Visited Donna from our Writers Group at Abington hospital - Two poems: The Grandchildren of Judy Diaz - Why You Shouldn't Wait to buy a home - Letter to my family doctor

Visited Donna from our writing group at what I used to called AMH. Abington Memorial Hospital. Now it's merged with Jefferson. She's been in the psych ward for several days. I've visited lotsa friends in there over the years. This is a newer unit and quite nice.

Donna said she'd write a poem or two while she's there. Not much to do. Her BF Denny was there. I stared at his handlebar mustache.

  Ah, there's Denny now, on Wiki.

Dr Custer is gonna put her on PARNATE, after all the other meds are flushed from her body. Dietary restrix, but not quite as many as before.

Denny asked me what I was gonna do when I got home.

Make a salad for lunch, I said. While listening to Look Me in the Eye by John Elder Robison.

John, who's narrating the book, sez that he calls his wife from work every day with the same Q - he has nicknames for everyone -

Woof? Dyou still like me? She always says Yes, until she can't stand it anymore and sez No.

To sleep, the nervous worried John needs his wife to put either a leg or arm on his body and stroke him. He gets to sleep quickly that way.

I brought Donna my newest short story to read. WAIT UNTIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME. Loosely based on Scott's adventures as a kid. At our writers group yesterday, Rem said it was the name of a radio program. He and his friend were gonna go to the minor league baseball game in Reading but it was rained out. They made other plans ... to watch a film.

Last nite I finally got Scott interested in anudder Netflix film other than Rockford. Inspector George Gently has been on BBC since 2006. Very entertaining!

  Martin Shaw is the same age as me.


WHY YOU SHOULDN'T WAIT TO BUY A HOME, SAYS THE AD

I can't stand my tiny apartment
Barely enough room for me and my kitty

From my laptop, I view all the homes
for sale, ranchers, split levels, a
Tudor style with wrought-iron gates

Miss Kitty watches as her mom pulls
up a stepstool and reaches on the
highest shelf of the front closet

Swirls of dust fill the air as I
pull down a shoebox, then another

Meow! she howls. I'll be home
soon, I tell her. And drive
to the credit union.

I buy us a rancher, white as
a wedding cake, where kitty
sits in the window watching
as four crows, with yellow
beaks, chase away a hawk
intent on fine dining.

She slinks into the kitchen
to eat her special tuna dish.
They don't make bird meals.

***
Spoke to Judy on the phone last nite while riding my stationery bike. She surprised me by saying she wished she had grandkids. I mailed her the following poem


THE GRANDCHILDREN OF JUDY DIAZ

They burst through the door
Gramma Judy! Gramma Judy!
Gram’s reading Vanity Fair
in her recliner
the cat snarls and runs
into the bedroom

They jump onto her lap
as Michael and Tori follow
their kids inside, they leave.

Gram, says little blonde
Marissa, shoving a paper
in Gramma’s face. I maded
you thumthing at thkool.

Gram straightens her glasses
and holds it aloft. “A dollhouse!
I love it. And you!” she says,
kissing the curls on her
granddaughter’s forehead.

Harry, the larger of the two,
with his pensive black eyes,
asks, “Gramma Jude! Did
you make the chocolate chip
cookies?”

“I certainly did, little lad,
says Gram. “Help me off
the recliner and you’ll each
pick out two.”

“Three, pwesse,” says Marissa.

“Of course, dear. Three,”
says their loving grandmother.

The cat peeks out from the
bedroom, with his jealous
green eyes, and slinks in
the kitchen to lick up the crumbs.

***

May 16, 2016

Dear James –

DOB:  12-25-45.  I’m 70 years old.

Your office called me on May 13 at 1:49 pm telling me to report to the ER at Abington hospital.

I had been to the Whitney Museum in NYCP the day before and had been on my feet since 7 am, not including the two-hour bus rides to and from the museum.

The same thing has happened to me on every trip I go on – a bus trip to New Orleans – and a European tour in 2004. Aching legs and swollen ankles.

My left ankle was swollen after the Whitney, and walking felt strange. You thought it might be a blood clot. Understandable.

I packed my bag, assuming I might stay overnight, and drove to the ER, parking

where my car would be safe for a couple of days.

The ER was very difficult to find. Terrible signage. Took me about 7 minutes to find it once I was in the hospital.

When I finally got to the ER I was second in line at the reception desk.

The individual ahead of me, a man, was chatting with the receptionist, not about a health issue, but about getting directions somewhere. They spoke at least 5 minutes.

I was furious. I interrupted saying I had a possible blood clot, but she told me to wait my turn. There was a security guard in an adjoining booth, whom I told, but he said he could do nothing.

And I tried to push my way into the hospital via a door right there, but it was locked.

Then an older man got in line behind me. He said he’d been waiting for three hours to see a doctor.

Finally, it was my turn. I chastised the receptionist, thought a moment, and told her I was leaving.

When I got home I went online and looked up signs for a blood clot.

I had none of them. Which doesn’t mean I haven’t a clot.

The swelling in my ankle has lessened. Just measured both ankles with a paper tape measure.

The left ankle is 9, while the right ankle is 8.

I take a few extra baby aspirin per day.

As for the hospital, most likely I will not go.

My ex-husband, Mike, had a knee operation. Shortly thereafter, a blood clot went to his heart and killed him almost instantly. He just had time to tell his wife to call 911.

If it happens to me, which I doubt, c’est la vie. 

Sincerely,