(Oops, just wrote “poet of oatmeal edition.” That’s me: the poet laureate of oatmeal.)
Well, Reader, like so many people, I’m counting blessings today and sending best wishes to everyone in Sandy’s path.
No Frankenstorm here but we did have a Frankenfever that sent us to the ER last night. The feverish one is better today, thank goodness.
And so once again I’ve been thinking of the obstacle in the path becoming the path. Last night in the ER, I started listing in my head all the ways Frankenfever was wrecking my plans for the week. I caught myself, gave thanks for Tylenol, Advil, IVs, and being able to rule things out (albeit very slowly because the hospital’s computer system was down — their servers are housed in New Jersey. Sandy’s reach is long, indeed). I started just paying attention. To the quiet but active hum of the doctors and nurses. To the almost soothing bell choir of beeping monitors. To the exact slope of the feverish one’s forehead as he slept. I started thinking of all the poems I could write out of my many experiences with the medical establishment (as mother and patient): side effects, the humphrey visual field test, history, excerpts from the chart — these and more all came to me as possible titles.
Late last night (early this morning, really), when we were finally home again I relaxed with a cup of tea and a wee, small bit of chocolate, and checked the New York Times coverage of Sandy. It’s enough to leave anyone speechless.
This morning I woke up and thought a hot breakfast sounded like just the thing. Moments of gratitude and awe: turning on the faucet, turning on the stove, the first sip of hot coffee, the moment the oatmeal began to bubble gently. The feverish one, tired but awake, and even a little bit hungry. An embarrassment of riches. Amen.