Don’t Quote Me On That!

I have this friend I'll call Jane. Her name isn't really Jane, but she tells me not to quote her and since this is all about her, a fictitious name is in order. I don't blame her, of course, because I know what she meant by that.

In years past, she was the one who listened to me drone on about whatever life was dishing me at the time. At a critical juncture, she would calmly turn to me and say something profound meant to set me straight and put my life in perspective. Saying something like, "Why are you worrying about something that hasn't happened and that you have no reason to believe ever will happen?" Duh! (or do we say, Ah-Ha, now?).

For as much as she made those quiet comments that were not only introspective on her part as much as reflective of me, she balked at the idea of being quoted. A dread-filled grunt coming up from her throat, she would ask apprehensively what she had said that was so memorable. Then I would relate the entire conversation, how I felt, what was bothering until I got to the point where she stunned me with blinding logic. Oh, okay, she would answer grudgingly.

To understand the symbiosis of our friendship, two characteristics stand out. I remember blocks of conversation as well as I remember my address; Jane has locked inside her mind a vault of observations, interpretations, and no-nonsense philosophies about people that she mainly keeps to herself. When she steps out of her quiet, contemplative state to make one of her existential comments, I am there to embrace her clarity and store it in my long-term memory until needed again for my next dramatic scene.

Likewise, our writing styles are vastly different. Hers is surreal and dark exposing the irony of society, as in her long-forgotten "Dead Pet Store," to my dark attempt at optimistic realism struggling to find truth, such as in my story, "The Protector." Back in the day, when we wore tight mini-skirts and high heels to elegant affairs, where I watched with amusement as men stumbled over themselves watching from across the room as her long legs passed by, and while we stood laughing between ourselves about all of those who didn't "get" our inside jokes (oh-la-la!), neither of us wrote too much. No wonder. There was a period when I did write. Jane read some of my short stories that I now think are ridiculously self-absorbed, but she never came out and said that. That was kind.

During revisions of some of my old short stories, I cringed at parts that were opinionated, childish or just not well put. I relived the political climate of that time in those stories, sometimes radical, sometimes naïve. Rolling my eyes as I furiously wrote over those bad bits, Jane pops into my head to remind me of why she does not like to be quoted. Jane said the comments were not as important as her feelings about being quoted. When I asked her why, she said that she did not like to be quoted because she might change her mind about the subject later and would not want to be accountable for the previous statement.

I had to think about that for awhile, but not long. Just the other day, I had a conversation with another writer about the daring of putting ourselves out there in blogs, where once it's out there, the words remain even when you pull them down from your website. Someone somewhere will have copied it, reprinted it or otherwise saved it, just as we all do. Then, there is another writer I know who told me long ago that anything that is written is never lost and can always resurface. It all makes Jane's statements all the more chilling. I only hope that in twenty years, I don't find this piece as bad as what I wrote twenty years ago. I certainly hope no one quotes me on that.

Lemonade

As the mid-year point passed in 2010, I reflected on what a crazy year it had been up to that point. Recovering most of the year from two surgeries necessary to put my face back together after an accident in January, there had been plenty of down time to reflect on what one can reasonably expect from life and, to coin a cliché, how it is possible to turn lemons into lemonade.

After waking up on the kitchen floor, finding my trusty Bichon Frises on either side of me, not to mention the blood on them and on the floor, I remember the first view of myself in the mirror. While the memory is now vague with the passing of time, I recall my nose was sideways and my forehead almost obliterated with large lacerations. Without a conceivable notion of the miracles of plastic surgery, I chided myself on all the times I complained about my nose, longing for the opportunity to have it back the way it was. Standing there, observing the damage, I convinced myself that life would never be the same. With my characteristic determination to be independent, but more than likely attributable to being in shock, I washed up the blood from the floor before driving myself to the hospital.

Walking into the Emergency Room at John C Lincoln Hospital, I can only imagine what my appearance said to the nurses. Along that journey which led me to surgery the next day, I was shocked to find that the consensus of the hospital staff was that I had been beaten by a person I was unwilling to name. So much did they not believe me that they sent a social worker to speak to me. While I understand why they took that position, there is something distressing and humiliating about not being believed. Later at home recuperating, I wrote a short story, "Spiked Heels" in response. To appear in the inaugural edition of Literati coming in December 2010, the story is about a similar situation but where the presumed victim is anything but a victim.

In that hospital experience, what stands out the most are the nurses. Standing around me, comforting me, they kept assuring me that the plastic surgeon being called in to work on me was so good that there would be no scars. I'm skeptical most of time knowing that people, especially in their attempts to be kind, will say the most outrageous lies in order to comfort someone in distress. I remember one nurse leaning in toward me, pointing to her pristine forehead while telling me Dr. Prichard's stitch work was so good that no one could tell a nasty wound had ever been there. I thought, wow, I must be in big trouble for her to lie like that since even straining I saw no sign of a scar. Happily numb from the pain medication pumped into my veins, I thought how kind they were to take the trouble. Six months later, I have to laugh at that memory when I look in the mirror and see scars so faint they are undetectable under foundation.

As for my nose, well, I have an improved version of the original with a softening at the end that my mother would have been pleased to see. Her main disappointment in me (one of many) was my resemblance to my father's side of the family. If she is watching now from that lofty perch beyond the clouds, she would have the satisfaction of seeing that I now have her nose, amusing and ironic since the design had more to do with Dr. Prichard's creative interpretation and sculpturing techniques than anything else.

Looking back over the last six months, between the trauma, the reconstruction and repair of my face interjected into with tax season, friends and pets, if this experience has taught me anything it is the return of the joie de vie I had lost prior to the accident. With the realization that the fall I took while unconscious and without resistance could have killed me, I feel blessed for whatever or whoever is my guardian angel, but also for the kindness of all of those around me who showed patience and support through the worst of it. That is the best lemonade.