Infused with Gratitude and Antibodies

I am so grateful in this moment to hear the steady tick of the intravenous immunoglobulin being infused into Sophie's body. I'm grateful for the gentle ministrations of the home health nurse who has already spilled her life story to me -- a life story very different than mine but I'm open to -- well -- everything. She will be here every day for the next four days and then monthly for the next six months.

I am so grateful for all the support we've gotten in the emails, texts and comments here on the blog and on Facebook over the last couple of weeks in particular. I'm particularly grateful for Christy H, a friend here in Los Angeles whom I never see but who also has a child with special healthcare needs. I got a delivery on Friday from a courier service, opened the large box and found a beautiful note from her and her husband and a bottle of very fancy champagne and a bottle of beautiful rose. This just brought me to tears, to tell you the truth. Here it is next to the hard-won medication that is being infused into Sophie's veins with the hope and expectation that it will help her to recover from the terrible syndrome that has caused Sophie so much suffering. How many folks do you know who have such riches side-by-side in their fridges?

I hope your Sunday has been a good one. May the week ahead be filled with champagne and necessary blood products.

Swimming Across the Sea

I had nothing to write about today until now, when I opened the mail. I got a package from the United Kingdom, and nestled like a Matryoshka doll in ever smaller packaging and wrapping, I discovered this beautiful silver mermaid pin with a tiny pearl.

Where have you swum from, beautiful mermaid?

Thank you, lovely person from lands far away. This is a beautiful gift, a real treasure from the sea.

Thank you.

Gifts, Poetry and Cake

I've had a lovely day -- breakfast with my friend Jenni, flowers from those neighborhood cuties above, and a coconut cake that I bought myself in the late afternoon. Henry surprised me with a card and an apple, carved into a swan.

Who knew?

Oliver gave me the most beautiful blue reclining Buddha. Here it is in front of my friend Moye's gorgeous pottery:

I posted both the apple turned swan and the Buddha on Facebook, and Heather McHugh -- that angel saint poet who gave me the respite week last year and who is the founder of Caregifted -- wrote a comment that is a poem. Honestly, I am in awe and so honored. Here it is:

amazing how much they have in common, the swan and buddha, in these iterations... but though the steadiness of the buddha's eye is to live for, the seediness of the swan's eye is to die for.

Wow. Right?

And then someone left this link on my last post which I believe is perfectly suited to a person who was born in 1963.



So, there you go. Gifts, poetry and cake -- I am rich indeed.

Writing and Gifts from Old Friends and Sisters

I started meeting once a week for a few hours with a group of writers. It's not a workshop group but, rather, a real writing group. We really write. At the beginning, we sit down and chit chat for a few minutes, catch each other up, briefly, on what's happening. Then one person tears up a few strips of paper and we each grab one or two. We write down phrases or words, anything that comes to mind and can be used as a prompt. Then someone picks up a piece of paper, opens it and reads it aloud. Then we write -- the first prompt is for five minutes, the second is for ten minutes, then it's fifteen and then back to five minutes. When the buzzer goes off, we stop typing or writing and read aloud what we've written. We don't comment, except to sigh or smile or laugh or draw our breaths in. Then we're on to the next. We follow in a specific order -- whoever opens the prompt and reads it aloud is the first to read aloud what she's written. Then we go counter-clockwise. It works. This is so good, you writers out there -- so good and so inspiring in the way that writers need to be inspired. You just start with something, anything, and then you write. I've always thought there's way too much discussion about writing in general -- about how difficult it is, about whether or not you're good enough, about the anxieties and insecurities of The Writer. Lately, I've noticed a whole lot of hullabaloo about writing for free on the internet, how resentful "writers" are when they're asked to write online and not get reimbursed. My opinion is that there haven't been too many writers in history that got paid enough money to support themselves and that if you're a writer, you'll just write, whenever and however you can. If you're getting paid and can support yourself, I envy you. If not, get a job, but don't stop writing.

Here are the prompts from a week or so ago:

1. My skeleton
2. Blood-shot eyes
3. A Sense of place
4. The Rain They Say is Coming

This week, I got a spark of a short story from the prompt It Goes Like This. Think a man, tattoos, a bald head, the goods, the threat of a cult, Jesus freaks and the slippery slope of desire -- that's what I wrote about for five minutes.

When I got home this afternoon from the usual driving around the city, I had a pile of mail, including two mysterious packages. One was for Sophie, and when I opened it up I saw that it was from one of my oldest and dearest friends with whom I backpacked through Europe in the Let's Go Europe! days. Do you remember those? This beautiful, brilliant woman sent that mermaid to Sophie, and I'm taking it as a token of luck. Sophie did really well today, too, but who's noticing? The other gift was from my funny sister Melissa. She sent me a Ryan Gosling coloring book. She knows me all too well. Henry and Oliver took one look at the gifts and rolled their eyes. Are you really going to color that? Henry asked. I told him that I imagine it will be enormously relaxing to sit and color in Ryan Gosling's lines. You'd think I was stoned, but I'm not. I'm CBD'd excited.

Requiem for a Television

Pop Pop surprised us with the purchase of this flat-screen television:

Rest in peace, 1996 behemoth television that lived with us in New York City, traveled across the country and sat in our living room for so many years. You served us well.

We're just spoiled rotten.