BJ's Blog

and re-engaging, at least a little bit, with my writing. a 100-word flash non-fiction piece for Stitch. “stuck in time.”

I observe time slip, help myself to its elongations in the mornings and surrender to its protractions in the evenings. I pad around the bulging hours from 8 to noon: a cat, nesting into a shawl clumped on the couch. I dig into the meat of the day from noon to 5: a dog, dashing to the door, offering a toy, whining, circling. I flit about the flashing hours from 5 to 10: a moth, on a suicide mission to the light, crazed by the brightness, burned in the glare. I crash into time’s oblivion in bed. No more time.

gotta start someplace.

I miss writing blog posts, reading about writing, finding places to submit my writing, tinkering with pieces of puzzles that might form essays. But as the various responsibilities that I’ve had this past year slip from me, I’m beginning to see some room to fit in writing again.

My Moby-Dick class ends this week–though the grading won’t end until next. So then it will be only the dean transition: saying goodbye to Catherine and hello to Scott. Then navigating the new office situation. This will be a lot less than what I *had* been doing: coordinating the Engaged Learning Series and serving as Interim Associate Dean. May was particularly crazy as I taught my class, filled in for Mike (Acting Director of CCEL) and Catherine (Interim Dean).

Acting: performing a job for a short time : holding a temporary position

Interim: used or accepted for a limited time : not permanent

Similar and yet not. The former implies a stop-gap person. The latter implies a qualified substitute.

A lot has happened since last summer, and I’ve had so little time to process it. Busy working and living I guess. Many trips: Torrey, Sun Valley, California, Santa Fe/Taos, Washington DC, Kayenta, Seattle, Zion. And busy hanging out and dating–a lovely change. Someday I’ll write about that.

We lost Bubba on May 3rd. I keep meaning to write something about him but haven’t yet found the words. I miss him every day.

It was hot like today. With cotton blowing. Friends and family have died and divorced. My hair has turned gray. And two people now inhabit the planet. They make it worth every hair, every sleepless night, every worry, every scar, every expense. I like to think that we did it all for them.

Why marry? Because you will marry the wrong person. I had romantic notions that marriage was the goal, so when I reached 30 and 31 and 32 I worried that I never would marry and thus never achieve the goal. So the stakes were high when I met my future husband–or re-met him and looked at him as a potential mate instead of just my brother’s roommate. The thrill of connection, the joy of having someone to put my arm around…

Having put “writing” on my calendar for at least one hour every Saturday and Sunday I find myself doing that thing where I flounder about, searching for something to say. Close the other tabs, exit “Messenger,” focus on *this page.* Yesterday I re-read my blog and other stuff I’ve written. It felt stale, stuck. Well perhaps not that exactly…maybe too earnest. I’m liking the idea of tighter forms. The Unraveling short snippet approach. Or “Trash” (reworked version of it hurts my heart) though no one’s accepted that one, and I now have only a couple of places considering it. I could bundle it with some other short pieces–and that way I don’t have to write anything new 😉

The catch-all term for an aging body, “degenerative disc disease,” captures the essence of my life. I’m 53–over that proverbial hill–entering menopause (see disorganized), where I lose my collagen-saturated skin, my resilience to injury, my quick wit, my 8-hour sleeps, my sex appeal.

Tripartite diagnoses:

• disorganized menses
• lateral epicondylitis
• degenerative disc disease

So I meet my annual deductible in attempts to “treat” these conditions. In vain. The cycle refuses to regulate, the elbow resists the third injection, and the back remains stubbornly sore. When to fight? When to resign?

I have three diagnoses, three jobs. I’m inclined toward threes. They serve such a lovely narrative function. But they can feel redundant. And predictable. I’m ready to move toward two. Two diagnoses, two jobs. Fix one, eliminate one: operate on the elbow, opt out of a position. Then I’ll persist with the other two. Eventually my menses will cease and my back pain will resolve (or it won’t and then I’ll find another option). In two months the two remaining work positions will be resolved.

Lop them off: elbow and job.

with an old issue: back pain a la 8 years ago when we spent Christmas in Hawaii. two visits to the chiropractor, one visit to my internist. but since then I’ve added yoga and haven’t taken any pain meds apart from NSAIDs. so the sciatic pain is not as bad. still it lingers.

and so there’s that. and this: my less than firm determination to write more this year. to somehow find the time and energy to pull together a handful of essays. sabbatical was only a year ago. I can’t recall what I did in 2015. I need a writing narrative–a story of my writing life that captures the moments when I connected with the page, when I braided the thoughts into something that lifted off, peeled off and clung to a window. a blog becoming a window clingy, or whatever those see-through sticker things are called. perhaps a brief log or journal recounting my weekly progress. a list of “things I’ve done” to account for the time that slips, slips, slips, slips, slips, slips.

meanwhile, some stuff:

• a viola for Renae, Peter Prier Violin shop, old wood and rosin, shelves of dissembled violins–like bowling ball shoes or ice skates in their designated boxes. and smoking, 7-11, smell on my jacket.
• no more spark, no more flutterings in the gut, in spite of the familiar smells and hugs, nothing. a quiet comfort and recognition of our older age, shared experiences, similar singleness and parenting positions. my need to return to the place of so much emotional energy and scratch about in it, see if it still resonates, still calls to me. I return to learn about myself, to see how far I’ve come. and to remind myself that I am more than that now.

“To give up a child for adoption, to relinquish a baby to another’s care.”

Sever the bond between you and the person you carried inside you for 9 months, the being that shared your body, the creature that absorbed your nutrients, the infant that now carries 23 of your chromosomes and will spread your genetic material throughout the universe.

“Here, he is yours now.”

While I was in Switzerland with my parents, safely ensconced at the Garderie d’Enfants nursery school in Geneva, my aunt relinquished a baby. Mom’s sister. Seven years younger, so maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. She and her then boyfriend later husband had a son. Several years later they had two more sons. There are three–I only know two. Grandma sent her away to Milwaukee, Chicago? While I sang “Sur le Pont D’Avignon” and danced in a ring.

“Here, he is yours now.”

My sister has twin boys. After in vitro fertilization, three embryos implanted, became viable. Baby A, Baby B, Baby C. As her pregnancy progressed, the risks increased–for her and the three babies. All boys.

Selective reduction (or multifetal pregnancy reduction or MFPR) is the practice of reducing the number of fetuses in a multifetal pregnancy, say quadruplets, to a twin or singleton pregnancy.

My sister’s fetuses were selectively reduced to two. Baby C was selected. Baby A and Baby B filled the space vacated by Baby C. They shared the portion suddenly allotted. They grew, they thrived. Baby A and Baby B are 7 years old.

“Here, he is yours now.”

A close call, a revisitation from the angry past. Reminders that I have a pattern of seeking out people in pain, people in trouble. I’m drawn to the ones who want fixing.

The first, the close call, was a text, a toe dipped into the waters of dating. But really it was just a toe extended toward the water, not making contacting, just testing the air temperature. And the air was cold so I withdrew my toe before touching the water.

The second, the angry past, thrust its fist through my cell phone. After the text punches three months ago, I’d unblocked the number, thinking enough time had passed. But the past never really passes does it?  I kept my fingers to myself and typed “please stop.”

A toe, a finger. One peeks, the other points. Digits projecting beyond the safe sphere of self. Pressing into the sphere of another, pushing into the soft tissue membrane of human skin, human emotion. Texting, testing, tentative; texting, blaming, accusatory.

Not them: the ambitious people around me who apply for jobs that I aspire to but don’t feel I’m ready to apply for because I want more experience, more confidence. They have less experience than me but more confidence. And so what if they’re more ambitious than me? Why does it bother me?

Lesson from HERS: women apply for jobs when they feel they possess ~90% of the skills required to perform the job; men apply when they possess ~50%. This rankles me and yet I can’t overcome my tentativeness. I lack the cockiness to put myself out there for something I don’t yet feel qualified for. I suffer from imposter syndrome.

And then I wonder whether or not I really want these other jobs anyway. Don’t I want more time to write, more time to ponder the world around me? Yes, but then I read The Women of Hollywood Speak Out and remember how few women are chairs, deans, and VPs: maybe 1 in 5? And yet my male colleague feels picked on. And then I remember why I’m angry. And then I’m back to where I started. Is it about me, really? Some of it is about them too.

Apparently my menses are disorganized–at least that’s what my gynecologist informed me the other day. He prescribed some progesterone to help “organize” my cycle, get my body to return to its cycle of ovulation and menstruation. I’ve been stuck in “menstruation” for almost 4 weeks, so my body is confused. Disorganized. Once organized by the hormone, my body should cycle and shed the ovarian cyst that’s just hanging out, waiting to move but lacking the hormonal prompts to do so. Cyst: “Should I stay or should I go?” Poised to act. Looking for cues. Undecided. Disorganized.

If all goes well, in one month I’ll be organized….