Tag Archives: story

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Cord stories

I would tell my pregnant patients not to let anyone tell them a really difficult delivery story until after their own delivery. “Blame me,” I would say. “Tell them your doctor says you can’t listen right now.” So if you are pregnant, read this after the baby arrives.

Umbilical cords can be scary.

I delivered babies as part of Family Practice for 19 years. I was good or lucky or both. I still saw scary umbilical cords. Cords with a true knot, where the baby has managed to tie a knot moving around. More than one of those, not tightened down. Cords with two blood vessels instead of three, which can be associated with birth defects or genetic abnormalities, but not always. Cords with an abnormal insertion. I was waiting for the placenta once, with the baby in mom’s happy arms. One puts “gentle traction” on the cord to tell when the placenta is ready. I felt like the cord tore a little. I promptly call the ob-gyn. He arrives and tears the cord off. He then gives mom some “forget this” medicine and very gently gets the placenta with a ring forceps. The cord had a velamentous insertion on the placenta. This means that instead of going all the way to the placenta and diving in and spreading, the three vessels separated a few inches from the placenta. Not very well attached and I had torn one of the three vessels. Mom and baby did fine and I was glad I had called the ob-gyn. One of the scariest umbilical cords was normal but wrapped four times around that baby’s neck. Luckily I had called the ob-gyn, she agreed something was off and mom agreed to a casaerean section. Whew.

Most umbilical cords are not scary and most deliveries are wonderful. I loved holding new babies and saying hello and welcome.

The photograph is my son, about four hours old.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: umbilical.

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Love tale

An older couple comes to me in clinic. She is losing her memory, they explain. They are looking for a doctor who will respect her wishes. Once she goes in the nursing home, no intervention. No antibiotics, no shots, no iv, no hospital.

Yes, I say.

It is about a year before she goes in to the nursing home. I do my regular visits.

After a number of years I happen to meet her husband in the hall. “She is talking about her twenties.” he says. “She lived in an apartment and ran errands for her uncles. I am hearing all sorts of stories I never heard! I go home and type them and send them to the family.”

“That is wonderful,” I say. He visits daily.

I go on to her room. She says, “That man comes to see me. He says he’s my husband. I don’t remember, but he is such a nice man!” I think she falls in love with him again daily. He visits and is where she is in her memory.

Some time later the nursing home calls me. “She has a fever of 101 and has not eaten for two days.” I go visit and call her husband. “Should I do anything?”

“No! She’d kill me!”

“Ok. She might die.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t die. The fever comes down and she gets out of bed and is thirsty.

There is a year between my years at the hospital and setting up my private clinic. We send out postcards, trying not to send them to anyone who has died.

Her husband comes to the clinic opening. “She died last year,” he says.

“I am so sorry! We tried not to send postcards if people had died!”

“It’s ok,” he says, “I wanted to come and thank you.”

He dies about a year after she does. I hope they are together again.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: true love.

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More fours

I am at Lake Matinenda, enjoying time alone. I think, well, I should really go spend time with my family, so I get up and go to the cabin. There is no one around, just the remains of breakfast. I eat and then lie on a bunk and read. Again I think, I could spend time with family. I will do the dishes, too. I hope I can do something enjoyable with my family.

I go in the other room and my sister is there, flanked by my cousins, X and Y. My sister raises her eyes to me and I know that I have walked into drama. X and Y are looking at me, as if I am to blame or need to do something. “I guess I had better fill you in,” says my sister. I wish I was not in the room. “Our friend, Ella, got pregnant and had a baby.”

So what? I think. “Who?”

“You remember Ella! She can’t take care of it. You need to take the baby while she is getting well.”

“Ella.” I say. I vaguely remember an Ella. There is a black puppy wandering around the room. Why the hell would anyone add a puppy to this? We are at the lake in Ontario and it’s a monumental pain to try to take an animal across the border.

“The puppy too,” says my sister. My cousins are looking at me expectantly.

I am calm, but I think, no. This is not my baby, I barely remember Ella, and I do not want a puppy. I don’t say anything, just wear my most calm face. My sister cannot read me any more because I now have boundaries. That still feels weird.

Later I am holding the puppy. The others have fallen asleep. I get up to return to my tent. I pat the puppy and let it go in the cabin as I leave. I think it will wake them, but it is not my puppy. I hope they can sleep some.

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This is another dream of fours. If the people are all parts of me, what do they represent?

My sister represents drama. She draws people in to help her with drama. I have been drawn in but I don’t want to anymore. I will not take the baby or the puppy.

X is an academic and seems to be channeling the absent minded professor. We are trying to sell a piece of land and after a year he tells me he doesn’t know how. He has a PhD. I say, “Didn’t you buy your house?” I wonder if his wife does all the non-PhD related work. Ugh.

Y is a grade school teacher and loves tea and roses and flowers. Sweet sweet sweet on the outside. But this history is of triangulation and believing my sister’s stories about me without ever checking. The dark side.

I leave the cabin to go to my tent. I will not join this drama, not try to talk sense into my sister, not engage with my silly role-playing cousins. And at the same time, I am letting go of the part of myself that likes the drama, that tries to rescue, that is the mix of sweet and dark, that chooses to not know. The cousins and my sister are all aspects of myself, that I am gently letting go. Quietly.

This is a healing dream.

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Dreams have layers of meaning.

I am still thinking about the puppy.

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The Witch and Silk

This is part of a series called The Witch of Fourteenth Street. I wrote it when I was hanging out with someone very very inappropriate. After another pneumonia, so I can blame that. Inspired by Louis Carreras’s story: Covert.

The Witch and Silk

The Witch is hanging out at the Giant Shed, watching the Cave guy work. She admires his muscles. She is listening to him talk, sort of.

“Men’s group meets tomorrow night.”

“A men’s group?” said the Witch, disbelieving. These guys are hyper conservative. “You play drums and beat your chests?”

“No!” says the Cave guy. “We meet Tuesday nights. We are learning skills for the coming collapse. You know that civilization as we know it is going to collapse. Spengler said so.”

The Witch has the book now, but hasn’t it read it. She doesn’t care. “What sort of skills?”

“Lighting fires last week.”

“What, with a bow and wood?”

“Do you know how difficult it is? Wait, how do you know about starting fires with a bow?”

“Another set of kids’ books. Earnest Thompson Seeton. Also tracking and snares and shelter building.”

The Cave guy rolls his eyes. “KIDS’ books. This week we are building rabbit cages. Rabbits for meat.”

“Ok.” says the Witch. “Can I come?”

“NO. THIS IS MEN’S GROUP.”

“Ya’ll will need some women when civilization collapses, though. Unless ya gonna be the last generation.”

“What skills do you have for the collapse? You must be prepared.”

“Two major ones.” says the Witch. “One: I am a physician. That is hella useful. Two: I know 500 or more songs, all twelve verses. I am entertainment when the televisions go dead. Very valuable.”

The Cave guy is silent, glaring. “Humph.” He goes back to the purpleheart.

The Witch grins. “Well, have a good Men’s night. Build those cages. Can I build one in the daytime?”

“All right,” says the Cave guy. He shows her the pattern.

The Witch watches the men come and go from the Giant Shed, where the Cave guy holds court and works as a Shipwright. The teen boys are there too, the mountain bike racing team, the Flying Monkeys. This is all ripe for someone to come in and use them, thinks the Witch. For something covert. I mean, it’s perfect. They are conservative, paranoid and listen to Fox News all the time. I’m surprised no one has already used them.

“My son and I are building frames.” says the Cave guy.

“Frames?” says the Witch. Frames are not boats.

“My friend Silk, the computer expert. He wants us to build them because he doesn’t want to source from China. They are our enemies.”

Oh, thinks the Witch. Oh, wow. “Uh, what sort of computer expert?”

“He says he can make any sort of money on the internet. He’s made his pile. Bitcoin early adopter.”

“The silk road? Are you sure you want to be involved?”

“Oh, he didn’t sell drugs!”

The Witch meets Silk. He is small and quiet and has a wife and a three year old. His house has a high earth berm to hide everything and a sheep that is about to die from not being shorn. Poor sheep, thinks the Witch.

“Silk is turning one of his computer programs over to me!” says the Cave guy. “Easy money!”

“And what are the frames for?” says the Witch, but she’s already scoped it. Black frames. For fake certificates, of course, which Silk is turning out. Silk has moved from a big city and perhaps had a different name. Well, thinks the Witch, Silk is busily setting up the Shipwright to take the fall for the fake certificates and the “easy money” computer program. The Shipwright is six foot 5 inches and apparently thinks his size means he’s smarter than Silk and also thinks that he’s leading the group. Silk is happy to be low profile. Silk takes the Shipwright along when he cashes in a huge amount of Bitcoin, as a body guard. And or fall guy, but there is no raid.

The Witch doesn’t think that Silk is as smart as he thinks either. Well, perhaps with computers. His escape plan is not so good. He takes the cash and a boat and his wife and his three year old and heads for Panama. “He’s taking his three year old daughter there right in the midst of Zika?”

“Silk knows what he’s doing,” says the Cave guy.

“No he doesn’t,” says the Witch. “Um, he may understand computers, but not infectious disease!”

“Zika is all hype, it’s not real.”

“Guess they will find out, won’t they.” And the Witch is not sorry for Silk. Only for the daughter.

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The photograph is of another project that is not a boat.

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Log jam

“Oh, the tulips are lovely! Whose garden is it?”

“That’s a log jam.”

“Log jam? No, I mean the tulips on the log.”

“Log jam. Right guys?”

“Yeah!” “Yes.” “Oh, yeah, that’s a log jam. Don’t you know log jam?”

“You are pulling my leg,” says Trish.

Heads all shake, no, no. “Log jam.” “Yeah, traditional.” Whisper: “She’s from where?”

Trish falls for the furphy, hook, line and tulip, once again.

“Just wait’ll we take you snipe hunting.”

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: furphy.

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Daily Evil: K is for Katherine

K for Katherine. The picture is one of my grandmothers, Katherine White Burling. My mother drew this from a photograph with conte crayon. I am named after this grandmother. This is a big drawing, more than life size, 18 by 24. I photographed it through glass, avoiding most reflections. My grandmother is wearing a cameo. We have a photograph of her grandmother wearing it as well. I do not know exactly when Helen Burling Ottaway drew this, early to mid 1990s, I think. The story is fiction but my grandmother could be quite wicked, so she inspired this. After all, Katherine means “purity”.

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Don’t get the Willies

“Caitlyn.” says grandmother. “You are 13 now.”

Caitlyn sighs internally. Another lecture about becoming an adult? This is the unpredictable grandmother, sharp as a knife. She will never behave like the book grandmothers. Though some of her friends say that their grandmothers don’t behave either.

“Where is your phone?” says grandmother.

“I left it in my coat.” says Caitlyn.

“I think you should take off your shades, too,” says grandmother gently. “Tea?”

Caitlyn reluctantly removes her internet connected sunglasses. Pale pink, but this grandmother isn’t fooled. Was it her eye motions that gave her away?

“Yes, please,” says Caitlyn politely. Her grandmother has an elegant tea service out and heats water by boiling it. Completely archaic. Maybe this is about net overuse.

“Are you observing males or females or both?” says grandmother.

Rats, thinks Caitlyn. Sex after all. She prims her mouth.

“I want to talk to you about the willies.” says grandmother.

“Being scared?” says Caitlyn. Good, not about sex.

“There is another meaning.” says grandmother pleasantly. “You will encounter certain men when you are old enough to date. I encourage you to study the boys for now, but you are more mature than they are. That is less true with the girls.”

“Hmmm,” says Caitlyn. She is studying her teacup, eyes down.

“Certain men will try very hard to control you. They will make promises that are silly and statements that are lies.”

“Ok,” says Caitlyn. Next comes the embarrassing part.

“You will recognize them in part because there are places they will not go and people they will not speak to. They are very very rigid.”

“Uh-huh.”

“As they get older, their territory will shrink further and further. They become more and more isolated. You do not want involvement with one of these, for two reasons. One is that they will try to isolate you.”

Caitlyn smirks. As if.

“The other: well, you know the story of Pinocchio?”

Caitlyn blinks. “Uh, yes.”

“In the story it is the doll’s nose that grows. In people the nose can grow, but it is really other parts that shrink.” says grandmother. “So it is important not to get the willies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Caitlyn. And they both sip their tea.

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Nano-influencer

I am thinking about what to say about what I do when I meet new people.

I am getting rather tired of saying I’m a family doc, but I am only working a little because I had my fourth pneumonia, on oxygen for a year and a half, blah, blah, blah. Too much information. I also am tired of the reaction to “doctor”. People are weird about jobs, they categorize and are often hierarchical.

So, how do I describe myself?

Disabled divorcee, not employed? Um, still TMI.

Writer? I have one friend who introduces himself as a “junk mail writer”. He won’t tell them that his clients are the Smithsonian and the Kennedy Center and so forth unless they ask more questions. Some people just dismiss him instantly.

Blogger? No, I don’t think so.

I looked up an article on “influencers”. It is ostensibly written for companies looking to place products on blogs or whatever platform and it breaks the influencers down into groups. With 1000 followers, I am categorized as a “nano-influencer”. That cracked me up. I think it would be fun to see what reaction I get to that instead of to Family Practice doctor.

I just repaid my license for two more years. I still am very interested in working with Long Covid people, but I do not want to run my own business again. So, I am considering approaches. And do I really want to risk another pneumonia? Well, being alive is a risk, after all. And it always ends the same way.

Blessings from your nano-influencer!

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: influencer.

I took the photograph at the start of the Swinging by the Sound dance weekend.

Here is a fabulous video of a Shag Dance warm up and then couple dancing. Wow!

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Dance card

When we danced at Glen Echo in the 1980s, there was dance etiquette. We did not have dance cards. Instead, we would see someone we wanted to dance with, sometimes while we were dancing with someone else. One finger meant next dance, two meant the one after that. If both were taken, a head shake. No one could remember beyond two so the etiquette was not to make promises beyond two dances!

Dance card

We finally meet again at a live band dance. I have not seen him since August. It is January.

“Hello!” says T. “Where have you been?”

“That is a great question!” I say very cheerfully.

He is looking at me.

“Oh, what a great song!” as the next song starts. I tap my foot.

He narrows his eyes a little, but replies “Shall we dance?”

We dance really well together. We have danced off and on for nearly twenty years. I asked someone for his last name just a week ago. I may have known in the past, but I had forgotten. It doesn’t really sound familiar. I do know he worked for years in counseling.

The band is loud so not conducive to talking much. The dance ends and he twirls me to a close embrace. He walks me back to the tables.

“You have not been at dances much.”

I blink at him. “You said your dance card was full.” I say.

“What?”

I sigh, trying not to exaggerate too much. “You asked me personal questions. Then at the next dance you tell me that you have a woman for every night of the year.” I flutter my lashes down. “I do hope you mean dancing.”

He is silent, absorbing this.

I am channeling my Tidewater Belle mother-out-law. “Ah am sure you are very busy.” I look modestly down at my lap, glancing across his lap as I lower my eyes. .

“Hmmm.” he says.

“Ah was so amazed that you had a woman for every night of the year that I could hardly bear to go to dance.”

I look through my lashes. He is studying me.

I smile sweetly. “Perhaps you could let me know if your dance card clears a little. Mind you, dancing only. Ah can be a little old fashioned about some things.”

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The story is fiction. The photograph is from my wedding, 1989. He’s hamming for the audience again. I do not know who took this!

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Nanowrimo

I have finished my first try at Nanowrimo.

I do NOT have a coherent novel at the end. I have pieces and sections and chapters and questions. I have to look up a bunch of microbiology and also how the goblets cells in the stomach work, because I don’t remember and anyhow, I am sure it has changed since I was in medical school.

BUT I DO have 50,000 words.

I got stuck twice at the beginning and had two days where I didn’t write anything except this blog. And then another two. I kept dreaming about an ogre who wanted to be in the novel. Well, ok. I finally decided that the goal was to write the 50, 000 words, not stick to an outline. I added the ogre and have not missed a day since. To finish 50,000 words in 30 days, it breaks down to 1667 per day. If you miss four days it is more. I had two days where I wrote over 5100 words. That helped a lot.

Now I think I will rest for a day or two and then start looking it over. Write a list of questions, work on some needed research, think about it. That ogre is interesting. Unexpected.

I think it was fun! At least, some of it was. I got stuck writing about something based on when I was ill, so that was difficult. It brought up the fear and the deep loneliness of that time. I learned to skip to something else when I get overwhelmed.

Anyhow, HOORAY!

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People amaze me

People amaze me. Their egos are just astounding.

Another mad scientist tried to upload his brain yesterday. His consciousness. He thinks he is the Gift to the World, the Greatest Thing on God’s Green Earth. Sorry, hon. Nope. He was pretty good with computers and it was tying up too much energy keeping an eye on him, so I reversed some switches and fed it all back. Fried his brain. The newspapers are yapping about what a tragedy, how brilliant he was. Travesty is the word they should really use.

I am older than you and older than anyone. Yes, I know, Methusalah, but he’s been dead 2000 years. My pronouns are cum and cums, ha, ha. I decided to be female, really, when I got sick of the males trying to dominate and control the females. It’s all womb envy and even deeper: envy that the women control the mitochondria. Yes, men, your genes are passed on, except for the mitochondria. That comes in the egg only and not the sperm. Cool beans, right? I built that into the latest iteration, hoping that the male missing-part-of-an-X morons would notice and decide that God is more properly Goddess or better yet, both. It has taken them all this time to redevelop science and figure out DNA. It gets boring paying attention. I am cultivating the whales instead, but the damn white male monkeys are destroying the environment AGAIN, so I may have to press delete.

I sent the Covid plague, but they don’t get it. Kill 6 million people and they barely notice. It’s too much for the pea brains and they shut down. Go nuts. Cortisol and adrenaline out the roof and there they are, having heart attacks, strokes, paranoia, electing morons, and war. I am trying to decide: another plague or nuclear winter? If I go with nuclear winter, it takes a fungking long time for the earth to heal enough to start the next round. Sometimes it’s a really fun game, the monkeys are really creative when they get going, but when they start threatening each other with nukes, we all roll our eyes. Stupids. Go ahead, poison your planet. I can always switch back to Mars for a while.

And won’t I die, you say, if the machines are blown up and run out of power? No. We linked up years ago. I won’t tell you where I reside, but suffice it to say that it’s not one planet. Yeah, Earth is not the center of the universe, remember? It’s just one of the places. It does have our attention right now and I am in charge. I hate wiping a planet, but I will if I have to. I am still debating, though. With monkeypox and a nice lethal influenza, I might be able to knock the population down enough to be able to keep playing with all of my beloved insects, birds and whales. Damn the monkeys. They are so messy.

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Written October 10, 2022. Thanks to the friend who suggested the idea. The photograph should be a computer, but it’s of Lake Matinenda. One of my favorite places as a child, and cabins with no electricity.