Mom’s pulmonologist was a stunningly beautiful Asian woman. I’m starting to wonder if the doctors who work at Mount Sinai are hired by a casting director. I have yet to meet one without movie star looks. Mom’s pulmonologist exuded care and compassion and unbelievable patience. She ran a series of tests, none of which Mom could complete. The first test should have been simple enough—put your lips together and blow. What came out was a putter, a wisp—dead air. So much nothing that the candles on her next birthday cake should celebrate. They will not be victimized by another gusty birthday reveler nor tormented by an aging yahoo desperately trying to extinguish them. It’s a wonder that someone with so much bluster has so little blow.
Mom looked small and fragile. She rubbed her nose when the pulmonologist talked to her and told her she didn’t understand the tasks that she was being asked to perform. Mom apologized about not having the breath to blow, and instead of venting her frustrations, she continued to apologize for messing up. She went so far as to thank the pulmonologist for her time and help.
The pulmonologist said to me, “Your mother is a lovely woman. You’re very lucky.”
The doctors haven’t yet figured out why her oxygen level is so low. They think she may have a small hole in her heart and want to do a transesophageal echocardiogram, which, as Mom’s pulmonologist explained, would require sticking a probe with ultrasound capabilities down her esophagus to examine her heart. When she said this to me, I reflexively responded, “But I don’t think she has a heart.”
As soon as the words came out, I wanted to eat my face. Only my mouth is part of my face and does not extend around it. Someone should fix that. If there is a species that is capable of eating its own face, I would like to be reincarnated as that species.
After the appointment, I wheeled her back to her hospital room. Mom insisted that she felt better and that she wanted to go home. I told her she’d be going home soon, but that she had to stay in the hospital just a while longer. While I was talking, I started to feel dizzy. I couldn’t catch my breath. I needed fresh air. I needed to get out of the hospital. I understand why Mom wants to leave. It can be hard to breathe in here even if you don’t have low oxygen levels. Marsden had texted to ask if I could buy some acne cream for him. I had an excuse to leave. I had a mission. My son needed me.
MOM: Are you coming back?
ME: I’ll be back a little later.
MOM: I’ll be here. They’re holding me hostage.
ME: Mom, are you back to that? We just had such a nice morning.
MOM: Maybe you had a nice morning. I didn’t.
I rode down in the elevator with an ageless-looking rumpled man: while his face was free of wrinkles, his shirt was full of creases and crinkles. I left the hospital and walked across the park. Once on the West Side, I popped into a Duane Reade, but instantly felt overwhelmed and walked back out. I passed a CVS, then another Duane Reade, and kept walking down Broadway. I sped past the Apthorp pharmacy, but right after passing Fairway, I got trapped behind an elderly couple who were eating while they walked. At first I tried to blow past them, but I couldn’t find a clearing and eased into a slow pace behind them. I started listening to them argue and then recognized their words. How was that possible? This elderly couple on Broadway were saying lines I had written.
“Larry, you have food on your face. Over here. No, the other side.”
“If you don’t like the way I eat, don’t look at me when I’m eating.”
“Wipe your face off.”
“If food on my face bothers you, I’d like to keep it there.”
Was it a sign? Coincidence? Synchronicity? God showing off? It’s exactly what Julia Cameron writes about in The Artist’s Way. This is it. This is that thing that happens. These Morning Pages are actually working. I had an epiphany, an insight, a vision.
Laurie will find her inner strength—no, that’s too-cliché and overdone. I don’t want her riding off into the glow of an inner strength sunset. But she leaves. Why does she leave? Is leaving really the only solution for a woman? Must we always Thelma and Louise it off a cliff or walk out into the water for a final swim? What if Laurie stays? What if she makes Larry and Grace leave? Maybe she locks them out. That could be both funny and poignant. What if staying is her leaving?
I turned around and headed back to Duane Reade. The toothpaste aisle was empty, so I squatted down and wrote three pages of notes. One doesn’t often get a good look at the lower shelves at a Duane Reade. One should. They are impressive. Everything has its place, and the flow of products is masterful. I hadn’t realized just how many alternatives are available to help us obtain white teeth and fresh breath; there really is no excuse for gingivitis and halitosis anymore. Over on the pimple products aisle, I found an overwhelming selection of astringents, scrubs, creams, gels, pads, washes, and masks dedicated to the noble cause of zit eradication. The wrinkle reduction creams were shelved right next to the acne cures. What brilliant shelf stocking! I hope whoever it was that woke up one morning and decided to put the acne medication next to the wrinkle reduction products got a raise. The mothers that are buying their teenagers acne medication just take one step to the right to rid themselves of the worry lines that the teenagers they are buying the acne medication for are causing. I decided to try a wrinkle reduction cream that promises to eliminate my fine lines. (Hopefully not the ones I will be writing!) Soon Marsden and I will have faces as smooth as the man in the elevator with the wrinkled shirt.
And because my day was suddenly blessed, I got back to Mom’s building and found my handsome, engaging, slightly mysterious elevator crush waiting for the elevator and I ele-flirted with him for 15 glorious floors.