Before I start my report, Walter, I just have to say, “What
the hell was the Academy thinking?”
I like Ben Affleck, and I don’t agree with some of my friends that he
should stick with his duckish insurance company and get out of the show
business. I liked the critic’s
note in The New Yorker that he is the
actor most at the mercy of his jawline, and I find him well-suited to both
acting and directing. But a best
pic statue for Argo? Forget ‘not so much’ – not at all.
Ok, here in Glendale, the story was much different than *fifteen hundred people* at the
Governor’s Ball last night. (Since
when has the Gov’s Ball had so long a guest-list?) As crews are rolling up the red carpet at the Dolby Theater and
sweeping up the post-Oscar party-rooms, dawn’s rosy glow creeps across the San
Bernardino mountains and the scene at GMH is much more subdued.
Dr Habashy, the meerkattish renologist, made me feel
comfortable right away by calling me ‘habibi.’ Though there was no wafting on the air of chai or coffee, I
seemed to hear a taksim in the background for the slimmest moment, over the
chatter of gaiety going on in several languages at the nurse’s station right
outside my door. I like waking to
the sound of laughter and the rapid-fire talk that I can’t understand.
Dr Habashy appeared (in stylish t-shirt, strategically-faded
jeans and expensive driving shoes) in the murky light to reassure me that I may
finally be disconnected from my chief nemesis (yes, that is redundundant, but
entirely fitting): the IV bag
leashed to my arm. I don’t know
why I need this infernal annoyance.
The catheter in my arm (connected to some kind of fishing-bobberish valve
strung in the middle of the supply tube that catches on everything) is
constantly a bother (I have to unplug it if I want to leave the orbit of the
bed – which is like every hour or so because of the super-hydration that the
contraption occasions – and when I go walkabout it must be dragged along like a
giraffe out for its micturational duties). I just can’t
understand why I have to be hooked up to it at all. As much as I might snark around about the food, this damn IV
setup is really the only annoyance about my mini-vacation here on Six North.
Breakfast in the predawn hour
The one-liter bag of saline (more salt? really?) finally emptied itself (with
the help of a pump) after 29 hours – that’s what, three centiliters an
hour? Kinda ridiculous. The supply line hooks on everything,
like a child pulling on the doorknob to anchor himself out of having to go to
the dentist. I told them and told
them, “Just give me a straw and I’ll drink the damn stuff.” (I didn’t even suggest that they put
some gin in it, as I normally would!)
And what you’re hearing behind me, Walter, is the parade of
night nurses and orderlies going off-shift – “Bye by Jesse, bye Malu, bye
Emma!” – after a long but quiet night here at Six North. At the risk of applying a cliché, it
really is like a family here.
Which reminds me, I have to add to the list of wonderful
folks Pierre, Jesse, Abby & Albert.
This morning’s waking was different, however: lovely Emma, the Yeravani siren who
stopped me for speeding in the hallway on my first evening here, had suddenly
turned from a brisk effectuator into a hyperefficient automaton, jerking me out
my dream with a madrugadal demand for blood, and in my
sophorific haze I was certain that she was Doc’s wife Assiduacia from Snow White & the Seven Dwarves. And no matter how many times I tell
them that I don’t want the blood-draw from the ditch (the soft crook of my
elbow), it seems they always head to that spot as if it’s the only vein in my
body.
I ate the last of the burrito last night and there is no
breakfast this morning. No juice,
no water even, no nada. Neante. The big stress test comes today – in a short while in fact –
and later in the day, the Main Event, so no food til dinner, such as that will
be. The continue to tacos haunt me
– the lovely tacos that can’t be eaten, the phantom tacos just out of my
reach. The Americanos, crunchy and overstuffed. The little blanda
morditas, waiting for the cilantro and the spray of lime. My nose reaches into the air in search
of the savory tang of grilled chicken.
I am Tantalus, chained to
an IV tower and smelling hospital cooking when not imagining merghez, chalao, or seared bonita with wasabi dressing.
There is still fake beer in the cajon by the bed, but none of that either til I come back in the
late afternoon from the Ablatatory.
And Robert Louis Stevenson, another comida-obsessive author, floats into
my consciousness: “I dream of
cheese – mostly toasted.”
I missed taking a pic of last night’s repast, because when
they brought it in I was deep in conversation on the merits of poetry and the
plotting of fiction with the lovely Echo Tech Lisa. So the skinless tarragon chicken breast sat untouched for an
hour, alongside its companion zucchini and roasted potatoes. Then my hero, Dr McKenzie, visited to
discuss the Main Event, and I was so famished that I made short work of it
while discussing the merits of various ‘treatment modalities.’ So, no pic. But I’m here to report that the meal was an improvement,
even if the pechuga was a bit dry
(not that *I* might have had anything to do with that, by leaving it on the
side while conversationalising with Lisa).
