Shopping---Doctors

I'm now meeting with doctors, hoping to replicate the two, Ob and Internist, I had in LA. It has been a mixed bag, this process of trying to find a doctor that will be the right mixture of cautious and neurotic. In all fairness, both of my doctors in LA became personal acquaintances, if not friends. During the course of the ten or so years, they had seen me through pregnancy, illness, and general bad moods. So, trying to replicate these long ties was a tall order. It's no surprise how disappointing all of this has been thus far, even in this area where I'm surrounded by three large hospitals.

I had started this search by sending out an email to those I know here, those I thought would have been conscientious in their own doctor search. It's funny how irrelevant all of this is when you're in your 20's, but more pressing as you turn 40. I can no longer be cavalier about mammograms, high blood pressure, cholesterol levels, and general health concerns for those who are middle age. I need a doctor, whose bedside manner is amiable, but still neurotic enough to get that extra test done if there is a need for caution. A doctor who is all bedside manner, but lacking in aggression in their attack of whatever ailments, is probably not a doctor for me at this juncture of my life, no matter how much more pleasant a visit would be with such a physician.

I made appointments for all this week, in the hope this doctor issue will be sorted before a crisis occurs. The first appointment went well. I thought him the right fit for the general health concerns most of us face. My next appointment was for an OB, who was part of a large group practice. The person who had recommended her had warned she was 'no nonsense.' I had no idea 'no nonsense' meant zero personality. In fact, her personality, what little there was, bordered on the combative. It was a shock to my system since my OB in LA was someone I had a secret crush on for years. He was the one person who could take a needle-phobe like me into a confident pregnant woman, capable of not passing out every time blood was needed to be drawn. He was the man who delivered my son, making sure my phobias didn't turn an already stressful experience into a whole new dimension of stress.

I left her office, wondering how finding the right doctor was like shopping for anything else in life. The only difference was that you don't get to try on for size most physicians, although such a thing should be allowed. But in our age of health insurance craziness, for those of us fortunate enough to be insured, well, the idea of taking a test run on a doctor is not advised or covered. So, there I was, having wasted an appointment on this person, who was clearly not going to remain my OB.

I was disheartened enough to consider the radical decision to remain with my OB in LA, and jetting in once a year for my annual check ups. I know that is not advisable since, God forbid, I would be quite stuck if there was some complication down the road. And as much as my old doctor adores me, I doubt he would fly 3000 miles to oversee my care. So, off to the boards I go as I search some more for a doctor that will be the appropriate fit for me--no tall order given my phobic nature.

The Village

I still find myself in awe with where I am. Yesterday was just such a day as I found myself down in the Village on my way to visit with a new doctor. I stumbled on to a little street called Washington Mews. The stones of the street were as charming as the carriage houses that lined both sides of this tiny thruway, connecting 5th Avenue to University Place. As much as I love the convenience of new buildings, there is something wildly romantic about living in such an old little cottage, tucked away from the city. I walked through, passing various doors, wondering how, or who, had the good fortune to live inside. I could envision a book-lined wall, a small staircase leading upstairs to a bath and bedroom. It was all I could do to keep from peaking into one of the windows, so desperate to see how others lived in such a charming home.

I love walking in cities, no matter how big or small. There is no way to stumble upon such idyllic places except by walking. Paris, one of the best walking cities, is a place where I am always stopping in mid-stride to stare longingly into one of those Parisian apartment buildings, a big wooden door opening on to such a picturesque courtyard. There's nothing more enticing to a voyeur than a walk at dusk, as lights get turned on inside. You can stand on a street, observing lives unfolding behind glass as bodies walk past windows. Aside from the possibility of discovery, I love the anonymity that walking in cities offers--the feeling of being swallowed up by the streets, bodies, and cars.

I'm finally cutting all ties with my former life as I forge new relationships with doctors here. Each step in establishing a life in a new city takes me just a bit further away from my former life. I feel quieter about all of it now. I am settling into the realities of the day to day life here. Groceries get ordered and delivered, meals prepared, coffees drunk with new friends, all the while taking note of how dramatically different my life is to where it had been a year ago. How my reality today was impossible to fathom, no matter how desperately I wanted it to happen. How things can change in a moment.

I have weaned myself off of movies set in New York. The city is becoming too intimate, too familiar for me to luxuriate in images, usually idealized by others as the perfect city. Now, I have real concerns about buses, subways, and getting my son to school on time, even if the walk is a mere one block.

Brisk Days

The weather has turned and is now 'brisk' a euphemism for cold. I headed to a well-known coat store to prepare for those days when going outside is painful due to cold and wind. A new added difference in my life is the proximity of my cousin, who is more like a younger sister than a cousin. She is blocks, truly a mere few blocks away, so is always on hand to meet for a little shopping, cup of tea, and to drink bottles of wine, which we do when she's over for dinner. This relationship, an extension of the crazy, close, but too close to be viewed as healthy of our mothers, is much like any familial relationship. We love each other, but are also inflicted with the complications of the relationship of our two mothers. It is something both of us cherish despite it all.

This weekend before Halloween was an overdose of this strange holiday, one I've never understood. My son, much like all of his peers, was beyond excited to get dressed as Dracula, his choice, and to attend the Fright Night at his school, sponsored by the PTA. I don't recall so many activities in LA for this one holiday, other than the vans full of trick or treaters that would descent on our little block. It seemed the entire city had activities in celebration of this ghoulish night with parties, trick or treating in the Village, and a Pumpkin Patch in Central Park. Dressed to go out for a night out with my husband, I found myself applying white face make up on my son as I readied him for his sitter and for Fright Night. As I applied the make up, the irony of my brown skinned son getting 'white face,' was one that made me laugh. I know too soon these moments when my son needs me will all be a part of the landscape of memories. The sense of watching and participating is with me every day as he take leaps in growth and maturity. The habit of spelling words I didn't want him to understand has come to a screeching halt as he sounds out letters and is spelling at the most elementary level.

I sometimes wonder if we'd made a mistake only opting for the one child. How different our lives would be if we had the messiness of having another child, either boy or girl, requiring logistical maneuvering, manageable at a sane level with only one. The excuse of living in New York seems selfish as I see families around us, families of four or more. I can already see the acceptance of the solitariness of being an only child in my son as I hear him playing by himself for hours on end, imaginary cities being created as he talks to himself. The product of just such a family makes me more aware than others of what is ahead for my son--the constant tug between craving social interaction and the refuge of solitude.

As they say, too late. The die is cast and he will forever be the only child of this unique union. I'm sure we will, his father and I, be a source of embarrassment and pride.

Los Angelenos Are Crazy

I hate to generalize again, but there you have it. There is no other way to describe the 'characters' I know from that city. My old neighbor, a woman I never shared a meal with when we lived next door, came to the city for a visit. She had phoned a few weeks ago expressing an interest in having lunch. Since she was always personable, I said 'of course.'

The lunch was fine. We sat at the Mercer Kitchen, eating and talking about various topics. I found myself asking lots of questions since my knowledge of her life was not substantiative beyond her career--set designer--and marriage status--single, but dating same person. I asked if she was currently working on a new project to which she replied she was working on two, one of which is a children's book. I thought her response intriguing since she's single, and does not have children. Was it possible she had been a secret aficionado of children's picture books? I know as voraciously as I read, I hadn't glanced a children's book until my son entered our home. So, the fact that a childless, single woman read enough children's books to feel confident to write one was quite intriguing indeed.

Here's where the craziness became apparent. She doesn't read children's books beyond the books she'd read from her childhood. And her book, based on her two dogs as main characters--yes, she's one of those crazy dog people--is a story about the dogs (young children) who are left by their mother with a credit card because she has to get to work, and therefore, doesn't have time to feed her two young children before their first day of school. The kids, being precocious tots, want to eat sushi, so off to Japan they go with the, said, credit card. Instead of green eggs and ham, they eat green sushi. Instead of an American school, presumably to attend Kindergarten, they go to a Japanese school where the learn Japanese. Hmmmm....

Where does one begin? The fact I didn't laugh out loud in her face with incredulity is a sheer feat of restraint on my part. I didn't know how to delicately put it to her that even the most inane kids books are based on reality. The idea of a mother, in our current culture of hyper-parenting, leaving her kids alone with a credit card to feed themselves is beyond implausible. I did try and point out that perhaps there should be a babysitter there to whom the mother leaves the credit card with the instruction to take the kids to whatever restaurant the kids desire. She thought this a very good idea since she hadn't thought of the need for some adult presence in the story. Again, where does one begin? I told her that there are kids in our world who are left alone for whatever reasons, but those parents are usually involved in some institutional system: welfare, child social services. And the fact the mother has the means to leave a credit card probably rules out this possibility.

There is something marvelously adventurous, courageous even, about people getting the gumption to try and do things without previous experience or training. I mean, she is someone who has never, ever written a children's book. And yes, this story may not be the most telling of her capabilities after she wraps her head around how parenting and children work in this 21st century. She may very well be the next Kevin Henkes or Dr. Seuss for all we know. And if not for this gumption to try, well, she may never know whether this little idea of hers, this impulse to try this thing could open her life to an entire new direction. I applaud this spirit, such a part of the mythology of the wild, wild west, something people who are drawn to this part of the world inhabit so completely.

But again, as I sat and listened to her rambling on about the process of writing this book, I couldn't help marveling at how crazy all of it sounded to me, this single childless woman writing children's books. After our thorough discussion of her project, we moved on to other safer topics. As I left her in Soho, I walked away thinking what an interesting afternoon it had been. And how it takes so many kinds of people to make up the world.

City Experienced Through Movies

When I was in LA, a condition I have a hard time categorizing as living since it felt more like treading water, I used to savor and devour any, and all, movies shot in and about New York. No matter how inane, sentimental, absurd, or just plain bad, I would sit through any movie that captured this city on film. You can imagine how rabid I was about watching "Sex and the City," since the city was a character as much as those singletons desperate for love. You know it's bad when I made my husband sit through "Autumn in New York," one of Winona Ryder's last movies, and for good reason if anyone has seen it. And Woody Allen, pre-scandal, was at his most prolific when allowing this city to be the main feature of his movies. I think it interesting that as he gets older, more jaded, and less creatively prescient, he has headed across the pond for inspiration.

When I found life too grim, which could be most days in that sunny environ, I would rent out all the classic titles starting with Woody Allen's "Manhattan," and ending with any of Nora Ephron's films set in this city. The day would be spent aimlessly watching the movie, not for story sake, but simply to absorb the images of this much beloved city. Yes, I have watched "You've Got Mail," more than any sane person should admit to. My husband, who knew the drill too well, asked recently how many times I had watched a certain movie, which happened to be on one of our many movie channels, being watched, yet again. He teased that it must exceed ten, if not hobbling toward 20. I laughed along with him because, well, in my few sane moments, I knew how crazy all of this was. But a part of me realized that all of this living vicariously through film had now come to an end. That I was now living the life I'd imagined for so long. And being me, well, that has created a certain anxiety--much to be expected for those familiar with my particular peculiarities.

I have corresponded with an old neighbor about how the fires have, or have not, affected our old neighborhood. She was full of complaints about the air quality, which on a fire-free day is just on par with Mexico City. I couldn't imagine how bad it must be, and to see no relief in sight to clear out the smoke and ever lingering smog. It was during such days when our son's asthma would kick in with a severity that would require him to stay home from school. The drizzle that made umbrellas a necessity on our morning walk to school felt like a gift from above. The chill in the air feels like it will stay awhile.

My son rarely mentions LA now. He no longer complains about walking everywhere even on those days when it is rainy and gray. This new life is now every day for him, and for the rest of us. We, each of us, is rejuvenated by the changes, the pace of this new city life. My work is going well, or rather, I'm working again after so many years of not. I find the hours between 8:30 and 2:30 passes too quickly as I look up from staring intently at the computer, only to realize it is time to pick up my son. The somnolence of the last five years have come to an end as everything in my life has gained such clarity: my work and my family. Reading, something that offered and continues to offer such solace, is like everything else clearer. I'm no longer reading to escape my world, but reading for all the reasons a writer is supposed to read.

I feel this last half of my life as a writer will be the most productive. There may be another book in me, if not a few more books. I know the blistering pace at which I work will not put me in the category of Joyce Carol Oates, although very few writers are in her league. But I hope and pray I shall not suffer the fate of Harper Lee, who spent the rest of her life trying to write another. God willing.

Fires, Mud Slides, Drought, and Santa Ana

The four seasons of weather in Los Angeles come in cycles, much like the four seasons of Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer. And the current season when leaves turn color, the breeze a bit cooler in most of the country, is when winds come blowing, quite a gust which blows, not cool air, but instead is hot dry wind that had, in an earlier time, blown, creating the dust bowls of the west--what we Angelenos call the Santa Ana. This season's Santa Ana's has been more destructive than telephone lines getting toppled. No, this season's winds in confluence with a drought has made nearly a million people homeless.

I always lamented the lack of seasonal changes in the weather, thinking the balmy, 70 something weather an aberration to the natural way of life. It seemed fitting that we would pay, and pay dearly, for such idyll when everyone else contends with the challenges of weather. So, when it rained in LA, it poured. There were no sprinkles or spotty showers. No, the rain would start as if God had turned the sprinkler on full, and then left it on for more than 30 days. During the one winter when it had rained for more than 30 days straight, I joked to my friends that we should all be building an ark since the floods was sure to follow.

As I sit 3,000 miles away, I find myself watching the news of what's happening over there with concern. I know if the winds carried one little ember to the Santa Monica mountains, well, the city would never be the same from such a catastrophe. I keep imagining the flames engulfing the Palisades, Holmby Hills, Bel Air, and then Beverly Hills, devouring the man made lawns and watered gardens in its path.

The New York Times Sunday magazine had an in depth article about graver concerns facing the Southwest that would make these fires look like a mini-Armageddon. They predict global warming will have the averse affect in this dry, arid region by creating not more rains, as they predict for other regions, but in fact a drought of biblical proportions. This drought along with the population surges would create a world much like, "Mad Max," where people aren't fighting for oil, or so we hope, but are in fact fighting for that natural resource, now a commodity, water. The thing that struck me about this article is that the awareness most of those in power have about this upcoming crisis. Yet, none of them have come out and told the citizenry to conserve water, to stop watering their English gardens, an aberration in the desert. Villaraigosa said something about conserving during the summer months, but it was in correlation to the recent drought, not a warning about the dire situation of the future. Yes, the article may be a bit alarmist, but surely if enough scientists predict such a thing, people should give some consideration to their predictions. But no, I know how most of the people in LA work. They will talk about these fires, which I know are being covered assiduously by Paul Moyers--an idiot who must surely have been the model for William Hurt's character on "Broadcast News"--each bit of the story portentous, tragic. All the daytime shows are probably interrupted as the local news covers the stories, running to each new devastated spot, following the 50 mile an hour winds, each new gust bringing another tragic story to cover.

When Griffith Park was engulfed, friends had called to let us know we could evacuate to their homes. Our home, thankfully, was not in danger, but the fires were close enough for us to not feel any measure of comfort that it was the hillside behind engulfed. Other friends of ours, those closer to the park, had to evacuate, fleeing to various hotels in the city--yes, it was a crisis, but no need for any of us to suffer sitting among so many strangers at a Red Cross center.

We awoke to a gray day, rain imminent, rain that would be welcome for those waiting to see whether fate would spare them, even as those to the left and right of them was not spared. I dropped my son off at school, avoiding the PTA meeting scheduled for this morning. Just as I walked outside, the rain started falling, making me grateful that this precipitation is just a part of the ever-changing weather of this city, this coast.

Writing--Not an Autobiography

All writers write from their life, not about their life, that is unless you are a memoir writer. And memoirs, I've always felt, are some of the best fiction out there on the market. I think writers, when working on something that is supposed to be biographical, will exaggerate for dramatic purposes, not concerned how the obfuscation may alter the situation as it had truly occurred. In contrast, I think fiction writers reveal more of themselves emotionally in their writing, feeling a freedom that the guise of fiction allows.

I don't think a great deal about how much I reveal myself in my work. There can be no censor for any artist to create and writing is a method for me to figure out the truths of my life. It is a way, consciously, to connect the dots that seem to swirl around me. I can't worry about how something I write will, or can, affect those around me, particularly my family. My husband has had to contend with the reality that a portion of our life gets revealed either explicitly in language, or worse, in the emotional tone of how something is written.

I doubt I'd ever want to write a roman a clef, skewering those that I find incomprehensible, or worse, reprehensible. The pettiness of doing something like this has never interested me. And most people I find so loathsome don't deserve the creative efforts and endless hours that a book requires in the creation and in the fine tuning.

I am hard at work on this revision of my novel. As when I had written the original draft of this book some of the passages are incredibly sad and painful. There are times when I've reread or worked hard at a passage that the emotional weight of what's on the page hits me hard and I am sobbing, literally, my face buried in my hands. This book is not a factual rendering of everything in my life, but it is more of an emotional diary of something that I had experienced. It is as if I had stuffed all the pain and grief of my estrangement from my parents into this one book. And perhaps that is why I was able to deal with this incredibly painful situation. True, I wrote this book long after my parents and I had started the process of healing and forgiving. But instead of letting the residue of this painful episode cloud our relationship, I was able to put the grief of this period into a book. It is these 300 some pages that bears the brunt of the emotional morass of the pain that families can inflict upon one another.

When I had finished writing this book, a book my father had encourage me to write, I let him read the first chapter. I waited for his response, unsure how he would respond. I know it must have been painful for him to read those thirty some pages, but he never once discouraged my work. He said it was beautifully written and left it at that. I know when people read this book, they will read is as biography. When in truth, the realities of any writer's life gets fractured in their work. The voice of a writer is where the truth lies. And trying to decipher that is an impossible task, even for the most experienced reader.

I'm now living inside this book, easily distracted by ideas, thoughts, that occur throughout the day. As painful as this book was to write, I now have the distance of time to see what I was able to create from something that may have brought others to their knees, or worse, made them embittered.