Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Shiny Bits

Today on my walk I listened to the writer David Gilbert talk to Terri Gross of Fresh Air, and at some point he answered a question about writing and creativity, explained that his best are the shiny bits. The Dog and I walked through the fancy neighborhood adjacent to ours, past mansions and bougainvillea, film production trucks and nannies pushing baby carriages. It's sunny here, as usual, and not too hot. The sky is blue, as usual, birds sing and crows caw. I could hear it all through the voices in my ears, even the chink of a hammer on metal, the rev up of a motorcycle behind a hedge. The Dog looked for other creatures, sniffing along familiar paths, but we were both spooked when a beast hurtled itself against a wooden door to our right, the thud so loud the wood seemed to buckle. Jesus Christ! I said and yanked The Dog away, picked up my pace, my ears turned away from the rough barking and back to Terri and David. A block later, The Dog lunged again, I looked up and into the incline of a driveway where, at the top, stood a dog muzzled in black leather, his body wrapped in leather and chains, a ripped-up frisbee hanging from his mouth, the canine equivalent of a bouncer at an S&M bar in Hollywood. I thought about yesterday, the shiny bits. I took Sophie for a brief visit with the gynecologist that prescribes progesterone for her. I left the wheelchair in the car and walked Sophie in. I was optimistic. We waited for nearly an hour before we saw the doctor in her tiny examining room. I held Sophie awkwardly in my lap, her legs whipped up into a cross-legged position. The Gynecologist and I talked about hormones and bloodwork. We talked about medical marijuana. Sophie had a seizure, a huge seizure, and I contained it and her, still on my lap, the jerking, the drooling, the banging. The Gynecologist had tears in her eyes. She waited and offered to help. She said I don't know how you do it. I laughed with rue, squared my shoulders, relied on my physical strength. When Sophie recovered, we left the office and walked back out into the Santa Monica afternoon, the air shiny bitten by sun. I cried all the way home.


  1. The dog in leather and chains, the blue sky, the birds, the bougainvillea, Terry Gross and David Gilbert, the daughter in your lap, the jerking, the drooling, the banging.
    Your strength.
    Your impossible strength.

  2. You add the shine, your girl in your arms, held, protected, loved.

  3. I am so thankful for the strong Mommas, and Daddys......I never see myself have seizures..I don't know what its like to carry somebody...I just don't know , but I see a look in my parents eyes that I sometimes see in your photos, The strong look the look that means I am going to do what I have too, but not just that ..its the look of pain and love too.

    Also I was on horrormones different times till they decided it was better to leave me be. I hope Sophie does well with them.
    They said for me to get some fat! That was the end of that.

  4. someday you'll hand over a book entitled How we do it.... NYTimes best seller, of course....

  5. I wonder, is it validating and a bit of a relief to have a medical professional watch that or not? There's a part of me that imagines it might be a bit of a, "See? This is what real life is like for many people - not just theoretical which-medicine-and-dosage-is-best." And then there's a part that thinks that, later, it doesn't matter because you're still going home to do it again later.

    Sending you love and light, love and light, and more shiny bits than you can envision.

  6. Reading this makes me feel like crying with you.

  7. "...the shiny air bitten by sun." Wow.

    I love the picture of the Vanagon/pick up truck you sent today. So did Wil. Thank you for being so thoughtful, loving and kind. That's how you do it.

  8. I have bruises along the top of my right leg from holding my thrashing boy all night last night. I know how you do it. I know.

    I hope Sophie gets a break from the seizures soon...for you too.

  9. I'm with your doctor. I don't know either. But like Kario, I wonder if it was beneficial for her to see that.

    I love the description of the black-leather dog with the ripped-up frisbee. The shiny bits!

  10. I was with you for the walk and David Gilbert (I heard him too) and the S & M dog and the long wait (Alice and I had an hour wait at her doctor's office yesterday), and then when the seizure happened I heard a low moaning sound from somewhere, and realized it was me, remembering, and tears filled my eyes and I wanted to hug you, Elizabeth. Some day I will give you a big sisterly hug, but in the meantime I don't know how you do it either, or how Alice did it, or for that matter, how I did it myself. Something very human rises up and does its best to take care of things.

    1. Andrea, you can't possibly know how much these words mean to me and how much comfort they give me. You and Alice are shiny bits, real ones. And I do hope to give you that hug right back.



Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...