PRESENT: It's been a hell of a month. Mum was rushed to the hospital two weeks ago with an attack of colitis so severe, she practically exploded in the back of the ambulance like a torrential shit volcano. It's hilarious now that she's on the mend, and we can only hope that the tale of the Shit Vesuvius will live forever in the annals of Rhode Island's emergency services. She spent a whopping five days in the hospital, hooked up to saline bags with a cocktail of antibiotics, eating Jello and watching a freak mid April snow storm from her fourth floor window. One good thing about Covid: private hospital rooms. One bad thing about visiting hours: I still had to go to work, then take the bus to the bottom of the gigantic mutherfucking hill atop which the hospital sits, walk up wheezing all the way, sit with her for two hours, then descend and head home, alone, to feed the cat, make myself an absolutely nasty dinner of Steak-Umms and Yoo-hoo and then go to bed with a 10 hour YouTube loop of Loony Toons blaring the background so I wouldn't feel the vast emptiness of the apartment.
She's home now, just about fully recovered but still physically unable to do all the things she used to do. Thank god for grocery delivery and a coin-op laundromat across the street, which I will be visiting later today.
PAST: I've had a lot of time to think these past couple of weeks. Little things that I may have forgotten to tell you about. Like the big, striped feather I used to have as a kid, the one I named Barracuda for reasons unknown. I loved that feather. It was a good six inches long and I took it with me wherever I went, like some little girls carry a favorite doll. One day, on a drive somewhere, my uncle threw it out the window and I turned in horror to watch it blowing away behind us down the freeway, consumed by distance and dust.
Or the time my grandfather told me never to stick my head out of a car window because a truck might come along and snap my head off like a cork from a champagne bottle. I think I was five at the time.
Or all of our trips to Pescadero Beach as a kid, including the memorable time that rock-stupid 7 year old me was digging in the sand, spotted what I thought was a particularly pretty seashell and grabbed it, only to realize it was a fingernail on the finger of my own other hand.
Every day I remember some tiny snippet from my past and I think to myself: "I forgot to write about that one, I really must do it when I return home." And then I get home and I've forgotten already. And I know it doesn't really matter, but on the other hand, it really does. Little things are what makes up the whole. I've forgotten the entirety of most of my life and retain perhaps 25%, so why did that 25% stick with me?
Anyway, I'll soon launch into the details of my fourteen years working at the now defunct Borders Books & Music, but not today. I must take mum to her doctor's appointment soon. Please send her healing vibes.