www.rei.com/product/703274) and - my neck gaiter, and honestly? I am toasty-comfy. I feel like I'm pregnant, too - in tandem with the entire Northern Hemisphere.

Our friend Tania, who with her partner, Dave, really is pregnant, had her big baby shower last night. I was a little apprehensive about going. It wasn't the cold, exactly, more like it was largely a family affair and Colin was too wrapped up in tech for yet another show to come. But in the end I thought, here is an unhealthy element in my relationship with Colin which I can address by taking action tonight: I rely on him for social back-up, (which is a bad idea because he's never home) and he relies on me for financial back- up (an equally bad idea since I have no money.) I should just go on -and out- without him.

So I was pleased to discover it was really a solidly welcoming affair. For the first hour or so I stood in the corner like a ravenous wallflower, eating marvelous Thai food and admiring the masks and paintings on the wall.

Then a couple people I know showed up, and atmosphere began to warm up for me. The love in the room was palpable and without pretense. Tania's mom and step mom got up and sang an original song called Two Grandma's from Jersey City, using a tune I can only say resembled the children's tune, Four Chartruse Buzzards and singularly brought the house down, some in tears..

Tanias mom and her wife, (neither a professional singer, but making up for anything lacking in artfulness with sheer gusto,) alternated singing about a litany of things the two of them would contribute to the life of little Henry/Max/Olan/whatever. And they played on their respective racial stereotypes, which made it even more of a hoot. "I'll take him hiking," "I'll teach him bargaining," "I'll take him biking," "I'll teach him B-ball," and they invited the third Grandma to join them in the final chorus.

"Three Grandmas from Jersey City" still rings in my head as I, leaving my car with them to help transport a motherload of presents, board the train and come home with a tummyful of warm food and a headful of little reflections.

Like, standing there, for a moment I thought I could almost feel Pat Robertson breathing between my shoulder blades. The notion of anyone having children out of wedlock...and oh! my goodness T has two mommies! It seems so normal to me now I almost forgot to look over my shoulder for the Rush Limbaughs and the Ann Coulters and the - oh, this whole gathering could stand a lot of people's hair on end, I suppose.

But wouldn't it be cool to invite a few of them in here, out of the cold, to throw one back with forty whole-hearted attitudes of welcome, filling a spectrum of shades, all waiting and eager to catch this baby gently with open arms, and become little aunties and Tee-tees and mentors and friends?

But never say "It Takes a Village," even if you think a whole community should behave in a nurturing way to a child. Because then they'll call you a communist, for sure.

Oh, you haven't heard that one? Hillary Clinton is a communist because she spoke about -using different words, albeit - what conservatives have been talking about all along - family values. Never mind that people throw around the word C'ommunist and Socialist as if they knew what they mean.

What Christian Church wouldn't say it takes the whole community of the church to raise a child? (Isn't that what baptism is all about?) Don't most people - liberal and conservative - generally agree that each community, town, county, state, city, and nation must form concentric rings of support for the next generation?

They disagree upon the details, but that's the jist of it. I mean, call it family, village, circle of friends, church, school, extended family, city street, community center, space ship full of aliens, I may not be a parent, but it's clear to me that SOMEbody has to come together to raise a child; it can't be done alone (well, it can, but we've all seen how grumpy bears can be.)

My head is full of thoughts, like whether vegetarianism is the new morality, and whether T is comfortable standing there or whether she'd rather be sitting, and like whether it's like your family or not, this is family in America today.

I think we may disagree as to who and how, and how much to help a teen in trouble or kids who don't have health insurance, but I don't see anyone proposing we make a parent bake their kid from start to finish on their own. And I don't see that this is a problem faced by only one kind of family.

For my part, since I don't have kids, I make sure Colin doesn't go out on cold days without a hat.

Down and Out in the Caribbean

February 2, 2008

Dear American Airlines,

On January 19, 2008, I set out to travel on Flight # 637 from La Guardia, ultimately destined for a relaxing beach vacation in the Cayman Islands.

My flight was delayed several hours. I spent a half hour on the phone with an agent figuring out how to get me to Cayman that day, was put on hold and eventually hung up on.

I figured that was just an understandable mistake.

Eventually I got on a flight with the same number, leaving LGA at 5pm. It was also delayed.

I figured I'd rather be on a late plane than a broken one.

In Miami I rushed to catch my connection on the last Cayman Airways flight of the day, which I had a seat on, but because no one had ever given me a boarding pass I was turned away by security at the entrance to the gates. There was no one left at the Cayman Airways desk and I missed my flight.

I figured AA had no control over this situation and there was nothing to be done.

I was given hotel, shuttle and meal vouchers by an American Airlines agent, which was nice. I noticed others who were not so lucky.

Due to the party atmosphere in the shuttle I didn't notice at first, but was puzzled when I realized the "fifteen minute ride to the hotel" found me out somewhere in the middle of the Everglades. I was actually lucky on several accounts. I told a fellow traveler I had a toothbrush but no toothpaste and he reached back into his back and said, "Here, I insist..I work for a cosmetics company," and handed me a small tube of toothpaste.

Forty Minutes later I saw circling spotlights in the sky, and found myself at a casino! (With a hotel.)

Which was a problem only because the shuttle was booked for the entire day for the return trip, (I mean thank goodness I don't have a gambling addiction! Really, I am quite flush with luck!) so I paid over $50 out of pocket for a cab. The cab driver was quite an interesting guy. Yet I've enclosed the receipt for the cab (minus tip), along with my unused voucher for travel on the shuttle.

Miami airport, which I'd tried my hardest to avoid on a Sunday (aka Cruise Day), was a virtual zoo, with security lines out the door and wait times over an hour and a half for the privilege of being screened.

Again, my flight #561 from Miami to Cayman, was delayed.

I figured this was all part of the "spirit" of travel.

Not surprisingly, my luggage wasn't at the airport when I arrived. No one knew if it had gotten on the Cayman Airways flight which I missed, or was on an American flight somewhere.

My luggage didn't appear the next day, so an agent released $50 for me to spend on clothing. With the dollar as weak as it was in Cayman, it bought me a pair of sunglasses and a clean tank top. I figured this was a life lesson in doing without. Receipt enclosed.

On the evening of Tuesday, Jan 22 (after my third night without luggage), I was excited to hear my suitcase arrived at the front desk of my hotel!

I noticed right away my bag was damaged. The handle was bent right in the middle, so I couldn't retract it without a lot of difficulty.

It had all my stuff in it, though, so I was happy. Now I could finally go snorkeling, which was the whole purpose of my trip. I'd already missed 4 days of potential 6 days of snorkeling, so I got right to it.

I figured of course American would take responsibility for the damage and fix or replace my suitcase, so all would be well. The next day (after snorkeling) I called American Airlines. I was advised to call my arrival airport, Grand Cayman.

A few (expensive) phone calls there revealed a troubling conundrum: I had to return my luggage to the airport between the hours of 6 and 9pm the next day in order for them to even consider taking responsibility for the damage. A cab ride to the airport would cost me $75 each way, making it a $150 round trip. Which I'm sure is more than the luggage cost in the first place. And the offer didn't come with any promise of a fix.

So on Friday, Jan 25 I went to the airport for my return flight, and presented my luggage problem for help. I waited a half hour to talk to someone, who has surprising news for me. Apparently because the damage was to the handle, it isn't covered my American Airlines. The agent handed me a piece of paper explaining that they aren't responsible for any part of the luggage which is protruding.

But the handle should never have been "protruding." When I checked my suitcase, the handle was completely retracted. On its journey from New York to the Grand Cayman Islands, the handle of my little red suitcase should never have been extracted. It should have remained tucked in, where it was safe and sound.

Instead, it looks like someone took it out, stomped on it, took a hack saw to it, and then tried to bend it back in.

I was told I could accept the damage or leave it. As I had no other place to put my stuff, I chose the former.

At security I discovered I was supposed to have put my Flax seed oil pills in a zip-lock bag, and didn't have one big enough, so I had to do some last minute re-arranging. I understand the federal government is in charge of this but somehow that doesn't make me any more chipper about it.

My flight #1018 on Friday, Jan 25, back to Miami was, of course, delayed. There was somebody with a broken plane in our gate, so we had to sit on the runway while it was fixed. The line for customs was really long. The line for security was longer. So, despite a layover time of 2 hours and 20 minutes, I had to run to the gate - this is beginning to feel familiar to me now - and almost missed my flight (#1076) to New York.

Of course there were delays at our arrival airport, La Guardia (when is there not?), and we ended up circling over Phili on the way in. My back was killing me - I have a bulging disk, and an autoimmune connective tissue disease and sitting is just no fun for me (why do you think I like snorkeling so much?) so I was pretty strung out by this point.

When I got home I noticed my luggage was damaged further - the metal edge reinforcement was broken in half. I don't know if that part of the damage was there when I arrived in Cayman, but I do know I can't use it anymore.

But the damage apparently isn't covered my American's luggage damaged policy.

I'm really disappointed by that. I took all the other hassles in stride, but not taking responsibility for what was certainly a gross mishandling of my luggage is not in the character of the airline I use most.

I do appreciate the 4K miles added to my FF account in response to the overnight delay. But I'd like my bag fixed or replaced, and reimbursement for the cab I had to take and the clothes bought while I waited three days for my luggage.

I think I'll post this letter to my blog (http://nikinaeve.blogspot.com/) and see if others find it entertaining.


Thanks,



Nicole Naeve
Record Locator #GUVVHZ

Enclosed:
Clothes receipt
Taxi receipt
Unused travel voucher (unusable because service was booked)
Damaged luggage report
Pics of damaged luggage

Stress = Inflammation. Period.

Stress causes inflammation, which causes pain.

I don't think I'm any more stressed out than anybody else in the Western World. But maybe it should be more than just me who's paying attention.

Every teenager knows when they get stressed out, they get a breakout. Duh. But how about diabetes? Arthritis? Asthma? Obesity? Chron's disease? Allergies? Thyroid disease? Cancer?

I've been doing a little reading and here's the quick run-down of my understanding of this process:

Anxiety ---> triggers hypothalmus ---> triggers pituitary gland ---> triggers adrenal gland ---produces cortisol -----> whole body inflammation ---> BAD.

I mean, sounds like inflammation is OK for that quickie fix for a scratch or a twisted ankle, or a cold. It protects us. But long-standing inflammation is bad. Very, very bad.

Pondering my own circumstances, I'm thinking, I've cut back on like 75% of my activities from when I was in my 20's. I don't have stress, right?

But lack of activities doesn't necessarily mean lack of stress. It can help, but I suspect ther'es more going on here than meets the eye.

So last week I spent some time meditating - or as close to it as I ever get to meditation - and observed my body's reactions to various input as I went my merry way over the next week. I worked to notice that "crawling" sensation, that feeling in your gut that you're not quite settled, the leaning forward, shoulders rising, breath quickening, the wrinkling at the front of my brain, the pursed lips.

I noticed a surprising amount of - well, stress.

Where did this come from? Well, surely that will be an interesting study as I continue to observe. It's probably different for everybody. I've noticed I can connect a good deal of it to thoughts of planning the immediate future in detail: OK, I'm going to the subway, then I'll go down the stairs, then I'm getting on the train...I could take the N or the D at Atlantic. Do I have everything I need for work?

Of course the irritating irony is that having chronic illness begets stress. I know I never used to be such an obsessive planner. But now I'm totally stressed about where I'm going to find a bathroom, have I packed too much weight for my finicky back (but do I carry sufficient supplies in case something goes wrong, like my inhaler in case of asthma attack, an extra tank top for the sweats and ginger candy for nausea?) Will I have enough energy to complete my tasks for the day? Have I made satisfactory progress on my personal goals this week?

It's been a great exercise to observe these thoughts and my body's reaction, then gently remind myself to fall back into "totally OK" mode.

FYI I've noticed that Telling myself to relax doesn't work. My body flips a virtual finger right back at me.

I seek a vehicle for manipulation against my more basic self.

So I'll tell a telling tale, which I've been telling myself this week. I met a circus performer once who had spent much of his life making a living as a clown in a children's hospital. He told me how he used to get kids to take their medicine. He'd snatch the abhorred medicine up and prance around the room, saying things like, "Mmmmm, I wish I could have this...looks yummy! I am feeling a little peckish, right now. In fact I think I WILL take it. After all nobody will miss it. I..."

And pretty soon the child would ask for it back, grab it, and take it with satisfaction. What a thing, to be a clown.

Like a child , I believe the body will leap at the chance to save itself once showed its options. "You can continue to feel like this, and it will get worse, or you can have...oh, lookie that! Yum! The OK , cool place! Ahhhh!"

I think most of us don't see the choice, most of the time.

Me Talk Pretty One day

I want to say so many thanks to everyone who has emailed, texted or called saying "I know you can't call me back, but..how's your voice?"

Better! And such support (see above) is part of why, I'm sure.

But it's been maddeningly slow for a singer. Today is 24 days since I got sick, and 19 days since I woke up unexpectedly - silent.

On about day 7 I could make a couple hooting sounds.

By day 10 I could speak and be understood - barely. Every other word escaped behind the rasp or the squeak.

By day 14 I could be understood, unless I was trying to express sarcasm. You'd be surprised how much of what's BEHIND what you say is off limits when you have only an octave range. And I could access that octave only if I sang on "oooo" and slid carefully around. Not ideal for normal conversation.

Day 19 - today- I still sound like I have a cold, but I have about 2 1/2 octaves, and some of it even has that "forment" singers are always talking about. I actually hear overtones! Whew! It still feels a bit "foggy" and I'm missing my top octave or so, but with steady progress each day, I'm satisfied.

And I still have the steroids in hand if I feel I need them.

I've never lost my voice before. I keep wondering if it's going to be "reborn." I'll come back a mezzo. Or I'll be so glad to have it back it'll constitute a mystical religious experience, and I'll be a spirited dynamo who never tires of vocalizing. Maybe it's like re-booting a computer - my voice is going to come back to me - reformatted somehow.

In any case I'm glad to have what i have of it back.

Phoenix

Today was day ten without a voice. I have to say it's a little weird that in the same month I lost my voice, a dancer friend broke her ankle, and a very discerning artist friend who's hard on herself lost part of her breast. What is it we are supposed to be learning? Maybe it's how to survive without something to which we are very attached.

But I think we are all not to be separated from them forever. When I woke up I had a feeling. I saved my voice all day, and when Colin came home I knew it. I knew I'd be able to talk.

"Hhhhhhhi!" I honked. "hhhhwelcmhhhhhmmehhh!" OK he can only understand every other word, and it's really more of a duck imitation with some consonants worked in, but it is a voice. Later I discovered I had five whole notes I could sustain...actually sing...sort of sing...right, smack in the middle of my voice. No high, no low. But it's a voice.

Before I move back into the world of the voiced, there are a few things I must admit I will miss about my period silence. Perhaps this is what I have learned.

One: Not talking with credit card companies, insurance companies, or people who want to rent our house. Not that I have anything against the latter, it's just that I get anxious when they ask for a rate and I have to pull out my calculator and get on our website because I've forgotten the rates and come up with something. And I'm self conscious about sounding too desperate. That people pleaser comes out and it's hard to hide.

Two: Not having to think about what I'm going to say next in any conversation.

Three: The fact that when I do have to communicate, I have to do it face to face. Closely. This is especially poignant with Colin. There's no calling from the kitchen, "Do you know where the lids to those containers are?"

Instead I have to move, across the whole apartment, if necessary, to wherever he is, with container, get right up in his face and whisper, very verrrry softly because I know raspy whispering is bad for the voice... "These c's...lid?"

Likewise he must come to me. If what he says is important enough to need an answer, he's aware that he needs to come near me. It takes his utmost concentration to understand me. I've commanded his...attention, yes, that's it.... every time I wish to "speak" to him, we must look one another in the eye and make the information pass between us.

I've noticed his retention rate of what I say has actually gone UP since I've had no voice. I love it. How ironic.

Now that I have a few noises back, there is the rest of me. I haven't felt so close to having mono since I had it. I keep thinking, has this something to do with the new medication, Plequenil? Dr. Rackoff insists not, but I was exposed to a - cold. The sniffles for three days in my dad's case, a slightly more bronchial thing for Colin which took maybe a week. Others I know have lost their voices for 2-3 days, but not 10.

I slept 'till after noon today - Solid. I was dreaming of this bird who had a double set of wings, and could fly like a normal or a humming bird. Twin orange feathers made a triangle of a white tuft on her tail, and when she turned to speak to me the face was dark, like an owl's. And then she spoke to me without speaking.

Perhaps like the bird I am meant to fly at two different speeds. And communicate sans words for a little bit longer.

King of Crickets - or - Say Ah (or not)

"Oh, My God, that is SO inflamed!" Dr. B., normally a mask of professionalism, self-consciously closes her own mouth.

The professional is back. "I'm sorry, that's probably the last thing, you want to hear from your doctor, 'oh, my God,' but..." she looks in my throat with the flashlight again. "Oh my God!"

It's about the baby. Just back from maternity leave, my primary Care Physician has a three month old at home, and I doubt she's high on anything so much as lack of sleep. And guilt.

"Do you see it written all over my face?" she asks when I mouth the word "HOW?" and make rocking motions with my arms. "I feel so guilty. Everyone is coughing," she ads, and I wonder passingly if children of doctors grow up with these immensely well functioning immune systems, because they're exposed to everything from e.coli to typhoid by the time they're one. Or if they grow up sick.

I feel her struggle. Clearly Dr. B feels just as guilty about having left her medical practice for a few months. "What is this about a chronic fracture at C5?" she asks me, for all the world as if I'd wet the bed. "I was coming in every week, I should have gotten this!"

I don't know what to say, and couldn't if I did.

"Have you had a bone density test?" I shake my head no. "It'll be a fight with your insurance company because you're so young, but a chronic fracture...you should have one."

I kind of like this version of my doctor. Her relaxed sense is catching. "Now, what about this laryngitis. I've heard of people having it for two, up to three days, this virus going around but...eight?" She smiles a little wryly. "You want some 'roids?"

Now I know she's high. The word slips from her mouth like a teenager who's been drinking a little too much for the first or second time, a little amused at her own audacity. "' 'Roids" is not a word the old Dr. B. would use to discuss prescribing so serious a substance as steroids. I bet Dr. B hasn't had a full night's sleep in over three months.

"Maybe," I mouth and make a balancing motion with my right hand. "Remind me about side effects?..." I whisper.

"Oh, well you'll have lot's of energy..." she laughs and goes to explain exactly what to expect if I should take the 6-day dose of steroids. Reminding me this is only the secnd time she's ever done this. I am regularly impressed by how much information this diminutive woman keeps somewhere. She's like her own self-contained database. She pulls phone numbers out of her hand-held device, processes what's in front of her quickly and retrieves lists of the most random information out of her head. Dr. B is to me a tiny, whirling walking wonder.

I pantomime writing a prescription, and indicate that I'll take it home and think about it. I think I may be getting better without 'roids. Yesterday I was able to make this one honking sound, precisely on a B flat. And today I can make two sounds. When I put them together I sound like Tarzan. I keep my experiments to a minimum out of respect for my ailing vocal folds and my neighbors.

Today is day nine without a voice. My friend Stacy says maybe the King of Crickets has it.

El niño busca su voz.
(La tenía el rey de los grillos.)
En una gota de agua
buscaba su voz el niño.
No la quiero para hablar;
me haré con ella un anillo
que llevará mi silencio
en su dedo pequeñito.

The little boy is looking for his voice
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy looked for his voice..
I don’t want it to speak with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger.


-Federico García Lorca