Thanksgiving Break: Day 7

11:14pm Happy Thanksgiving. Tomorrow we are going out of town for a few days to go shopping and then it’s back to school for me, so thus concludes my chronicle of my last college Thanksgiving break. Still don’t know what I’ll be turning in on Monday for my essay. Maybe on the trip tomorrow a tire will go flat, and then we’ll b forced to walk to the nearest town, and on the way I’ll be taken hostage by a gang of thieves on horseback, and forced to go along with their dirty thievery and other illegal acts, and have to eat stew at dusk near the railroad tracks outside small towns with them before rising at dawn to outrun the local sheriff, and be unable to escape until Monday, at which point I’ll quickly write of my adventures and turn it in bright and early at 9:30.

11:31pm Or maybe I’ll revise Musings of a Hurricane and turn that in.

Thanksgiving Break: Day 6

10:14am Cleaning for the extended fam to arrive tomorrow for Thanksgiving. Gee, it’s fun. No General Hospital or All My Children for two full weeks. Wow, I’ve nearly got this addiction beat!

Thanksgiving Break: Day 5

4:33pm Hello, my name is Erica and I’m a shopaholic. Nicole and I went shopping last night. Why, I ask, why? Christmas is exactly one month away and I’m still spending my money on me

9:37pm So apparently they’re not muscle relaxers, they’re muscle relaxants. Hmm. Tricky. Very tricky.

Thanksgiving Break: Day 4

10:28am Well, was supposed to be up more than an hour ago, but doing better than yesterday, so who cares? It’s a gradual process. I have a doctor’s appointment at 3:45 today because if I don’t get some muscle relaxers, my muscles are going to harden into steel and I will be the first robot with human emotions. Pain, oh the pain. Only problem is I’m supposed to leave here at 3:30 to meet Nicole around 4:15. Hmm. This presents a dilemma as I have somewhat of a reputation for being late and cancelling. Maybe can call and reschedule the doctor’s appointment. Ugh! If only I didn’t have phone phobia and didn’t mind calling people. An Oreo pudding cup would be really helpful right now but we don’t have any. Guess I’ll have to have chocolate chip ice cream for breakfast.

Still am unsure what to write about for my last essay.

10:27pm Went to doctor where I was prescribed muscle relaxers. Feeling very relaxed now. Mhmm, very relaxed.

Thanksgiving Break: Day 3

1:22 pm Hmm. No emails from the friendsies. Feeling very cut off.

Have an essay to write for nonfiction. No requirements. What to write about?

3:23pm Still no ideas. Perhaps piracy is my only option.

5:41pm Meeting Nicole at Carlos O’Kelly’s for dinner tomorrow night. Haven’t seen her since the beginning of September. Last time we ate there, she told me of Andrea’s pregnancy. Now Andrea has a baby. How is it possible that some of my classmates have children and are married or engaged and I’m pretending to be a pirate in my free time? I wonder if the university offers courses on growing up and how to do it properly? I don’t seem to know how.

2 cans of pop. Still need to cut back!! On the other hand, no General Hospital or All My Children for 11 days and counting. One addiction at a time.

7:11pm Am now looking at my comment from 3:23 today. Did I mean write about piracy or actually join piracy to avoid the assignment? Is there still piracy? I mean, of course there’s piracy—but do these pirates sail ships and string black flags with cross skulls up their masts and wear patches and feed their parrots crackers? And if not, how do you detect a pirate? Is a pirate really a pirate if there is no outward sign? Hmm. I’m sensing some deeper questions. My nonfiction writing teacher would tell me to ask myself what am I not saying? What’s my deeper story? I’m sensing something about identity. But this is vacation. There should be a law against deep thinking and/or soul-searching on holiday breaks. Or maybe I meant perhaps I should join piracy and then write about my experiences? In which case, the assignment will be late and I’ll receive no grade, so I guess it really makes no difference anyway.

Thanksgiving Break: Day 2

8:39pm Went shopping with Mom and Tara today. Naturally. We are home, we go shopping. It is as natural as coming home and doing 45 loads of laundry that have piled up since Labor Day, the last time one was at home to do their laundry.

After coming home, I began reading Pirates by Celia Rees, one of my favorite authors for young adult literature. I originally picked it out to read hoping it would fit in with a lesson plan I am working on for one of my Methods classes. But now I have become totally enamored of the book and in fact wish I was the young girl so oppressed by 18th century British society that she has no choice but to shed her petticoats and become a pirate. Girl power! I could learn to sword fight and sail and overtake other ships and work hard in the sun into my hands are calloused and bruised and I am … on the other hand, all these piracy requirements sound awfully exhausting. I think I would be better as the lead in the movie version. Pirate by day working hard and convincingly, movie star by night retiring to a large palace where people offer me chocolate just for being me.

And now, after an exhausting day, I’m off to bed. Being—er, reading about pirates is hard work.

Thanksgiving Break: Day 1

11:03pm Last Thanksgiving break of college. Unbelievable. This year we get a whole week off instead of just Wednesday through Sunday. I knew if I stayed in school long enough it would happen eventually. Tara and I arrived home from school just in time to run to the store to pick up some groceries and then go to the movie theatre—not to see a movie, but to bring home some movie theatre popcorn for Mom. What size, I inquired resignedly before we left.

She held her hands up, about a foot apart from each other and replied, “The big one.” Not being one to think ahead, I didn’t pursue any further, so when we arrived at the theatre and Tara asked what size we were supposed to be getting, I relayed Mom’s answer. Then we both looked wearily at each other and sighed. Our plight was hard to endure.

Luckily, rescue came in the form of the Gladbrook Centre concession stand staff. “She usually gets a medium,” one of the employees informed us. “Last time she was here, I think she got a large,” another put in helpfully.

In the end we ordered a medium, but not before Dad came through the doors, also sent on the Popcorn Buying Mission. It seems Tara and I had not given doubt as to whether or not we would actually be stopping to buy the popcorn. “She was worried she wouldn’t get it,” Dad explained.

The rest of Friday night was spent singing along with Tara’s guitar playing pretending I am Emmy Lou Harris or Alison Krauss. The world is my oyster.

"Reading is your intellectual vitamin."

"Reading is your intellectual vitamin."
--Madame Esme

There is something about a bookstore that can calm all worries, relieve all fears, and quiet that disquieting voice at the back of a person’s brain; something about a bookstore that allows them to relax. The bookstore is my church. I go there when I need quiet time, when I need to be around people without actually speaking, when I need to think or when I need to get my mind off of other things. The bookstore is my haven. It holds all the answers. And the answer is always yes, buy that other book.

I would like to recommend The Boys of My Youth by JoAnne Beard. She is an Iowan writer (from Cedar Rapids) using a creative nonfiction form. Her stories are both humorous and haunting; one of the best books I’ve read all year. Some of you will be turned off by either the “nonfiction” thing or else that I’ve said they were “haunting.” DON’T!! It’s worth the read!

I’ve also recently reread Educating Esme: Diary of a Teacher’s First Year by Esme Raji Codell. I was lucky enough to hear her speak two months ago and she is a one of a kind extraordinary person. This book is not just for future educators!! She imparts loads of wisdom but does it in a way that is hilarious and poignant, not condescending or self-important.

I’ve also reread The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. This book is fast joining books like The Outsiders in becoming the canon of young adult literature. It’s a series of vignettes, about 110 pages that can easily be read in under an hour. Highly, highly recommend it!!

I’m currently making my way through several books. I’m on the second book in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Hilarity ensues on every pages. I’m also reading The Thin Pink Line about a whack job pretending to be pregnant (this is my relief book because, as an English major, reading Joseph Conrad all day can tend to dull the senses. This revives me) and Two Parts Textbook, One Part Love by Louanne Johnson (of Dangerous Minds fame). Very insightful as a future educator.

One last suggestion. Wigfield by Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert and Paul Dinello, about “a can-do town that may just not.” I swear, you won’t regret it!!

The Sanctuary??

Remember The Sanctuary?

Well, I have a bone to pick with Scary-Scary (aka the building manager). Today, there is no water since they are replacing the old water heater (despite the fact that we have to leave our shower doors open while we shower or else would be asphyxiated from the steam that the hot-hot-hot water produces). Secondly, the radiator is making something in the wall click and clatter (I now have a theory someone is living in there trying to send me a message through Morse code). They finally fixed our peep hole, but our toilet seat still has a crack in it and my closet door came off the track and nearly decapitated me yesterday. Plus, there is a puddle in the middle of the entryway just inside the building from last week’s rain and I’m afraid it’s going to mildew. And finally, despite the fact that I have my ceiling fan running and my window open to pull a 30 degree breeze from outside, it is still bordering on nearly 80 degrees inside.

I love college life.

The Journey: Part III

Continued from Monday, November 3

I thought I heard my mom mutter something to herself. Something like, “I should have known.”
I wanted to ask how she did know something was wrong, but I was too tired. I was always too tired. Erica, want to go to the pool? No, I’m too tired. Wanna go to the park? Maybe later. All you ever do is sit around and read. I’m just tired.

I shut my eyes. I replayed the conversation at the doctor’s office shortly after my diagnosis. “Her body didn’t know how to break down carbohydrates,” he explained to my mom. “So it’s been burning fat instead. That’s why she’s lost so much weight.”

My mom, always emotional, was practically in tears while I looked on, wishing I had a sweatshirt to put on over my tank top. Why is it always so frigid in doctor’s offices? Were they trying to make you even more uncomfortable? “I thought she looked thinner. I was just telling her she had the skinniest chicken legs. We were in Shakey’s Pizza, remember?” she tossed my way. “But sixty-nine pounds? … I had no idea.”

Well, I had thought, that explains why I’m so cold. No fat to warm me up. Why am I not more upset? I blinked out a few tears just to prove the news affected me. It was too much work, though, so I gave up.

Fourteen miles, thirteen miles, twelve miles. Why do parents always blame themselves? A flash of irritation flared in my stomach and shook me awake. That flash of emotion—that felt like me. I sat up straighter and put my feet back on the floor. I’m still me, I told myself. A tiny voice at the back of my head was haunting me. I don’t feel like me. But I ignored it. I’m still me. I’m still Erica.

My movement snapped my mother to attention.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
Four miles, three, two.
“You. The doctor was really impressed with how early you caught it. You prob’ly saved my life,” I informed her unnecessarily.

We pulled off the interstate and began following the signs: McFarland Clinic .6 miles. “Well, I’m your mother. That’s my job.” She was worried and tired and stressed and all alone. Like me.

“I have no idea where we’re supposed to be,” she said pointing to the hospital’s parking lot. Then she slid her arm across and smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “But we’ll just park and meet your dad and figure it out together, okay?
I nodded.

Okay.

The Journey: Part II

Continued from Sunday, November 2


The turning signal clicked several times as we slowed to make a left-hand turn. We passed Andersons’ house. I remembered how the night my mother had Brennan, as Dad, Tara and I were driving home from the hospital our car stalled and we had to go to their house to use the phone. I smiled as an image resurfaced of Tara, just a week short of her fourth birthday, and I, barely six years old, had been crying. Why? Were we scared? Tired? Emotionally overwhelmed? I couldn’t remember.

The Monday after I had informed my mom of my symptoms, she picked me up from Nicole’s where we were playing Monopoly yet again. “I made you an appointment. It’ll only take a few minutes.” I relayed the message to Nicole, promising to be back in less than thirty minutes.
“Don’t pick up the game,” I instructed. I later found out the little shoe and silver dog sat on Park Place and Free Parking for days, and Nicole had cried when her mother suggested it was time for the game to be picked up.

An hour after being picked up, I listened to my mom on the phone while I sat immobile on the couch with my arms around the dog. “Sandi? It’s April. Can Nicole come over and watch Tara and Brennan until my parents arrive to take the kids to their cabin for the weekend?” Her voice lowered and I pressed my face into the loose, soft skin around the dog’s collar. I whispered the news into Jessie’s ear to drown out the telephone conversation. Jessie licked my hand, then squirmed to get away.

My mom’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Do you want to listen to the radio?”
I nodded my assent. It was too quiet. Tears were beginning to prick at the back of my eyes. To hold them off, I thought of Nicole’s arrival ten minutes after the phone call. Her arrival was accompanied by an indescribable expression on her face, one I didn’t understand, for twelve-year-olds rarely understand abstract ideas like unconditional love and “when you hurt, I hurt”, but one I’ll never forget; it’s been burned into my heart.

The tears were now threatening to run over, so I shook my head and focused out the window instead. Alice’s rabbit was chasing a giant corn cob in the clouds. A rainstorm of bugs splattered the front windshield. Rows of beans melted into stalks of corn. Speed limit 55 mph; Ames 41 miles. A giant billboard shouted child abuse happens more than we know. A black and orange sign promoted the Iowa Workforce Center, the daytime home of my father.
“Dad’s gonna meet us directly at the hospital. He should be there by the time we get there.” She was reading my thoughts.

Forty-one miles, forty miles, thirty-nine, thirty-eight. Impatience to get there battled with anxiety of what I would find when I did arrive. Anxiety won.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and looked down. I had started wearing mascara that summer and now little black spindly spider legs were painted on my knees, left over from the doctor’s office. The doctor had said, “Her blood sugar is 489. She’s diabetic.” And with those two little sentences he confirmed every mother’s worst fear: something wrong with their child. I had been paralyzed—hadn’t known what to do, so I had pulled my legs up and rested my eyes on them. Then it seemed appropriate to cry, but that was really too much effort and I had stopped after about ten seconds. Ironically, now I couldn’t seem to stop myself from crying and would continue to do so for the next ten or twelve weeks.
In the days, weeks, and months to come my dad would become my personal moral booster. He would encouragingly whisper, shout, or cry, “Kick it in the butt!” (“it”—being the problem du jour—ranging from my health to schoolwork to a cranky attitude). But right then, I had no mantra. I had nothing but the knowledge my life would change—and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

I licked my thumb and wiped the spiders away, one leg at a time. Kick it in the butt. One day at a time.

God, I thought, if you change this now I promise to stop wearing mascara. I’m not a grown-up. I thought I was, but I was wrong. I’ll never fight with my siblings again. I’ll be more responsible with Jessie. I’ll—
No more, I told myself firmly.
I laid my head back down on the seat and examined the footprints on the dashboard, probably left over from Tara. She was gonna be in big trouble when Dad saw those.

Twenty-nine miles, twenty-eight, twenty-seven.

So I had diabetes, huh? Well, big deal. So that meant I had to take shots twice a day. For the rest of my life? … My brain searched frantically for a response to that disturbing news. Well, if my grandma did it, then so could I. And so what if I couldn’t eat sugar ever again!
Wait. Ever?

Oh dear.

To be continued...

The Journey: Part I

“Are you thirsty? Of course you’re thirsty. I’ll get you something to drink. No pop—too much sugar. I’ll be right back.” My mother slid her hand down my bare arm as she untangled herself from the seatbelt and staggered through the thick swampy atmosphere to disappear into the convenience store.

The humid, mid-July Iowan air caught at the back of my throat and I quickly adjusted the air conditioner, willing myself not to cry. I peeked down at the floor between the seats. A Baby-Sitters’ Club book stared back at me. This was a crucial age—some twelve-year-olds still read the BSC, but not mature ones. Not this one. But they had been my comfort books since the first grade and it was hard to break that habit in times of trouble.

Like now.

I picked up the book at looked at the cover. Number 4: the Truth About Stacey.
The Truth About Erica.

I saw my mom weaving her way between cars and buried the book under our pile of purses. Then I fixed my face into an anticipatory expression.
She passed me a Gatorade. “Hope this works,” she said worriedly.
For years to come I would laugh and my mother would wail over the Gatorade. “We’re on our way to the hospital,” she would lament. “She’s been diagnosed as a diabetic for a whole ten minutes, and what do I give her? Straight sugar!”

But then we didn’t know better. I hungrily gulped it down. The thirst was all-encompassing; I was a beggar woman wandering the desert on the verge of hallucinating. It swallowed my tongue and traveled down my throat to where even my stomach was begging for a drop of liquid. I would have drunk sludge just to save my dry, brittle tongue from cracking into dust particles.
The thirst would wake me at night, once, twice, even three times before dawn. There was no question of ignoring it. I would stumble down to the kitchen and put my cracked lips directly on the water pitcher, tossing a glance to the ceiling above me as an apology to Mom, and drink fervently. One more glass and then I swear I’ll go back to bed. Just one more. Okay, one and a half.

“Is your seatbelt on?” she asked me after watching me gulp the red liquid until it was three-fourths gone. I watched as we zipped past my small hometown onto the highway.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked my mom.
She laughed uncertainly. “We’ll find out.” That was too much responsibility for me, so I immediately revised her answer. In my head, she was completely in control.

Once she’d set her cruise control at an even 60 mph, she glanced at me. “Now how long exactly were you experiencing symptoms before you told me about them?”

I thought hard, grateful to be focusing on a clearly defined question. “The first time I remember getting up is after we got home from vacation. Remember, it was 1:25 in the morning and you were still up reading when I came down?”
“That was the very beginning of June.” Today was July 25. We pondered that for a moment.
“Well, I didn’t have to get up every night in the beginning. Just five or six times a week. Then I started getting up every night. That’s when I told you.”

“It’s so embarrassing,” I had complained. “Nicole and I were playing Monopoly and I had to get up three times to go to the bathroom. Three times in an hour.”
Her response was calming. She showed motherly concern, but did not let on how frantic she actually was. “We’ll make a doctor’s appointment and see what’s up.”

For the previous six or seven weeks I got up every night, unsure whether it was my thirst or bladder wakening me. One of the nurses told me I was lucky I had never wet the bed. “Most patients do.” I had responded, well, that’s not surprising—I was drinking so much water.
“Actually,” the nurse clarified, “it’s kind of the reverse. Your body didn’t know how to get rid of all the sugar it had piling up inside, so it sends it en route of the bladder.” I had wrinkled my nose at that embarrassing image. Twelve is not an ideal age to be discussing bathroom behavior. The nurse didn’t seem to notice because she continued, “And then, because you’re getting rid of all your liquids in an attempt to also get rid of the sugar, your body becomes severely dehydrated, and that’s why you’re thirsty,” she finished triumphantly as if to say ‘Isn’t biology ah-may-zing?’

I’ve always hated biology.

To be continued...