About siriusmoonlight

Writer, Artist, Photographer, Guacamole Lover, Dancer, Ace Procrastinator, MEd, MLA. PhD in progress.

Ice Dancing

I guess there was a Ted talk on youtube about how we are all made up of stories.  I found a reference to it in an ASMR video by Lauren Ostroski (I think that is how she spells it) Fenton.  Anyway, I wanted to rely a couple of stories about my parents.  One I was there for but did not know all the details and one that happened before I was born.

My mother was quite athletic when she was younger.  She encouraged my ice skating because she used to ice skate on Lake Michigan.  Once, she told me, that she had been invited to a skating party out on the lake.  She had gotten distracted and skated far, far, out onto the lake and into the shipping channel.  It was at night, so she was all alone out there in the darkness but nothing but the northern lights for company.  Or so she thought.  The ice breaking ship with its huge chevron bow came plowing through the ice toward her, and clearly did not see her.  So she skated…as fast as she could in front of the breaker as it slammed the ice to pieces around her.  She raced in front to get away from it, because if she slowed down, she would fall in to the water and drown.  So, she skated at her top speed with her lungs on fire and her skates flashing sliver in the night sky.  Terror caused her heart to beat wildly and still the breaker came.  Finally, it turned away, churning the water of the channel…but still large cracks appeared in the ice, and my mother jumped them landing onto unbroken icebergs and skating away at full speed to get off the shattering ice.  The skating party forgotten, she made for the shore line.  The cracks were hairline, some times bigger and she hurtled over them in terror.  She made it to shore, as the ice began booming and breaking apart all the way to the shoreline.  She lay in the snow, breathing hard and sucking air into her lungs, feeling her leg muscles screaming, like she had been screaming in fear.  When the cold seeped in across her back, she peeled off her sweat soaked down coat with frozen fingers.  She got up, and on wobbly, sodden legs, walked the three miles back to her house.  My grandmother, who was not a nice person apparently, said to her as she collapsed from exhaustion into bed, “What the hell happened to you?”


We’d gone up to Keystone Colorado at Christmas for a medical meeting.  We spent Christmas in a studio condo overlooking the mountains and it was magical.  (Keystone and those Christmases require separate entries)  But, my dad and Dr. Irwin Brown at some point decided to go ice fishing on Dillon lake, and Dad returned dead drunk.  My mother was livid.  He was quite ill with altitude and alcohol poisoning.  However, when he recovered, he told the story of what had actually happened.  As drunk as he was, he and Dr. Brown had saved someone’s life.

They were sitting in the car, shooting the shit and drinking Rock N Rye which Dr. Brown had brought a bottle.  They weren’t really fishing because it was cold and the conditions weren’t really optimal …snow flurries, a chilly wind, and the shelter out on the ice looked less than appealing.  But, they sat there drinking, with the heat on, watching a couple of guys out on the lake fishing in a couple of holes…when one guy fell in.  The ice had thinned where he was and while the fish enjoyed coming up for oxygen, it weakened the ice.  Without thinking, both of them jumped out of the car, yelled to the other fisherman, who promptly tried to get to the guy but the ice was treacherous.  They spotted the thrashing fisherman and called an ambulance.  My dad and Dr. Brown, drunk as they were, slid on their bellies out on ice thin as paper and managed to wrangle the guy out of the water with a rope.  They wiggled their way back off the slush and wafer thin ice and dried off.  They were drunk as skunks which gave them the bravery to do what essentially was a stupid thing.  But, they saved the guy’s life.   Dr. Brown turned up the heat in the car, and they wobbled their way back to the resort to sleep it off.   I don’t think they ever told anyone that story except us.  They didn’t do it for thanks, although “Make way! I’m a doctor!” was probably shouted at least once.  I doubt it made the paper and my dad certainly didn’t want to be reported as the Hero Drunk.  From that point on it was referred to as the Rock N Rye incident, and a joke between my dad and Dr. Brown.  I don’t know that my mother ever believed the story, although I am sure she asked for confirmation.  I think its proof that Angels work in mysterious ways.  Amazingly, my dad was not hungover, which was a blessing in and of itself as he was a presenter the next day at the meeting.  Mom forgave him, which I think was the most important thing.


Grief Bacon

Today would have been my mother’s 86th birthday.  Interestingly enough, it would have also have been my father-in-law’s 90th birthday.  I suspect my husband and I were destined to be together, for many reasons, but also including the fact that our parents shared a birthday.

My cousin and I coined the term “grief nap” when my husband and I returned to Oklahoma last week to bury my mother.  The stress and financial worry plus the long car ride and my husband’s fragile health exhausted us.  We took a few “grief naps” that allowed us to rest with our dogs, while Anne (wonder woman, saviour of the universe, doyenne of Awesome!, Mother of Wolfhounds)(okay, the last one is the obligatory GoT reference) actually worked at her real job. 🙂

I took the liberty of adapting the term to include “grief bacon”.  For the last couple of days, we’ve revisited some of the breakfast haunts mother liked with our service dog, Pudge.  Pudge was, in many ways, mother’s corgi.  He liked to hang out with her and had a bed in her room that he dragged beneath her walker so he’d know when she was getting up somewhere.  Pudge went, in his service harness, to see her when she was hospitalized in the various facilities.  He visited her at Spring Valley, Kindred, and Del Mar.  He did this on numerous occasions, and last year, after she had left the hospitals for a time, went with us to various breakfast restaurants to sit outside in the sunshine and enjoy the bacon.  The petting from strangers was a boon.  He’s a cute corgi after all.

The last time I brought Pudge to see mom, she wanted me to take him out into the hallway to visit with the other patients.  As she was distancing herself from life, she still wanted others to enjoy his giving and sweet spirit, and the comfort just petting him brings to those in a nursing home.

Pudge is blind.  He sees with his heart and his ears.  Right now, he’s grieving too.  He does not want to be left alone, and even though he is virtually toothless, he chewed a hole in his transport carrier.  He’s houdinied his way out of his kennel before, and dug a hole so completely he ruined the carpet and the carpet pad in our bedroom.  Not a loss.  I don’t care for the carpet and its old.  But, he took it right down to the concrete.  He hates being confined to a cage, so mother always looked after him.

We took our dogs with us to Oklahoma.  The day of the funeral, we could not find a suitable place to board the animals, so we brought them with us to the cemetery.  Normally, the dogs bark their heads off if anyone approaches the car.  (A quick note: we are responsible pet owners.  The windows were down, they had water, and it was raining anyway so the heat in the car was not unbearable for an animal.  I find it stupid that I have to defend this decision in advance but there is always someone out there that has an issue with leaving any dog in a car.  Conversely, there are those that have an issue with my dog’s wearing service harnesses even at out door restaurants that serve pet owners on a patio. Since this is a battle I cannot win, all I have to say is….)  Anyway, they bark, hysterically.

During the ceremony, they did not.  In fact, no one attending knew they were there until I said something about it.  One of the funeral directors approached the car with a basket of flowers and they just watched him set it down beside the rear of the vehicle.

I think they knew exactly what was going on.  Dogs grieve, just as humans do.  I suspect they understood.  They didn’t even bark at the bagpiper and I was sure that the shrill sound of “Amazing Grace” would set them off.  I suspect Odin, (who is mostly deaf) watched and relayed what was happening to the other, shorter dogs, whose hearing is most acute.  They, no doubt, heard every word, and knew this was their grandma.

Since we got home, Pudge does not want to be left.  So, he’s been making the rounds to doctor’s offices with us…and to the breakfast places we all visited as a family.  We order extra bacon for Pudge, and to bring home for the dogs because this has been stressful for all of us.  Pudge has been the perfect service dog too.  He sits at my feet, curls up, and falls asleep.  He ignores the doctor, the people in the waiting room, the crying/curious children, and the plants that would otherwise be good to pee on.  He’s been a perfect gentleman.  He always has been, really.  He loved his grandma, just as all the dogs did…Odin, whom she called, Odindearie, and Daisy who tried to boss her around but liked climbing onto her bed best of all just to cuddle.

So, I give them grief bacon.  Not too much, but enough.  They loved her very much as did we all.



Requiem for my mother

The Klingon Empire has a saying. “Today is a good day to die!” My mother really wasn’t a Star Trek fan, at least not to the the degree that my dad and I were, but she did participate because we enjoyed it. Yesterday, my mother left her mortality behind. She picked a good day to die.
When my father departed, it was a cold, foggy night in November, just before Thanksgiving and his 70th birthday. My mother, however waited until a day after my 50th, which tells me she finally decided I had grown up enough to no longer need her council or protection. It was a beautiful, clear, cloudless, and searing day, as the temperature here in Las Vegas, hovered somewhere around 113 degrees. The desert quail with their funny head gear and peeping cries were silent, the hummingbirds on the patio ceased to hum. The world drew a collective intake of breath and held it for infinitesimal moments as she breathed her last. And then, the breath released, the world continued, the mourning doves mourned, and she rejoined my father, who came for her.
When she was at Kindred Rehab, she developed pneumonia and a urinary tract infection that we never could get completely cured from. She had seizures, small ones, the petit mal variety, that cause her to blank out. She’d been having them for some time, these causing her falling problems when she resided with me. But, the nurses there told me of a dream she’d recounted to them. Apparently, my father came to her in the dream, and told her it was going to be all right.
And so it was.

What can I tell you about my mother? My mother was an extraordinary person. Her strength of will was what kept all of us going at times. I know she was my father’s touchstone. They did everything together. They hunted, they fished, they camped, they hiked canyons and creek beds hunting for arrowheads. They canvased new archaeological sites for the University of Oklahoma, collected samples, from all over western Oklahoma and a few sites in the eastern part of the state. They were curious explorers of the natural world, and my mother was probably most comfortable in the back country. My mother once faced down a mountain lion, who thought the family pet of the time, a daschund named Cleo, might have made a good snack. They did all this before I turned up, fourteen years into their marriage, when they feared they were unable to have children. I was the miracle child, and from the time I was small, way into my college years, we still packed up the Vista Cruiser, the Van with the wild paint job, or the aptly named Blazer (which burnt up on the side of the road and nearly deprived me of both of them) every weekend to go somewhere out into the woods. My mother was also an artist. She loved the paintings of Georgia O’Keefe and the mysterious beauty of the Sangre de Cristo mountains around Red River, New Mexico. She drew cartoons, the occasional watercolor, and an exquisite charcoal comic rendering of my father as a mad scientist…I believe I still have it somewhere.

She was not a stereotypical doctor’s wife. She could have cared less about the society functions and cotillions that my father’s status could have afforded her. She would have rather spent that time in an inner tube and waders out on some creek bank fishing for bass or perch. Or in a hunter’s blind, in the freezing cold, watching (and not shooting) the deer parade by.

After my father left us for the heavenly realm, she eventually came to reside with us. The action defied my father’s dire prediction that we could never live together because our personalities and tempers were so similar. My mother was a survivor. She survived the Great Depression when she was little. She would never eat rice because of the association with abject poverty. She survived the uncertainty of the world at war in 1941. She survived a dysfunctional home life with her parents, who were mentally and physically abusive to her, and her sisters and brothers. The actions witnessed her her formative years left her with an abiding mistrust of others. She was a bit of a misanthrope who felt the suffering of others keenly. I believe this ability led her to be with my father, who she helped put through medical school by working for the state highway department as one of the first women draftsmen. My mother observed people and their interactions, which led my father to believe she would have made a wonderful psychiatrist. Her deep empathy for the suffering of others led her to develop a tough shell that she maintained for the rest of her life. She tolerated other people, even family, but the ones she loved deeply were me, and my dad.

When she came to live with us, we continued the tradition of heading out into the wild. She loved the National Parks…Zion and Bryce Canyon. We traveled up to 10 thousand feet, perhaps unwisely, for a group of people with heart problems, to Brian Head in the summer. I will never forget the look on her face as she watched hundreds of hummingbirds circling the feeders at one of the stores in Brian Head. Nor will I ever forget the deer counting we did, as the deer were plentiful on the Utah roads. She loved the petroglyphs and pictographs on the walls of the Parowan gap, and the ones here at Red Rock Canyon. She loved the wildflowers at Cedar Breaks, and the violence of the sudden summer storm that had us all fearing we’d be electrocuted. She loved Kokopelli, and wore the shirt I’d purchased for her endlessly, along with one she swore we’d picked up in Phoenix when I was six. She loved the red hills of Kanab, and the mystery of the Sinagua at Montazuma’s Castle. She was fascinated by the Lost City here in Nevada, wandering through the museum at Overton, looking at the pottery and artifacts found before Lake Mead drowned the Anasazi, (proper name, Hisatsunom) sites of the Virgin River peoples. She had a National Park pass, and we wandered the parks, even in winter, looking for Bighorn sheep and deer. We even made a pillgrimage once to Boulder City to see the herd of Bighorns that have take over a city park. That was New Year’s Day several years ago now.

She also read, and had a complex intellectual life. She did not go to college per se. She had business courses, but her real education was shared with my father. She helped him collect specimens for his herpetology class, by standing in a waist deep pond in the middle of the night waiting for the sound of a tiny frog, whose call sounded like a fingernail running across a metal comb. This specimen, she told me, was microhylacarlinesis olivatia…long name for a tiny reptile. She memorized the scientific names, and when my father turned in his final paper, the professor gave him an A but also noted that my mother (who was not enrolled in the course) had earned an A as well. Her reading list included authors such as Patricia Cornwell, Tony Hillerman, Michael Creighton, Janet Evanovich, and Scott Turow. She told me once that she would have liked to have been a forensic scientist who worked on cases…and since my dad had been a coroner at one time, she went with him on those occasions…which no doubt further stimulated her boundless curiosity.

She was not a television watcher. Hated it in fact. She preferred the radio. She followed Cubs baseball for a time, and Sooner football. She liked Paul Harvey, and talk radio…listening to it for hours on in for the news of the world. She would occasionally watch a Superbowl, but most television bored her. She didn’t smoke or drink, and she was a staunch advocate of my dad…stayed by his side all the way to the end. I think she was proud of me. I have been told she bragged on me endlessly to anyone who would listen.

Before her mitral valve surgery and pacemaker implantation last year, I asked that she go to Build A Bear, and create me a bear with a microchip recording of her saying ” I love you, Lisa”. She did, and selected a plain dark brown bear, similar to my Squeaky Ben. I spent part of yesterday listening to that recording over and over.

I missed my mother’s passing, as I also missed my father’s but in the end, I don’t think it mattered. The CNAs’ and hospice were there at the end, and comforted her. I spoke to her in the shower, and told her I would be okay, and that it was okay to leave. The previous day, as I struggled to get her to eat something, she told me she wanted to “leave this place” and I told her it was going to be okay and rubbed her frail and thin arm. I painted her nails pink the day previous to that, and she held onto my hand, squeezing my fingers with surprising strength. The last words she spoke to me was, ” I love you.”

I love you, Mommy. I miss you already but I know you are happy with my dad and that you missed him fiercely these last nineteen years. Tell him I said Hi and that I’ll be along in time, after I too have lived an interesting life like my mom. I would say she lived a life well spent as she was nearly 86 years old at her passing. She came a long way from being born on a humble creek bank in Hastings, Michigan to the bright lights and searing heat of Las Vegas. Merry Meet, and Merry Part, Mom.

Hilda Marguerite Livingston is survived by her daughter Lisa, her son-in-law Bill, and her granddogs, Pudge, Daisy, and Odin, She is also survived by her nieces Anne Livingston, Kathy Reterstoff Scott and Jill Anne Haynes. Her nephews include Patrick Livingston, and his children Jack and Dolly, and David Reterstoff. Her grand nephews include Lindsey Hodges as well as many other relatives and friends.


I’m trying hard not to be depressed over this, but its hard.  Here’s the skinny.  A woman I mentored and wrote letters of recommendation for has decided to resign her teaching position.  I really don’t blame her.  She’s an excellent teacher, certainly more adept and energetic in the classroom than I could ever be.  So it disturbs me that she quit. 
I think I know why she resigned.  This job, and you’ll note that I called it a job, because teaching as a career has become a thing as extinct as a dinosaur, grinds you down.  Your authority in the classroom is nonexistent, and what shreds are left are quickly erroded by overbearing parents, adminstrators, and “specialists” whose purpose is to coach, not coach, lay blame, or gossip to higher ups.  Not that they actually do any of that.  The RTI (response to instruction: an identification system for struggling students) process resembles not so much a collaborative effort to identify student learning issues but a Spanish Inquisition, where you spend your defending your instructional interventions for your students.  There are many stressors and everybody (it seems) questions your professional judgement every single day. This and the volume of paperwork and redundant testing buries the teacher under without even factoring the regular workload of paper grading. Is it any wonder, that teachers, in general, are depressed individuals.  I heard that teachers, as a group seek help for a variety of mental health issues, most commonly depression.
What does it say about the profession when the best and brightest leave?
I don’t know how to feel right now.
I know she made a tough decision but in the end you have to do what’s best for you. I wish her Continue reading

Asking for help. Or “how I’m learning to do this, one step at a time.”

“Asking for help with shame says:
You have the power over me.
Asking with condescension says:
I have the power over you.
But asking for help with gratitude says:
We have the power to help each other.
Amanda Palmer, The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

My husband had a stroke Sunday night.  One minute we were sitting in the drive thru at McDonald’s discussing what to get my elderly mother for dinner, and then next, Bill, who is driving, suddenly clutches his head and screams that he’s so dizzy he can’t see.  He’s promptly violently ill, and I tell the guy at the drive thru window I’ve got a medical emergency and I push the car out of the drive thru area and over to the parking lot.  My first thought was, “He’s having a stroke.” and I call paramedics.

You have to know this call is a bit spooky.  A week before, my husband escorted me to T-Mobile and insisted I get a new phone.  My old trusty LG MyTouch which I’ve had for five years, was locking up on me, and every time it did, I had to pop out the battery and slap it back in again.  He said, “You need a new phone.  What if you have to dial 911?”  I grudgingly agreed because my mother is 85 and has moderate Alzheimers.  Her judgement is poor and it is like living with a teenager sometimes.  I never know what I’ll get home to in the evenings when I come in from work.

Flash forward to Sunday night at McDonalds.  I’m dialing 911 with my new phone.  The paramedics take us to Desert Springs, and we are lucky to get a space not in a hallway but in a real ER bay.  Las Vegas emergency rooms are always full because we don’t have enough hospitals to handle our local population of sick people plus the amount of visitors that come here and become ill.  I think we may be the only hospital system in the nation that lets you know ER wait times by text and one where you can also make an appointment to be seen.

Jump to 14 hours later and one long, cold night leaning against an exterior wall, covered in blankets, my coat, my UNLV hoodie, and sleeping, when I can, because Bill is out of it, with my face on a towel (no pillows in the ER) pressed into the wall sharps container.  The MRI shows he’s had a cerebellar infarct.  In plainer terms, he’s had a stroke in the cerebellum.  The brain is swelling and he’s developed atrial fibrillation…or rather his heart is just sitting there quivering rather than beating strongly.  He’s slowly becoming more and more lethargic, and harder to wake up.  He’s having trouble speaking and communicates in monosyllables and sometimes the words are reversed.  He’s also complaining of double vision and is confused about time…the last easy enough to do in an ER that seems perpetually in twilight mode.  They give him heparin, a blood thinner to prevent more blood clots.  Then, they take him off in preparation to transfer him.  Except there’s a political wrangle going on between hospitals.  Just because the ER neurologist says “This patient needs immediate transfer and prep for neurology surgery!” does not guarantee it will happen immediately.  Well, okay, if the brain is bleeding it might but Bill’s brain wasn’t  so that’s a GOOD sign, right?

8 more hours go by.  I have to leave.  Mother isn’t answering her cell phone which means she’s accidentally turned it off and doesn’t know how to turn it back on again.  (PUSH THE RED BUTTON, MOTHER) She’s also not answering the secondary phone so she’s either fallen and she can’t get up or she fell asleep waiting for food.  I go home.  She’s fine.  Dogs are fine but desperately need to pee.  Bill calls and we have a very confused conversation.  They call.  He’s going to be transferred to Spring Valley.  They are taking him now.  They have a room.  He’ll be fine.  They’ll look after him.

I wake up with the phone still in my hand and I look at it stupidly before I realize that’s my ringtone.  6:45 am.  Its the Neurosurgeon from Spring Valley.  They need to take Bill to surgery RIGHT NOW because the ventricle in the brain has moved, his brain is swelling, cells are dying and he’s bleeding.  They need consent.  I’ll be there in 15 minutes, I say and make a mad dash to get dressed, throw cinnamon rolls at my mother, dump some food in a dish for the dogs, check on Pudge’s ear (because he just had 9 rotten teeth removed and his ear operated two weeks ago, I know the hits just keep coming around here)  I drive like a mad woman out to Spring Valley and hike it into the floor only to find out, he’s in preop.  So, they take me to preop.  I sign forms.  Meet surgeons and Bill is trying to wake up and get out of bed.  I hug him and tell him I love you before they wheel him off.

And thus commences possibly the longest 5 hours of my life.

We Livingstons and Browns don’t just get a tiny bit sick.  When we get ill, its usually life threatening, terrifying, and dramatic in ways that are worthy of reality television.  Nausea inducing, like Kim Kardashian’s wardrobe.  (I jest.  I know more about Kanye West than I do her, and that’s not saying much.  I’m into EDM, what can I say?)  My mother holds the record for single most terrifying surgical complexity, an award she won back in 2006, when she fell, broke her ankle, had a heart attack, plugged up both her carotid arteries, needed a triple bypass, had fluid in her lungs from the bypass and had to be tapped like a keg of beer, and managed to lose her ability to swallow.  All in May, June, July, August, September, and the first part of October in 2006.  The bypass surgery alone was 8 hours, in which I sat in the waiting room at Deaconess Hospital in Oklahoma City with my friend Beverly.  I can’t tell you what we did for 8 hours.  I think I wrote a paper for my Education Masters.  It must have been good, they awarded me the degree but for the life of me, I have no idea what that last paper was about.  This was the second worst.

Bless Vickie, one of my husband’s bosses, and friend.  She brought me bagels and yogurt because I’d forgotten to eat.  Thank you again, Vickie.

So, I wait. When I finally get worried that this one set of numbers on the screen showing patient progress isn’t moving, and I’m not even sure that’s Bill’s ident number because nobody gave me that information before wheeling him off, I call patient information.

And get the royal runaround.  I admit.  There’s a guy running around that hospital who has half an ass, because I chewed it off, and its not his fault.  They keep transferring me back to him, like he’s the Oracle of Delphi.  Chris, dude, I’m sorry man, I really am.  But zero coffee, stress, fucked up blood sugar, and inadequate sleepage makes me a serious bitch.  My sweatshirt from school that I was wearing that day says Be Kind Like Josh.  It should have read, “Don’t Be a Bitch Like Lisa, Everyone Has A Hard Life.”

Clearly, not my finest hour.  I go back and sit down and fume for a bit.  Finally, one of the admitting escort Angels comes zooming into the waiting area, another patient waiter in tow.  I pounce on him and tell him my plight and he agrees to check on things for me.  He does, and the numbers that aren’t moving are my husband’s.  More nausea.  They’ve been in the operation room for almost 5 hours by this point.  The surgeon originally told me an estimate of 3 hours.  I imagine terrible things.

Then the surgeon comes bouncing out, Admitting Angel trailing along behind him, and tells me that Bill is okay.  He’s in recovery.  He’ll go to ICU.  I move up to the ICU waiting room and discover there’s a fiesta going on.  Someone in ICU is dying, they are celebrating and its Dia de los Muertos all over again,  except its a hospital so no whiskey.  It was surreal.  They had a picnic and the tamales smelled really good and reminded me that I had a pastry in my bag.

Except that I didn’t.  All I found was the wrapper as I ate it but don’t remember eating it.  I looked all over for that pastry, convinced that I’d inadvertently stuffed it in my purse or sat on it, or shoved it in my pocket.

The disappearing pastry confounded me.  How had I eaten it and not realized it?  Was there an Elvis impersonator lurking around somewhere and he snitched it?  It could happen, a full on fiesta, sans mariachis,was going on in the hallway.  I went to check on the ward to see if Bill had been wheeled into his room.  Nope, back out to the floor, where children ran around playing with toys that might have come from a pinata.  No busted pinata bits though.  Cans and cans of Orange Fanta, and an elderly woman quietly sobbing in the corner.

I hide in the bathroom.  Its quiet and smells like cinnamon.  It is possibly the most seasonably festive public restroom I have ever been in.  I find an excuse to lurk there for a while, studying the tile, admiring the scent.   The soap doesn’t smell festive.  It smells like eau d’hospitale, which is unpleasant at the best of times.  I poke my head out.  Crying woman is being comforted by three women and two men who all look like they might burst into tears at any second.  I flee across the floor like its a combat zone, and this time Bill is in his room.

I tell this tale to Kim, (who is the most awesome ICU nurse ever) who tells me about how earlier in the month a Hawaiian family had lost one of their family members and how they were punching walls in their grief.  Apparently, they were big Samoan types, whose anguish was taken out in nine separate locations in the walls of the ICU.  Huge fists.  Police called.  Many unsettled patients. Extensive drywall repairs.  Every culture has its lamentation rituals,  some more dangerous than others.

Bill misses all this as he is William of Borg.  He has tubes in his nose, for feeding, tubes in his mouth, for breathing, tubes in places his dignity will not allow me to discuss, and one in his head.  He has a bad haircut, and he didn’t have much left to begin with.  I suspect the hair to be a lost cause at this point.  Oh well, I didn’t marry him for his hair.  He’s got a missing section of skull where they removed it to allow his brain to swell.  Basically they did a nicer version of trepanning him.  He has to be restrained to keep from ripping out all the tubes and wires.  I’m sure the tip of his nose probably itches.  I rub it for him.  He’s out cold.

Flash forward to today.  I play music for him because he likes alternative and he woke up a little bit for Siouxie and the Banshees.  The doctor checks on him daily.  He’s had CT scans with contrast about every three days to make sure the swelling is under control, that his blood pressure isn’t too high, that its all draining properly, and no other clots have decided to lodge elsewhere and fuck up the works.  Mother wanted to go see him so I loaded her up in her transport chair and wheeled her in there.  Kim told me that one of the bags of medicines they are running through his IV’s cost $900 a bag but they were going to switch him to some combination that worked just as well and would be easier to wean him off of when it came time to remove the breathing tube.  I have no idea how many bags of that stuff they pumped through him previously though.

Here’s a thing:  My real job isn’t writing.  Its teaching.  My insurance company went bankrupt so all Teachers in Clark County have this new insurance carrier as of January 1.  All of my colleagues are screaming because not only did the premiums  jump up considerably, but we’ve been wage frozen since the beginning of the school year.  WellHealth, as they are now called, isn’t paying for medications either, so a lot of diabetes meds suddenly became non-formulary as of last night.  Fortunately, my husband is insured through his employer.  But, the ICU, also known as the Expensive Scare Unit is like a suite at the Wynn but without the in room wet bar.  He’s a secondary on my insurance, but we already know WellHealth probably will run screaming from this bill.

When Erica McKenna approached me about setting up a gofundme for Bill, I admit I was reluctant.  Bill and I are both from Oklahoma, land of “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, kid”  so neither one of us knows how to ask for help.

I keep flashing on that scene in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation where Cousin Eddy and Clark Griswold are discussing whether or not Eddy has anything for his kids for Christmas.  If you’ve seen the movie, then  you know what I am talking about.  Anyway, she offered, and after thinking about it for a while, I agreed.  I feel strange about it.  I feel grateful that she was willing to set it up for me because I admit I am clueless.

Yes, I have read Amanda Palmer’s book, The Art of Asking.  I agree, asking for help is an artform in and of itself.  I also know that Erica’s a cosplayer and as I said to her, I am also aware that the cosplay community doesn’t have a whole lot of money.  The spare change is always funneled back into fabric, or latex or whatever is needed to continue to create.  But, its the same way for us.  Bill spends his extra money on lenses or new camera bits.  Some of his Christmas presents were things he wanted or needed to continue doing what he loves.  He loves to go to the Ren faires, the Comic conventions, the Anime expos, the Pirate Fests, the Highland Games, the Star Trek cons, etc. etc. and take photos of the impressive costumes he’s seen.  He’s  occasionally shot people in the studio, at The Shark Reef, and other locations around town.  He loves to do it.  To him, he’s trying to make the shot and put the costumer in the best light (literally) possible.  His talent is creating fashion photography…his art and his craft.  He loves it. Its his hobby and what consumes him.

He also does it for free.  He’s never asked anyone for money.  Never even passed the proverbial hat, until now.

Amanda Palmer noted in her book that the art of asking is in seeing the person before you.  When people threw money in her hat when she posed as the six foot bride, she gave each person a flower and “saw” them, perhaps in ways they never see themselves.

Through the medium of photography, Bill sees people in many different ways.  I offer you a flower.  Will you see us?  Bill and I will be eternally grateful, if you will.