Concentration 1.01
No crystals
Red cells-yes, white cells-no
LOT of protein
Bun 103 (34 is normal)
Creatinin 3.7 (2.3 is normal)
Thyroid and liver enzymes normal
This is what my vet told me yesterday before he said: “You have a renal failure kitty.” No wonder Maxwell has been peeing all over the house. Dr. Mac said Maxwell will eventually stop eating. The good news is he’s not in any pain and he’s had a really good 16-and-a-half years.
The first dead human I ever saw was the dad of one of the kids in my high school band. I remember the kid played percussion, and I think he was one of the Michaels that we referred to as Michael with a last initial. Pretty sure the dad died of a heart attack. Anyway, I went to the viewing with my best friend David, who was also in the band, and as we stood there in line with my middle school band teacher, we had one of those totally inappropriate jokey moments and were all shuddering silently, trying to conceal our laughter. Michael H.(?)’s dad wore a suit and was laid out in a fancy coffin, and I was struck by two things, his stillness and how much he resembled Michael.
I also went to the viewing of a co-worker’s father in 2004. This was when I was teaching in New York City, and I didn’t even know the guy very well. But he’d always been nice to me and he had given me one of my top three pieces of teaching advice: “If you see a kid doing something wrong, acknowledge the kid who’s doing it right.” The father looked stiff in his tuxedo, clownish in his make-up. Mr. Yount (working in an elementary school, learning first names is optional) seemed truly appreciative that I had come, but I felt uncomfortable and left as quickly as I could without being rude.
I’ve seen lots of roadkill in my life, including my own pets in childhood, and a few months back, I watched a white cat dash into the road and get hit by a pick-up truck, flipped and torn apart by the tires. That experience gave me some mini-PTSD, I think, as I kept thinking about it for weeks. The image still plays in my mind when I drive down that little stretch of 70.
(I’m pretty sure I myself ran over a squirrel last year, but I didn’t see it in my rear-view mirror so I prefer to think it escaped and is scampering around Mt. Moriah Road gathering nuts for this winter.)
And then, of course, there’s Boone. When my brother-in-law took him out of the Animal Control truck, he just seemed heavily asleep. E. put him down on a piece of wood in the driveway. I knelt sobbing and touched my forehead to my dog’s side. When I ran my hands over his chest, I found the bullet holes; my hands came away bloody. His glassy eyes stared, and his tongue hung comically out the side of his mouth like in the cartoons. E. and I dug a hole in my front yard. I lifted Boonie up, carried him to the hole, and laid him in his grave. We mounded the dirt on top of him. The next day I planted a little flower garden there and sank bricks into the ground for a border. I look at that little garden every day.
Anyway, I’ve just been thinking about this because before Boonie died, I never understood the tradition of viewings. But a few months after his death, I was discussing the concept of acceptance with somebody, and I realized that that’s what seeing, touching, carrying his dead body had done for me. It helped me accept that he was dead. At the time, I wished I could turn back the clock, I played all the what-if games with myself, and six months later, I still cry about it. But he’s dead. He’s dead, and I accept that.
I told him, “I want a goldang white picket fence.” I told him, “If I’m gonna move into a goldang single-wide with you and Tabitha and Travis Jr., you’re gonna put up a white picket fence that I can look out at and say, ‘That there’s my white picket fence.'” I mean, if I’d of known seven years ago what I know now, I never would of left the Dairy Joy with him that night. He was all, “You’re purdy” and “Come for a ride” and I did, and Lord Jesus, what a ride it’s been. I can’t even set foot in that Dairy Joy no more. First of all, that Bronco wadden even his—it was his daddy’s—and on account of them not speakin to each other after that fishin mishap, that was my first and last ride in it. Travis drives a Escort. When it runs. Which is not too goldang often. Next up, the money he used to buy me that double-scoop Oreo sundae, it runs out. He only got $450 from the city for gettin his thumb caught in the elevator door at the courthouse. Tell the truth, they shouldn’t of paid him a dime cause, for starters, that elevator didn’t hurt him none. He took a blue magic marker to his thumb before he got that picture took. And second of all, he was at the courthouse because he owed the county $518 for speedin tickets! The way I see it, they should of just deducted the four fifty from that and asked for the rest. Anyhow, he thought he was gonna get some big settlement so he told his boss over at the Hostess factory to shove it and by the time he went snivelin back, Dwayne had already filled his position. So ever since two weeks after we met, we been livin on what I make down at the old folks’ home. I used up all the money I’d saved for that secretarial program down at the community college, just gettin our bills paid. That’s why I told him, “Buddy, you hain’t given me nothin but heartache and gonorrhea so I figure you owe me one white picket fence.” Anyhow, I preciate you listenin to me like that, but I see you got other tables to get to. I’ll have a double-scoop Oreo sundae. Thank God for this Dairy Queen.
Last night, my nephew was unsatisfied with his solitary scoop of ice cream for dessert.
Him (to his mother, in a very grumpy tone, with a very grumpy face): You know what I would appweethiate? I would appweethiate it if you got me thome mo dethort!
I have individual writing conferences with my students for every written piece they produce, usually between their first and second drafts. They take forfuckingever—5 minutes per conference with 30 kids equals two-and-a-half hours—but that little bit of focused time makes each kid feel special and accountable. When I first started teaching, I would scribble all over the kids’ papers pointing out every little thing they did wrong, and believe me, the mistakes were various and sundry. And eventually I learned that that approach made them (a) feel totally demoralized and (b) hate writing.
Now I do things differently. For starters, I never write on their papers directly; I take notes on a separate sheet and let them make any changes on their own papers. Not only does it help them learn to revise and edit, but it gives them ownership of their writing process. But the most important lesson I’ve learned is, if I list ten to fifteen things they did well first and then one or two things they could work on, they’ll improve the hell out of those one or two things and feel proud of themselves to boot.
I take a similar tack for parent-teacher conferences. I tell the parents everything that’s great about their kid, everything their kid does well, every way in which the kid meets or exceeds my expectations, and then I give them an area or two where the kid could improve. Today I had a conference with the parent of a reasonably smart, totally charming, sorta naughty, completely undiagnosed-ADD kid. I started off by saying, “I think —- is having a good year. He seems to be learning a lot.” That’s as far as I got, and this woman burst into tears! She said in her thick Russian accent, “I’m so sorry. It’s the first time I hear something like this about my son. Whenever I come to school and people say, ‘Are you —-‘s mother?’, I freeze because I wait to hear them tell me how bad he is.” It just broke my heart.
At 3:15am, I was driving through a deluge to Durham. My sister and brother-in-law, looking a little shell-shocked, packed up and headed for the hospital, and I lay down on the couch. Ah, blessed sleep.
MMMMRRRRRRROW. That was what their old, deaf, blind cat started shouting at me about 45 minutes later and kept shouting at me until 6:15 when I heard the pitter-patter of little feet coming out of the kids’ room. The little feet stopped short at the sight of the little feet’s parents’ room, which was empty of course. I called out to my nephew, and he came running into the living room.
Him: Did Mommy and Daddy have to go to a meeting?
Me: No, honey, they had to go to the hospital because they’re going to have the baby!
Him: That’th tho exthiting!
Me: You wanna snuggle on the couch with me?
Him: Yeah.
He pulled the cover over him and then yanked it right off.
Him: Now I’m weady fow bweakfatht.
A little later….
Him (nodding): Mommy will be home latew today.
Me: Not today, buddy.
Him (still nodding): But maybe tomowwow.
Me: No, probably three or four days, buddy.
Him: But not nine dayth.
Me: No, not nine days.
Wanna know how cool I am? Friday night, I stayed out until MIDNIGHT. That’s right, the MIDDLE of the NIGHT. And I’m 34!
Well, by Saturday night, I was so full of myself that I was PARTYING in RALEIGH until 3:00AM. OK, “partying” might be too strong a word…more like standing around at a bar eating cheese fries and watching the freaks go by…but I got home at 3:00am! Then my phone rang…?
My sister: Hi.
Me: HI!
My sister: Why do you sound so awake?
Me: Because I am awake.
My sister: Were you already awake, or did you just wake up really fast?
Me (proudly): I’m STILL awake because I just got home!
My sister: Well, can you stay awake a little longer?
Me: Sure. Why?
My sister: Because my water just broke.
