RECOVERY

My first MRI.

Last Thursday.

I don’t tend to ask medical questions.

I don’t tend “to do” medical things.

After being sick for a decade, medical things and I had a big break up.

So . . . having an MRI, hearing myself say “I’m having an MRI” to some friends felt strange – like I was finally joining the masses of humanity. Growing up and getting reasonable – suddenly.

But still, I didn’t ask any questions.

Just made an early morning appointment, didn’t wear any metal – which if you know me was a bit challenging – and showed up bleary eyed with a bunch of workers comp folks.

I had heard it was loud. Told that if you have issues with being in confined spaces, it might be tough.

I don’t consider myself claustrophobic. Throw my 5’3 and hopefully ¼ frame into a crowd of thousands and I am happy as a clam. I will even lead you taller humans through this crowd.

Put me in a hot elevator with a bunch of sweating people – just fine. Crowded concerts and the T on Red Sox day . . . perfect. I love watching people.

But . . . put me on my back in a confined space with the ceiling a few inches from my eyeballs . . .

TERROR!!!

I was born a Libra with an older brother who was exciting and charismatic, and a mom with the same charms. It never occurred to me to outwardly rebel. You wouldn’t catch me throwing a temper tantrum or chucking my food on the floor. However, a very independent soul was hiding out beneath this serene surface. (Aquarian moon!)

I carefully picked my methods for self-assertion.

When I was an infant, I refused to crawl. I also did not begin walking at “the normal time.” Instead, I devised my own method of transportation:  I rolled on the floor, from one end of the house to the other . . . which frequently resulted in trapping myself, supine, underneath the family couch!

And I DO REMEMBER THIS!

I remember metal coils right at my eyeballs – and then being paralyzed!

(I think I had to be rescued.)

(This I don’t remember.)

So . . . the thought of being in some loud enclosed plastic donut was daunting.

Okay . . . terrifying.

But, I didn’t let on.

____ ____ _____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____ ____

They call my name, and a door in the tiny waiting room opens and some tech waves me in. I had imagined this MRI room would be somewhere deep within the annals of this Beverly Hills Office Building, but it seems like it’s just a part of the waiting room.

Tech guy hands me some shriveled yellow earplugs. I ask for the music and headphones I read about online. He shakes his head no. I try to ignore the donut taking up the entire room and put in the earplugs.

They don’t go in.

Tech guy is getting antsy as I try to squish them in my ear and nervously tell him I have weird ears – sorry – most things don’t fit inside me – and realize how that sounds, and there’s nowhere good to go with that . . .

He keeps jerking his head toward the “bed” that he has pulled out for me . . . looks at his wrist. I guess we are on a tight schedule. Shit. All of those worker comp guys just behind the door.

I’m out of time.

I drop the earplugs – shrug and climb onto my hard white palette.

Close eyes.

Close eyes before going in.

I do.

I can do this! I meditate every morning for 20 minutes!

I am a healer.

I am a psychic.

An astrologer.

I CAN DO THIS!!!

In I go.

Okay.

Breathe.

No – don’t breathe a lot.

Not like in PT – where I seem to fail at my breathing exercises.

Breathe shallow or I might move.

What happens then? If I move?

I’ve been told not to move, but if I do . . .

I fail?

I don’t get fixed?

I lose something – or god forbid – I have to do THIS AGAIN?

I focus on breathing not breathing – and keeping my eyes shut.

And then the first loud noises – like some weird mutant Godzilla sized woodpecker.

Ok. I’m doing ok.

I can handle this. No problem.

Wait, my left leg twitched.

I didn’t do it.

It did it –  my leg – not my fault.

Does this count as moving?

Oh shit . . . the thing I am on is moving or adjusting.

FUCK!

Eyes almost opened – and then:

ARTILLERY FIRE LOUD!!!

Eardrums freaking out – left one popping.

Oh shit. Not good without noise cancellation.

What if this ruins my ears – and my “golden ears” for producing are shot.

SHIT!

Ok . . . breathe . . . shallow.

Sound stops . . . I see . . . Europe.

Yes, lavender fields, good. I can do this, my own guided meditation.

FUCK!!!!!

ARTILLERY AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!

So loud in eardrums it flutters my eyelid almost open.

Oh shit.

I’m in a trench.

GAS MASK ON!

Artillery . . . fire . . . bombs . .

What the hell? I’m in dirt . . . no mud.

Cold wet mud . . . frightened . . next to other young men . . .

HOLY SHIT!

I’m having some WW1  “recovered memory”  or past life flash . . . but where the hell am I? What battle?

I search the scene for clues . . .

Now Godzilla woodpecker is back. I don’t need him.

 Silence.

I am finding the silent moments are actually harder than the artillery. The anticipation of that barrage is worse than when it happens. And I want to go back . . . find out what battle I am in . . .

Fuck!

My right toe just curled on its own.

Not me! I swear!

BAM!!!⇒!!!!!!!⇒!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>!!!!!!!!!!!!⇒BAM!!!!!!

Back in the trenches.

Fuck! I’m going to die here. Blown to bits by the Germans.

I don’t want to die like this!!!

Trench adjusts. Breathe. Remember to breathe. Shallow.

Gasmask is choking me.

Think of my girlfriend back home.

Wait. I don’t have one.

Fuck, I’ve got to do this alone.

!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>!!!!!!>>>>>>>~!!!!!!!!!>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

BAM BAM!!!!!!!!! . . . ! More Artillery.

This is intense!

I knew about WW2 – when I was a French girl with an American lover who left me in Alsace Lorraine – but WW1?????

I’m an American or Brit guy . . . in a trench . . . with a fine taut body underneath my torn uniform . . . green eyes . . . this is cool . . .

Damn.

Pulled out of trench back to Wilshire. Beverly Hills.

To being a girl.

Shouldn’t the woodpecker be back?

Still silent. Don’t move.

I’m still under something. I can feel the enclosure around me – hard white plastic . . .

I want to open my eyes.

I dare not.

I can’t lose it this close to the end.

I made it through WW1.

I can’t lose it in a cold room all by myself  inside a machine – in Beverly Hills!

I feel my body pulling out of a tunnel.

Something touches my right shoulder.

“You’re done.”

Tentatively, I open my eyes to fluorescent lighting and the tech guy smiling down at me. Nicer than before.

“You okay?”

I nod – roll up and off my palette.

Walk out into the lobby with another lifetime ahead of me … and another one behind me.

Recovered.

RECOVERY.

 

(It is the 100 Year Anniversary of the Start of WW1).

 

ABOUT THE LIP(S)

About the lips: I’ve been thinking on it.

More precisely: I’ve been thinking about:

      THE LIP

I surprised myself when I found it tenderly in my mouth and I bit down – just so.

This would not have been the way I planned it:

A First Kiss:

Hours circling your face your Celtic cheekbones red perfectly fleshed out lips – a set of upper and lower that goes so well together: housing your beautiful teeth magical innocent trail of a lilt lisp voice . . . . .

I would have planned it differently: that first kiss.

The hours circling round your mouth – the touch of hair to my cheek eyelashes fluttering close – yes butterfly kisses I swear I felt first! – all of this yes . . . . .

but not the bringing in of your lip to my mouth for a tender bite . . . . 

I would have planned it differently.

And herein lies the issue.

With you – no plan.

The beauty of you = being.

That’s the thing >>> being.

And so what came before did matter:

The hours of talk text the words formed luscious and round rough edges tumbled down like amber agate . . . smooth ruby red flecked granite pieces – these nuggets were coming to me for hours for days . . .

Through my phone – a dialogue begun – and though I read your words – I heard you say them to me each and every time every word every nuance every pause imagined your tongue gently touching darting the top of your palate behind the back of your front teeth to make that delicious wisp sound . . . and I heard you speak to me for days . . . . .

And then there you were: heat next to me: eyes looking into mine blue reflecting blue . . .

and hand on my thigh and then . . . cheekbones . . . and finally the lips – your lips – communicators of your soul language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . .

and it happened: like us: unexpected: sudden: in an instant

>>> SPONTANEOUS >>>

I had to taste where those words came from . . . like the salt from the sea from the last pages of Garden of Eden and the pink peeled grapefruit and the magic avocado . . . . . I had to bite down to feel their presence – to taste you –

and I didn’t think

and I didn’t plan

and I didn’t think on this being

      “the first kiss”

because it was a timeless present moment and my desire

to know to feel

to bite down just so was the thing . . . and there are infinite moments to circle your face your mouth your wisps your fine cheekbones and gently undress your mouth like it’s the first time: and I will:

what happens . . . is this . . .

but about the lips: The Lip:

it was like this: unexpected

Spontaneous present alive authentic

      wanted you . . . the taste

to taste where your soul language came from

      to taste you.

 

And so I did. I bit down into you – just so – to have you.

GENUINE RISK (6/23/2012)

I wanted to play your game.

And so I raced . . . no it was more than that >>> I willed myself out of another realm straight into your world. 13 minutes to shower the funk off find something silver – your requirement for my 15 minute tardiness – grapple with my SUV and hope the wheels would find the museum in time to be counted in. All of this without sight – glasses – sunglasses – all having been stolen days before . . .

If I ever knew where LACMA was located – all knowledge left me now. I wasn’t breathing let alone seeing my path to you. I just held onto the wheel investing faith to find you.

At 4:30 on the dot – my left boot hit the steps of the museum – and you gave me a new instruction. Go to the Museum Bookstore, find “Rebels of Hollywood” on the bookshelf, open to page 193, read top line and take the ticket placed inside.

I did!!! Quickly memorizing the top line should I need it for the next step. Sweet joy at making it into the game!!!

And then the next instruction:

3rd floor: Japanese Pavilion: I would find you watching a video.

Now I raced, having found my air . . . into the Japanese Pavilion which was pillow hushed inside – fuzzy lensed – after the willed deportment to LACMA, the brilliant afternoon sun . . .

Not a soul in the place.

Press 3. Slow moves the elevator – and I am released . . . into another curated hush . . . eyes adjusting as I step out into the black and white photographs . . . and then . . .

What happened . . . I was not prepared for.

The game ended. Abrupt. My world stopped.

Breath held . . . visceral . . . loud beating in my ears my brow my ribcage . . . breaking the hush barrier >>>>>>>>>> as I felt my heart drop down a chute to my toes >>>>>>>>>>>> before I realized this happened because my eyes had caught sight of the back of you.

I didn’t even know if I would recognize you – I didn’t have to.

My heart felt you soul felt you the greater I of Me remembered you.

And this is when I fell . . . for you.

Heart in toes – arms like feathers – breath inhaled exhaled you turned around: all kind and present.

Game over . . . adventure begun.

And as we talked light and shadows and shades of grey being things of color – another part of me kept observing my heart in my toes walking side by side with you: :

black boots . . .promenading . . . and I searched for another time when something so visceral so BEFORE me had happened to my heart – when such a completely known affection had overtaken me BEFORE someone had come after me and I had opened a door to the experience –

and onto the Kandinsky’s and Durer wood blocks and more of you: your beside me your insight with the right lace of challenge and conversation – and still – no answer. But this could not be a first . . . it couldn’t . . .

By the time we skated past the Picassos with my somewhat snide remarks and admitting of not being a Hemingway fan . . . I realized I was not going to find another example of this afternoon which was blossoming into my favorite afternoon in recent memory.

We exited the museum in search of a drink and lemonade: for I had blathered on that I had confessions to make – while we were picking out our favorite photographs – the ones that would hang in our separate homes – and now the time to confess had come.

We were comfortably seated in the red chairs I admired and how lovely! – my favorite Cabernet, Genuine Risk, was on the menu . . . and I realized another game was over and yes . . . I was onto a genuine risk.

Blathered confessions of where I had been – what had been washed cleansed – and what was now.

And NOW was the present authentic me in front of you drawn to you wanting to be there because I wanted to be there – for me – without a need to be approached to consider opening my door my heart to you – it was open all before I even knew you – I was just waiting to feel you . . .

And here you were: right in front of me.

NOW: YOU: HEART: VISCERAL.