The Nosebleed

A good start to the day. I had a nosebleed of epic proportions. I was a human geyser. I went through a quarter of one of those large Kleenex boxes from Costco. The rest sprayed all over my shirt or went down my throat. Ugh. This has happened only once before, and this was most definitely worse. It took fucking FOREVER to stop. I'm afraid to put a tissue near my nose. (So don't Miss Knucklehead.)

The air in my cannula dries me out, so I'm more susceptible to a sudden eruption. I can say in all honesty, I wasn't attempting suicide via nosebleed. It looks like you're losing an awful of blood, but it ain't gonna kill you. (But it is very dramatic.) Or it would have been a really idiotic way to try to off myself. Dramatic, weird, and pointless.

So I eat my peanut butter and jelly a little worse for wear. Kristin, my beloved therapist, will be over shortly. Is that the nicest? Most mensch-ish? It sure is. I have a therapist who makes house calls. Wow.

Session was lovely. I can't remember one blessed thing we talked about. Ah, yes, we did talk about Since When- that I am certain that it must maintain its integrity and if by doing so, no one wants to buy it, I'll learn to live with that rejection. Just as well as I've learned to live with everything else I'm trying to cope with. (Why do I find that last sentence hysterically funny?)

I never started writing with blockbuster in mind. Hell, I never started writing with a book in mind. As "the thing" grew, I felt more comfortable referring to it as my tome or my family story. (The word "book" was plain scary.) For me, tome is more acceptable because of its negative connotations. My tome, therefore, is just a large piece of crap written for no particular purpose. Least of publishing. And I can write one of those. No problem. Uh huh.

It was like removing impacted wisdom teeth to get me to admit that Since When had turned into a book despite all my denials and protestations. And that all books have a writer. QED: I'm (oh my) a writer. There I said it? Are you happy now? (I mean it. Had to drag me kicking and screaming: say it! say it! say it!) Hey, not all writers are good writers. (Sometimes I think and behave like a supreme jackass.)

I'm still shaken up by my earlier nose emergency. It's much, much later in the day and true, I'm feeling a little less paranoid than I had been several hours ago which is a always a plus. Paranoia? From a nosebleed? I, too, fail to see any connection between the two accept that it takes so little these days to knock me down. Until I start becoming psychologically stronger, (your guess is as good as mine), things like a nosebleed can shake me all the way down to my very foundations.

When I get like that I feel terribly lonely and stuck. I don't think I'll ever accept that Fran Part 1 is really over and that I should git going, get off my ass, and get acquainted with Fran 2. I'm clueless to what she's about except if I don't write (like these posts) I'll go mad. Now about another book. Hah! I'll likely end up as a whiny, sniveling doppelganger of Harper Lee except my one book won't be a masterpiece. A shame, but acceptable. I'm perfectly content to rest on my laurels. Oy gevalt. Just please stop these nosebleeds. They're really hard to take.

synopsis hell

I have spent my entire day rewriting and rewriting my book synopsis- a critical piece of the package to publishers (and I imagine agents too). Maybe I'm too close to it, but a friend tells me it's no good. I think he's told me it's no good three or four times. And he wasn't wrong. but I I know this last one is much, much better. (And yes, I do have my buddy to thank for this.) but he doesn't like it at all. So do I really know? No, I don't. And I just can't tell anymore. (If it's good, bad, worse than the earlier iterations.) But how come I think it's better? Am I an idiot?) Quite possibly. And given my illness considerably less charming than I used to be. Still look good though. Thank god for small favors. And I'm plumb out of ideas. I hate when that happens.

He (my buddy/synopsis mentor) is coming at said book a complete stranger to the work, so maybe I assume too much for it to make sense to someone coming to it cold. I've compared it to a couple of successful book proposals my incredibly generous sister-in-law's sister (got that?) sent to me. It seems to be of a kind. I know there are bits I most definitely want to edit out. But what he asks for really doesn't apply to what I've written. Am I in deep doo-doo? Is my book doo-doo? (No, don't blame the book. Poor thing. This has nothing to do with Since When. So chill, y''hear?)

Houston, I think we have a problem.

I spend my earlier part of the day getting up and about. Not really. But I am out of bed (But my actual, usable day sadly begins about 1:30. (I actually get up much earlier than that. It just takes so bloody long to get through my daily ablutions.) You really have no idea what a dance it is getting the buddha ensconced on her couch. If only it were the cha-cha.

I've already napped. (So the tranquilizer will have taken effect by the time I get up. Hot damn, works ever time. Anxiety no more.) But now it's 7 p. m., and I have yet to finish lunch. Do you know how amazing peanut butter and jelly is? It's fucking DIVINE. I tell you. Chip had recently switched to strawberry jam. Fantastic. (FYI, the man makes a kickass sandwich.) And surprise, surprise, blueberry, of all things works just as well. Just so you know. I'm not going to keep valuable tips like this away from you, you kidding me?

Hey, I just tried to reach my synopsis mentor. I got voice mail. 7 p.m. on a summer Friday is probably the very best time to call someone to avoid the inevitable dressing down or facing your issues or both. I didn't mean too. I was just such a colossus mess a few hours ago. And even that might not have made a difference. I'm dealing with a man who has a summer home. But if you wish to avoid me, call here in the morning. In the morning, you're totally fucked. Midday is also a keeper. Stay away from evenings. Unless I literally cannot speak, you're cooked.

I think I'll take a crack at writing chapter summaries. Woohoo!

sayonara

Hey Yo

Yes, I will dress up this blog and make it real purty sometime when I damn well feel like it. But 'taint going to be now. I have so much left to do, and too little time to do it. Isn't that everyone's problem? But it shouldn't be for me. I sit like a Buddha and LOLL about on the couch for the greater part of every day. (FYI, bathroom breaks are allowed.) Oh, and sleep for an inordinate amount of time.

So what up with dat? I'm 48 years old, in pretty good shape... (with "abs of steel" says my chiropractor. God bless you Laurie. Oh if you (the universal ye) ever need a terrific chiropractor let me know. The only trouble is is that she's in Washington Heights. But she's worth every mile and the hideous amount of Bridge traffic. I love her.) All right, so I'm in pretty good shape and not all that long ago, I was dubbed by someone as the most well-preserved chick in NYC. (God, do I eat that shit up. Or rather, I used to.)

What turned me into Captain Pike (if you don't know, please google him yourself), was a cascading series of events. Individually, perhaps not life changing, but together, a nightmare.

Okay (deep breath- wait a minute, that's actually pretty funny in a cold, dark way), in late fall 2006, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease (Lymphoma) the best cancer a girl could ever ask for. Ridiculously treatable. All pretesting showed a body in perfect condition and ready to go. Hey my boy Mario Lemieux had Hodgkin's. He's doing just fine. So I begin chemo, buzz off my nice long hair, and begin what was to be six months (two treatments per month) of chemo. Then all done.

After one treatment (ONE!!! Woohoo, am I home free or what?) there is no longer any evidence of cancer. I react weirdly to the chemo...but who doesn't...??? and The Fifth Element while stoned is simply incredible. I'll do Milla myself; she's so hot. And weed eats up nausea instantly. That's what I call a miracle drug.

Well, during the second week after chemo, I'm feeling much more normal, so I work out, blah, blah, blah. Then I get a fever, late February, early March. I had been given my order: if I have a fever over 100 degrees, call doc, anytime day of night. This went on for several days. Chip (mein husband) left for a business trip. "Honey, what could possibly happen in a couple of days?" says I. So he left. Doc calls late. Fever hasn't gone down. He said "I don't like the sound of this. Meet me in the emergency room at 10 a.m." Okay. I expect IV antibiotics as I was promised.

I go, tell the triage nurse lymphoma, fever...get to the head of the line. Fuck open sesame. "Lymphoma, fever" gets you instant gratification. Trust me, I know. And we all love instant gratification, don't we? (Well I do.) I meet the doctor, give my girlfriend my phone. And the next thing I know, it's May. Yeah, I went in March 7 and became aware in May. (Sounds like a line from Tommy.) Seems I had a perfect storm of events...weird reactions to chemo drugs, pneumonia, fever such that my little lungs threw their hands up in despair (well they would have if they had them) and said, this is too fucking much! And those damned lungs hardened up so bad, I was on a ventilator for 8 weeks in medically-induced coma. I was supposed to die, because people who get this just don't live. My husband MADE me live. He made the doctors MAKE me live.

That's why I'm on disability with 24% lung function and there is no treatment for my condition. NOTHING. I think that's been the toughest thing to take. You get sick. then you get better. I had never heard, you're sick and we got nuthin'. Sorry.

Anyway, I'm on oxygen 24/7. I can't walk any further that the bathroom. Even with extra oxygen, I'm still out of breath. So it's the buddha or the wheelchair. I pretty much choose buddha and the couch.

But, since I can't do anything else, I've become a writing freak. I never said it was "good" writing, but it's writing nonetheless. My major opus has been a family history, and I think may end up being at least a good deal of the focus on this blog. But today, I just had to set the scene for what is. I just wish I could do it with fewer words.

So my next task, is to get a book published. It is called Since When and about my ancestors. Ha! Just to get an agent, you have to go through a ridiculous obstacle course. Fuck, if your margins aren't exactly as they want them, throw the whole damned proposal out. Do you think it gets any easier with publishers? They have you jumping through the same sorts of hoops. Now I can get margins right, but what about the query letter, the synopsis (sell! sell! sell!), the outline (who knew this was such a SINGULAR thing?) But what better things do I have to do? I'll tell you all about the book. If it piques any interest, I'll tell you more. We'll see if this piques anyone's interest. Period.

Hello, good night,' til we meet again