The New DSM-5 - My neighbor Bill - Visit to Dr Venneri / Poem: In the Chair

An article in the Phila Inquirer was severely critical of the new classification index for psychiatric disorders which is called The DSM - diagnostic and statistical manual.

I noticed that "hoarding" is now classified as a psychiatric disorder.

Controversial, to say the least. Were the women in the Maysles Brothers 1975 documentary "Gray Gardens" mentally ill?

Odd and eccentric yes.




I am mindful that some day I will not be here. Slowly I am cleaning out my house. In a previous blog I mentioned what I'd scavenged from my dead Aunt Tay. I gave every last one of her books to the Upper Moreland Library AND Karen, behind the counter, took one of the huge and heavy art books.

About six months ago I bought new Corelle unbreakable dishes.

No, I did not drop the above plate or subject it to high or lo temperatures. I do not own a microwave. There's a reason for everything. Any of my readers have any idea why it broke and rather jaggedly at that.

Could it possibly be a reaction to this delicious cantalope?

Don't you love the sound of the gentle rain outside?

I'm sitting on my red living room couch, quite warm, it's nearing 80 but very humid and in the kitchen my CD player is on.

T
The Enso Quartet is playing music by

Alberto Evaristo Ginastera  April 11, 1916 – June 25, 1983, an Argentine composer of classical music.

Argentina. Wonder where he was when all the people went missing. What a terrifying period, like the Tonton Macoute in Papa Doc's day in Haiti.

Dyou realize how fortunate we are? Let's stand up and give a loud cheer.

Unless you've seen the Frontline documentary by Bill Moyers about two families in Milwaukee, WI, who were cheated out of the American dream by bankers and by greed.

Maureen Nelson, violinist in Enso, on the left, went to school at Abington Friends with my daughter Sarah. Her dad is the well-thought-of psychiatrist Kenneth Nelson, who sometimes prays with his patients.

Now I must tell you the sad saga of my neighbor Bill Sanders. I have no pictures of him so I'll find an image of another Bill Sanders.

We do luv our photos. Have gotten used to them.

I actually wrote a short story about him which was critiqued by The Fiddleback. They didn't much like it but I'll work on it some more.

I called Bill's house since he had told me he was not doing well. Cirrhosis. His friend Valerie answered the phone. I'd named her Patti in the story. A former GF, he told me.

I simply changed his name and made a hero out of him.

But the real Bill had fallen, broken some bones, and hit his head. He is brain damaged and living out his life at the Elkins Park Crest Nursing Home.

Seems like a good place.

Bill goes in and out of reality. Can't always recognize his visitors, said Valerie. I'm hoping the therapy will help him.

Au phone, I also said hello to Luke, Bill's 84-yo father.

It happens, he said.

Very philosophical.

Told him I'd wave to him when I walk around the block.

An hour before my dentist appt I take four amoxicillin to prevent bacterial infection since I had my my kidney transplant.

Dr Joe Venneri comes in, asks if I'm pre-medicated, does his work, along with Betsy, who is surprised I remember her name (I used her name for another short story, it was so catchy and unusual - she said she wished she were named Linda or Debbie as a kid) and then Dr Joe finishes excavating my tooth and said, Okay, Ruth, I'll leave now and turn you over to the experts.

Dunno why but I knew I was gonna write a poem about the experience.

I went up to my writing chamber at one a.m. First I watched one of my beloved film noirs - this one Phone Call from a Stranger, 1952, which Bosley Crowther of the Times gave an awful review.

I loved the darn thing. Especially the dialog.



First, tho, I sipped on my nearly full Iced Decaf which I bot as a reward after going to the dentist. I'll tell you; THERE IS NOTHING LIKE THE FLAVOR OF COFFEE. Black coffee. Never sully it with cream or sugar. It's perfect just the way it is. Starbucks. THE absolute best.

That g'dam cup cost me over $3. Well worth it. I'm still nursing it.

IN THE CHAIR

A Beverly Hills lounge chair

without the gin and tonic

and clinking ice

is the operating theater

all I can see is the bottom

of my white pants and pink toenails

Dr Joe steers my open mouth

with his blue surgical gloves

cotton wads are stuffed in places

where recalcitrant psych patients

hide pills they refuse to take

the noise begins

the uppity whine and spit of the drill

that finally gives way to

the sweet soft sound of the sandblaster

inquisitive tongue depicts a crater deep

he’d noticed the silver filling had splintered

can you imagine the punishment

every day: chew chew chew

now a delicious smell

a metallic concoction is tipped

via needle into the crater

they order my tongue to keep away

by now I don’t know which is my tongue

but try to hold it aloft like a tennis trophy

then – tap tap tap –

do you remember this?

for biting perfection

I am already dreaming of my exit

ordering decaf on ice at the Starbucks

up the street

I’ll have the big one, I say, and sip it

in the car

where inquisitive tongue

makes a discovery:
a rough patch over the saved tooth

a beautiful painting marred by a crazed painting splasher.