So yesterday was Thursday; it was just another day for me. We all had to get up early as Rainer and I had to catch the 7:05 ferry. That meant we had to be out of the house by 6:10 so we could get the children to before school daycare. This in turn meant we had to get up around 5:15 in the morning; so we could get the kids dressed and hair combed for school. (My kids have notorious tangles in their hair). Showers were taken, kids were dressed or at least forced to get dressed and ready for school. Thank god, I didn’t have to feed them – the daycare would take care of that one – or we never have made the queue at the ferry terminal.
But we made the ferry, and I had a few extra minutes so I dropped Rainer off at work after the ferry ride – instead of him hoofing his was up the hill, to catch a bus to his office. I was off to the Arnold Pavilion, the cancer center at Swedish hospital. It was going to be just another day for me. I’d park in my usual spot on the fourth floor of the Nordstrom Tower, stop and get a quick cup of tea at the corner Starbucks, take the skyway over to the third floor, drop off one of my many prescriptions to be refilled, take a quick elevator down to the second floor to see my oncologists, get blood work done, and have my port flushed out. Another quick elevator and I was on my way to the third floor for a fast track treatment and extra fluids (as I’m always dehydrated), then the dreaded elevator to the fourth floor to see my surgeon. My surgeon insisting that I hike up to the fifth floor for a quick MRI and to make sure I take the express elevator up to the fifteenth floor to make another appointment with another surgeon who also will be involved in my upcoming surgery. I would then take the express elevator to the third floor, pick up my prescription, take the skyway to the parking facility. I would pretend I was an Indy racer and race down the hill to the ferry, where normally I would write a three page text to my BFF who’s meandering somewhere down in the South American way. But this Thursday, I was exhausted so I actually sleep on the ferry back to BI.
But let’s back up shall we. It was when I went to get my tea from Starbucks that gave me pause for the day. I had a good half hour before I was supposed to be on the second floor, so instead of tea, I got a warm caramel macchiato with whipped cream and a small piece of banana bread with nuts. A very decadent choice, don’t you think. I sat down at a table and slowly drank my coffee. (Which I normally don’t have because it does weird things to my mouth – translation – I become a blithering idiot that can’t be shut up – another story). I was watching the people go by, when my focus was diverted to a young mother and her infant son sitting at a table in the corner near the door. Her son was sitting in a high chair, his hands waving frantically, his mouth up turned in a big smile, his eyes brightly shining at everyone who went in and out the coffee shop. The mother was a young woman, probably late 20’s, blondish, a bright smile to match her sons. There was something off about the mother and son…..but I couldn’t quite place it.
I ate my banana bread slowly as I watched the mother and son. It was raining outside and most everyone was huddle over their hot lattes. Every once in a while a wandering crazy would walk in and create a commotion that made most people huddled even closer to their cups of coffee. A man with very long oily gray hair walked in and came up to the mother. Have you seen Sarah, he said. No, she’s got a room for the next several days and plans to stay in out of the rain. Okay, the man reaches over and tickles the little boy’s tummy. I look closer at the pair and my eyes begin to notice things. Sure the mother has the proverbial fold up walker with her, but she’s also has a rather large back pack – the kind you would normally go camping up to the mountains with. The young toddler is a waif, his hair thin, and he looks to be malnourished. Another crazy walks in with his white snowsuit on, again questioning about the elusive Sarah. Out he goes even though he didn’t like the answer. The long hair gentleman is back, he drops a wad of cash on the table and says…..make sure the kid gets a big breakfast. The young mother quickly scoops up the bills to her purse. They are homeless.
Finally, it’s time for me to go and I notice a barista coming towards the young mother and son. Here, we had some extra warm milk today. She takes it and offers it to her son. I smile and go about my crazy day. Isn’t it nice, that strangers can sometimes help one another?
Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a health care program that didn’t discriminate again those who have pre-existing conditions such as me or that could help young homeless mothers care for their children? We need to do something……even if it’s a cancer ridden old mother standing on her soapbox saying, I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any longer.
It’s just another day for me………maybe it’s time to make it just another day for yourself.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
A walk on the beach.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Port Salerno
So today I’m at a Seafood Festival. We’re in Port Salerno. It’s a sleepy retirement community on the Atlantic side of Florida. Everything here is tired and old, not much really happens. However, today there are thousands and thousands of people at the festival. I haven’t seen many people since I came to Florida and find myself wondering, where all these people have been hiding. The economy is very bad, Madoff’s tricks have taken so much from so many that live here. However today, all of the masses have come to this little port to feed on fresh shucked oysters, fried shark bits, shrimp kabobs, crab cakes, conch strips and hush puppies.
It’s the first time I’ve seen young people since I’ve been here. And by young people, I mean people who are in their forties. But just as the Bainbridge forty something moms carry their babes in slings to one side, the women here shepherd their flock of children to horse rides, funny clown balloon makers, bouncy houses, and watch as their youngest lean over docks in hopes of catching fish.
I’m sitting on a pier under a long white canopy. I’m at a table clothed in white. I’ve got my legs up on a chair as I wait for Hilda, and her husband Dick and a friend to make their way through the throngs of people to return with their catch. Near me, elderly Italian gentlemen converse in their native tongue. Their hands wave in front of their faces as I catch pieces of their conversation – ma famila is repeated over and over. They sip their wine slowly while their words flow by me like music to my ears.
A soft salty wind whispers across my face as I watch the people mill by. The bright sun warms me and I think of my own “famila” and long to share this warm moment with them.
It’s the first time I’ve seen young people since I’ve been here. And by young people, I mean people who are in their forties. But just as the Bainbridge forty something moms carry their babes in slings to one side, the women here shepherd their flock of children to horse rides, funny clown balloon makers, bouncy houses, and watch as their youngest lean over docks in hopes of catching fish.
I’m sitting on a pier under a long white canopy. I’m at a table clothed in white. I’ve got my legs up on a chair as I wait for Hilda, and her husband Dick and a friend to make their way through the throngs of people to return with their catch. Near me, elderly Italian gentlemen converse in their native tongue. Their hands wave in front of their faces as I catch pieces of their conversation – ma famila is repeated over and over. They sip their wine slowly while their words flow by me like music to my ears.
A soft salty wind whispers across my face as I watch the people mill by. The bright sun warms me and I think of my own “famila” and long to share this warm moment with them.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Palm Beach
Palm Beach, Wow. Long stretches of white soft sanded beaches follows roads before you. The sun and sky bounce off the water, like glass reflecting the pristine world around you. It was bright, it was warm, it was beautiful. We were wandering, Hilda, her husband, Dick and I, winding down roads to catch sight of the elite world. Houses faded shades of pink, beige or sky blue huddled next to each other. Yards manicured with care. A light breeze and palm trees waved hello to us and we passed them by.
Soon we come to a wide open span of white beach; brightly colored parachutes dotted the sky. Surfer’s suit up or strip down, but the cars aren’t the beat up VW vans of California. These aren’t the California or even Hawaiian surfer dudes. The rich play here. Mercedes, X5’s, Rovers, Cayennes park parallel to the beach. Do you want get out Joan? No, No, let’s keep going. Too many beautiful people are playing on the sands; I know that I’m not one of the beautiful. However, the water calls to me. I have to see it, touch it. The beach is quieter down further, its winter in Palm Beach. Not many people are around; even the locals don’t show up until mid February.
I see a lone spot on the beach. Can we stop now? A quick U-turn, easy parking and before the engine even dies, the car door is open and I am out. Dick stays in the car to read, he’s done this before. Hilda follows me as I pull her toward the beach. We climb over the painted white scalloped concrete wall. For me, this is a minor achievement. Shoes in hand, jeans rolled up to the knee, we walk down to the water’s edge. Hilda warns me away from some dark blue balloons on the sand, they are jelly fish – and dangerous. At the blend between water and land, we walk down the shoreline. The sand is warm. The water flows between my toes as the waves lap in, it’s warm. A wave comes in and suddenly, I no longer can see my feet. The tide pulls the water away from the beach and I wish that I could go with it. I feel free and I wonder is this what heaven is like. Soon it’s time to meander to a different part of Palm Beach. As we walk back to the car, I see fluffy clouds and blue skies mirrored in the ocean waters. I know not what is top or bottom. A moment of heaven….. Dick looks up from his paper as we climb back in the car. He jabbers on about some silly article from the paper. Hilda and I smile and nod our heads as we have shared a good moment.
We wander further to the main drive of Palm Beach, the shopping market of the rich and famous. For a brief moment, we are going to try to pretend to be one of the elite. Tiffany’s, Saks, Neiman’s, all are there. We stop for a heavenly lunch at the place to be seen, the restaurant – Taboo. The food is divine, the people watching is even better. Rich ladies and gentleman abound. The ladies with their stylishly coifed hair, shiny objects at their throats, lovely sheer white and blue dresses dine and gossip together. Gentlemen with their fine Armani jackets and much younger trophies laugh loudly, eat and drink heartily. Beautiful models walk amongst the tables, hawking designer dresses, potent perfumes, and bling, lots and lots of bling.
Towards the end of lunch, I realize that besides being under dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and having no diamonds, rubies, emeralds of any size on me, that I am at the ripe old age of almost 50 (in a matter of days) am the youngster here. As I look closer at the ladies surrounding me, I notice that mouths spread from ear to ear, foreheads are high, the high cheeks and smooth skin are nothing but an illusions created by a plastic surgeon. The gentlemen too, have a nip or tuck or added hair or two. Even the beautiful models, when seen up close, are tired with makeup caked on their face to hide their years.
As we walk through the side alleys, visiting exquisite boutiques that make me think of Italy, I realize that this is nothing but a fantasy, a wonderful fantasy for the wealthy. We see an elderly lady in a wheel chair, accompanied by a well dressed man. He offers her a tissue and remarks to her about how wonderful it is to get out, dine on good food, and see her friends. I realize that this isn’t a doting son; no…..this is her paid companion. The fantasy is cracking.
After walking for what seems like forever, we find we are on a quest to find Richard a cup of coffee. How can this world exist without a corner Starbucks or Peete’s Coffee? Dog shops with diamond collars and bowls, yes. Fabulous purse shops with photos of Jolie or Aniston carrying their bags, yes. Rows and rows of bling shops, yes. Coffee, no. Finally, in a back alley way off the main drag we find a sandwich shop which sells coffee. The prices are reasonable; perhaps we have found ourselves back in the real world. I venture into a small boutique next to the sandwich shop. Fifty percent off everything, priced to sell, the signs scream loudly. This is my kind of place. I find a pair of hoop earrings with a small ball of diamonds that dangle freely on the hoop. For the first time in my fantasyland, I ask the price. In my mind, I say to myself…..if the earrings are $200 or less I am going to buy them, even though I have no idea how I would pay for them. The saleswoman rummages through paper, her reading glasses perched on her nose, she looks up over her glasses and says……these earrings are 14K hammered gold, (my resolve begins to shake), they are from a designer in Argentina, (my heart begins to sink) the diamonds are 5.6 karats (heart is now sunk), the price is $2695. I know that $2695 isn’t $26.95. I quietly but firmly say, so that would be about $1400 on sale. She nods her head and wants me to try them on. No, No……it’s time to go. As much as my heart wants to be one of them…..to live in beautiful places, to eat fabulous food, and live in warm weather……it’s not who I am.
Palm Beach……wow. Bainbridge Island……home.
Soon we come to a wide open span of white beach; brightly colored parachutes dotted the sky. Surfer’s suit up or strip down, but the cars aren’t the beat up VW vans of California. These aren’t the California or even Hawaiian surfer dudes. The rich play here. Mercedes, X5’s, Rovers, Cayennes park parallel to the beach. Do you want get out Joan? No, No, let’s keep going. Too many beautiful people are playing on the sands; I know that I’m not one of the beautiful. However, the water calls to me. I have to see it, touch it. The beach is quieter down further, its winter in Palm Beach. Not many people are around; even the locals don’t show up until mid February.
I see a lone spot on the beach. Can we stop now? A quick U-turn, easy parking and before the engine even dies, the car door is open and I am out. Dick stays in the car to read, he’s done this before. Hilda follows me as I pull her toward the beach. We climb over the painted white scalloped concrete wall. For me, this is a minor achievement. Shoes in hand, jeans rolled up to the knee, we walk down to the water’s edge. Hilda warns me away from some dark blue balloons on the sand, they are jelly fish – and dangerous. At the blend between water and land, we walk down the shoreline. The sand is warm. The water flows between my toes as the waves lap in, it’s warm. A wave comes in and suddenly, I no longer can see my feet. The tide pulls the water away from the beach and I wish that I could go with it. I feel free and I wonder is this what heaven is like. Soon it’s time to meander to a different part of Palm Beach. As we walk back to the car, I see fluffy clouds and blue skies mirrored in the ocean waters. I know not what is top or bottom. A moment of heaven….. Dick looks up from his paper as we climb back in the car. He jabbers on about some silly article from the paper. Hilda and I smile and nod our heads as we have shared a good moment.
We wander further to the main drive of Palm Beach, the shopping market of the rich and famous. For a brief moment, we are going to try to pretend to be one of the elite. Tiffany’s, Saks, Neiman’s, all are there. We stop for a heavenly lunch at the place to be seen, the restaurant – Taboo. The food is divine, the people watching is even better. Rich ladies and gentleman abound. The ladies with their stylishly coifed hair, shiny objects at their throats, lovely sheer white and blue dresses dine and gossip together. Gentlemen with their fine Armani jackets and much younger trophies laugh loudly, eat and drink heartily. Beautiful models walk amongst the tables, hawking designer dresses, potent perfumes, and bling, lots and lots of bling.
Towards the end of lunch, I realize that besides being under dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and having no diamonds, rubies, emeralds of any size on me, that I am at the ripe old age of almost 50 (in a matter of days) am the youngster here. As I look closer at the ladies surrounding me, I notice that mouths spread from ear to ear, foreheads are high, the high cheeks and smooth skin are nothing but an illusions created by a plastic surgeon. The gentlemen too, have a nip or tuck or added hair or two. Even the beautiful models, when seen up close, are tired with makeup caked on their face to hide their years.
As we walk through the side alleys, visiting exquisite boutiques that make me think of Italy, I realize that this is nothing but a fantasy, a wonderful fantasy for the wealthy. We see an elderly lady in a wheel chair, accompanied by a well dressed man. He offers her a tissue and remarks to her about how wonderful it is to get out, dine on good food, and see her friends. I realize that this isn’t a doting son; no…..this is her paid companion. The fantasy is cracking.
After walking for what seems like forever, we find we are on a quest to find Richard a cup of coffee. How can this world exist without a corner Starbucks or Peete’s Coffee? Dog shops with diamond collars and bowls, yes. Fabulous purse shops with photos of Jolie or Aniston carrying their bags, yes. Rows and rows of bling shops, yes. Coffee, no. Finally, in a back alley way off the main drag we find a sandwich shop which sells coffee. The prices are reasonable; perhaps we have found ourselves back in the real world. I venture into a small boutique next to the sandwich shop. Fifty percent off everything, priced to sell, the signs scream loudly. This is my kind of place. I find a pair of hoop earrings with a small ball of diamonds that dangle freely on the hoop. For the first time in my fantasyland, I ask the price. In my mind, I say to myself…..if the earrings are $200 or less I am going to buy them, even though I have no idea how I would pay for them. The saleswoman rummages through paper, her reading glasses perched on her nose, she looks up over her glasses and says……these earrings are 14K hammered gold, (my resolve begins to shake), they are from a designer in Argentina, (my heart begins to sink) the diamonds are 5.6 karats (heart is now sunk), the price is $2695. I know that $2695 isn’t $26.95. I quietly but firmly say, so that would be about $1400 on sale. She nods her head and wants me to try them on. No, No……it’s time to go. As much as my heart wants to be one of them…..to live in beautiful places, to eat fabulous food, and live in warm weather……it’s not who I am.
Palm Beach……wow. Bainbridge Island……home.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Stuck in Atlanta
So here I sit in the Atlanta Airport. Lots and los of people - too many people. What's so surprising is that most of the people - no offense - are old. Where are all of these old people going. Of course, every now and then you see the young mother, her hair matted down, strands of the it hanging to one side of her head. She pulls two crying toddlers - on of which is either arching his back and he crys in her arms or laying flat on his back sobbing into the floor. She drags the two young toddlers with the best of her might, while being laiden down with suitcases, stuffed animals and huge diaper bags.
It's a weird world this airport life. You either see people decked out in their fine italian wool suits, women walking around in four inch feels with their stylish yet sedate coach bag. Or you see young men wearing either spray painted on black levies or cargo pants carried not on the hip but at the knee (I just want to scream out - pull up your frigging pants and put a belt on - I must be getting old).
But these wacky people all seem to be going somewhere. While I'm not sure if I'm going anywhere.
It's a weird world this airport life. You either see people decked out in their fine italian wool suits, women walking around in four inch feels with their stylish yet sedate coach bag. Or you see young men wearing either spray painted on black levies or cargo pants carried not on the hip but at the knee (I just want to scream out - pull up your frigging pants and put a belt on - I must be getting old).
But these wacky people all seem to be going somewhere. While I'm not sure if I'm going anywhere.
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