December
2007
By Douglas Kent,
Email: doug of
whiningkentpigs.com or diplomacyworld
of yahoo.com
On the web at http://www.whiningkentpigs.com – or
go directly to the Diplomacy section at http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/. Also be sure to visit the new Diplomacy
World website at http://www.diplomacyworld.net
All Eternal Sunshine readers are encouraged
to join the free Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group at http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/
to stay up-to-date on any subzine news or errata.
Quote Of The Month – “I’m not a
stalker. You’re the one who talked to
me, remember?” (Joel in “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”)
Welcome
to the special honeymoon issue of Eternal Sunshine, the Diplomacy subzine anxiously awaiting the wide release of “Romance and
Cigarettes” so we can go see Kate Winslet dance
around in a red vinyl dress. Okay,
granted, that doesn’t have anything to do with a honeymoon, but so what? If you don’t like it, got start your own subzine!
Plenty
of people have told me how backwards I am, which is all the more reason why I’m
treating you to the story of our recent honeymoon before I ever give you the
detailed story of the wedding itself!
Actually, the reason is pretty simple: we don’t have all the wedding
pictures back yet! I’d rather tell the
story (however much of it might be interesting anyway) when I have the photos
to illustrate the scenes when necessary.
So instead I skipped ahead to the honeymoon, where we took our own
photos (and where photos are not as necessary to describe the events).
Besides
that, you get more of the usual foolishness this issue. I’m still trying to fill my Diplomacy opening,
with two spots left (assuming all those who signed up are still
interested). I’m also offering a Gunboat
7X7 tournament, on a whim. If you’d like
to try that let me know. I haven’t
decided how much of the results would appear here, and how much by email or
flyer.
This
issue also includes another written narrative, in this case the story of one of
the worst days of my life. For whatever
reason I felt the urge to write about it back before the wedding, maybe to
purge it from my mind before I took the plunge and got married again. I don’t know.
Regardless, I think I need to return to the subject of prison in my
writing projects, because I am really hoping to collect some of these pieces
(and those not yet completed) with an eye towards having them published in book
form. And I don’t mean self-published
vanity press, I mean finding a literary agent and
approaching major publishers. Then later
I can write about other topics. But
since I have a lot of prison material compiled already, that
seems to be the subject I could most easily build on to get enough
material. Plus, many of you have told me
how interesting you’ve found my pieces.
Oh, which reminds me, if there is a particular aspect of prison you
would like to know more about, let me know; perhaps I can use that as
inspiration for another narrative.
Hmm, not sure what else to tell you. Married life is wonderful, Heather is the
most incredible woman in the universe, and I can’t begin to imagine why the
heck she puts up with me. I’ve been
working too hard lately, but it sound like that is a universal condition these
days. I keep hoping to catch my breath,
only to get sucker-punched in the stomach when I start to see the light at the
end of the tunnel. Still, I come home to
a beautiful soul mate and two loving cats every night…even if Toby is only
loving half the time, and the other half he wants to climb up my leg like I’m a
rock wall, using his claws as his climbing pins…and even if Tigger likes to be
left alone most of the time, preferring to whine for attention only at the
least convenient moments. Enjoy your
holidays, and most likely you’ll see the next issue of Eternal Sunshine just
before the New Year. Which
reminds me, the new Joe Jackson CD comes out on January 8th. And you thought you had nothing to look
forward to in 2008, didn’t you? How
wrong you were!
The
Honeymoon
Two
weeks before our wedding, there was still some question as to whether or not we
were going to have a honeymoon at all.
The problem wasn’t paying for one (a modest one anyway), or getting the
time off of work, or even getting my travel permission from my Probation
Officer. Instead, the problem was
Heather’s injured ankle. Swollen, bruised,
terribly painful, and requiring crutches, it didn’t seem like travelling to a
small Texas town like Jefferson to enjoy old Victorian houses, a walking ghost
tour, and local shops was a particularly doable plan.
I
was certainly disappointed, but to be honest I was more
unhappy for Heather. The first
time she’d been married there was no honeymoon whatsoever. As a matter of fact, Heather had very little
say in anything regarding that marriage, including the ceremony. It took all of her efforts to keep her fiancée Joe from wearing “a nice pair of jeans” as his
wedding outfit. Which is why I convinced
her to go ahead with the idea of a real wedding in the first place; I wanted
this wedding to fit her ideas and her personality exactly. It didn’t matter what conventional wisdom
demanded – I wanted her to do things HER way.
Which is exactly what we did: from the Halloween date, to all the spooky
decorations, to the plastic spiders Heather’s daughter Bailey sprinkled along
with the rose petals, to our standing in the opposite positions during the
ceremony (I was on the left), the wedding was Heatheresque
in every detail.
My
desire was that the honeymoon could fit that bill as well, which is the main
reason we chose Jefferson, Texas as our destination. Long regarded as a hotspot for ghosts and
unexplained sights, this little bed and breakfast town includes some nice
antique shops, a number of old Victorian homes, and a quaint and generally
quiet downtown…plus it carries with it the slow and friendly atmosphere which
is specific to Texas country living.
Aside from all of that, Heather’s mother had stayed in Jefferson years
ago, and ever since then Heather has dreamed of being able to enjoy some time
there herself. This honeymoon was
supposed to be the realization of those dreams.
For
me, I was just happy that Heather hadn’t broken anything, or been put into a
huge cast. That would have been too
reminiscent of my first marriage and accompanying honeymoon. When Mara and I were wed, she had been in the
hospital with a nasty attack of Crohn’s Disease up to two days before the
wedding. The only way she was able to
make it to the ceremony was for the doctors to pump her full of IV cortisone
steroids (a common treatment for Crohn’s).
Then the honeymoon itself became a big disaster, with Mara being terribly
ill combined with the nightmare of poor service and problems when we arrived at
the lodge in the Pocono Mountains where we had planned to stay. I detailed the story for my Diplomacy zine
subscribers at the time, but I think one brief scene illustrates the type of
experience we had: our private cabin had its own indoor pool, in a separate
room. It also had a huge wasp nest in
the corner of that room. When I called
the front desk to complain, they made sure to act on the problem: within thirty
minutes, one of their employees knocked on our door and gave us our own
personal can of wasp spray, then turned and walked away. You shouldn’t be surprised to learn that we
checked out an hour later, and spent the rest of the honeymoon in a local hotel
(with Mara’s illness being a continued problem throughout).
Enough
about the past, let’s return to the present.
As the wedding approached it seemed like Heather’s ankle was doing a bit
better. Walking was going to be limited,
but we both felt pretty confident that we’d be able to spend at least a few
hours enjoying the downtown area. We had
made reservations for a room at the Claiborne House, one of the Jefferson-area
bed and breakfasts we’d found on the internet.
Our room had actually been reserved almost six months in advance, so it
seemed a shame to waste it. Fortunately,
as luck would have it, we’d selected the only room they had on the first floor
of the house – mainly because of the working fireplace (in case the weather was
cool enough) and the two-person whirlpool tub.
The drive from Dallas would only be in the area of three hours, so
Heather gave us the green light, and the honeymoon plans stayed in effect.
Because
our wedding didn’t end until 10pm, and because we then had to pack up all of
our Halloween wedding decorations and have them out of the house so they could
use it for an upcoming function, we chose to make our honeymoon schedule begin
the following morning. The idea was that
we’d sleep in a bit, pack, take the cats to the vet to be boarded for two
nights, and then drive on to Jefferson from there. If we left home by noon, even with Dallas
traffic and possible construction (which always seems to be going on somewhere
on the interstate) we’d arrive at The Claiborne House no later than 4pm. Of course, considering Heather was either 23
or 27 minutes late for our first date (the exact time still being disputed
between us), I never expected to actually leave by noon. Not a big deal though – the schedule was
pretty open.
A
few days before the wedding, however, we did alter those plans slightly, as we
decided not to bring Tigger to the vet at all, but instead to leave her at home
alone for the two days we’d be away. She
gets to frantic and upset in the car, and when she’s out of her element, we
simply felt the risk of her being here by herself was less than that of
boarding her for two nights. Toby, on
the other hand, was another matter altogether.
There was simply to way we could leave him home alone. He gets in way too much mischief, and being a
total piglet I don’t see a way we could have left out enough food and water for
both cats. Plus, we wanted to get Toby
implanted with a microchip in case he ever takes an unplanned vacation when
we’re not watching. At least that way
there’s a chance we’d get him back!
Thursday
morning we were late getting out of the house, but overall things went
fine. Minutes before we left we got a
call from the bed and breakfast, asking about the special candlelight dinner we
had reserved. I had failed to specify
whether we wanted it on the first night of our visit (as I’d actually planned),
or the second night. Elaine, one of the
owners of The Claiborne House (and the one preparing the mal) was just getting
over a chest cold and was hoping we preferred the second night. As it happened, Heather had changed her mind about Thursday anyway, and we agreed Friday
would work best for everyone. So that
bit of uncertainty was quickly settled.
Next, it was time for a stop at the vet.
Dropping Toby off was a bit emotional, since Heather and I are both big
babies and spoil the cats rotten. This
was the first time we’d been away from him since we adopted him, and Toby is a
VERY affectionate cat. I was concerned
that he’d be very scared while boarded, or else that he’d think we had left him
for good. After all, he had been in the
care of the animal rescue group for who knows how long before we adopted him,
so he might remember that experience. I
probably have a tendency to humanize my pet’s actions beyond reality, but so
what?
Traffic
on the way to Jefferson was much worse than I expected, almost exclusively due
to construction. I’ve never seen drivers
like those in Texas: the simple concept of merging two lanes into one is beyond
their comprehension. You’d think they’d
never seen a zipper before! So even
though the actual number of vehicles on the road was rather small, in numerous
locations we hit backups which snaked for more than a mile where two lanes
merged into one – despite the merges being announced by multiple signs miles in
advance. Just another fun aspect to
driving in Texas…almost as much fun as watching so many Texas drivers race off
the interstate, over the medians and shoulders, and onto the service roads in
an attempt to get around these merge fiascos.
And I don’t just mean those who drive big SUV’s or trucks…it isn’t
unusual to see an occasional Ford Taurus or Kia Rio make the same maneuver!
When
we reached the Jefferson area, just north of Marshall on US 59, it became clear
that Yahoo and Mapquest had some less-than-accurate
ideas about how the local streets were laid out. We were supposed to turn right onto a Walker
Street, but no such road existed as far as we could tell. I’m terrific at reading a map, but without
one I’m basically blind, so it took two phone calls to Elaine before we found
our way there. Since we had never stayed
at a bed and breakfast before, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but the
initial view of the exterior and interior of the house suggested we were in for
a very pleasant stay.
The
house itself was built in 1872, although there are now two additional buildings
in the back – one containing the day spa, and the other a carriage house with
two guest rooms inside. We had reserved
the Browning Room, which featured a private entrance on the side of the house. This proved to be another stroke of luck, as
it made it much easier for the hobbled Heather to make it in and out of the
house. Incidentally, if you’d like to
see more details of the Claiborne House, perhaps with a mind towards staying
there, check out their web site at http://claibornehousebnb.com/ - and as long
as you are there, it’s probably a smart idea to read the travelling directions
they have posted there. If I’d bothered
to do that, I wouldn’t have gotten lost in the first place! Don’t forget to mention you heard about them
from Heather and myself. It won’t save you any money or anything, but
at least she’ll take pity on you, realizing that anybody who is a friend of
mine probably NEEDS a vacation!
Elaine
met us at the front door and gave us a tour of the downstairs. We had to skip the upstairs because the
staircase is l-o-n-g and Heather simply didn’t want to chance
it. But from what we were able to see,
the house was beautiful. The striking
red walls, the classic furniture, the gorgeous red or cobalt blue
glassware...it had a marvelous feel to it, and it was clear that Elaine and her
husband Steve (who was away on a business trip) had put a lot of work and a lot
of love into the home. I was quite
surprised to learn they had cable television and wireless internet within the
house for the use of the guests! I was
going to enjoy the romantic aspects of the bed and breakfast, but those modern
conveniences were simply welcome bonuses we would greatly appreciate.
It
was already 6pm by the time we had unpacked and settled into our room, and
since Heather was obviously unable to participate in something like a walking
tour of the haunted Jefferson homes, we figured the best plan was to go grab a
bite to eat and then return to the room for the night. Might as well make use of the canopied bed
and the two-person whirlpool tub right away!
Heather wanted some home-style cooking, so Elaine suggested a casual bar
and restaurant downtown which had a reputation of being a favorite among
locals. It wasn’t hard to find, and we
had no complaints with what we found.
The portions were ample, the food tasty, and the prices reasonable. Service was rather slow, but I figured that
was more just the relaxed pace of country life.
We split some fried mushrooms, and while I ate a juicy burger, Heather
enjoyed chicken-fried chicken with country gravy, along with the Texas staples
of mashed potatoes and green beans.
Satisfied, we returned to our room where we relaxed for the
evening. Heather was happy to realize
the water jets in the tub were rather therapeutic for her injured ankle too!
Friday
morning we slept in a bit, and then enjoyed a delicious breakfast in the dining
room. Elaine had prepared strawberry
soup, bacon, orange juice, an egg dish with peppers, and some delicious
rolls. There were also some dangerous
tiny cinnamon rolls – frosted and delicate, much like the center of the bigger
version (which is, after all, the best part)!
Mmmm! I
was disappointed to realize we wouldn’t be able to stay long enough for the
Saturday breakfast, because we had to be back to the vet by noon or else Toby
would be stuck there until Monday. At
breakfast we met the only other couple who had been there Thursday night – a
pleasant married couple from the Dallas area.
I believe the gentleman was an Episcopalian minister, and his wife did
work for the church. They were only
staying for a few days too, since they needed to be back by Saturday night. I should also mention that at this meal
Heather learned one of the most important wifely duties she needs to adopt –
always check your husband before he goes out in public! It turned out I had my sweater on backwards,
which we didn’t realize until Elaine politely told me after breakfast. Poor Heather – a lifetime
with me? Shudder…
The
weather Friday was perfect for a day walking around town – breezy, sunny, and
not too warm. Heather and I spent the
day going through local shops. Some were
the garden-variety “antique” stores, stuffed with overpriced clutter of
questionable authenticity. A few had
some very nice pieces, including attractive furniture, but we’re not in the
market for anything…hard to buy things when you are tight with money and live
in a one-bedroom apartment! Then in one
candle/curio shop, Heather found a section of new clothing, all priced to move:
$7.77 per piece! Clothes
shopping was the last thing I expected to suffer through on a honeymoon
in Jefferson, but in the end she found quite a few very nice articles at
bargain prices, plus a new winter coat (not that we get much winter) and a few
gifts for the upcoming holidays.
In
another store we met Booger, a cute store cat who liked to play rough just like
our Toby. He chewed on my fingers a bit,
and then we got into an interesting (but too long) conversation with the
proprietor about life in Jefferson, renting out her second home for
vacationers, and the surplus of stray animals in the area. Breaking free of that, we enjoyed some local
barbecue, including what Heather declared was the best potato salad she had
ever tasted. In fact, she looked
positively heartbroken when she’d finished it!
Then it was back to the Claiborne House to rest and prepare for dinner. We sat on our private porch swing for a bit,
listening to nothing and holding each other, and then went inside for Heather’s
nap. She gets soooo
cranky when she’s tired!
First,
Heather went to the Claiborne’s day spa, A Touch of Class, for an hour-long
massage. I sort of had to talk her into
scheduling one, but I knew she’d enjoy it and after all, it was our
honeymoon! At first I was only going to
reserve a half hour, but Elaine showed me that they priced them specifically to
discourage that, as 30 minutes was simply not long enough for the proper
luxurious effect. I think the second 30
minutes was only like $10 more. In this
case it wasn’t the money I was concerned about, but rather I wanted to leave
Heather enough time for a proper nap too before dinner. While she had her stresses rubbed away, I
fought through all the emails which had backed up in my mailboxes. Then it was nap time!
After
a nice rest, it was almost time for dinner.
We’d scheduled this meal months in advance, and because I had no
experience with a bed and breakfast I hadn’t understood why we both had to
order the same food. Now that we were
here, I could see how difficult it would have been for Elaine to prepare
multiple meals. In fact, later on I
asked and discovered that if more than one couple wants a candlelight dinner on
the same night, the first one to order gets to select the menu. Everybody else has to agree to that menu, or
skip the meal. Having this dinner in our
room was a touch of romantic extravagance, but how many honeymoons with my soul
mate do I get anyway?
The
meal consisted of butternut squash soup (pictured), fresh rolls, a delicious spinach and walnut salad (with strawberries),
filet mignon, asparagus, and an incredible chocolate soufflé for dessert. The only problem with the meal was trying to
find a place to fit it all! Elaine was
kind enough to wrap up the bit of meat we left, so the cats could enjoy it when
we got home. Since our room had a
private fridge, there was no problem finding a place to store it until we
left. The whole meal was a delicious
feast, and I put on our wedding reception CD’s (which we had burned ourselves)
as background music. I’ll list the songs
next issue, when I give you all the details of the actual wedding…I’m waiting
until we have the photos, so I can include a few of them with the
narrative. Besides, this thing is too
long already!
In
the left side of the table photo, you’ll see the table includes a little silver
bell. This was a source of minor
amusement for me during the meal. Elaine
asked that we ring the bell as we finished each course, so she’d know to clear
one away and bring the next one. Heather
is so cute and unassuming that she did NOT feel comfortable ringing it. She actually asked Elaine if it would be okay
to get up and find her when we needed her.
Heather found the idea of ringing the bell to be too “snotty”. Elaine just laughed and said not to worry
about it. But Heather still was very
nervous about the idea. She is far too
down-to-earth to act haughty like that.
She’ll never fit into the Hollywood scene, will she? She did explain that when she used to visit
her great aunt Martha Wallis (famous actress, and wife of producer Hal Wallis)
every meal would be formal with servants, and it always made her nervous. I can’t begin o tell you how lucky I am that
this wonderful woman was foolish enough to fall in love with, and marry, a
creep like me! I definitely do not
deserve her!
After
dinner we spent some romantic time on the porch swing again, while Heather told
me all about living in the country when she was growing up, and the porch swing
they had. I never get tired of listening
to her, or learning about the things which made her the woman she is
today. Someday we want to have our own
little house, and what could be better than a big porch with a swing as part of
that? It doesn’t take a lot to make us
happy…we’ve both reached the point in our lives where the little things are all
we dream about. Besides, I already found
the most important thing – her!
Then
it was back into the tub, this time with rose petals scattered around for a
romantic effect. I bet Heather could
really get used to living in that room, but unfortunately Saturday morning we
had to leave by 8am to keep Toby from being stuck “in prison” for an extra two
days. Traffic on the way back was light,
and we made great time. Heather, of
course, slept almost the entire way.
Toby was very glad to see us, and so was Tigger…but I am sure she was
pissed off when she realized Toby was back too.
I believe she was starting to think she’d gotten rid of him for good!
I
had a wonderful time on our honeymoon, and the only thing I’d have changed
(aside from making Heather’s ankle uninjured) was to make it longer. But the good news is I am now married to the most
beautiful, charming, magical, desirable, irresistible,
sexy, enchanting, and deliciously bossy woman in the universe. If we didn’t get enough of Jefferson – which
we didn’t – all we have to do is go back for our anniversary! We’re already busy reading up on all the
things we missed the first time around!
Hmm, this seems like
an odd pairing of topics doesn’t it? But
now that I’ve given you all the details of our honeymoon, next up is the story
of the worst day of my life…I finished this upcoming narrative BEFORE the
wedding day, so I’m not brooding on the past too much. But it helps to get it out on paper,
especially since I think I may write a book about the whole relationship, and I
enjoy the feedback (positive and negative) I get from those of you who read my
work.
The
Suicide Attempt
When
my wife Mara attempted suicide in 1998, I certainly wasn’t surprised. I mean, I was shocked that she had actually
gone through with it, after years of talking about it and considering it. I wouldn’t say threatening it, because
Mara never threatened to kill herself.
It was never about anybody else; if she was going to end her life, it
was because she no longer wanted to live, not a cry for attention or a warped
method of revenge. In fact, in some
ways I know she felt that if she killed herself, she’d be doing me a favor,
freeing me to try and live a less downtrodden life. Sadly, she never saw that when you kill
yourself, the loved ones you leave behind are left with a mountain of guilt,
second-guessing, and should-haves. When
you take that mountain and top it off with the realization that the suicide was
in some ways committed for your own benefit, the mental anguish can be
overwhelming.
Mara’s
mental and physical health had been deteriorating for some time. She never wanted to do much more than lay in
bed, except for the occasional attempt at going out to dinner, which at least
one time out of four would end in a quick departure when her Crohn’s disease
would kick into high gear. My mother was
living with us at the time, as she had no place else to go after she stopped
receiving alimony. Having her around the
house didn’t make things any easier. It
was an added expense, and a source of both stress and argument. The house we were renting was never
especially clean, as I was the only one doing most of the housework, and the
five cats that lived with us could be quite a handful. Now with the garage completely filled with
boxes of my mother’s belongings, and piles of newspapers she “hadn’t read yet”
beginning to form randomly in the kitchen, the entire situation was spinning
out of control.
My
mental health was nothing to smile about either. I’d fought through some real depression over
the summer, at one point losing my appetite for a week, surviving on just black
coffee, Cran-grape, and vitamins. Mara and I had already had one tearful
conversation where I’d told her I was suffocating and needed some time to
myself at least once or twice a week…but on those occasions all I generally
would do was go out to a bar. I knew she
was genuinely concerned that I might intentionally hurt myself. It had also been over three years since we’d
had any sex; so long, in fact, that I really no longer felt sexual desire at
all. It was a very confusing
relationship, with Mara telling me that we should just live as roommates from
that point onward and I should go develop new female relationships, but staying
married so she could still be on my health insurance. But one night she’d press me on why I wasn’t
out with anyone else, and basically bullying me out of the house (sometimes
throwing things until I left). The next
night she’d accuse me of being unfaithful, as if the prior conversation had
never taken place. I didn’t know what to
do, or who to turn to.
Her
sister came down to visit for a week or so in early November, and the two of
them had gotten into a screaming fight with my mother. It was during this conversation where my
mother tried to claim that a few weeks earlier, when she’d fallen on the
sidewalk and hurt her ankle (in front of passers-by), she in fact had “tried to
kill herself by jumping off a bridge.”
By the end of the argument, my mother had basically talked herself into
a corner, threatening to move out.
Instead of being defensive and retreating, Mara demanded a deadline
she’d be out by, which turned out to be the end of the year. When I came home from work, exhausted as
usual, nobody was speaking to anybody.
Coming home was no longer something I looked forward to doing.
I
could tell things were really getting bad after Thanksgiving. I’d had the flu over the holiday, but still
cooked us a small turkey and other dishes.
Mara wasn’t showering much, or doing anything really. She’d lie in bed, dressed in underwear and
maybe a flannel nightgown, watching TV and sleeping, although sleeping was
something she usually did during the day now, unless her Crohn’s was acting
up. In that case she’d spend most of her
time in the bathroom in terrible pain, and then take two pain pills every few
hours until she was doped up enough to pass out. She refused to call her psychiatrist for
additional help, and I wasn’t sure if her weekly therapy appointments were
doing any good at all.
I’d
made up my mind one morning to call Mara’s mother in New Jersey, who I did not
care much for (and always felt the feeling was mutual) and suggest she come
down or give me some direction on how to handle things. Mara, in uncharacteristic fashion, had called
her mother, sister, and brother to talk to them. Usually she’d avoid them at all costs,
refusing to answer the phone or speak to them, even when I picked it up and
held it to her ear. So I took this as a
sign that she might be making the rounds to say goodbye or something. She hadn’t said anything specific about
suicide around me, but to be honest that in itself was a sign of bad things,
since usually the subject would come up in passing at least once a week.
When
I arrived at work that morning, there was some sort of system problem that had
to be dealt with immediately, so I lost myself in that headache for a few
hours. Once everything was up and running
again, I went to my little office (more of a windowless closet really, but
that’s another story) with a cup of coffee.
I returned two or three urgent calls from out-of-town customers who had
their own system issues, and then took a long sip of coffee and a deep breath,
preparing to call Mara’s mother.
Just
then my phone rang, and I found to my complete surprise that it was Mara’s
mother calling me instead of the other way around.
“I
was just going to call you” I said. “I
need to talk to you about Mara. She
isn’t doing well.”
“I
know,” her mother replied in a very odd voice.
“I’m here in Dallas, at the emergency room. Mara tried to kill herself.”
I
didn’t really know what to say or what to do when I heard Mara had actually
tried to kill herself, after all those years of talking about it and thinking
about it. I didn’t even bother to ask
what method she had used. I just grabbed
my coat, told two friends at work where I was going (without leaving any chance
for them to do anything in response but let their mouths drop open) and dashed
out. The hospital where they had taken
her was right down the street from my office, so it only took about two minutes
to pull into the Emergency Room parking area and get inside.
It
wasn’t until I’d had a moment to collect my thoughts in the ER that I began to
wonder how it came to pass that Mara’s mother (and her sister) were waiting for
me at the hospital. After all, they
lived in New Jersey, and they hadn’t said anything about coming to town. Once we’d hugged and I’d been updated on
Mara’s immediate condition (stable, and busy getting her stomach pumped), they
filled in all the missing details for me.
As
it turned out, Mara’s mother and sister had been operating under the same
suspicions that I had: that Mara’s behavior over the past week, especially
calling her family members and talking to them without being prodded to do so,
was both completely out of character and alarming. So the two of them decided the best way to
handle the situation was to fly down without warning Mara that they were
coming, in order to confront her and possibly get her into some kind of mental
hospital. I suppose there was a chance
of that working; my attempts to get Mara to go back into the hospital had been
summarily rejected, but often Mara could be swayed by her parents or
sister…partially out of guilt, and partially because she so desperately craved
a more meaningful and understanding relationship with her family, and to have
them take a selfless interest in her well-being like this was sure to mean a
lot to her. Whether it would have meant
enough to act on their wishes, or whether she would have simply waited a few
days for them to leave and then proceed with her plan anyway, we will never
know.
For
whatever reason, they chose not to tell me about the visit in advance
either. I can’t really blame them, as I
have no way of knowing now whether back then I would have allowed my sense of
loyalty to Mara (especially when it came to her family) to reveal their plans
so she could mentally prepare herself.
Arriving at the airport, the two of them rented a car and drove out to
the house we had been renting. Knocking
at the door, they were greeted by my mother, who neither of them had met in
person before. Well, “greeted” is a
polite way to put it. When my mother
opened the door, they introduced themselves.
The
conversation was very brief. I’m told it
went something like this: they explained that they were Mara’s mother and
sister. Then they asked my mother how
she was. She grunted and said “Alive,”
walked to her bedroom, and closed the door.
That was the last they saw of her during the time they were at the
house.
Left
alone, the two of them went into our bedroom, where they found Mara asleep on
the bed. They tried to wake her and discovered
she was terribly groggy. Noticing an
empty bottle on pills on the bed next to her, they asked Mara if she had taken
anything. She admitted that she’d taken
the entire bottle of Xanax (maybe 20 pills), and had
planned on taking a full bottle of 90 Darvocet as well,
but passed out before she’d had time.
Four suicide notes were left on the other side of the bed: one to her
parents, one to her brother, one to her sister, and one to me.
They
frantically called an ambulance. When
the paramedics arrived, Mara was still able to walk to the stretcher under her
own power. They raced to the hospital,
where they took Mara in to pump her stomach, and Mara’s mother called me at
work. It was a tremendous stroke of luck
that they’d happened to choose that particular day to fly down, because
otherwise there was little or no chance that she would have been found until I
came home from work that afternoon. By
that time, I’m sure it would have been too late.
As
we sat in the waiting room, the inevitable questions and recriminations
started. I had learned to expect and
deal with these sorts of conversations from Mara’s family. Of course, I already felt guilty enough as it
was. After all, the woman I had
basically devoted my entire life to caring for and making happy was lying in
the other room having a bottle of pills pumped out of her stomach. What better illustration could there be of my
complete and utter failure in every regard?
But I still didn’t need the third degree from these people, especially
when in my opinion they’d never done anything to help the situation. When we were married (or before) Mara had
become *my* problem. The family’s place
was to sit back and offer criticism whenever they felt it was necessary.
“Why
haven’t you done anything to help her?”
“Why wasn’t she in the hospital?”
“How could you let it come to this?”
“Why didn’t you see this coming?”
“Why hasn’t she lost any weight?”
“Why why why why why why
why why why
why why?” Pretty soon that’s all I could hear. A never-ending barrage of whys, each one
pointed directly at me, the guilty one, the worthless one, the useless one, the
failure, the one who was never good enough for their daughter and sister. All those titles slapped on my back, with a
new one added for the occasion, in flashing neon: attempted murderer.
And
as if things weren’t bad enough for me, the worst was yet to come. I was about to discover that, just like with
every other physical ailment she’d suffered through, the process of pumping
Mara’s stomach and cleaning her system out was going to be far more complicated
than anyone imagined. Whenever we heard
that “99% of people” experienced things a certain way, we both knew that Mara
would turn out to be in the other 1% - as long as the 1% was a *bad*
thing. That trend was going to continue.
My
years with Mara had given me quite a bit of experience with medical
matters. I was now an expert in the uses
and side effects of many prescription drugs, as well as fully knowledgeable in
how they interacted with each other.
Chronic headaches, migraines, blood disorders, and mental problems (both
psychological and chemical in nature) were as commonplace topics to me as the
weather or football scores. And, not to
be left out, intestinal problems and bowel habits had for years been an
involuntary subject of focus in my amateur studies.
But
now I was about to get an education in a number of other medical areas.
To
begin with, after pumping her stomach, Mara’s lungs were not operating at full
strength. The doctors were not exactly
sure why, although they suspected it was the sedative properties of the pills
she had taken. In fact, alarmingly,
that lung function seemed to be getting worse, not better, over time. Mara would not completely come around from
her drugged state. Receiving her
nourishment through an IV, we were allowed to give her ice chips, which was the
only word she seemed able to speak on those occasions when she opened her
eyes. “Chips, chips” she would whisper
like a mantra, but the staff would only allow us to give her a few at a
time. Otherwise, we tried to keep her
lips moist with a sponge-like tip on a plastic stick, kept in a glass of cold
water. While much of this period seems
like a terrible, vague nightmare to me, I do have clear visions of the three of
us (and Mara’s brother, who flew down to join us) giving her ice chips and
wetting her lips. I know that Mara’s
father flew to Texas too, but strangely I don’t remember him being at the
hospital even though I am certain he was there.
The
initial problem, aside from how unresponsive Mara was, was her
temperature. Mara started with a
low-grade fever and it rose until is hovered around 102, sometimes higher. Despite days of trying whatever they could
think of, this fever refused to dissipate.
The doctors couldn’t find any sign of infection, and they simply could
find no explanation for the fever. But
it wasn’t helping matters.
Things
should have been going better, but they weren’t. Mara was burning up, she wasn’t responding
properly, she seemed basically immobile, and her lungs were not getting
stronger. They decided at one point it
was necessary to insert a breathing tube because her oxygen levels were not
high enough. This didn’t sound like such
a terrible thing to me, until it was explained that the longer she was getting
assistance with her breathing, the weaker her lungs would actually become. Like any other part of the body, having
someone else move them for you wasn’t nearly as effective as being able to move
them yourself. I tried my best not to
worry about the long-term aspects of this, since there was so much to be
concerned about right on front of us.
I
think the problems with Mara’s fever went on for about a week or longer. The doctors tried two different types of
antibiotics in case the problem was an undetected internal infection, and none
of them showed any result. Finally a
young doctor came up with the unorthodox idea of giving Mara some
nitroglycerine medication (the type they give to heart patients). His theory was this would open her system up
and allow her body to expel the fever through her skin, since he believed the
reason the fever would not come down was Mara was skin not properly opening its
pores (or something like that).
Miraculously, this seemed to work, and Mara’s fever finally
dropped. Things were starting to
improve.
With
the stabilization of her fever, Mara was become more conscious and was able to
react to us when she was awake. It was
at this point that the doctors gave us some more news we didn’t want to
hear. Mara’s lungs were still not able
to breathe properly on their own, but the breathing tube was only meant to be a
temporary measure. In order to minimize
any internal damage, and to make it easier to wean her off the breathing
assistance, it was necessary to remove the tube and replace it with a
tracheotomy. This didn’t sound so
terrible to me, until the doctors explained that they were not sure if this
tracheotomy could be reversed at a later date.
In other words, Mara might have to have a tracheotomy tube (or hole) for
a long period, or perhaps for the rest of her life.
While
this was not the worst moment in the entire nightmare for me, it was one of
them. I don’t remember Mara’s mother,
who was alone with me when we got this news, ever let her guard down and her
emotions show more completely then right then.
Crying, choking, and looking utterly lost and helpless, she fell
apart. Obviously she was trying to build
hope within herself that Mara could recover from this not just physically, but
mentally, and learn to love life. “How
can we look at Mara and tell her that things are going to be worse for her now
than they ever were? She’ll just want to
kill herself all over again.”
I
didn’t have an answer. I’d been trying
not to think of the future at all, because deep down I did not believe that
this experience was going to convince Mara that life was suddenly worth
living. In my mind, while I wanted to
imagine she’d climb out of this hole and begin to look at life in a whole new
way, I figured Mara would have only one long-term response to this suicide
attempt: next time she would plan it better to make sure nobody could stop her.
We
were determined that regardless of how we really felt, everyone around Mara
would make an attempt to act positive once she started coming around. Now that her fever was under control, and her
breathing was better (for the time being) because of the tracheotomy, we felt
she was finally stabilized and ready to move forward. By this time, she had spent a good week or
longer in ICU. Whether it was simply due
to my utterly hopeless mental state, or simply because I had learned the hard
way that life could always get worse, I tried to prepare myself for the next
disaster. There had to be one coming;
there always was.
In
the meantime, I was forcing myself to continue through life day by day. When I came home around midnight the evening
Mara attempted suicide, my mother was still awake. She did not come out and ask me how Mara was
doing, or why she’d left in an ambulance.
She didn’t ask me the next day either.
In fact, she never asked; she never said a word about anything. Instead, about ten days later I came home to
find she had left. Plenty of her
belongings were left behind, but my mother had moved out as she’d promised
Mara. In fact, in her suicide note to
me, Mara had specifically asked that I make sure my mother lived up to that
promise. I hadn’t intended to, but she
made that decision for me.
Mara’s
mother had been staying at a nearby Residence Inn, and now she checked out of
there and moved into my mother’s old room for the time being. I didn’t care – I was rarely home. If I wasn’t at work (where I’d be six days a
week, for a total of sixty hours) or at the hospital, I was getting drunk,
spending time with the friends who could tolerate my presence considering what
I was going through, or leaning on a woman who I had started feeling more than
friendship for. She didn’t have a real
understanding of the nature of my marriage of convenience, and that always made
me feel worse even when I was trying to feel better. It just seemed way too complicated to
explain, so during those periods when the relationship was more than
friendship, I played it off as if we were sneaking around behind Mara’s back,
when in fact she was the one who had demanded I find companionship
elsewhere. During the time Mara was in
the hospital, though, it was all she or anyone else could do to keep me from
killing myself or someone else. How I
got through this time without a complete nervous breakdown in beyond me. Instead I survived, and beat myself up with
guilt for doing so whenever I get a chance.
To
top it off, financially we were in a horrible mess. The only way I was able to continue paying
the minimum payments on all of our credit cards was to apply for new ones, or
take cash advances from those which offered them. Whenever possible I’d pay for meals or
clothes or anything else for friends, charging the purchases and getting some
cash back to help pay the other bills.
Mara and I had talked about bankruptcy a number of times, but we’d never
thrown in the towel and done it, and now I couldn’t face that nightmare while I
was busy with this one. So I tried to
ignore the problem, and when I couldn’t I’d drink it away.
Back
at the hospital, as Mara spent more time awake each day, doctors were
confronted with a new riddle: her immobility.
She seemed barely able to move anything on her own except her head and
neck. This was when they discovered
(don’t ask me how) that during the “gastric lavage” –
a fancy term for pumping somebody’s stomach – Mara must have had a rare
reaction to the paralytic drug she was given.
I can’t recall all the details, but I know they now expected her to
require quite a bit of physical therapy before she’d be able to use her arms
and legs properly again. Walking was
going to be difficult, but would eventually come back. In addition, her muscle tone was worse than
ever simply from being bedridden so long.
We
didn’t tell Mara any of these specifics.
Instead, we simply told her that she’d get her strength back over
time. At least she was talking and
communicating. Not surprisingly, she was
very unhappy that she woke up at all, much less in a hospital ICU with an IV
and a tracheotomy. She seemed particularly
bitter that I hadn’t somehow stopped her relatives from saving her. In fact, I think she suspected I’d told them
to come to Texas in the first placed.
And, as usual, she cursed her terrible luck (from her point of
view). When we were alone, she would
rattle off a number of other recent times she had considered killing
herself. “Why did I have to choose the
one day my mother and sister came to rescue me.” Mara didn’t view it as a sign that she was
meant to live. To her, it was a sign
that she had been cursed.
Obviously,
this suicide attempt was not one to be referred to as a “cry for help.”
Eventually,
Mara’s physical state had improved enough that the hospital wanted to move her
out of the ICU and onto the floor which focused on respiratory issues. The main problem the doctors needed to deal
with at this point was the state of Mara’s lungs. It would take time and treatment for them to
build up proper strength. Once they’d
done that, they could focus on more aggressive physical therapy to enable her
to walk again and move properly; that would likely take place at a different
facility. In the meantime, it was felt
that after more than three weeks in ICU, it was safe to transfer Mara upstairs.
Mara’s
mother and I were very anxious about this move.
The nurses in the ICU had been tremendous, not just in terms of Mara’s
medical needs, but also the incredible emotional support they’d given all of
us. A suicide attempt, a *real* one, is
such a traumatic experience. When
someone gives up on life, the guilt which is spread around can make you
consider – in a warped way – that making the same choice could end your
emotional pain as well. For me, it was
all I could do to face myself in the mirror each morning. Between my own self loathing, and the guilt
which I saw heaped upon me by Mara’s family and the faces of others, this was
my fault, 100%. I had failed Mara in
every way possible, and I had driven her to this. Wipe away her mental illness, her years of
sexual abuse, her physical suffering through Crohn’s Disease and horrific
migraines; in my mind, I had willed this to happen, I had failed to stop it, I
was at best an accomplice and at worst I was guilty of attempted murder. At the same time, I had to carry the guilt
from Mara’s side, of not being able to somehow allow her to die, condemning her
to continue her miserable life.
If
I hadn’t been so terrified of the idea of death and non-existence, I surely
would have killed myself. Well, there
was also the gnawing realization that in doing so, I might inflict on my family
the same thing which was being inflicted on me.
That was the last thing I wanted to do.
Besides, I was too damn tired to kill myself, and in my convoluted
thinking, suicide would be akin to letting me off the hook. If I was as terrible a person as I now
believed myself to be, the act of living would be much more painful than silent
nothingness. Death was too easy. I deserved to live, and suffer, and be
miserable.
Despite
our objections, Mara was transferred up to the respiratory floor. She was still on a feeding tube, and she had
an oxygen monitor clipped to her finger at all times to make sure her oxygen
level was adequate. The trache tube was still present, staring me in the face every
time I looked at her. And now that her
lungs had begun to be used, they were slowly emptying themselves of the mucous
and debris which had collected there.
Coughing fits would be followed by globs of mucous clogging in the trache opening.
There was a suction machine next to Mara’s bed, with a long wand
attached, and we were encouraged to assist by suctioning out mucous if we saw
it collected there.
In
the meantime, there were other physical and cosmetic issues which I didn’t want
to deal with. Mara was developing some
minor bedsores on the back of her head, where clumps of hair were falling
out. I would try to remove the hair as
cleverly as possible, but Mara would sometimes notice and get terribly
upset. I tried to reassure her, but in
the meantime all I could wonder was what sort of terrible bedsores she might be
developing elsewhere, such as her back and her butt. Since she was basically immobile still,
barely able to lift her hands or wiggle her feet, there was no way for her to
lie on one side or the other. With all
her weight on her back, 24 hours a day, I knew it couldn’t be a pretty sight.
I
don’t envy the jobs of nurses. They do a
ton of work, deal with sick, miserable, cranky people all day long, and are
usually shorthanded and understaffed.
Unable to make necessary medical decisions without a doctor present,
they are usually treated as second class citizens. Despite years of training, they spend a good
deal of their time emptying bedpans or completing other disgusting and non-technical
functions. Mara’s father was a doctor,
which meant that for some unclear reason, doctors who had met her father would
act more naturally around us then they would other patients. This included yelling or berating nurses
without hesitation, which led me to believe than many doctors are simply
assholes with God complexes.
Yet
in numerous cases, I’ve had to witness how those nurses who develop a negative
attitude, or who numb themselves to the chaos around them, simply become
uncaring or lazy – or both. Mara’s
sister had done work as a blood tech, and would horrify us with stories of
nurses refusing to check on patients who were buzzing their nurse call buttons
because “he is rude” or “she buzzes too much” or even “she won’t turn off the
TV when I am talking to her.” Once, when
a patient in one of the New Jersey hospitals where her father was on staff,
Mara became seriously ill because a nurse hadn’t given her any of a critical
medication for over twelve hours, simply because she was too careless to look
at her chart and see that the medication list continued on the second
page. If the error hadn’t been caught
when a doctor wanted to change the dosage, she might have died.
So
on December 23rd, when I
walked into Mara’s room after work to visit her and found her oxygen monitor
alarm screeching, I was not really surprised at the lack of attention it was
being given. I could see immediately
that the clip had simply slipped from Mara’s finger, and when I reattached it
the machine registered normal oxygen levels and quieted down. Mara explained that the thing had been going
off like that for nearly an hour, but nobody had been in to check on her. Meanwhile, the nurse call button, which had
been clipped to her dressing gown, has slipped as well and was now dangling off
the bed. Unable to push the button, and
incapable of yelling, Mara had been forced to lie there and listen to the
machine scream bloody murder until I showed up.
In
some ways, the relationship between patient and nurse can be similar to that of
inmate and prison staff. As a patient
(or inmate), you are not free to take care of yourself. You rely on the staff to do certain things
for you, and when problems arise you have to decide if it is important enough
to bring to their attention. If you
complain or cause “trouble” too often, you’re generally ignored and suffer for
it. Likewise, because they have all the
power, you cannot afford to make enemies of them even when you are being
mistreated. Basically, you have to suck
up to them and thank them for doing their jobs.
Sure, there are some who treat you better, who care about your
well-being, and those make up for the rest.
But when you get stuck with a hard-ass, there isn’t a lot you can
do. If you make an issue of their job
performance, even if you are in the right, you’ll likely earn the disdain of
their co-workers…and suffer for it in the end.
With
that in mind, I went and found a nurse and tried to discuss the situation with
the blood monitor. In my mind, the
doctor would not have ordered its use if he hadn’t thought it was
important. Instead, I had to listen to
the nurse complain about how the clip kept falling off of Mara’s finger, and
what a hassle it was to go back in the room to replace it. She’d even tried to find a way to silence the
alarm, but no to avail. I tried to sound
understanding, while at the same time expressing my concern for Mara’s
well-being. I think I did a decent job,
since I wasn’t overly critical and I did not try to lay blame or complain. Since I didn’t receive any eye-rolling or
arguing or muttering under her breath, I figured I had done the best I could,
and returned to Mara’s room.
Walking
in, I found Mara undergoing a “breathing treatment.” This was something which was not only
necessary but crucial to her improvement, but which Mara found very unpleasant
and uncomfortable. Basically, the
respiratory therapist would use a huge football-shaped instrument to force air
into Mara’s lungs, expanding them as much as possible, and then Mara would be
instructed to hold that air (if she could) and then expel it. It was sort of a weightlifting session for
her withered lungs. Mara did not want to
cooperate, and she’d cry and complain and plead, but at the same time she’d
comply because she knew she needed to. I
suppose, sentenced to still being alive, Mara knew she’d be happier if she
tried to make the best of it…at least until she could attempt another escape
from the prison.
The
therapist finished the breathing treatment, packed up his stuff, and left. I sat beside Mara’s bed, wiping away her tears
and holding her hand. She was a bit
disoriented, as she always was after a treatment, so I didn’t say
anything. I just sat there and wondered
how life had gotten off track so terribly, and if things would somehow turn
around after this nightmare and begin to improve.
Just
then, Mara began to vomit. It wasn’t a
projectile Exorcist-type explosion. It
was more of a gentle burping, filling of her mouth with greenish slop (the
nourishment provided by the feeding tube).
But
there was a problem: Mara wasn’t
emptying her mouth; the mush was dribbling out onto her chin and chest, but she
couldn’t expel it and breathe, as she seemed to have fainted or something. I shouted for help and pushed the call
button. Sticking my fingers in Mara’s
mouth, I tried to clear the airway, but as soon as I would, she’d burp again
and more would come out. In the
meantime, I used the suction apparatus to clear things more fully, which would
allow Mara to get a breath or two at most before a new serving of vomit would
appear.
The
oxygen machine began to scream again, as the flinger clip had fallen off. I couldn’t get up and go for assistance
because I feared that if I left her side, Mara would choke to death on the
vomit. So I sat there, suctioning out
the green slop and calling for help in vain over the machine’s alarm. The alarm was screeching, I was yelling, the
call button was pushed, and Mara was vomiting.
And
nobody was coming.
At
the time it seemed like forever…or at least two hours. But in reality, I believe it was
approximately 45 minutes. Time and time
again Mara would vomit, and I would suction the food from her mouth and trache hole. I
couldn’t be sure if she was conscious or not, so in between calling for help I
tried to soothingly talk to her, letting her know it was going to be okay. Her eyes would open every once in a while and
stare vacantly. I noticed her skin was
becoming clammy, and her forehead was hot.
I could only assume her fever was returning.
Finally,
one of the duty nurses came into the room.
Surprisingly, her initial reaction was one of annoyance, which I figure
was because she assumed I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to be
doing. But once she surveyed the
situation and realized what was going on, she called for a few other nurses to
assist her and took charge of the chaos.
I
stood to the side, while the nurses tried to keep me out of the way. As numb as I felt, I was still very
irritated, as I found myself with the attitude of “I’m the one who kept her
alive for the last 45 minutes, and now you’re going to tell me that you know
what you’re doing?” But I watched as
they pulled the feeding tube out (at last), kept her airway clear, lowered her
body to level, and looked to get an IV into her arm.
The
one thing I *didn’t* see them doing was calling a doctor…and that really pissed
me off. Obviously, they were trying to
protect themselves and hoped to rectify this situation before I (or anyone
else) was able to draw attention to their complete failure to do their job
properly. Not that I was likely to
forget, but if “no harm was done,” they wouldn’t be open to much criticism…and
I’d be regarded as an overprotective, overemotional husband.
The
problem was Mara continued to vomit. I
could see the nurses were still trying to get the IV in, and then I imagine
they’d inject some strong anti-nausea medication to get that under
control. Unfortunately, Mara had always
had very deep and elusive veins. So they’d
jabbed her a number of times, and even thought they
had succeeded, but so far the nurses were unable to get Mara stabilized. I continued to ask that a doctor be called,
until finally one of the nurses on the sidelines took it upon herself to
quietly slip from the room and call for additional assistance.
When
the resident arrived in the room a few minutes later, he had a look of complete
shock on his face. I am sure he realized
that he should have been called in much sooner, as the whole room had been
turned upseide down, vomit was all over the place,
there were close to ten nurses running around like circus clowns climbing in
and out of a Volkswagon, and there I was backed up
near the windows looking white as a ghost and terrified of what I’d been
watching.
Immediately
he took command, getting her vitals and realizing the situation was not
good. He grabbed the IV needle from the
nurse, screaming “We don’t have time to
find a vein there” before inserting it into a vein in Mara’s foot. I never would have thought of that, and
obviously the nurses hadn’t either.
Within a couple of minutes the vomiting stopped, and the doctor had been
joined by another doctor and two orderlies as they transferred Mara to a
stretcher and wheeled her out of the room, on the way back to the ICU.
Obviously
Mara’s hospitalization didn’t end there – she spent another two months between
the ICU, hospital, and a respiratory rehabilitation facility before coming
home…and that was a story in and of itself.
But despite all the miserable moments, beginning with the phone call
from Mara’s mother, none left as deep and lasting a scar in my memory as those
long, terrifying, Twilight Zone minutes I spent desperately trying to keep Mara
from choking to death. In a Hollywood
movie, I suppose that would have been the turning point in Mara’s life – her
true rock bottom, as it were.
Unfortunately, while there would be numerous ups and downs in the years
to come, in the end the bottoms were destined to sink deeper and deeper.
My Kid Could Paint
That
– This film is a disturbing and thought-provoking
documentary which focuses its spotlight in four-year-old Marla Olmstead. Marla is a typical child, except that her
paintings have been compared to such artists as Picasso, and they’ve sold for
thousands of dollars. At first this
documentary is more of an exposé about the modern art world, where insane
amounts of money can be spent on what appears to be random brushstrokes on a
canvas. Soon, however, the story turns,
and becomes on one hand an examination of the controversy (initiated by a
scathing 60 Minutes piece) of whether Marla is in fact the sole artist (or the
artist at all); and on the other hand, a social commentary on the obsession
this world has with child prodigies, and the drive to expose a child to the
media spotlight by Marla’s parents (especially her father).
Don’t expect any answers; like other successful
documentaries (Capturing the Friedman’s comes to mind) it is left to the viewer
to come to their own conclusions. Is
Marla a genius? Is her work a
fraud? Is she being exploited for money
or fame? Or perhaps all of those things
(or a combination) could be true. Director
Amir Bar-Lev searches for truth and substantial evidence, while Marla’s parents
look to the documentary as the reply which will put questions of their honesty
and integrity to rest. Like so many
other modern media stories, positive can turn to negative in the blink of an
eye, and those who enter the world of the spotlight are often left wondering if
they would have been better off if they remained in the shadows all along.
There is a brief section after the 60 Minutes piece
airs where we are treated to some of the scathing and hateful emails sent to
the email address the Olmsteads use for communication
regarding Marla’s art. I think one
comment is the one thought I was left with when I exited the theater: “Better
save some of that money you’re making for the therapy sessions your daughter is
going to need.”
The oddest thing about the film was how Marla’s
father reminded me of Heather’s ex-husband.
After the film, she told me she’d had the same odd feeling. I have no idea what that means.
The Rape of Europa – The Rape of Europa is a
surprisingly moving, effective, and informative documentary. Based on the book by Lynn H. Nicholas, the
film explores how the Nazi agenda included not just wiping out certain
“sub-human” groups such as the Slavs, Poles, and Jews, but also eradicating
their history by destroying their works of art and architecture. At the same time, the Nazis had a systematic
program designed to steal and acquire (by means both legal and illegal) the
great works of art owned by private collectors and some state galleries.
Both
Hitler and Goering had massive personal art collections, although Hitler’s was
based more on what he found appropriate for the regime, and Goering’s was based
instead on what he thought was valuable.
The Rape of Europa details that these works of
art were a major area of consideration for the Nazis and Hitler, to the point
where lists of coveted items were cataloged prior to invasions so special units
would know what to look for. And the
Nazis did not limit themselves to mere paintings and sculpture; furniture,
silver, and countless personal items were included in the dual
theft/destruction program.
Some
of the most moving and interesting stories were details of Jewish art dealers
or art supporters whose descendants are still fighting to have stolen items
return to them. The details of the
evacuation of rare works of art from The Louvre and galleries in St. Petersburg
are monumental in scope. The film even
discusses the problems the allies faced when bombing during the later stages of
the war, trying to decide when a building was of such historical significance
that they should refrain from shelling it even when that might mean the loss of
more lives (Monte Cassino being the most famous
example). And there are interviews with
members of the special U.S. units charged with the protecting and restoration
of notable works.
While
watching this movie, it is hard to reconcile that a group of people could be so
monstrous in their genocide, yet still hold such an appreciation for art. And it reminds you that the goal was not
simply to kill entire races of people, but to destroy their legacy, in effect
erasing all records of their existence.
Even now, 60 years after the war ended, the scenes where some Torah
decorative tips were returned to the family which donated them to a synagogue
decades earlier brings tears to your eyes.
Try to see this film, in the theater or on DVD. It’s worth your time.
I Want Someone to
Eat Cheese With
– This is a quiet comedy with its roots in the Chicago Second City comedy
family. It stars Jeff Garlin (Larry David’s manager on Curb Your Enthusiasm) as a
lonely loser. His
character James in an actor who has never really succeeded in the business. He’s lonely, he’s overweight, he lives with
his mother, and he hasn’t’ had sex in five years. His life in many ways parallels that of
Ernest Borgnine in Marty (James’ favorite movie),
which is used as a subplot since they are remaking that film in Chicago, and
James is told he isn’t right for the part.
In fact, James isn’t right for anything.
His sort-of girlfriend dumps him, he loses his agent, and he can’t find
a decent acting job.
Along
the way he meets two women at opposite ends of the spectrum. First there is the young and crazy character
played by Sarah Silverman, and then the serious and also lonely schoolteacher
played by Bonnie Hunt. He’s attracted to
Silverman, but obviously has more in common with the schoolteacher. Yet in many ways James still lives the life
of an adolescent, which helps continue his loneliness.
There
are no big dramatic answers to life’s riddles in this film, and no major
character revelations. James must try to
learn to like himself, to grow up, and move forward with his life and his
career in a way that carries the possibility of fulfillment. There are some laugh-out-loud moments, some
quiet humor, and some jokes which seem like they’d be better placed in a sitcom. But overall the movie is an enjoyable and
fast 80 minutes. Since it doesn’t
overstay its welcome, I think you might enjoy it too.
Seen
on DVD
– The Lonely Guy (A-, Heather had
never seen this movie but I still love to watch it once every year or so,
classic Steve Martin with classic Neil Simon humor. Charles Grodin is
perfect); The Devil’s Rejects (B- or
C+, sequel to Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses, it didn’t have the same
visual effects, and some of the violence was a bit much, but for a goofy
Halloween movie this wasn’t too bad…a few laughs along the way too); Kinky Boots (B, soft-hearted British
comedy, I enjoyed it at home but would probably have been bored in the theater);
Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock? (B-,
quirky documentary, but this woman is an idiot on so many levels).
Tom Swider: Managed to make my way through INLAND EMPIRE a second time, and I picked up a lot more. Many ways of looking at it, so you can choose "an opening" of your own choice. One of the obvious choices is the
Hitchcock route of the actor/actress blurring their reality with the reality of their character. Because directors don't shoot the scenes in chronological order, it adds to that confusion. My own working theory is that the story is most accurately told by the female Asian street person near the end of the movie.
I’ll have to keep that in mind. Speaking of chronological order, have you ever seen Memento? The airport scene from 12 Monkeys was very good, and I think it was well covered and closed at the end of the movie. It was filmed in the ballroom of the Reading Terminal Market, which was its old train shed. It had such a dreamy, eerie feeling to it; it gave me chills each time they showed it, with Gilliam perfectly capturing the déjà vu effect.
Jim Burgess:
I'm sure you've heard this before, but I wish I could take a magic wand and
erase your guilt over Mara. It was such a horrible situation. I
learned one new thing from your latest writing (I seem to remember you telling
me about the knife once, or dreamed it). And that was how overweight Mara
was. I somehow had her pegged as the wasting away skin and bones
type. I'm not sure where I had that image from, but I had it. I
don't imagine you often (or ever) showed us pictures. You're doing
amazing things these days, that's amazing, and I hope you can feel good about
being amazing.
At her biggest (which was maybe six
months after she went to New Jersey the final time, our marriage officially
ended in every way but legally) Mara would have hit about 450 pounds. Mind you, she’d never been thin; when we met
in high school she was 155 or so, and only 5’ 2”, but she had a beautiful
voluptuous figure at the time. Someday
when I write the rest of the Mara story (which will fill a book on its own –
and yes I plan to do that) readers will see that, like many young girls, she
was made to feel disgusting and fat when she was at a weight which she would
have killed to return to years later.
I’m trying to remember if I ever had
photos of either of us in Maniac’s Paradise.
I know a few of the cats made appearances. Obviously Andy York and Richard Weiss knew,
as they saw her in person, but that was before she was at her worst. Eventually, while living with her sister, she
had gastric bypass surgery and lost quite a bit of the weight. I believe she may have gotten close to 200
pounds again. Unfortunately, the
psychological issues behind her weight had never really been resolved, and they
resurfaced as soon as she no longer had the protection of all that fat to hide
behind.
As to the guilt, I still feel it, but
not as terribly as I once did. Writing
helps, I suppose, and I see a therapist twice a month (as required by
Probation). I also believe that I worked
off a part of my guilt during my time in prison. Even if I don’t think I should have been sent
away for so long – if at all – my inner belief that I needed to be punished for
perceived wrongs in my life found some satisfaction there.
I thought at one point I would want to
see Across the Universe, but Charlotte correctly put the big kibosh on ANY
thoughts I might have about seeing it. Nah, useless,
useless, useless. Julie Taymor is a trip, I actually think she's sort of interesting in a train
wreck sort of way. But you're right, if I'd started to see this movie, I
wouldn't be able to get to the end. Another popular movie, I found
totally boring was "Brokeback Mountain". I avoided it when it
came out, and then recently finally got the DVD. It took a LOT of effort
to sit through that one to the end. Heath Ledger really over did the
accent, it almost needed subtitles.
Across the Universe made an interesting
visual trailer…it made a terrible movie.
I’m still getting some of the scenes out of my mind.
Conrad von Metzke: [In response to an email I sent questioning how he was
surviving the California fires] Why, thanks for caring – but all’s well with
me, and unlikely to change. I’m really too far into the urban density to
be in danger, short of something like the Tokyo firebombings of ‘45. In any case, though the fires
are still burning, the winds have shifted, the humidity is returning, the heat
is disappearing, and all that’s really left in the city proper is ash and smoky
air. I even unpacked my emergency evacuation suitcase, which I thought
was a little silly anyway, but I suppose it really could be a Tokyo firebomb....
The news is still rambling on about how the fires are still huge and lots of
work left to do, etc., and that’s true, but as far as I’m aware any significant
center of population is now out of danger – unless the winds shift again, but
that seems unlikely now. Some of the evacuated people won’t be allowed
home for a couple more days, but at this point that’s mostly precautionary – in
fact they are allowed to go back under escort to retrieve things they need, but
they can’t stay.
So now it’s brooms, and then insurance claims adjusters. Oh whoopee....
They still have lots of unsettled claims pending from the last big fire,
in 2003.
How difficult is it to get proper
insurance coverage there? Are the big
carriers trying to avoid writing policies that cover fire? Speaking of which, what about earthquake
insurance?
Cal White: Mara sounds like a girl I went out with for a couple of years back in my young, wild oats days. I was lucky she left me for somebody else. Good luck telling the story, but I do hope for more of your articles on prison life. I've never been unlucky enough to end up in jail, but most of my family has either been in jail or worked as guards at such.
I don’t know how much luck (or lack of it) had to do with me going to prison. I think, in many ways, I was trying to sabotage my life for so long that I was lucky it resulted in prison instead of death or permanent injury. Andy York: Enjoyed ES as always. Sorry to hear about Heather's ankle; but,
glad it isn't anything too serious - more an inconvenience than a show-stopper.
Best wishes for successful event tomorrow!!
I'm sorta surprised about your opening
up about Mara to the gaming community. I know it was a difficult marriage and
you did all you could to help and support her. But it is something, if it was me, that I would want to be a distant memory rather than
reliving it. Is this part of the therapy/internal
healing of your recovery program? In any case, I hope that this telling helps you
move forward.
It does help, as I mentioned to Jim. Seriously, it isn’t even close to being a
distant memory for me…too many years, too many regrets, too many scars. So since I can’t just forget it, my next
option seems to be to live with it. And
when I share the experiences, I hope readers can learn something from it, or at
least find the details of my experience interesting in some way.
Haven't seen either of the two movies you listed. I did pick up
Inland Empire on DVD (a Hollywood Video store was going out of business and they
had excellent prices). I definitely need to set down and spend some time trying
to figure the movie out. Seeing it in the theater made me wish I had a rewind
button. If you'd like, when you're ready to watch it, let me know and I can
loan you my copy.
I should check the store near here, even if its just VHS there
are always some odd movies I want…like the 70’s movie Homebodies, about the old
folks trying to keep developers from making them move out of their
building. I was at Blockbuster with
Heather the other day and they had 4 used DVD’s for $20…the problem was we
couldn’t find 4 we wanted to own or give as gifts! Nothing but crap.
Yep, as you told Tom, I'm still around. He mentioned Dragon's
Lair - that's my comic and gaming shop of record, thought they moved since Tom
was here. They also have a branch now in San Antonio and one in Round Rock. I
stop by once a week on "New Comic Day" (usually Wednesdays) to get my
subscriptions.
I don’t read new comics currently…every once in a while I wonder
what might be out there. But my choices
were so odd and eclectic that I could only get my fill through a subscription
service run by Jack Curtin, where I was able to read through each Diamond
catalog of upcoming comics and order whichever ones I wanted, at a discount to
cover. I believe he still runs it, if
anybody is interested. Let me know.
I'd forgotten about Whisper getting into my lap and purring. It
was quite a surprise as I'm not a "pet" person at all. Maybe the cat
was trying to change that (if so, it didn't work).
You know how some cats are – they only want to be near you if
you don’t like cats. I think Whisper
just sensed what a nice guy you are!
You asked if "Mensa still has a newsletter or magazine?". The organization, local groups and SIGs all have
some type of publication. However, none are Diplomacy related, though it would only take
one person to restart the SIG.
I’d have to join Mensa first. I have nothing against the organization in
general…it’s just that since my mother was a member it sort of keeps me from
being interested. After all, on the rare
occasion when she paid bills, she had to round up to the nearest dollar because
the pennies were too hard to compute!
Diplomacy (Black Press): Graham Wilson, Brad
Wilson, Chris Babcock, Melinda Holley, Alexander Levinson, needs just two more. Getting close, who wants to join in the fun?
Balkan Wars VI (Black Press): Signed up: Jack
McHugh, Graham Wilson, Brad Wilson, Brendan Whyte, needs two more. Rules and map on request, or you can find
them online within Paul Bolduc’s Boris
the Spider site at: http://members.aol.com/prbolduc/boris/hrules/BW6.html
7X7 Gunboat Tournament (No Press): Needs seven. I would publish the results without maps most
likely, although I might email maps to the players. Anybody interested?
By
Popular Demand
Credit goes to Ryk Downes, I believe, for
inventing this game (although his original version had the GM supply the
starting letter as well). The goal is to
pick something that fits the category and will be the "most popular"
answer. You score points based on the number of entries that match yours. For
example, if the category is "Cats" and the responses were 7 for
Persian, 3 for Calico and 1 for Siamese, everyone who said Persian would get 7
points, Calico 3 and the lone Siamese would score 1 point. The cumulative total
over 10 rounds will determine the overall winner. Anyone may enter at any
point, starting with an equivalent point total of the lowest cumulative score
from the previous round. If a person misses a round, they'll receive the
minimum score from the round added to their cumulative total. And, if you want
to submit some commentary with your answers, feel free to. The game will consist of 10 rounds. A prize will be awarded to the winner.
