It's Bob All Day, But It's Nick At Night

I Didn't Say "What's Up Doc?" 

Lie Down And Relax - It's Only A Drill!

Heroes and Accidental Champions

My Inner Child's A Big Dork

My True-Life Identity Crisis

With LUV To Bob, Kate and the Surgeon

The Clamorous Cape Cod Clammer

This Month’s Phobia: Being Buried Alive

Meat on Shoes and Little Town Blues

Eating Clams and Crow in Wellfleet

Can’t Private Parts Be Kept More Private?

Best Cases of Laughter are Highly Contagious

It's Bob All Day But It's Nick At Night

Of all the things Bob does in his sleep, his talking is the most entertaining.

“Sandwich,” he said last night between snores.

I whispered in his ear, “What kind of sandwich?”

“A  . . .  beautiful blonde sandwich.”

I figured this would be the perfect time, therapeutically, to bring up an issue I’ve been carrying around 25 years. You know  . . .  while my husband is sleeping and defenseless. “Blonde like beautiful Jennifer, the girl you dated while you were dating me?”

“Yes.” He began making kissing noises into the pillow. “But you had the good personality,” he murmured.

I wrenched the pillow from his arms and slammed it on his head. Then I heard him laughing. “April fool!” he said, toppling over in hysterics.

Lately, I’ve become an insomniac. I know a lot about this. I’ve read about keeping a pen light and paper next to your bed so that you can jot down your worried thoughts then go back to sleep. I’ve tried that. By the time I’m through writing all that’s worrying me, it’s way past daybreak.

If you’re having trouble sleeping, let me warn you of a few things.

1. Without sleep, you get more emotional. Last month, AT&T bought our cable company. We had 1 more month of Mediaone. I wept uncontrollably on Bob’s shoulder, “I never even got to say ‘Goodbye.’”

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you.”

“I need more time!” My crying grew more urgent. “One lousy month is not enough! All the things I could have done – should have said.” I couldn’t catch my breath. “And the last time I spoke to them, I was angry. My last words were  . . .   oh God   . . .   my last words were, ‘The cable’s been out over an hour. When is it coming back on?’” And I slumped to the floor, convulsively sobbing.

Bob picked me up and lovingly said, “You are such a gigantic doofus.”

2. Don’t watch nighttime info-mercials. I bought fat-blocker pills. They haven’t worked, but I’ll keep trying. I figure by the time I’m 90, I’ll have a body like Cher but a face like Henry Kissinger.

3. During the night, stupid things seem important. “I have something to tell you,” I said to Bob, tenderly touching his face as he slept. He opened his eyes, looked up at me, then closed them. I handed him a Kleenex. “You’ll need this.”

He sat up. “Somebody better be dead.”

“Theo Huxtable didn’t make it.”

“Have you taken your medication today?”

“It’s no time for jokes, sweetheart,” I said, softly. “I’m afraid Rudy won the favorite Cosby kid contest on Nick at Nite.”

He gently held my face in his hands and said, “Please go away.”

So, since everything’s fine physically, why can’t I sleep? I may have found one answer last week at 2 am. Bob came in as I was sitting on the floor watching Taxi. I had a dozen cat toys around me and a nutty cat having a blast. I had my favorite drink, seltzer with orange juice. I was laughing, playing, and having what I always refer to as a stolen moment.

“You should play like this during the day,” he said.

“Yeah, right.” I rarely justify guilt-free play during must-be-productive daytime.  

“Then you might not need to play during the night.” He poured himself some seltzer, nuked 2 slices of Jack’s Lounge pizza, sat with me on the floor, tossed a bunch of fake mice in the air for the kitten, and laughed.

We had a stolen moment – one I treasured, and one I hoped to repeat often and without guilt  . . .  even when the sun is out.

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Yay, it's May! What do we think about? Tulips and colons, of course! I freaked out before my colonoscopy. Nobody wants one, even if we're having symptoms that warrant it. We're supposed to do it anyway when we're 50. I started worrying at 30. I finally had it done last month at age 53.

My purpose is to encourage, not frighten, because like mammograms, it's better to detect problems early. I promise you it was simple.

I assured Bob, "No colon gags." Like asking the doctor if business is looking up. He warned, "Don't make jokes. When you're nervous, you are never funny." So I didn't make an ass of myself (sorry).

You can't have solid food after 8 p.m. two nights before the exam. Five minutes before 8, I nuked half of a Jack's pizza. "Sweetheart," Bob said, wrenching the last slice from me, "you just had a gigantic bowl of chili."

"I can't eat tomorrow. I'll die if I don't eat this now!" With a killer glare, I wrestled the slice back.

The day before the exam, I drank a gallon of stuff to clean out my intestines. It's commonly called Golytely. Believe me. That name is a colossal misnomer. And ... if there's ever a great time to weigh yourself, it's then.

Only liquids are allowed. I was starving. When I couldn't get the last drop of broth by holding the bowl to my mouth, I sucked it up through a straw.

I'm glad the exam's behind me, so to speak. I was so anxious that when I signed their form, instead of my name, I literally put, "Signed." The staff was kindhearted. The procedure was painless and took 15 minutes, if that. And hey - they give you drugs that make you feel real good.

The hilarious part happens after the colonoscopy. You see, during the exam they put air up there to inflate the intestines. But here's the thing. That air has to come back out. And you can't leave until it does. So patients are led to one room, separated from each other by curtains. Are you getting my drift here - of the choral harmonics coming from a room full of folks who've just had colonoscopies? Trust me. It's not a Mozart sonata. Unless it's one played in a parade by demented clowns.

Now, I wasn't thrilled about this. The nurse, waiting outside my curtain, kept insisting, "It's got to come out."

"I can't!"

"You have to."

So I did.

She came right in. "You heard me?" I said.

"Yes." I was mortified.

And the poor nurse. Who wants to listen to people pass ... muster?

Before I left, I found that nurse who heard my physical concerto, thanked her for putting up with my shyness and kissed her goodbye (on the cheek).

I'll tell you. I was terrified, but it was so easy and the staff was so compassionate. If you're frightened of doctor's appointments, you are not alone. And if anyone dismisses your fears as silly, it's their problem, not yours. For me, if I don't face my fears, they lurk in the "I really should do this" section of my brain.

And I am so grateful to report that in the end (sorry again), I passed (I couldn't resist) with flying colors.

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Lie Down And Relax - It's Only A drill! 

Judging from the response to the column I wrote on “worry”, I bet I’ll also strike a simpatico chord with dental anxiety. There are many theories about the causes: childhood trauma, poor pain tolerance. I’ve got a theory.

A stranger’s aiming a STEEL REAMER at your mouth, for God’s sake.

A shrink I saw said, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger - and me richer.” (Sorry, I added the last part.) Frankly, I don’t need personal growth at the dentist. I just want it over.

Male dentists have suicide rates twice that of men in other jobs. If you had me as a patient, you’d want to slit your throat too.

A periodontist once told me, “We’ll cut away the meanie gum tissue and replace it with pretty pink skin from the roof of your mouth.”

I said, “You can’t mean that.” But he did.

Instead, I found a Centerville dentist named Marc Auger to help me with my problem. Dictionary meaning: Auger = tool used for boring holes. Thesaurus: Auger = borer, chisel, drill. Oy vay iz mir. Meaning: “Oh, woe is me.” For the non-Yiddishers out there, literal translation: “Holy Shlamoli!”

“Hi, I’m Marc,” he said when he finally found me curled up in a little ball behind his magazine rack. 

Dental phobia is less about pain and more about panic. And, like most panicky feelings, it is basically claustrophobia. Like when you’re in a situation you think you can’t get out of. (I don’t mean Xmas at your in-laws’.)

My unruffled husband Bob always wants to help. God, I envy him. He fell asleep during his MRI. His advice? “Don’t think about it.” (FYI - When you’re fully dilated, don’t ask for Bob.)

There comes a time to stop taking popular advice that doesn’t work. Some people listen to music; some deep breathe the tension away. But for the anxiety school drop-outs among us, we need another route.

Instead of trying to make anxiety go away, just try to make it little better. Don’t catastrophize the symptoms. Attempt to tolerate them. You’ve done this a million times already. Think of it as majorly miserable but not disastrous.  

Share your feelings. (I don’t mean telling your dentist you’re picturing him naked, much less finding that funny.) When you’re open about anxiety, it diminishes. How much does it really matter if people know you’re nervous? Ask your dentist for help.

Don’t bemoan the fact that some have it easy. Others can also roller blade without making big idiots of themselves.

Never come down on yourself for getting anxious. Anxiety pales in comparison to the courage in going through with your task, no matter how small it may appear.

So, here’s my next problem. Now that my dentist has read this column, he’ll think I picture him naked. I won’t be able to stop laughing at my appointment (like when you’re trying not to think of something). 

Marc will think I’m laughing at imagining him naked, but that’s not it. I’m infantile. Still I’ll worry about hurting his feelings. So I’ll blurt out, “I’m picturing you naked. But it’s no laughing matter!” As usual, Marc will quietly and patiently ignore my rantings.  

So, no one knows the root (sorry) of dental anxiety. Who cares about theory when you’re in the throes of  panic? I can, though, share more wisdom. Floss  more often than five minutes before each visit.

And don’t cancel your appointments. After all, your dentist is statistically prone to kicking the bucket. We’ve discussed worry and now anxiety, but you’ll feel really guilty if he takes the long dirt nap. (Sorry, I’m having a field day with clichés for saying sayonara.) Worry we can handle. Anxiety we can too. But how to stop feeling guilty? Well, frankly, that’s been on my to-do list for about forty years. 

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Heroes and Accidental Champions

“Something’s burning!” I shrieked to the dispatcher after I dialed 911 over a month ago.

In minutes, firefighters were swarming through my house. They opened my closet door to a cascading mountain of dirty sweat pants. They yanked the rope to my pull-down attic stairs, which resulted in its usual tumbling of earwigs on the head of whomever has the guts to go up there.

As we were all looking for the source of the burning odor, I went into anxiety overdrive. I was hyperventilating, holding my head, and screaming incoherently, “AHHHHHH!! BURNING THING!!!! SMELL IS!”

“You seem a little nervous,” one of them said.

Finally, we found a fluorescent light bulb that was smoking and filling the house with reeking fumes.

I had called the fire department only a few months prior. I heard rushing water, but couldn’t find the source. Again, my house was teeming with firefighters. Without hesitation, the captain, all dressed up in a tie, white shirt and perfectly shined black wingtip shoes, plodded through my flooded basement in ankle deep water, found the faucet to a burst hose, and turned it off.

An hour later, with humiliation beyond belief, I went to the fire station and dropped off some chocolates and apologized profusely for his ruined dress shoes. 

Then there’s my wood stove. The fellow who installed it was also a fireman. The stove was faulty, but I didn’t know that. The fireman, who put in stoves and cleaned chimneys as a sideline along with his fire department job, had installed the stove perfectly. But 3 weeks later, I had a chimney fire. Again, I had the team at my house. 

“Hey!” I shouted at the crew of four standing in my living room in heavy yellow uniforms and helmets with visors covering their faces. “One of your own put this stove in. And he’s supposed to be helping people! I bet he’s hiding in the station, rummaging through a box of Dunkin’ Donuts and snatching the Bavarian Creams. I’m going to call and let him have it!”

“He’s standing right next to you,” one yellow man said.

And the good person who had installed my stove flipped up his visor.

“Oh boy,” I said, shuffling my feet. “So – oh boy, how . . .  have you been? Um  . . .  can I get you a donut or money or something?”

I hate the wood stove. But my husband Bob loves it. He sits quietly watching the slow flames through the glass front. During this entire time, I stand on a chair next to the stove smelling the ceiling.

Bob thinks this ruins the ambiance.

You know, I begin writing my column weeks before deadline. I started writing this soon after September 11th.

I realize by now we’re over the initial shock. But the pain’s still here. Nothing can take it away, but there are some things that can make it better. One is time. Two is connecting with others, even strangers. Three is trying to help.

And there’s something else.

Venerating heroes of all sorts. Professional rescuers, as well as untrained saviors, who acted in God-like ways. The men, including our president, who cried on national TV, teaching our girls and boys a spectacular gender lesson. Heroes who put out flags having never felt patriotic before, who gave blood although they were afraid of needles, who in shyness attended vigils to show support. And the heroes who come to my house and yours in times of peace and tragedy – whether we have a raging fire or a smoldering bulb.

In enormous ways and in ways that may seem small but really aren’t, many of us are exceptional.

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My Inner Child's A Big Dork

I promise that not only did Bob give me the OK to tell everybody he’s in therapy, he suggested I write this column. For 2 reasons:

1. He feels nobody should be ashamed of seeing a therapist.

2. I’m acting deranged.

He’s going because of the stress anyone would feel who lives with a severely disabled person (meaning me – physically, not mentally. Well  . . .  ?). I vowed I’d never ask what he talks about. Here’s how it went after his first session.

Me: “What did you talk about?” He left the room. I followed.

“I’m OK with you going," I lied. 

“You’re threatened to death.”

“I’m not! Unless you talk about me. You don’t, right?”

He headed away. I found him in the kitchen. “You didn’t talk about S.E.X., did you? That’s all therapists want to hear about. They’re all perverts. That’s why they go into the profession in the first place.”

He scratched his head and said (sarcastically, I think), "Gee. Didn't you have a therapy practice in Barnstable for  . . .  22 years!?"

"Yes. That’s why I’m an expert at recognizing when people change subjects. Let's get back to what you talked about."

"I wasn’t talking about that.”

I pulled out a sealed envelope from my purse. “Don’t read this. Just show it to your doctor.”

He tore open the envelope and read aloud, “No matter what Bob says, I’ve never pointed out that I can barely walk and he can. I’ve handled my disability with the courage of Mother Teresa and have never expressed self pity in the form of singing all day long, ‘Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen’ and I don’t hum it while he’s sleeping. PS. I didn’t start whatever fight he talked about.” He tore up the letter.

Later, he discovered me fiddling with his cell phone. We each have our own, with separate numbers. I figured I’d call him before he went into session, and then happen to leave it on. He said, “I don’t bring my cell because I knew you’d do that.”

“Fine. I just want to know one thing.”

“There’s never one thing.”

“Does he want me to come too?”

“What if he did?”

“He does?” I felt faint.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m not mental. You are.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re seeing a shrink!”

That’s stupid,” he said. “I like talking to him.”

“But you could talk to me for free!”

“No offense, but you’re a lunatic.”

“Oh, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that. Just try me. I promise on my mother’s eyes I’ll be objective.”

“Your mother’s dead.”

“Give me one chance.”

He sighed, “Pretend you’re my therapist.” I nodded. He said, “Sometimes it’s hard being a caretaker.”

“You, you, you. Why don’t you put yourself in her shoes for a change? Oh that’s right. She can barely walk in her shoes.” He went to bed.

I came to my senses and woke him, “I know it’s hard,” I said gently. “I want you to go because it makes you feel better. And if it would help, I’ll go too.” I surrounded him with my arms and said, “You’re my hero, you know.”

He kissed me and said, “And you are, and will always be, mine.”

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Someone from the fraud department at Chase Visa called to verify that I had indeed meant to charge all that porn on my credit card.

I can’t watch a movie love scene without making loud infantile kissing noises. I wasn’t happy.

“Pornography? As in  . . .  naked people?”

“And a web site was purchased under your name.”

“As in  . . .  really naked people? With no underpants or anything?”

“Did you make these charges?”

“Me? OK. Now I get it. Very funny, Bob,” I said into the receiver. “Oh sure, baby.” And I made raucous moaning sounds.

From behind me, Bob came rushing in the room. “A toothache again?” he said, upset.

“Oh boy.” I shook my head, then said to the caller, “Sorry. No. I’ll have to cancel my card.”

I typed my name in a web search. I’ve written articles that are on the net. A disclaimer appeared on the screen. “Warning! You are about to open material with links to pornographic matter.” This infuriated me.

Then I opened the web site that was set up with my card. I could imagine what would be sold from it. The site was there, all right, but under construction. And I am really mad to tell you that it still is.

I called the company who sold the thief the site. It’s Network Solutions – the company with which Acting Governor Jane Swift registered. I told them the site was set up fraudulently and I wanted it shut down. They emailed forms for me to fax. I did. I never heard back. I got frustrated. So Bob tried calling - again and again, to no avail. Then he called VeriSign, the parent company of Network Solutions, and described the problem in a voice message he left with their Security Chief. He never replied.

The person who used my card is named Sulistyo Waelah. He or she also has my address. I called the police. They said they’d send over an officer.

I have this problem of always acting like I’m at fault. When I’m in a store and security personnel are around, I look guilty. So I really wanted to convince the policeman that I was not into porn. I raced through the house, tossing all the women’s magazines and National Geographics. I threw our camera in the trash. Then I grabbed Bob’s arm. “Tell him we’ve never had sex.”

“You’re being an idiot.”

“Just tell him!” I thought further. “OK. When he asks about our sex life, just mention up to second base, but that’s it.”

“You need therapy.”

The officer said he’d give the case to a detective. Two weeks later I called the detective. He never received any information. So I faxed it to him. This was on June 21. In spite of my following up, I have not heard from him.

Bob feels violated by Sulistyo. I feel violated by the people who are supposed to be helping us. I know everybody will have an excuse. But this is my family’s house, my name and my money. And I’ve read that bank accounts can be emptied by identity thieves.

I finally heard from Network Solutions – an automated email from Michale Kyle, Vice President, Customer Service. It was a gracious invitation to “participate in a survey regarding your recent experience with Network Solutions customer support.”

I’m going to email back, “Hey Michale! There’s a web site set up with my credit card by a guy into porn! And you won’t shut it down!”

So what do I do now? I don’t know. But I will tell you this.

1. If someone named Sulistyo offers to sell you something, ask for a photo ID. I've lost a lot of weight lately and look pretty good.

2. Although I'm making jokes, I'm frightened.