Guess what I got for Christmas!!!

No, not a Wham-o Snowball Blaster.

Nope, I got something more appropriate for a woman my age and station in life.

A job rejection notice email.

I realize the form rejection emails are sent en masse to all the candidates who weren't chosen for the job. I realize HR departments use auto send functions on non-reply email accounts for rejection notices. I realize HR people will say, "It's an automated process, we don't pay attention to things like the dates the rejection emails are sent." (I realize these things because I am a professional job seeker and professional rejected candidate.)

However.

Someone sets the protocol for auto email delivery. In this case the protocol apparently is, "Auto send rejection emails at 9:47 AM on Tuesdays." The someone who sets the auto delivery protocols might have taken a moment to realize that this year Tuesday, December 25, is Christmas. And maybe, just maybe, it might be a nice idea to change the auto delivery protocol to Wednesday, the day after Christmas. After all, no one really gets depressed on Boxing Day. No one is going to have their Boxing Day festivities ruined because of a job rejection email.

But no one bothered to think about that. No one bothered to think about the hopeful job candidates at holiday gatherings, fielding and/or dodging questions from family and friends about their job hunt. They didn't think (or even realize) that hopeful job candidates were clinging to a tiny speck of light in the form of an interview that seemed to go well the week prior and were bolstered by the possibility of that job. No one bothered to think (or even realize) that the job candidates were holding their heads a little higher at that holiday gathering because they had something positive to share with family and friends. No one thought (or realized) that job seekers, especially unemployed job seekers, get a much needed shot of self-esteem when they can share good job news with friends and family, and being able to say "I had an interview last week! I think it went well! Of course, one never knows, but I'm perfectly qualified for the job and it seems like a win-win for me and the company," does more for someone who's unemployed than anything other than a solid job offer. No one bothered to think (or realize) that the holidays are rough, really rough, on people who are unemployed. No one bothered to think (or realize, or care) that sending a job rejection email on Christmas day is a level of icy indifference and evil to which even Scrooge didn't stoop.

I realized there were "many qualified candidates." I realize there was "an overwhelming response to the job posting." I realized my "qualifications are impressive." I didn't need a form rejection letter to tell me any of those things. But I know it's the standard job rejection letter protocol. So I understand the cold, abbreviated, wonted form letter style. At this point in my job hunt I have no bone to pick about the contents of job rejection emails.

But in tandem with the delivery date of Christmas day, the job rejection email goes from cold to icy, abbreviated to hateful, wonted to personal affront.

I'm sure it was merely the auto email send protocol, no one in that HR department stopped to realize that this week's Tuesday rejection batch list was going to hit in-boxes on Christmas day. An oversight. No biggie, inconsequential, right? I mean, these candidates are rejected, they're not getting the job, what difference does it make when they get the news?

True.

But.

I fail to understand is why a company wouldn't let us job seekers have Christmas. Give us one more day, the holiday, to bask in the hope of a job, to bask in and share the joy of an interview that seemed to have gone well. Why couldn't they let me, us, have that?  Why dash our hopes on Christmas day?

I'd like to say I'm tougher than job rejections, that they won't get me down, that I'm better and stronger than the form words and indifferent HR personnel behind them. That's how I may seem to other people, it's an air of dignity I've mastered faking for self preservation. But the reality is that I'm numb to rejection. It's happened so many times I usually feel nothing when I receive yet another job rejection.

But this one, the Christmas Day Job Rejection of 2012 has earned a place of infamy. It got to me. It hit me hard. I rarely tell anyone about interviews. People get their hopes up for me, then press me for details and hope for good news, and I have to tell them I was rejected. Again. Which makes the disappointment doubly difficult. Bad enough when I have to deal with the bad news, but to have to share the bad news with people who care about me is worse. So I hadn't purposely or voluntarily bragged about the job interview, but, at Christmas Eve and Christmas morning gatherings, family and friends pressed me for details about my job hunt. I felt backed into a corner, I felt like I had to say something positive, it was Christmas, after all, and I didn't want to be a constant source of buzz kill, especially at Christmas, and, after all, I did have a glimmer of hope in the form of a recent second interview. So I humbly said things like, "Well, I did have a second interview last week, fingers crossed..." "How'd it go? I don't want to tempt fate, but it seemed to go quite well. I'm perfectly qualified for the job and the hiring manager and I seemed to hit it off quite well...but I don't want to tempt fate." "Yes, starting the new year with a new job would be fantastic." People offered to pray for me at Christmas Eve church services. And my family's relief was palpable. Maybe, finally, something was going to be "done" about me and my "situation." Maybe they finally could stop worrying about me. The air in the family gatherings was noticeably lighter when news of my recent interview was shared.

So the arrival of that rejection email was not just a disappointment, it came with shame and embarrassment. I failed, again, and, unlike my usual suffering in silence, quietly licking the wound in solitude, my family and friends would share in the rejection because I shared the news of the interview with them. Yes, that was my mistake and the responsibility of the ramifications are my responsibility. But. All of that could have waited a day.

And yes, it was my fault for checking and reading my email. But. To be fair, I was checking for holiday greetings when I saw the email titled "update" from the company I interviewed with last week. Since it was Christmas day I foolishly thought maybe it was a, "Sorry to intrude on your holiday but we know the holidays are hectic and wanted to catch you ASAP,  we want to schedule another meeting next week," kind of email. I know. Silly me. I know. That was a really stupid thought. But. Hope springs eternal. 

Until hopes are dashed.

And dashed hopes on Christmas day are commonplace. So. In many ways it's appropriate.

But unnecessary. 

I tried to pretend I hadn't received the email, tried to put on a happy face for my family. I think I did an okay job of it. I don't think anyone noticed.

But. Instead of going to bed with visions of starting a new job dancing in my head, I went to bed with visions of living in a homeless shelter dancing in my head.

Sure, I had to be told at some point, but that point didn't have to be Christmas day. Apathy and indifference toward job candidates is status quo for those of us who've been job hunting for ages. Us seasoned job seekers know not to expect anything personal or even friendly from HR personnel. The most we expect is cordiality, and often we don't even get that.

But come on, HR departments. Take two minutes to consider job candidates and your rejection delivery protocol. What happened to me, and I'm sure countless others, on Christmas day can't be undone. But don't let it happen on New Year's Day. If you have an auto send email protocol for rejection letters, change it so they won't arrive in in-boxes on January 1.

So here's something I learned: It's possible to have both bacterial and viral pneumonia. At the same time. I learned this because that biological quirk is going on inside me.

It started as a pesky cough that turned into laryngitis that turned into bronchitis. I went to a clinic and was diagnosed with bronchitis, given an antibiotic and cough medicine (with codeine! yay!) and sent on my way. A week of the antibiotics and cough medicine later, I still had the nasty cough and laryngitis and was getting fever spikes into the 100s and fluids were coming out of every orifice (I know, sexy, especially combined with the laryngitis that made me sound like Fran Drescher). My asthma inhaler wasn't helping the coughing fits any more than the cough medicine (with codeine!) was, so off I schlepped to the clinic again where a doctor did a chest x-ray and said, "Ahhh, you have the bacterial pneumonia bug that's going around. Here's more antibiotic. Go to bed. Drink clear fluids."

A week after that, the fever stopped spiking and just stayed around 100°. When I slept the clock through and other people, people sitting across a room from me, could hear a rattle in my chest, I was encouraged to see my actual doctor. So I did. And she took cultures and blood and urine samples and x-rays and yadda yadda yadda I had "regular" pneumonia. She didn't question the bacterial pneumonia, she suspects I had it but the antibiotic didn't touch it and it turned into the kind of pneumonia one develops when one is sick with something else.

I knew I was sick but I didn't think I was that sick.

And.

I knew I was depressed, but I didn't know I was so depressed that a diagnosis of two types of pneumonia a) didn't scare or concern me, and would instead b) give me a glimmer of hope as a golden opportunity. People die from just one type of pneumonia. I had a couple previous bouts that landed me in hospital beds. Surely someone with two types of pneumonia doesn't stand a chance of survival.

For the first time in three years I felt like I could relax. "This is it, Trill, the number of your days is dwindling fast. A week, maybe two. No more anxiety about finding a job or being homeless or, well, anything. And without suicide. This is a gift. Maybe there is a God because this is looking like a mercy kill. Since your days are very numbered if you want to get right with God you better start now."

I know what you're thinking and to you I say: Spend a couple weeks in my life and then we'll talk. The rejection and failure in every aspect of my life has ravaged me. I'm certain it's taken a physical toll, which had me in a weakened state and vulnerable to every bug and not strong enough to recover. This was an out, the most graceful exit possible for someone my age. I went to sleep hopeful, content, that very soon I wouldn't wake up. Ever.

Or so I thought. So I hoped.
 
But.

It's kinda looking like I beat both types of pneumonia. The fever has abated. The brown stuff I was coughing up started coming up green and then not at all. The weird sweat that hurt as it came out of my pores has stopped coming out of my pores. I can sit upright without getting dizzy. I still sound like Fran Drescher, but every now and then I sound more like Demi Moore, so, you know, that's an improvement.

I should be happy, right?

I'm not. I even failed at dying from pneumonia. This is a new low for me. Those days/nights I was off in la la land of pneumonia sleep were the most blissful I've had in years. I dreamt dreams the details of which I can't recall, but in them I felt free and content. When I awoke I was disappointed and couldn't wait to fall back to sleep so I could get back to that free, content state of mind. Maybe it was the copious amount of medication I was taking...or maybe it was the acceptance that I had been handed a ticket out in the form of a mercy kill.

I thought about whether or not I was ready to die. I thought about unfinished business and realized I have very little unfinished business. I felt bad about leaving my mother. I knew she'd be upset. Sad, pathetic and deplorable though it may be for someone my age, that was pretty the sum total of my  unfinished business. Well, that and deciding if there is a God to get right with before I die.

I'd like to say, from a position of healing, that this experience gave me insight and imbued me with a new lust for life or plan or sense of being with the Universe or even just good ol' time religion.

But it didn't.

I'm mainly just more depressed. (See above, I even fail at dying.)

Sure, I have a new badge of honor: I beat two kinds of pneumonia at the same time! For an asthmatic that's no small feat. And I did it without the benefit of health insurance or government healthcare.

During the worst of it, my mother was telling friends and family about how sick I was. My mother told me they consoled her with, "Trill's tough as nails, she's beat this before, she'll be okay." "That girl has a cast iron will, she'll be fine."She'll be fine, she's so strong, she can endure anything." "She's so, how do you phrase it, uh, determined, she won't let this get the best of her." "She'll be okay, she's resilient, she's a tough cookie, it takes a lot more than pneumonia to knock her out of the ring." I'm pretty sure my mother passed their comments onto me as a way to reassure herself, and remind me, that I am a tough cookie and it takes more that two types of pneumonia to knock me out of the ring.

As for the determination and strong will, it's true, I have both. But. What those people don't realize is that it works the other way, too. They assume I have a will to live. Someone like me who has a will to live will conquer illnesses out of sheer determination and, yes, stubbornness. But someone like me who does not have a will to live won't fight, because there is no fight, no reason to fight, and that same steadfast mindset works in that direction, as well.

I was pretty sure I didn't have much will to live, before this, I mean, sheesh, who would want to live my life(?) - or at least I was struggling to find a purpose to live, therefore didn't have much will to live - but when I was diagnosed with the second type of pneumonia I was so jubilant at the prospect of a mercy kill that I finally knew, had proof, that I lack a will to live.

People who don't care about dying, paradoxically, often lead the most interesting lives. No fear of death/failure = no boundaries/limits. Me? I just want out without having to put my mother through the aftermath of a suicide.

In the Hallmark channel version of this chapter, just as I'm about to go to sleep for the last time I receive a phone call with a job offer and after the commercial break I'm loving life with a new job and some guy who's fallen in love with me and I pause to think, poignantly, about how close I was to giving up and what a wonderful thing it was that I didn't because just look what was right around the corner.

There are people out there who live Hallmark channel versions of life. I know a few of them. But I am not one of them. I used to believe that setting goals and making plans to meet those goals and working hard to follow the plans and sticking with it no matter how long it took meant success at some point. Or at least not total failure. Yeah, well, I don't think I need to tell you that I have learned, repeatedly, that's not true.

Anyway.

I'm on the mend and sounding less like Fran Drescher every day.

So now I have to go back to dealing with life. Which sucks.

Because I was dealing with some difficult stuff before I got sick.


***

It was determined that Frankie's cancer would/could best be treated at a specific treatment facility in Arizona. Her treatments required the insertion of radioactive pods into her vagina. Most women I know aren't exactly keen on inserting things other than penes or tampons in our vaginae. (admittedly I don't know anyone in the porn industry) And quite frankly, we're not always thrilled with penes or tampons being shoved in there. We endure a doctor guided speculum once a year and the occasional battery operated pleasure device, but I don't know any women who actively want miscellaneous items in their vaginae. Maybe I just travel in a prudent circle of women. But Frankie is in the circle of women. And the prospect of doctors she doesn't know sticking radioactive pods in her vagina sounded like an alien abduction horror movie.   

Frankie is a tough cookie. That girl can beat anything by will and wits. So when I heard fear in her voice I knew she was staring down a formidable foe.

When she asked me to go through the first round of treatment with her I knew there wasn't a choice.

I cashed in air miles and two days later flew to Arizona. I'm reasonably certain the original germ that would turn into bacterial pneumonia found its way into my body somewhere over Kansas. I arrived in Arizona in the afternoon, Benjy met me at the airport, we drove to the treatment center where they had a sort of hotel room, a sort of new age Ronald McDonald House for the patients and families of patients.

We went out for dinner and during an after dinner drink Benjy noted that my voice was sounding like Lauren Bacall's. I attributed it to the sudden change of humidity because I felt okay, I just had a slightly hoarse voice. Our waiter interjected, "oooo, sexy, Lauren Bacall has a very sexy voice, lucky you!"

Frankie said, "It's just her daily habit of a fifth of Jack and a couple packs of Camel Reds catching up with her. That's why we're here at the cancer treatment center."

For a second the waiter looked mortified. Good ol' Frankie. If anyone can joke about cancer, she's the gal.

The waiter then got all puppy eyed and said, "I'm so sorry. The center's really good, though, you came to the right place."

I felt bad for the guy so I said, "She's joking, having a little fun at my expense," his relief was palpable but I quickly continued, "I mean really, Jack Daniels? I drink Oban and smoke cubans." 

And so the night went. By the end of the night I really did sound like I've been on a daily fifth of Jack and Camel Red regime for several years.

The next morning we rose early and took a walk on the walking path around the treatment center. I felt okay but had no voice above a raspy whisper. They booked Frankie for a pre-procedure massage and facial so she left for those appointments. (Part of their treatment is to treat patients like guests, not patients. It's all very Yanni and hot stone massages, that is until they wheel the "guests" in for their cancer surgeries/procedures/treatments, and then it's all typical medical until the guest is well enough for healing therapies.) You know, whatever. It beats the sterility and lack of personal attention at a regular hospital. And it gave the three of us a lot to mock and a lot of laughs. Benjy and I watched Dr. Who DVD while Frankie had her spa treatments.

When it was time for her to go to her first treatment session, there was a knock on the door and Frankie appeared in what can only be described as the Australian shuffleboard team uniform. A white wind suit made of soft, flowing white fabric with her name and the name of the facility embroidered in gold, gold trim on the seams, her hair pulled back from her face in a head wrap/sweat band thing a la an '80s Olivia Newton John video, a pony tail held by a matching white and gold Scrunchie, and slippers designed to look like sneakers - white with gold trim to match the rest of the ensemble. (I've known Frankie a lot of years. If she has ever owned a scrunchie she kept it very well hidden.) Seeing her in a wheel chair was difficult. I'm certain I would have broken down and sobbed were it not for that outfit she was wearing which was hilarious.

They gave Frankie a tote bag full of sample spa products that were carcinogen-free. There was also personal "treatment journey" binder full of Frankie's health dossier and information about her cancer, her doctors and her "journey" thusfar. And there was a "treatment journey" journal where Frankie could jot down her thoughts, they suggested she do this because it would be "emotionally and spiritually enlightening" before, during and after her treatment. And the local chamber of commerce didn't miss the marketing opportunity. Many local businesses offered their warm wishes and welcome to the patients and their families. A local Hallmark store supplied a fancy pen attached to a get well card (and 15% off coupon!) so Frankie would have a way to scribe her "treatment journey" journal entries. A book store supplied a book called, "Healing Bodies, Hearts and Minds," with a bookmark that doubled as a 10% off coupon. A church group supplied a small bible and offered ministry to families and patients. And coupons to local restaurants and attractions including a free day pass at a local golf course and 30% off in the pro shop. And there was something that looked like it could pass for an odd version of the aforementioned battery operated personal pleasure device. (There was no discount coupon or store's card attached, so I presumed it was from the treatment center and given the nature of Frnakie's cancer and what was going to happen in her vagina, I was slightly concerned about its purpose and what I might be called upon to do with it in the name of helping with her treatment. I mean, I love Frankie and we're very close but its not like, you know, that kind of love and we're not that close. I drew a mental line in the sand. Whatever that thing was, it was going to have to fall squarely in the husband-of-the-patient's jurisdiction.) So. Yes. They gave her a cancer treatment center swag bag.

It also contained several brochures about the various aspects of her cancer and the treatment she's receiving.

The nurse suggested that I bring the tote bag because it contained some things Frankie might want during her treatment session. If I ever decide to be a stand up comedian, the contents of that bag supplied me with enough material for a years long career.

When the nurse heard my raspy, obviously laryngitised voice, she said, "We prefer our guests to not be exposed to colds, flu, that sort of thing." 

Frankie tried the fifth of Jack and Camel Reds routine on the nurse but the nurse found no humor in it. She summoned the aid of helper who arrived shockingly fast with a stack of surgical masks. He handed them to her, and she handed them to me with a stern warning: "Wear one of these at all times and do not touch Frankie."

I put one on and rasped out, "Okay, all set!" When I said it, the closeness of the mask caught me off guard and when I inhaled I sucked a good portion of the mask into my mouth.

Frankie laughed. Hard. I thought she was laughing at my ineptitude with the surgical mask, but when she could get a few words out between giggles she said, "Now. you." giggle. "sound like" giggle "the, the," giggle "the elephant man!" 

For some reason (fear? anxiety? immaturity?) Frankie, Benjy and I all found this wildly amusing and cracked up all the way down the corridor, me interjecting in my muffled, raspy whisper voice, "I am not an elephant! I am not an animal! I am a human being!" The nurse was not amused. But it occurred to me that if me wearing a surgical mask that made me sound like the elephant man made Frankie laugh, then fine, I would run with it.

I'll spare you the details about the procedure. See above, radioactive vagina.

Part of the treatment plan includes post-treatment spiritual recovery time. You can have one of the religious leaders come to visit with you or you can have personal meditation time or "some patients find quiet reflection with family and friends to be spiritually refreshing." Frankie chose that one. Benjy and Frankie had some couple time and I made myself scarce. But then my phone rang and Benjy said Frankie wanted me to come hang out with her. Benjy and I weren't sure how Frankie was really feeling, because I've never had radioactive anything shoved into my vagina (or anywhere else) and Benjy doesn't even have a vagina, so, you know, we had zero clue how one might feel after having radioactive pods shoved up your vagina. I read the pamphlets but they only served to make my reaction to the whole thing more wide-eyed.

I returned to the spiritual recovery room and found Frankie reclining in an overstuffed lounge chair. The room was dimly lit by glowing crystals here and there and amber hued nightlights. Lots of copper and wood and terra cotta sculptures. There was a waterfall wall and faint "relaxing sounds of meditation" type music playing.

Okay here's the thing. I appreciate the efforts made to comfort patients and I agree that sterile hospitals do not lend themselves to peaceful, relaxing healing. And I'm sure many patients, erm, "guests" find that environment very calming and spiritually restorative or enlightening or whatever. And for that sort of thing it was tastefully executed. And I know meditation or prayer is a huge factor in recovering from illness. I'm not laughing at the efforts made. I'm truly not.

I'm laughing at how out of character and out of place Frankie, Benjy and I are in that sort of environment. Fishes out of water doesn't even begin to cover it. Especially with Frankie wearing the Australian shuffleboard team uniform and me wearing a surgical mask.

Frankie told me she sent Benjy to play golf. "I'm fine, he's uncomfortable with all this, he might as well relax his own way so I told him to go golfing. I feel like I need a little girly time anyway."

I couldn't tell her that I was uncomfortable with all this. From the time I found out about her cancer I vowed I had to deal with it, put aside any fears, concerns or whatever else I might feel, in the name of Frankie. It's not about me, it's about her, and she would come first no matter how upset or scared or awkward or whatever, however, I felt about it. My tears and fears would have to be confined and dealt with in my own alone time because the rest of the time I vowed to be positive, strong and helpful for Frankie. Fake it 'til you make it and all that.

In my raspy, muffled voice I said, "If by 'girly time' you mean some sort of pseudosensual awakening in the form of a kinky sexual encounter with whatever that thing in the tote bag is, I'm telling you right here and right now I'm having no part of it."

Frankie used her best porn bimbo voice, "It's just that with that sexy voice of yours I'm feeling things...new things..."

"Yeah, I'm guessing you are feeling new things after having a radioactive pod shoved up your vagina."

More laughs.

"So, speaking of new things in your vagina...I was reading some of the information they gave you. This pamphlet says you should abstain from vaginal intercourse for 8 weeks. The fact that they devote an entire pamphlet to this topic says to me that there are a) women who feel like having intercourse less than 8 weeks after this procedure, and b) there are men willing to oblige. Which puts an entirely new spin on the Love Canal."

Fortunately Frankie thought that was funny and ran with it. Unfortunately, laughing that hard made me cough. Which made the nurse come into the room and pull me out into the hall for a smackdown about how, if I cared for my friend, I wouldn't be around her with my illness. I think she was just mad that we were laughing about radioactive vaginae and sex in the spiritual recovery room.

Yadda yadda yadda I was on a flight the next morning. The plan was for me to stay at least a couple more days, but the nurse was right, I obviously had some sort of bug (ha! little did I know at the time that I had bacterial pneumonia) and Frankie certainly didn't need that. I was worried I'd already infected them with whatever it was I had (again, at that time I had zero clue how serious it was).

I felt bad about getting sick and leaving early. Guilty. I let down my friend when she needed me most. Of course I couldn't help that I got sick, but still, I felt horrible about leaving her in the middle of cancer treatment.

And I felt helpless. When she asked me to be with her during her treatment I felt like I'd been summoned to duty. I felt like I was doing something for her. Which is the thing about dealing with a loved one who's ill: There's a lot of feeling helpless. Because you are helpless in terms of helping your loved one. So when there's something you can do, be it running errands or just spending a few hours with them, you feel empowered, you feel like maybe somehow if you do their laundry or listen to them complain about their doctors or help decipher medication protocols or take them just the right book to read that you've helped, you lifted a burden which allowed them to rest easier which helps healing and soon they'll be well again and that's what you want more than anything for your loved one. Get the feeling I've been through this one too many times already? Yeah. I have.

I still wasn't feeling awful, I just had no voice.

There was a lot of pacing, drinking of tea, eating Melba toast and peanut butter and listening to a lot of Lloyd Cole.

Frankie had difficulty understanding me over the phone - my voice fading in and out and squeak-rasping - so we Skyped, thinking it would be easier for her to decipher what I was saying if she could see me. I was a little nervous about this because the last thing she needed was to see me looking the way one looks when one has spent a week pacing, drinking tea, eating Melba toast and peanut butter and listening to a lot of Lloyd Cole. I "did" my hair and makeup in preparation for our Skype visits. She looked okay. A little tired, but okay. They were treating her well there - spa treatments, yoga and T'ai chi sessions, aromatherapy - were it not for her nuclear vagina the whole thing seemed like a vacation. As she deemed it, a very boring vacation, but a vacation. I realize that's the point of that sort of treatment facility, however knowing how serious her cancer was juxtaposed against the resort vacation atmosphere it's more than a little incongruous and messes with your expectations for cancer treatment.

Her counselor suggested that she tally up all the things she had done in life and all the things she still wanted to do. Frankie said she rolled her eyes at the suggestion of a bucket list, it was so cliché, but when she and Benjy talked about it they realized they'd already done a lot of what they want to do in life. Frankie said this was a bit of a rude awakening for her, for them, and that they needed to figure out some new pursuits so that they had goals and plans and a reason to fight cancer.

I was surprised to hear her say that. For Frankie, cancer was reason enough to fight cancer. Or so I thought. But there she was, thinking of things to do so that she'd have a reason to fight cancer.

And then, one afternoon she told me her "team" said she was doing great and thought she could go home earlier than planned. Good thing, she said, because she and Benjy had developed quite a long to-do list and the sooner they got out of there, the sooner they could start making plans for their goals.

The pacing, tea, Melba toast and peanut butter days were over! And maybe it hadn't been too much Lloyd Cole after all.

I, on the other hand, was "finally" feeling sick. Up to that point I felt okay, I just sounded awful. Then suddenly, the afternoon of the news that Frankie was going home early, it was as if my body heard my voice and said, "Wow, we sound awful, we must be really sick, better kick the symptoms into high gear," and it was a descent into the pneumonia experience.

At one point, when I was tallying up unfinished business, I thought about whether or not Frankie needed me, if I needed to stick around for her. Yes, inasmuch as any of us need our friends, Frankie needs me, but she has a terrific husband. No, he's not a girl friend and no, he doesn't render me useless to Frankie, but, Frankie was, is, beating cancer. Frankie has new goals and plans. I, on the other hand, had 1) my mother. And that was pretty much it. Sure, I'd like to meet a real Longshoreman, and a native Lichtensteinian, heck, a native Idahoan, but that's not the sort of unfinished business that pushes you through an illness. "No! I cannot die yet because I have never met a real Longshoreman! Or anyone from Idaho!" is not the sort of battle cry you hear ringing out from sick beds. Like Frankie, I've accomplished a lot. Sure, I've failed a lot, but failing a lot means I've tried a lot, taken chances, and learned from a lot of mistakes. Yay me.

So. Yeah. Whatever. It was a different chapter than expected for that section in the book. Frankie's going to be okay and that's what matters.

Just a friendly reminder that although billions of dollars have been spent by the Republican and Democrat candidates for the offices of US President and Vice President, there are other parties represented on the ballot.

I'm not saying vote for them. I'm not endorsing any candidate. (They all fall short in my book, but then, I've never encountered a politician (local, state or federal) who hasn't fallen short in my book. So, you know, I'm kind of a tough crowd when it comes to politicians.) I'm simply calling attention to the fact that in spite of the money spent on advertising that would indicate otherwise, this is not a two party election.

Yes, I'm one of those pesky independent voters you hear about. (I am not undecided, however. Please do not confuse or intermingle independent with undecided. I am not indecisive. Just the opposite: I am so decisive that I don't care about party affiliations.) I know, you probably thought you didn't know one of those. Maybe you thought we didn't actually exist. Yeah, well, my name is Trillian and I'm an independent voter.

Voting independent is not without its challenges, to wit, my 2004 voting adventure. There are people, a surprisingly large number of people, who find it unfathomable that a person wouldn't pledge their commitment to a particular political party. Some can't fathom it because their own political ideology is perfectly in sync with a particular party and assume others have the same clear party choice. Others can't fathom it because their parents and grandparents voted for a particular party, and therefore they do, too.

Still others have deeper concerns about what being and independent voter indicates about said independent voter's personality, as in, we're not to be trusted because we won't pledge our political allegiance, presuming this is an act of stubbornness and/or revolution.

And then there are those who find independent voters a nuisance, writing us off as uninformed, lazy, wishy-washy, and/or too stupid to make up our minds and certainly not to be trusted with any serious decisions because we can't even commit to a political party. Most of these people use athletic metaphors when they question my independent voting stance. They liken political parties to sports teams and use that as an inroad to badger me. I have heard this statement more times in my life than I care to admit, to the point that if someone says it to me again I'm not sure I can maintain polite conversation,  "You like those Red Wings and Tigers. You support them win or lose, you choose to support those teams, and yet you can't choose a political party?"

No. I cannot. Because in spite of indications to the contrary during election season, politics is not a game. Politics is fundamentally about legislation. My decision to vote, or not vote, for a candidate is based on if a candidate supports, or doesn't support, something that matters to me or people I care about.

In my home town there's a hot race for drain commissioner. In my small hometown the person who manages the drains - sewage, clean water - matters because the entire system is antiquated and in desperate need for a revamp, so whoever wins this election will manage the project, or at least start the project by garnering funds to work on the project.

One candidate wants to tax wealthier residents at a higher rate than lower income residents in order to pay for the renovation. The other candidate wants to use a flat percentage tax on everyone with an exception made for residents who fall below a certain income level. The problem is that neither plan will garner enough revenue to fully fund the water renovation project. One candidate has experience with environmental lobbyists and fundraising, and the other has experience with public works projects and working with the town treasurer. All of this sound familiar? Local or national, the fundamental issues are the same in most election races. There's not an obvious "best candidate." Frankly, they both suck.

But. Here's the thing. The wealthier residents stand to lose a lot of money if the Robin Hood-esque candidate is elected and they see this as a waste because even if they pay the tax, there will be a shortfall in the water renovation project and the plan to cover the shortfall is to dip into the already strained school fund, the reasoning being that many of the schools use a lot of water and produce a lot of sewage. Everyone knows this will lead to a millage election, which will put students and education in a hostage situation, which will lead to even higher taxes. However the other candidate, the flat tax guy with lobbying and fundraising experience, is affiliated with a party that most of the wealthier residents are not affiliated with. This means that for the first time in many of their lives they are facing a decision to vote a split ticket.

You cannot even begin to imagine the uproar and anxiety this is causing. The way they talk about this, you would think some of them are in a Sophie's Choice situation. The concept of voting for the candidate they like, as opposed to the party with whom they affiliate, is unfathomable and gut wrenching for them. They use phrases like, "I'm not sure I can live with that decision." And, "It goes against everything I stand for, I'll have to compromise my principles." One of my mother's neighbors put their house on the market a few weeks ago. They'd rather move than vote against their party affiliation. I realize they're just trying to get a jump on the housing market - after this election there are bound to be a lot of people trying to sell their homes ahead of the tax increases. But. What they talk about mostly is how difficult the voting decision is because, gasp, they've never voted anything but a straight party ticket and, another gasp, they might have to actually, gasp again, you know, select a candidate who doesn't have the "right" political label affixed to him. It's madness, I tell you, madness!

I mean, you know, principles matter and you have to stand for something and all that. But. Seriously? You're going to move out of the home you've lived in for 20 years because you don't want to vote outside your party affiliation?

Maybe I do lack conviction. Or maybe I've lived and voted in Chicago so long I've become cynical and jaded about politics. Or maybe, just maybe, I am in possession of common sense.

It's reasonably obvious to me who the "best" choice is for drain commissioner in my home town. I don't care if there's an (R) or (D) after his name. But then, I'm a pesky independent voter.

I'm still an Illinois resident, and therefore my opinion about the candidates in my hometown, and my home state, are moot.

I voted early in Illinois. (and no, not often, and can we please give the vote early, vote often "joke" a rest?) I did this in the 2008 election, too. I'm torn about early voting. The convenience is great, you can vote when it's easiest for you, but, it's a little anticlimatic. All the last minute hype and tension and electricity in the air is for other people, people who vote on election day.

It's kind of like popping into a party before things really get jumping because you have another commitment. You put in your appearance for the host's sake and then leave early. The next day you hear that a couple hours later the party was the party of the century, a bunch of handsome single men showed up including one who said he was hoping you'd be there, the brother of the host who works for a wine distributor brought a case of really good champagne to share, a reclusive author who happens to be a cousin of a guest tagged along to the party, had a little too much to drink and gave an oral recitation from a long anticipated next novel, then Muse stopped in and played an impromptu acoustic set...then Muse called Bono and he showed up and went off script and got a little silly and told some raunchy jokes...and you missed it because you had another commitment, probably something work-related, and only stopped in for a few minutes to say hello to the host at the very beginning of the party.

And I feel a little awkward every time I see a campaign ad after I cast my early vote. I feel all apologetic, "Gee, that all sounds swell, candidate, but, see, um, well, I already voted...you know, early voting...*sorry*." All the last minute campaigning is wasted on early voters. The deed is done. Our choices are made and committed to history. I should feel smugly superior. "Too late, I voted early. Tell it to someone who hasn't voted, yet." And sometimes I do feel smugly satisfied, especially when I see all those campaign yard signs all over the place. "Go away, you blight on the landscape, I, and many others, have already voted! You are no longer relevant!" But mostly, instead of basking in the patriotic voting afterglow, I feel stuck in limbo, feeling melancholy in the denouement of deed. I voted, and yet the campaign continues.

The earlier I vote, the more the span between casting my vote and election day feels like I'm living in a complicated esoteric foreign or David Lynch film. Everything does seem black and white to me. And it kinda is - my decisions were made, yes or no. There's no more researching and weighing the issues, no more "color" to my decision. It came down to yes or no, I made my choices, they are now definitive, yes/no, black/white. And yet millions of people, people around me, are still in the kaleidoscope of campaign color where they still have choices, where their voting decisions are still relevant to all the candidates. They still matter. But I am no longer relevant. The candidates who got my vote are unaware of my support. The candidates who didn't get my vote are also unaware, but, I know. And sometimes it feels like they know, too. I notice a hint of a sneer or disappointed look in their campaign ads and I feel like it's directed solely at me.

Yeah. I know. I need to stop overthinking this. I need to reign in my imagination.

It's just voting. It doesn't matter when you do it, as long as you do it.

And when you do it, please, at least notice the other candidates on the ballot and remember that we have the freedom to have as many political parties and affiliations as we want on our ballot. We do have choices. And maybe, just once, try taking a walk on the wild side and consider the candidates instead of their party affiliations.

And as we round the corner into the final stretch of End of Days, Honda insults women by offering a gender specific car...available in pink or colors that "match eye shadow."

 What, no rhinestones or Hello Kitty graphics?

 The mere name is proof that we're all doomed: "She's."

She is...what? ...a bimbo? ...easily swayed by gender marketing? ...lacking self respect, self esteem and self awareness? ...driving a stupid car? ...grammatically challenged?

I presume they wanted to convey the idea of "hers" without actually conjuring images of his and hers bath towels from the '50s. But in the process they created one of the most ambiguous car names to roll off an assembly line.

I'm struggling to imagine a conversation between me and another woman wherein one of us says, "Ohmygosh, I want one of those new She's so badly!" Or even (and I tried this), "Have you seen the new She's?"

That conversation went like this: "Hi Friend, how are you?"

"Okay. Looks like the transmission is gone on the Bug."

"Bummer. Are you going to fix it?"

"Nah. We're going to replace it, something small again, you know, easy on gas, something for errands around town."

"Have you seen the new She's?"

"What?"

"The Honda She's." 

silence

silence

Finally my friend probed, "Who's what?"

"Honda has a new car, it's basically a Fit. She's."

silence

silence

Friend probing again, "She's what?"

"A Fit. A She's basically a Fit but 'for women.'"

"Oh crap. Another Maytag Minivan?"

"No, it's a Fit. It's a compact."

"What's it called?"

"She's."

silence

silence

Friend probing, "She's what?"

"The name of the car is She's."

"Cheese?"

"Yeah, it's really cheesy."

"What's it called?"

"She's"

silence

silence

Friend probing, "...she's what, Trill?"

"The name of the car is She's."

"Huh?"

You get the idea. The conversation deteriorated quickly.


The last time I wanted a pink car was when I was six, and I didn't even want it for myself, I wanted it for my Malibu Barbie and her friends. And even where the Barbie gang was concerned, by the time I was 8 I wanted them to drive a silver or black car. Pink was passe, for little girls just entering the Barbieforce. I was more mature, then, and I wanted my Barbies' transportation to reflect that.

As for matching eye shadow (or lip gloss or blush or shoes...), while I have seen some beguiling shades of makeup that might translate well onto a car, I'm pretty sure I don't want my car to match my makeup or vice-versa. The resulting camouflage situation is too weird. "Watch how my eyelids seem to disappear when I stand next to my car!"

I'm reasonably certain this is an ironic coincidence (I want to believe.): The Fit logo is reminiscent of the classic FDS logo. (Guys who don't know, FDS is a feminine deodorant spray. Yes. It's a tampon-sized aerosol specifically manufactured for, and marketed to, women who want to deodorize their vulvas. Not to be confused with douches, FDS is sprayed on topically, not blasted internally.) I've never understood why a woman would need or want to use FDS. Regular showering and basic hygiene has always kept things on the up and up down there for me, even on those days when I'm not-so-fresh. I keep thinking I'll turn some corner in my womanhood where I'll understand the purpose and need for FDS. I keep worrying that one day I'll notice an odor emanating from my lady region and wonder, "What the...? I just took a shower! Uh-oh, better get a vile of FDS!" And it's not a subject us gals discuss so I have no idea when to expect this rite of passage. Or at least the gals I know don't discuss it, nor would I ask them. I presume there are women out there who buy FDS because they keep making it and stores continue to stock it, but I'll never know if I know a woman who needs/buys it. And that's just as it should be. I truly do not want to know what's going on odor-wise in my friends' vulvas. The similarity between the FDS logo design and color scheme and the Fit logo is fitting because the She's seems as mysteriously superfluous as FDS. I don't know a woman who would drive one, and even if one of my friends had one they'd never admit it. Like FDS, hey'd hide it and never discuss it, keep it a dirty little secret. 

And I'm not bothered just for the "this sets women back at least 60 years" aspect. While I appreciate anything that blocks UV rays and offers air conditioning, since when are these female-specific concerns? I've never known a guy who was all, "Bring on the UV rays, woohoo! Magnify the glare through untreated glass! Let's set up a napalm sunrise environment in the driver's seat and get rolling down the highway! And air conditioning? It's for women and whimps! I don't want air conditioning in my car!" Men may not be as cosmetically concerned about UV rays, but most people, regardless of their gender, are aware of and concerned about melanoma. The special extra UV blocking glass is only for women? Guys, I'd be crying foul if I were you. This is discrimination. Ditto the Plasmacluster air conditioning. (Is it just me, or does Plasmacluster sound like something you don't want to hear your doctor say to you. "I'm sorry to tell you this, your test results show there's a plasmacluster blocking oxygen from your left lung. You have two weeks to live and then the plasmacluster will spread and suffocate you." Or maybe something from a bad sci-fi made-for-television movie from the '70s. "Dirk, there's a plasmaluster headed straight for the Andromeda Nebula." "No! Not Andromeda! Karen's ship is docked there! We must stop the plasmacluster before it hits Karen's ship!")

I don't mind the "strong enough for a man, but made for a woman" concept in deodorant, but the implication that us chicks need or want a small, cute, delicate car is insulting.

I know, I know, there are lots of women who will love this car. Women who will use rhinestone encrusted Hello Kitty keychains to hold the keys to their She's. Women who talk in syrupy baby-talk voices. Women whose career aspirations don't extend beyond moving up from receptionist to shift manager at the tanning salon. Women who want their car to match their eye shadow. Women who don't understand that She's a contraction of she is. Women who don't know what a contraction is. And you know, fine, whatever, rock on, sisters, enjoy your car.

The mere concept of a car "for women" insults me, but I am not the female driving audience Honda is trying to reach. So my feelings about the car and its concept are moot.

But.

Honda, can you please give it a different name?

So, I had to spend several hours in an ER waiting room. My mother had a small health scare after doctor's office hours so, away we went to the ER.

They immediately whisked her in for triage and then spit us out into the waiting room to wait for an exam room.

Fortunately my mother was, at this point, feeling slightly better, so it wasn't an anxiety-ridden-"my mother is critical, why won't you help her?!" wait. It was a busy time in the ER and the waiting room was packed with sick children, people with fractured appendages, elderly people with breathing/heart issues, and several groups of people anxiously, worriedly, waiting for news of a loved one being treated behind the ER doors.

I found a corner away from the crying children, wheezing, sneezing and coughing sick people and parked my mother in that space. I was smugly satisfied. I found the one area available away from the madding crowd. I view finding an oasis in a frenzied, miserable crowd a major coup. A quiet, empty gate within earshot of my flight announcements in an airport, a small table in the back of a tea shop, a corner away from sick people in an ER waiting room...I consider these triumphant victories.

Our little corner was as close to you could get to bliss in the ER waiting room. Besides, given my mother's history of heart issues I was confident we would be granted entrance to the actual ER before the kid with the broken arm. Always look on the bright side of life.

People streamed through the hospital entry into the ER waiting room. It was a busy time in the ER. As each new patient entered, almost all eyes in the waiting room turned to assess the new patient and their condition. It was obvious we were all silently assessing the new patients. "18 month old toddler, red cheeks, glassy eyes...ear infection? They'll put them at the bottom of the list." "83 year old man with chest pains. He's going to the top of the list." "22 year old guy with oozing gash on forearm...after the chest pain, before the ear infection."

There were no gunshot wounds. No car accidents. No burn victims. It was a good day. Relatively. Mundane stuff in ER terms.

So.

When a middle aged guy walked in with his jeans not only unzipped but also with the fly spread wide open, exposing the entire man-region swathed in zebra print mankini underwear, everyone noticed.

He had to wait at the reception desk, third in line behind a young couple taking turns holding a three year old girl coughing and crying, and an older gentleman having trouble with his hearing aid.

The zebra crotch guy was clearly in a state of discomfort, shifting his weight from leg to leg, one hand pressed into his, um, man region. Glances were exchanged around the waiting room. I'm reasonably certain 90% of us over the age of 9 had the Cialis ads and the disclaimer running through our heads. "If you get an erection that lasts more than four hours, get medical help right away."  I know most of us were thinking this because some of the glances were uncomfortable, awkward glances, "Well that's embarrassing for everyone including me..." kind of glances, and others were glances that said, "OMG! That dude took Cialis and has an erection lasting longer than four hours!!! That's the funniest thing I've seen in months but I don't want to laugh out loud in the middle of the ER waiting room because that would acknowledge that I looked at the dude's crotch and know what Cialis is so I have to stifle my guffaws!" Some of the mothers of young children nervously tried to avert their children's attention away from the grown man with the zebra undies.

When it was finally the erection dude's turn at the reception desk, the waiting room fell silent except for the blaring televisions and crying babies. The silence was my confirmation that everyone else was seeing and thinking the same things I was. An unrelated group of people now had a unifying commonality. Thanks to the position of the reception desk, the blaring televisions and crying babies rendered it impossible to hear the conversation between the fly-guy and the nurse. It was obvious we were all disappointed on some level. We'd all have to continue to speculate on his condition.

Most of me felt bad for the guy. I tried to pretend to not notice. I tried to give him respect via avoidance.

But. All's fair in love and an ER waiting room. And any dude who wears mankini underpants is giving express consent for speculation, and the zebra motif is an open invitation to ridicule. Walking into an ER waiting room with jeans unzipped and fly spread wide exposing mankini underpants with a zebra motif is carte blanche for speculation, ridicule and whatever giggles, smirks and tut-tuts the other ER waiting room patrons throw your way.

He was given his paperwork and sent to the waiting room with the rest of us.

And.

For reasons only he can explain, he chose the area in front of my mother and I to wait. Apparently erections lasting longer than four hours hurt because the dude a) wouldn't sit down and b) paced somewhat frantically while holding his nether area. We were seated, he was standing, so his crotch was at our eye level. There wasn't another space that could accommodate both my mother and me, so moving wasn't an option, and unless we closed our eyes there was no escaping a direct assault from the zebra mankini and its contents.

So.

Since he chose to pace in front of us, he was fair game for any thoughts I was having about him.

I'm close to my mother, but not that kind of close. There are topics that are understood as "no reason to discuss, so don't." Not taboo, not shameful, just unnecessary. Male erections are one of those topics. Think about it: Her knowledge on the topic would include my father, and I am not, and never have never been, even remotely curious about my father's penis, much less my mother's take on my father's penis. And my mother, I'm certain, does not want to know about my knowledge of penises and how I acquired it. So. Penises and erections fall squarely in the "no reason to discuss" category.

I wasn't embarrassed to have an erection parading in front of my mother and me, I mean, you know, given the context, but I was kind of embarrassed to let on to my mother that I found it funny. My sniggers would be acknowledgement to my mother that I knew about that sort of thing, and I was afraid she might think that I have had relations with men who need Cialis and therefor I am familiar with this sort of problem. I don't really want my mother going around thinking that I have sex with men who take Cialis. Or men who where mankini underpants. Zebra-print mankini underpants. I'm not sure why, exactly, but for some reason in the moment that was a point of consternation for me.

And.

My mother is no prude, but she is refined, dignified and mature. Since my father died, I've felt a stronger obligation to "protect" her from some of the more unsavory people roaming the planet. My mother is savvy and street smart, she doesn't "need" protection, but she also doesn't need to be subjected to, well, men in zebra-print mankinis containing an erection that lasted longer than four hours pacing back and forth in front of her. Especially since the entire reason for our visit to ER was a heart medication issue. I was getting kind of angry at this guy for choosing to parade his apparently painful erection in front of my mother.

I had moments of empathy. "Maybe it's a hernia." "Maybe it's a kidney infection." I tried to feel sorry for the guy. I decided that, no matter the health issue, at the very least he could have changed into some less obvious underpants, and because he opted to show up with zebra-print mankini underpants, he opted to be the source of ridicule in the ER waiting room.

No one wants to go to a crowded ER to treat a painful erection that won't go away. Right? The thing is, the dude didn't seem particularly embarrassed. He acted like this is a perfectly normal malady that appears in ER rooms - kids with broken arms, babies with ear infections, elderly people with breathing/heart problems, middle aged men with painful erections lasting longer than four hours. If he'd assumed some humility, affected a manner of apology, something, any sign of acknowledgement that pacing around a crowded ER waiting room with your fly undone, holding your penis, is not something one normally does and not something other people want to see, then I might have been more willing to be more sympathetic. But he didn't seem to mind that a room full of strangers, including small children, were being exposed to his underpants and the erection therein.

I tried to ignore it. I mean him.

But.

There was no avoiding the pacing zebra print mankini and the dude holding its contents. So. No matter how fuzzy the kittens or waggy-tailed the puppies, no amount of kittens and puppies mind over matter thinking was going to help divert my thoughts from the dude with the erection lasting longer than four hours.

My mother, who is polite, genteel and not given to commenting on random guys' underpants and erections in general, tried to force her gaze at me. But the zebra print erection pacing in front of us was too much for even my "we do not comment on that sort of thing" mother.

"Must he parade his Cialis-gone-wrong problem in front of us? Is this where women's lib got us, no respect for women and children?"

My mother: 1, Cialis: 0

The people seated around us either guffawed or nodded knowingly to my mother's remark.

The erection dude was undaunted.

And then things got weird. I know. Things may have already seemed weird, but the events up to then were the halcyon moments of normalcy. 

A young woman with very big hair and very high heels appeared, with a two year old in tow.

The child seemed to know the erection dude. The kid trotted ahead of the big-haired woman and said, "Hi!" to the erection dude. The erection dude reached down and patted the tyke's head with his free hand. The woman was somewhat aloof toward the erection dude. The dynamic between the woman and the man was odd. They exchanged no words, no greetings, nothing. They both just seemed to accept that he was frantically pacing in an ER waiting room with his jeans unzipped and zebra-print mankini underpants exposed. She seemed particularly blase and nonchalant, not exactly chilly, but not the least bit concerned or embarrassed or, well, anything. She barely acknowledged the erection dude. If it weren't for the small child she brought with her, you wouldn't assume they even knew each other, much less that they were there, in the ER waiting room, together. She seemed like she was just hanging out in a park or mall, sitting around watching a toddler run around.

A wave of obvious speculation about this new development rippled across the ER waiting room. Is she the intended recipient of the Cialis' results? Were the zebra mankinis for her? But what about about the toddler? Were these two gonna get it on while the kid napped? What about her seemingly apathetic demeanor toward Mr. Zebrapants? Was the woman not the object of the erection dude's desire, a wife, perhaps - who was called to the ER because she's an emergency contact - and now Mr. Cheating-pants has some 'splainin' to do?

The kid approached my mother and me. A plush green puffy toy with eyes was proffered to us by the child. My mother and I looked at each other before engaging in the child's attempt at making friends. The look we exchanged was, "Huh. The erection dude's kid is trying to make friends with us." "Is it his kid?" "Dunno, but the kid seems to know the erection dude." "Yeah, but don't judge the kid on the adults. This seems like an odd dynamic. The child is probably already suffering enough." "You're right, just be nice to the kid and attempt to ignore the adults."

So I said, "Wow, that's a really cool green whatever that is!"

The child smiled and threw it in the air.

The erection dude continued pacing, now adding a little tip-toe jig into his weight shifting. The big-haired, high-heeled woman talked on her phone.

When the woman saw the child throwing the green thing, she came closer to us and told the kid to not throw the toy.

An older woman who'd been at the reception desk came over and took a chair across the aisle. She arrived after the erection dude so she may not have been aware of the, um, situation with the unzipped jeans and zebra-print mankini underpants. The child went straight to this new patient in the waiting room and proffered the plush green thing to her. The woman engaged and starting playing with the child. The erection dude just kept frantically pacing. The big-haired, high-heeled woman moved closer to the new patient and the child. The new patient started asking the big-haired, high-heeled woman about the child. How old? Birth date? Pre school? Siblings? The big-haired, high-heeled woman did not respond as quickly as most mothers do. She hesitated with the birth date and pre-school answers, as if she either struggled to remember or struggled to quickly make something up to satisfy the woman in the waiting room.

Meanwhile, erection dude continued to pace and completely ignored the big-haired, high-heeled woman and the child, and they ignored him. You'd still never guess they were together. Then they called the erection dude into the ER exam room area. Apparently Priapism ranks higher in the ER hierarchy of emergencies than a bleeding wound or an elderly heart patient.

The big-haired, high-heeled woman didn't seem to even notice erection dude was gone. She was now deep into conversation with the new patient in the waiting room.

And then they called my mother into the ER exam room area. Once she was settled onto an exam room bed and tethered to a monitor, we had to wait for doctors and nurses to return.

And that's when we heard what was happening on the other side of the curtain.

We knew it was the erection dude because of the line of questions being asked by a nurse. And no, she wasn't a comely hairband video nurse. She was a no nonsense, clinical nurse in scrubs and sensible shoes. Some of her questions were: How long have you had the erection? Are you able to get an erection without medication, and if so how long do your erections normally last without medication? Is this erection larger or smaller than your usual erections? When was the last time you had sex? Have you masterbated in the last 24 hours? Do you now have or have you ever had a sexually transmitted disease? Did you use marijuana or cocaine in the 7 days prior to taking the erectile dysfunction medication?

My mother and I attempted to make small talk to block out the questions and answers on the other side of the curtain. It was a feeble attempt, on both our parts. At some point we just accepted what was happening mere feet away from us with nothing other than a thin piece of fabric separating us from the zebra-print mankini and an erection problem.



I looked up Cialis and what happens when men have erections lasting longer than four hours. It doesn't sound worth the risk of taking Cialis in the first place. From the Cialis website:  "Priapism must be treated as soon as possible or lasting damage can happen to your penis, including the inability to have erections."

********UPDATE*********
The lens prescription was correct, however in a twist of optical nuance, the frames were "wrong" for my pupil measurement. A different optician than the one who "helped" me choose my frames immediately suspected what was going on, but checked the prescription and re-measured my pupils to confirm her suspicions. Turns out the frames were too wide overall and the bridge was too wide, so I was getting a tunnel effect in my periphery, which was effectively giving me motion sickness.  These are apparently some of the "dangers" of progressive lenses, especially with astigmatism prescriptions, frame and bridge size become crucial to the glasses. Oh, and, the lenses were slightly bowed, further enhancing the optical nightmare. Adjusting that, straightening the frames, slightly decreased the tunnel illusion but didn't offer much relief. The new optician told me the person who helped me select the frames "should have known" the frame to pupil measurement ratio is crucial and the frames selected, filled with my prescription, were tantamount to physical abuse. So. A new frame has been selected. You live, you learn.

*********


Has anyone out there ever experienced:

• Dizziness
• Nausea
• Extremely (horrific) headache
• Tunnel vision

 after getting a new pair of glasses?
I've had reading glasses for years, but one of my eyes recently developed astigmatism so I had to get new glasses. I realize this is a huge change for me and having one lens different is undoubtedly wonky to my brain.

However. The above symptoms are severe, as in, looking through the glasses makes me so dizzy I can't walk a straight line. I puked twice the day I got the glasses and once the next. The headache is unlike any headache I've ever experienced. It's not isolated to my eyes or forehead, it's an all-head encompassing ache. The tunnel vision is a combo effect with the dizziness. It's like walking through a rotating tunnel in a fun-house.

Worse, the symptoms don't cease when I take the glasses off - at least not right away. 

I'm only able to read and tolerate the monitor now because I quit trying to wear the glasses yesterday afternoon, and now, 18 hours later, I am finally back to "normal."

"People" tell me this is a normal reaction, it's all part of the process of getting a new lens prescription, my brain is just adjusting to the new information my eyes are sending it. The mechanics of that theory make sense to me, but, the reactions seem kind of extreme, particularly the lingering symptoms long after I take off my glasses.

The same "people" tell me I have to tough it out for a few days and then it'll be great. But toughing it out would entail staying in the bathroom puking while trying to hold an icepack on my head.

Further, when I attempt to navigate in my new glasses, my distance vision is worse than it is without the glasses.

"People" tell me this is normal, as well, especially since one eye is afflicted and the other is not. They then espouse the "brain has to learn to interpret the new information" defense.

Am I just an optical wuss or do I have valid reasons to believe a) the cut-rate eyeglass source that made my new glasses didn't fill the prescription properly, or, b) that the doctor's assistant who wrote the prescription wrote it incorrectly?

As if the personal failure and hurt and self-berating and sleepless nights and embarrassment and financial aspects of foreclosure weren't enough, I'm now facing the fallout of foreclosure in my job hunt.

I received my first official "It's our company policy to not hire candidates with a foreclosure history" rejection notice.

In Illinois there is a state mandate that requires employers to tell candidates a) that they are credit checking, and b) inform rejected candidates if the reason they were rejected is a credit issue, and, further, what specific credit issue caused the rejection.

So, complying with state mandates, a would-be employer sent me a very detailed account of my credit history and cited, specifically, the limbo-foreclosure status of my condo as the reason they are not hiring me.

Credit bureaus don't report details like a 61% drop in property assessment in three years or foreclosure rates in the area causing a glut of empty available homes at low prices rendering it impossible to sell a home for a price higher than the bank auction rates. Credit bureaus just report a financial facts associated with a social security number.

And employers, who have a trove of over-qualified candidates, have to winnow down the candidate pool to one perfect employee candidate. If they have two equally qualified candidates and they like both of them, the credit check provides a convenient deciding factor, "A foreclosure changes everything. We don't want to hire that sort of person. We want don't want that kind of irresponsibility in our employee pool. That settles that, the decision is made."

This recent rejection stings a lot. I wanted that job. I was excited about the company and I have a lot of offer them. I could help them. A lot. And I would enjoy it. I was excited about it. I know better than to get excited about a job prospect, but, this one...well, I couldn't help it. It was a perfect fit for me and my mind was racing with ideas to solve the issues they discussed in the interviews. But, the job requires managing a large budget, and a foreclosure in my background doesn't look good, regardless of the extenuating circumstances.

I knew it would happen eventually. I know employers are checking credit histories and I know they are not hiring people who have any blemish in their credit history. Is it fair? No. But. Who ever said life is fair? It's not. Deal with it.

But. Here's what bugs me and why I'm not just lumping this job rejection in with the hundreds of others and dealing with it: If credit history is a key hiring factor, why not do the credit check first, before putting the candidate through five, count 'em five interviews, and a two hour session of Myers-Briggs-type testing and an IQ test - yes, an IQ test. They called it a skills evaluation but it was a standard IQ test.*  Why invest that kind of time and effort and screening in a candidate before running the credit check?

Further, if a candidate makes it past a) the Myers-Briggs screening and b) the IQ test and, more to the relevant point of the job, c) through five interviews, doesn't it warrant at least a conversation about the credit report? A "Gee, we really like you but we notice a blip on your credit report. Can we discuss this?" conversation? They had no problem discussing my social preferences results from the Myers-Briggs test. They had no problem broaching the topic of their difficult clients and grilling me on how I'd deal with them. There didn't seem to be a problem broaching sensitive topics. But I wasn't given the courtesy of a conversation about my credit report. Nope. Just a rejection letter stating their policy on not hiring candidates with a foreclosure in their credit history.

I'm not sure what the mandate requiring employers to tell candidates they were rejected based on a credit report does for the employers or the candidates. It causes more paperwork and follow-up for the employer, and doesn't tell the candidates anything they didn't already know. I know I have foreclosure in my credit history. I don't need an employer to tell me that. And the reason I have a foreclosure in my credit history is because I'm unemployed. I told the prospective employer I was laid off, they could (I presume) put the two facts together. But nonetheless, they cited foreclosure as the reason they're not hiring me. Kudos to them (I guess) for being honest and following the state mandate in telling me the foreclosure is the reason they didn't hire me. They could have lied and said they went with the other candidate, or, they could have done what the thousands of other employers do: Sent a form rejection email (sent from a do not reply email address), or nothing at all. But nope, this employer took the high road and told me they're not hiring me because of my credit report.

I suppose the thinking behind the mandate to disclose this info is to give the candidate a chance to explain. But. In this case, and I presume in most cases, the case is closed. They hired someone else. I suppose the thinking is that notification of the reason why I didn't get the job would allow me to plea my case, explain my credit issues, explain that I had great credit until I was laid off and even then I maintained good credit until I could no longer pay my mortgage. But why? What would that prove? It wouldn't give me the job - someone else has it, now. And, it's not as if I can repair my credit before the next job application. Unless that job application is seven years from now. Even if there had been an error in my credit report, the company would have moved on to other candidates, probably hired someone else in the interim, and what good would pleading to them about an error in the report do? Knowing that I didn't get the job because of my foreclosure doesn't do anything except depress me. If I had received the usual form rejection email I would have written it off as another disappointment and presumed they had an even better candidate than me, or fixated on that one moment in the interview that I hesitated, or that they went with a better personality fit, or whatever. If I hadn't received any rejection I would have assumed the same things plus written off the company's HR people as unprofessional. But now I know it's my credit report. So what? What can I do about that? The only thing that's going to resolve my credit issue is: A job. A job that pays more than $15/hour. So what's the point of notifying me that the reason I didn't get the one thing I need to help my credit is precisely the thing they're not giving me because of my credit: A job.

So, let's recap. I was laid off with 150 other people in my company. The first call I made was to my real estate agent to put my condo on the market. The numbers he ran for a list price were $30K lower than what I owed on my mortgage. And with four foreclosures in my building at the time, the realistic asking price was more like $49K lower than what I owed. So. I did everything I could to pay my mortgage, drained my savings, my severance and my 401K to pay my mortgage in hopes that a) I'd find a job and/or b) the housing market would improve. Neither of those things happened. The most recent assessment of my condo is $70K less than what I owe on my condo. The bank doesn't want it - they're so certain they can't sell it they're keeping me in foreclosure limbo, offering me all sorts of stalling measures because they don't want to get stuck with it. Which is "nice," I guess, it gives me a chance to find a job, but, I am officially in foreclosure so they're not doing me any favors in my job hunt.

A few states have taken measures to prevent credit checks as a condition of employment, but even in those states there are provisions - if a job requires managing budgets or handling money a credit check is allowed and it's "okay" to reject a candidate based on their credit history.

What really galls me is the ironic circle of finance that's in play. I have to find a job that pays a certain salary in order for me to have enough money to pay my mortgage and affiliated expenses. Minimum wage isn't enough, a low paying job isn't enough. I don't need a lot of money, but I need more than $15/hour to pay my mortgage and affiliated expenses. And so far, I have not been offered a job garnering more than $15/hour. So. I'll lose my home because I can't find a job that pays well enough to afford my mortgage. However. Once the bank takes my condo, they'll be lucky to sell it for the price of a mid-range new car. So whomever buys my foreclosed condo will have a low mortgage payment, a mortgage payment very manageable on a low income.

Banks: Here's a thought: for the myriad people in my situation (there are millions of us), how about taking the hit you're going to take on the price of the foreclosed home, refinance the loan to the price you'll get by selling at auction so that the owner can afford their mortgage on the lower salary they've had to take. My building currently has six foreclosures. Even at ridiculously low prices, three have been vacant almost three years. The likelihood of selling my condo is low. I realize my mortgage is my responsibility and you don't owe me anything. This is not something I take lightly - my mortgage has been the key source of anxiety from the moment I was laid off. My mortgage, how to pay it, what to do about it, has caused me more stress than anything I have ever encountered in life, and let me tell you, I've encountered a lot of stressful situations in my life. The job hunt has been brutal, demoralizing, anguishing and confusing. The main reason I haven't given up, the primary reason I forge ahead, continue the exercise in futility, is because of my condo and its mortgage. This is not something I take lightly, not something I'm irresponsible about.  Normally, the "right" thing to do is sell, but, with the plummeting value, that's not an option - if I had been able to sell when I was first laid off (and that's a big if), at the $49K less than what I owed, I'd still owe the mortgage company $49K and I would have been a) homeless and b) unemployed and c) unable to pay it.

And then, finally, a job appeared and I was a viable candidate and I went through five interviews which all went well...only to be told I didn't pass the credit check because of a foreclosure in my credit history.

Oh the irony. The job I want that will allow me to pay the mortgage in the home I'm trying to keep is the source of rejection for the job.

And this is why there are "discouraged workers." This is why people give up. This is why depression is rampant and heart attack and suicide rates are up.



* This, too, is becoming a normal protocol in hiring, in the past year I've been put through the Myers-Briggs and "skills evaluation" - which is always a standard IQ test - for more job applications than not. A few employers sent me detailed reports, and one thing about these that "helps" me deal with all this is that, in spite of all the crap I've been though in the past few years, I'm testing consistent in terms of personality and IQ. My sociopsychological composition and IQ are almost exactly what they've always been, at least as measured by these standardized tests. I test "socially adept" and "personally creative" on Myers-Briggs tests, and I have a (very) respectable IQ number. A friend tells me this may be a problem, she advised me to dumb down my IQ tests because her company's HR office has decided to hire only average IQ-ed candidates. They're finding higher IQ candidates either don't stay at the company or cause "problems." So now I've been advised to a) dumb down my resume, lie by omission about my education and experience, and b) play dumb on skill assessments. Education, intelligence and experience are liabilities.

I like to think there's order in the Universe - at least on some levels. Close inspection typically shows there is order even in the most chaotic scenes in nature. Biologically we're on a clearly fixed DNA path. The path can be swayed by outside influences and decisions, of course, but, our DNA is set, it's how were wired. And evolution happens. It keeps marching, and responding as necessary.* DNA + evolution = order in the Universe for humans. It doesn't always seem that way, though.

When I can't suss out the order of the order, or understand the march of evolution, I get frustrated/angry/scared and a) hope there's a God so b) I can be mad at Him or c) demand some answers and yes, d) pray.

Timeline.

August 28. I spent the day with Frankie and Benjy who went out of their way to have a layover in my neck of the Universe. It was the best day I've had in months. Good friends. Yes. I do have good friends. Just when I most needed a boost to my morale, down came Frankie and Benjy to remind me that I am worthy of friendship, I'm not an awful person and that, hey, I actually possess a sense of humor and social skills! It was bittersweet because it was such a brief visit, but I was grateful for face-to-face contact, something increasingly rare for us. Skype's great, but it's not "the same." For instance, when you're sitting next to a friend and one of you cracks a joke alluding to Then Again, Maybe I Won't, the knowing glance and out-and-out giggles that ensue can only really happen in person. Oh sure, the joke can be made, the glance can be cast via Skype, but, it's not the same as in person. It's just not. But that makes the moments spent with friends all the better. I cherish them, and I'm telling you this, ramming the point home, you should, too. Do whatever you have to do to turn off your phone/tablet/whatever distractions you have and spend in-person time with your really, truly, madly, deeply good friends. We all know this, I knew it, I know it, but, you know, life, time, etc., it's not easy to find time to just socialize...in person.

My good friends live far, far away so I learned the hard way: You miss them when they're gone, and you miss them in ways you don't quite understand or realize until you see them again.

Frankie and I have that rare thing, that indefinable thing, that makes us "friends." Never questioned, never dissected, never discussed, really. It just is. Like being in love without the sex and complications of romance. During that layover there was non-stop conversation and laughs. One particularly good laugh was the aforementioned allusion to Then Again, Maybe I Won't. The actual joke doesn't matter, and unless you were there, unless you're us, it's not all that funny. But to us, in that moment, it was a side-splitter.


September 5: Judy Blume announced/wrote about her Summer of Breast Cancer. Yes, I read Judy Blume's blog. I read Judy Blume's blog because I've been reading Judy Blume's writing since I was old enough to read and comprehend her writing, probably around age 8. I trust Judy Blume. Judy Blume has helped me deal with pretty much every "difficult" issue in my life, and given that I've had a lot of "difficult" issues in my life(?) that's saying a lot. No, Judy hasn't specifically covered broken engagements and workplace woes and unemployment and homelessness, but she's covered handling your problems and dealing with difficult people and facing tough emotions with dignity, compassion, humor and intelligence. She's the cool/wise/fun aunt I never had in real life. My own aunts were wonderful people but never broached topics like mean girls at school, menstruation, or sex, and on the exceptionally rare occasions boys in the context of dating came up, their "advice" was more snarky remarks about the male gender that where actually thinly veiled digs at their husbands. Judy Blume, on the other hand, was out there in the trenches with me. Through her books every girl/woman under the age of 50 believes we know Judy Blume because she spoke to us, personally it feels, through her books.

News that she has cancer hit me like a punch in the gut. As I read Judy's blog post I gasped, out loud, "No! Not Judy!" as if one of our key tactical strategists had been taken hostage or injured in battle and the rest of us were doomed. As witnessed in her guest book entries since September 5, I am not the only Judy Blume fan who felt that punch in the gut and felt that doom. Once again, Ms. Blume shared her experience, not preaching, not condescending, no high-horse, just facts and how she dealt with it. I've never been sure if Judy meant to inspire, console, educate and guide legions, generations, of women, but she has. I find the wisest people I know, the ones from whom I learn the most, are the ones who aren't actually trying to teach me something. Judy has always felt like one of those people. And now, once again, wittingly or unwittingly, she is tackling another tough issue and showing us how to handle it: Gritting your teeth and confronting it with dignity, humor, and by using your brain and learning about the nature of the beast.

Yes, I my eyes swelled with tears, but Judy, being Judy Blume, forged on, and I sat there thinking, "that's right, Judy, you go, girl, you show cancer who's boss." I said, out loud, to no one and everyone, "She'll be fine. She's going to be fine. She's Judy Blume. She'll be fine." Of course I was just feebly attempting to comfort myself. Because I was confused and angry and scared. The order in my Universe was shaken. In my Universe intelligent, funny, compassionate, kind, spirited, inspirational people who take take of their health and have zero family history of breast cancer do not get breast cancer. Period. There are only a few reasons I survived puberty and evolved to adulthood. Judy Blume is one of those factors. She's accessible, real, and unlike other authors young girls like me like to read - Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder, for instance - she's very much alive. Girls like me need someone like Judy Blume in order for our species to evolve. So. She's going to be fine. She will be fine. Still. Order has not been restored. The mere fact that it happened at all was enough to unhinge the safe places in my psyche. To say I was angry at the Universe for this injustice is a gross understatement. To say that I thought, "Yeah, there's a God, all right, and He's mean and vindictive and just plain cruel. Evolution wouldn't mutate genes to harm a leader and savior of females of a certain type, evolution would see to it that the leader would survive, thrive and evolve. God, on the other hand...God does some mean shit in the name of 'teaching lessons.'"

September 14. Frankie called me at the crack of dawn. We live in vastly different time zones, we Skype once a week or so, and there are phone calls at odd hours, so I didn't think anything of seeing her name appear on my phone. I had to deal with an issue with my mother, and the morning news was showing the Middle East behaving nuttier than normal, so I let the call go to voice mail. I thought, "I'll Skype her later, when we can solve the problems in the Middle East and share our thoughts on the virtues of Indiana Jones versus Rick Deckard and when, oh when, will Bladerunner be issued on IMAX?" Call me a horrible friend, but I didn't even listen to her voice mail. I just thought, "I'll Skype her in a few hours."

I'll have to live with that lapse in judgment forever.

Turns out it wasn't Frankie calling. It was Benjy calling from Fankie's phone. I found this out several hours later when I got a text from Benjy asking me to call him.

Yadda yadda yadda Frankie started bleeding, profusely, during the night, and it wasn't "period kind of bleeding." Benjy, being a guy, didn't really understand how us girls can tell the difference between "period kind of bleeding" and "not period kind of bleeding" and seemed to be stuck on this point, fixated on it, unable to get past the fact that Frankie (his wife), or any other woman for that matter, is a) capable of bleeding in ways other than "period kind of bleeding" and b) that we can discern the difference. (If more boys read Judy Blume books there might not be quite so much confusion and mystery between the sexes...not that men will ever understand what really happens "down there," and  but Judy's books could be a bridge to understanding why the female psyche is so closely related to that part of female anatomy.)

The fact, though, is that "we" were way, way, way past the point of classifying types of blood that spew from a vagina. By the time I called Benjy, Frankie had been admitted to a hospital and was undergoing emergency surgery...and all indications were that cancer was the root source of the issue. Cancer + anything remotely anatomically female = bad situation.

Many phone calls and several hours later it was confirmed. Cancer. My friend has cancer. My intelligent, funny, compassionate, spirited, adventurous, kind, goofy friend who takes exceptionally good care of herself (rarely has a need to see a doctor other than for a yearly checkup and has never even spent a night in a hospital) and has no family history of cancer has...cancer.

Confusion, anger, fear and far too many questions that all lead to one issue: Why? What evolutionary role does giving Frankie cancer play in the timeline of the Universe? We need more women like her to set examples for other women and girls and the Universe does this? Really?

And then it hit me,  déjà vu. Except it wasn't just a feeling this already happened. It really did already happen. I had the same confusion, anger, fear and questions 9 days prior when I read about Judy Blume's breast cancer. And that's when I figured it out, that's when I understood what it is about Frankie that endeared me to her the second I met her: She's my real life Judy Blume. We don't just share the experience of having read Judy's books as young girls, she, being a few years older than I am, is, and has been, my personal real-life Judy Blume. She's forged the path for me, showed me and shared with me previews of what's to come in life. We joke that we're the sisters we never had (we both have flesh and blood sisters), but now I realize a key component to why I feel such a strong kinship with her. She is the embodiment of the kind and funny and wiser friend that spun ripping yarns that inspired, consoled and educated me when I was a little girl. I desperately wanted to tell Frankie this, but of course I couldn't because she was zonked out in recovery.

And now, though, I'm plagued with, "My friend has cancer. What's the right thing to say? Or not say? If I tell her my Judy Blume coincidence and revelation will she think I'm trivializing her state of affairs? Yesterday, before either of us knew she had cancer I could have told her that revelation and we would have discussed and dissected it and laughed about it and laughed at ourselves for dissecting it. But now...well...now everything's different. Because my friend has cancer."

I'm fairly certain she won't want it to be a defining point, a trait lumped in with her blue eyes and fondness for brussels sprouts, but, it is a fact of her life, now. And it turns out it has been a fact of her life for a while. Back on that halcyon day a few weeks ago, we were all oblivious to the cancer cells waging a war inside her. But it was happening and it seems to weird to think while we were laughing and talking as if nothing was wrong, cancer was attacking her. It didn't define her then and it shouldn't now, but...now we know and she's enduring a lot of physical trauma and so, yes, it's part of her definition, now.

I know I have to get all of this out of my system so that I can be a better friend for her, one who's prepared and stable and not angry, confused and scared. In most ways I'm grateful that there was no test, waiting for test results, more tests, diagnosis, planning surgery precursor. It was just crash, bang wallop, you have cancer and we're removing everything in the general vicinity of the cancer and we'll start talking about radiation and chemo in a few days when other doctors have reviewed the pathology. There it is. Deal with it. Now. Frankie's a spontaneous and decisive person, not one who needs time to plan, so it's fitting it would happen like this.

I'm perversely grateful (and I hate myself for this and question what kind of horrible human being I am because of this) for the timeline of these specific events. I can't know how I would have reacted/felt had I not had the Judy Blume cancer experience prior to my friend's cancer emergency, but I can say I have already drawn strength from that one blog post Judy Blume wrote about her breast cancer.

I had a moment of clarity, "Okay. Well, this sucks, but, Frankie, as Judy Blume dealt with breast cancer, so shall you deal with whatever the heck cancer you have. The woman got us through periods, sex and boys, and she'll get us through cancer, too."

It happened. Deal with it. Maintain some dignity, stay true to yourself and find the humor in it. All lessons we've learned from Judy Blume.

Everything happens for a reason, there is order in the Universe. And that means taking the good with the bad. There's a food chain, an ordered nutrition system, which makes perfect sense but also means some really cute small animals are appetizers for a bigger animal. Very unfair. But very orderly. That's the rationale, I guess, and it does abate some of the confusion, but it doesn't assuage the anger and fear.





*I argue that even outside influences are part of evolution: A drug addict makes a choice to try drugs which are widely known to be addictive and either doesn't care about becoming an addict or believes s/he is above addiction, smarter than addiction, stronger and the one person who can enjoy the drug without becoming addicted.  So, low IQ, depression and ego are the core issues, which are part of nature's way of thinning the herd. "You're mentally unfit for the herd because you are unable to make healthy choices for your body." (This does call the likes of Keith Richards into query: What's going on in his DNA that allows him to survive and survive and survive?

Coincidences...ironies...is it even worth remarking on them? I usually think not, but every now and then the Universe sees fit to hit us over the head with them. Things that make you go "huh." Or "Huh?"