It wasn’t that long of a train ride home from Union Square. But I was sure I’d get a seat and my barking dogs were demanding one. I’d gotten my glasses adjusted, done 90 minutes of research and writing work at the library, then hiked up to the big box stores to hunt for a new purse, wallet, and footwear. I was dedicated. I found these things. “You wouldn’t believe how much I saved, honey,” as the saying goes.

I didn’t manage to get a seat. I didn’t manage, despite a woman sitting almost under me getting up to insist someone else take a seat – someone unseen by me, who refused. I should have just said, “Hey, I’ll take it.” But I don’t know, something stopped me. I was going to get my own goddamn seat when the train stopped at Canal. I gulped my water desperately while I cased my fellow seated passengers. I knew those two women were getting off at Canal. I suppose it was racial profiling, really. But I was right.

I was right, but not close enough. In the space of a millisecond, while I lurched towards the seat with my shopping bags, three New Yorkers slid into place. That was it. I’d be standing. Just close enough to rush hour and no one really getting off now. For a moment I thought I’d cry. An older woman also standing surveyed me briefly.

What the hell would crying have done? And viewed objectively, what makes me look like I’d qualify for a seat? I’m looking – er – healthy these days. I am not bald. I gulped my pity party away with more cold water and settled in for the long/short ride. Fuck it, I thought, once I was feeling better. I don’t want to qualify, ever. My feet hurt? That’s not cancer, that’s bad shoes and bad genes. (One day when our health insurance recovers from its current sticker shock. and the kids don’t need me to take them anywhere, I’ll have bunion surgery and have the feet of a newborn again. Ah, reverie.)

Then someone came on who really did need help. His name was Michael and he was HIV positive for I forget how many years and I took a dollar out right away. “Thank you, everyone. I want you to have a safe weekend. I want to see you here on Monday,” he said, as though we were all colleagues, going down into the mine. Perhaps we were.

I emerged from the subway and waltzed over to my shoe guy with my newly purchased (for 10% off due to damage) shoes which just needed some glue. He said he’d fix them by Monday. Have a good weekend, new summer sandals. I want to wear you on Monday. On Monday while I work with the organizer, who is going to survey my new purchases and the books I checked out of the library and wonder if her proclaiming J and I “not hoarders” may have been a bit premature.

Have a good weekend, everyone. Shabbat shalom. Stay safe. Don’t qualify for a seat on the subway. Abide. And all that good stuff.

Maybe I really am back in college. I’m at an academic library this afternoon taking notes on a scholarly article when I should be out shopping for a good new purse for the summer and some sneakers that don’t make my feet hurt.

My priorities may be a bit off.

I’m starting a recurring feature (since I think I’ve posted enough in this blog to do that now) called Making Me Understand. Ruminations from inside my illness about art (any form) that has taken on new contours for me as I struggle with disease. I already posted one earlier this month, a quickie on a Frank O’Hara poem. This one may run long, though, because there are some odd coincidences in it. Go grab a coffee. A cookie, too. Relax.

When I think back to how the name John Lurie first entered my consciousness, it takes me back to a place I’ve been spending a lot of time in in my head lately – college. I attended a very large state land grant university, and lived in a brand-new foreign language dorm where we each signed a contract vowing to speak our chosen language as much of the time as possible. Italian was mine.

It was awkward and difficult at first – the native speaker who lived with us was getting a Ph.D. in Math, her English was atrocious, and none of us were all that fluent. But we were committed. I cheerfully answered the phone for four years, “Pronto?”

One of my roommates, M, had taken a gap year between high school and college, and went off to be an exchange student. She had taken Spanish and expected to go to Spain. She was sent to Sardinia instead. She was in a tiny town where the old ladies continually told her what a shame it was, she was such a nice girl, but as a Jew she was going to burn in hell. (Forgive me, M, if I paraphrase incorrectly.) She had many adventures. I envied her – but also maybe not, because it sounded like a hell of a place.

M told us one night about a movie she’d seen while in Sardinia. It was called Daunbailò. “What?!” It didn’t make any sort of sense, like most Italian translations of American film titles. I’d eventually go to see My Own Private Idaho while studying in Florence – dubbed of course. It was rechristened Belli e dannati (The Beautiful and the Damned).

It turned out to be a film title that didn’t make much more sense in English: Down By Law. And that was how I found out about Jim Jarmusch, and that Tom Waits and John Lurie and Roberto Benigni (one of whose later works I maligned here the other week) all went to Louisiana and made one of the best prison break movies I’ve ever seen. And watched obsessively, again and again, until I practically knew all of the dialogue. I’ve only ever reached that level of obsession with one other movie, Rear Window. Here, a representative and most favorite scene of mine:

And yes, I’ll confess I found John had that lanky attractiveness that I eventually also found in my foxy and very tall husband, J.

I have to say at this point that I feel a little weird writing this post, because John will probably see it. I asked him a couple weeks ago if it would be OK to use some images from his artwork and write this tribute. He was fine with it. I hope this turns out OK, John. Let me know.

About four years ago (Facebook tells me), I one day got a friend request from John himself. I was gobsmacked. How the hell did he know about me? The Facebook interface has changed a million times since then, but I have a hunch.

My “About” section on Facebook has a few choice quotes. And one of them comes from John:

“I am writing this real slow, because I know you read real slow.” – John Lurie

I’d seen that quote at an art show of John’s work in Chelsea, at the Fredericks and Freiser gallery. I see now from the website that was his first show there. It was my first exposure to his visual artwork.

After discovering his work in Jarmusch films, I became aware in the 90s of John’s music (which featured on many soundtracks) and eventually bought a few albums by the downtown so-called “fake jazz” outfit he fronted, The Lounge Lizards. His brother Evan Lurie was also a member, and there was a revolving cast of the biggest names in the downtown jazz scene cycling through. There is apparently some debate about the term “fake jazz” – what the Lounge Lizards were playing was in fact straight up jazz, and yet there was something about it that spoke to me, a lifelong jazz ignoramus, beyond the little bit of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald we’d had in my house, to play in between symphonies and string quartets. It also gave me some early common ground (and cred) with my boyfriend-now-husband J, who is an unbelievable jazz buff. The incredibly rich orchestration of the Lounge Lizards’ work, and John’s occasional spoken word digressions, which were usually hilarious, drew me in. I dug this music.

Here’s an excellent entry point to their work, the music video for “Big Heart,” filmed, and directed by John, in Sardinia:

The wild, berobed folkdancing!  The band travelogue segments! A swim meet! All with this exuberant groove in the background. “Big Heart” makes your heart bigger. (But not in a medically dangerous kind of way.)

One of my favorite spoken word segments from the Lounge Lizards’ oeuvre is this track from their beautiful, final album, Queen of All Ears:

“The yak is sick! The yak is sick! The yak is burning up with fever!” (Have I played this for the kids yet? I think they are old enough to find it hilarious. Note to self: Soon.)

There is much more terrain to explore musically. I’m not a music writer. I do love music with every fiber of my DNA, but I also get a little tongue-tied when trying to explain what it means in a more global way. I don’t have the detachment of a critic, I have the geeky zeal of a fan.

I got to see the Lounge Lizards exactly twice. Once was in June 1998, I believe, at the Bowery Ballroom. I’d moved to New York City that February, but that show made me feel like I’d gotten my official citizenship. On the subway ride down to the show, I overheard some Israeli guys talking about me on the train in Hebrew. They were saying how good-looking I was. That never happens to me! But it was that kind of night. I even had a brief dialogue with John, who asked us (the audience, not ME) how we were doing, so I yelled back, “HOW ARE YOU?” And he complained from onstage that he wasn’t so good, because his suit didn’t fit right.

I also happened to be a very avid amateur modern dancer when I moved to NYC. Every Saturday morning I took the train 45 minutes downtown to Noho, to the Jose Limón studio (sadly now gone). It was at the top of a building. I have no idea how I figured this out, but I became aware that John had an office in the building and was always hoping to run into him to say hi. One Saturday after class, I was on the pay phone in the lobby, and saw him saunter past on the way to the elevator. I interrupted my friend to yell after him, “JOHN, I’M A HUGE FAN!!” I heard the elevator doors closing as he said, “Awwww, thanks.”

In case you didn’t know it, John also produced a miniseries of fishing encounters with famous people, some of whom he was friends with, and some not. It was called Fishing with John, and it was hilarious. You can find some of it on YouTube if you want. But only if you like to laugh. If you don’t like to laugh you shouldn’t be here, anyway.

The second and last time I got to see the Lounge Lizards assembled onstage was at a 20th anniversary show at the Knitting Factory, in November 1999. (Oh look! I found it on MTV News!) It was another transformative experience. I have never done drugs (well, not until I got cancer and had few other choices), but this show was like a drug to me. It was much closer in and sweatier than the show at the Bowery, but every bit as great.

John later put out some recordings with The John Lurie National Orchestra, and then a recording under the moniker Marvin Pontiac.

I’ve never actually had a conversation with John face to face. I passed him once and said hi when he was up at Columbia University, to give a lecture on his artwork (I’m getting to that, wait for it). We’ve traded a few messages on Facebook.

Since he started drawing and painting, I’ve felt much closer to him. His artwork reveals truths through brushstrokes, blotches that look like stains (but intentional), and always, always, titles to the works that are jaw-droppingly accurate or just funny as hell. I didn’t know an artist could draw you in to his work with humor, but that was definitely the hook for me here. J bought me a lovely coffee table book of John’s work for my birthday one year: A Fine Example of Art. Unfortunately we have small children and all of our lovely art books have been under house arrest in a closed cabinet for years. When the children leave or get too old to destroy spines of books, I will rediscover it.

I’ve created a slideshow of some of my favorite paintings of John’s. All images belong to him and are taken from his art website, John Lurie Art. The site used to say, “If you live in a home, you have to buy a print.” And I’d say, if you have $500.00 to spend on an limited-edition, very high quality art print, I would love it if you did. My parents were kind enough to buy us one last year, the first one, “Men Walking to Work Over Flowers,” when Mom discovered John’s art on Facebook and promptly fell in love with it too. We never get tired of looking at it. The boys love saying the title of it to people. They like knowing the name of an artwork.

I leave the thing that most compelled me to write this insanely long post until last. It is some very sad news indeed. John can no longer play the saxophone. He suffers from Advanced Lyme Disease. Advanced Lyme Disease is a disease that is still very poorly understood by the general public. A recent documentary, The Punk Singer, about another musician, Kathleen Hanna of Bikini Kill, who also suffers from Advanced Lyme Disease, revealed to me the unremitting crappiness of this disease. And how frustrating it is to have a disease that is so poorly understood and so often not even accepted as a legitimate malady.

My situation is different, but I face the same incomprehension – in my case, it has to do with the treatment I’m getting – immunotherapy – and the fact that no matter how upbeat I may sound on this blog and genuinely feel in person, there are some who will never stop looking at me with abject pity because the C word by necessity cancels out any good thought in their minds.

On September 9, 2014, I arrived at the cancer center to get the results of my most recent scan. I was confronted by spots on my lungs and swelling in my lymph nodes, blindsided by a metastasis I certainly hadn’t felt happening and could scarcely believe, which propelled me down the weirdest rabbit hole of my life.

On September 27, 2014, J and I were in third row seats at Town Hall, for the culminating event of a month-long tribute to John Lurie’s music and art. The evening was called The Music of John Lurie. It featured many of the musicians who’d played with him in the past, and his compositions from the Lounge Lizards, and some of his excellent soundtrack music. I’d messaged with John a couple weeks before to tell him I was excited for the event. It wasn’t clear if he’d be there.

Then the stage lights went off. A figure made its way to the front of the stage in darkness and sat in a chair. Then the lights came up. It was John. Older, looking larger than life (but who isn’t these days?). He played some harmonica – just like he did onstage with Canned Heat, when he was a teenager in 1968. And then, a bit later on, this happened.

For maximum chills pay attention around 2:02. I thought I might jump out of my skin at that particular moment. But jumping out of your skin doesn’t actually save you from metastatic melanoma. It was so good to see my friend John, being celebrated by an auditorium full of people who love what he does, in every art form. I wish him health and long life. And I’ll keep looking forward to transmissions from his universe.

While you’re waiting for my next post (hopefully later tonight), please enjoy this song with my compliments. I dedicate it to all the people who made my day extra momentous and special: L, K, L, D, J, B, and of course Mom, J, Young J and Young A.

I love those two-headed screwdrivers, don’t you? The ones that you can rotate and either have a flat or Philips-head, and maybe sometimes rotate the shaft of the thing around and you’ve actually got four options at your disposal? We of course have about three different screwdrivers in our home that are like that – I know I brought at least one to the marriage. The options are dazzling. We’re also trying to declutter. J has been working the most in this realm, but my number comes up next Monday. Four hours with the home organizer. J has been having a sort of catharsis working with her. I’m not sure I’m ready for something that heavy, considering what I’ve been dealing with the past month, but I am happy to get rid of some crap at last. She’s going to make me go through my papers. I’m living in a nest of papers. Maybe I’m a rodent.

I’ve been feeling pretty up lately. It’s hard not to feel that way on steroids. Those are starting to diminish in my system, but I’m also feeling good – I went to the gym today and actually did some exercise. I’m pondering getting back on my bike (but need to find a riding buddy, per nurse’s instructions, to make sure all is well my first few times out). I’ve had so many great coffee and lunch dates and went to a great reading last night.

Tonight, J and I saw Welcome to Me, which I hadn’t heard a thing about but the showtime was convenient, and I’m a fan of the Kristen Wiig brand. From the moment it started I knew it was going to be a gripping, hard, fascinating watch, in the vein of Louie or Curb Your Enthusiasm. It was the perfect movie for someone like me, who seems to have fallen into a bit of blog-megalomania brought on by this equation: grave illness + loads of free time + access to wordpress. I really loved the film, and the soundtrack was great, and it should win every award that still means something.

I still have my daily cry. Today it came while having coffee with my friend A. I just get this welling up of gratitude in the middle of conversations sometimes, even if I’m not talking at the moment or thinking about my situation. Years ago, when I was dabbling in choreography (that lasted like five minutes – by far it is the most demanding and challenging of all the lively arts), I bought a book of essays by the modern dance pioneer Erick Hawkins, called The Body Is A Clear Place. I still love that title, but I think I threw the book across the room when I read his phrase, “the everythingness of everything and every thing.” Bah! Still, I think that’s exactly what afflicts me these days. The everythingness. Of everything. And every thing. (Damnit, Erick Hawkins. You win.)

Getting through these moments of sudden sadness gets easier, of course. People who care about you are very understanding when they happen, and it’s good if they don’t let you dwell in it for too long. Tonight, though, I remembered this performance Laetitia Sadier (formerly of Stereolab) gave, of a song that I learned from YouTube comments is about the suicide of her sister.

I remember watching it a few years ago and being stunned by it, and by how she was able to almost break down and then move on. If I write on through this, stubbornly (I do stubborn pretty well), unceasingly, it will get easier to handle.

My brain is still racing, even on the last day of 1.5 steroid pills. Tomorrow I’m down to one a day until my MRI next week! Yay! The nurse called to give me instructions for the MRI. I show up at the cancer center at 9. I need to not have any metal in my body since the last MRI. (Pretty sure that is a no.) I DO NOT HAVE TO FAST. I DON’T NEED TO FAST. THIS WILL BE A BREEZE.

And the best thing, near-instant gratification. I’ll have the MRI, go for a lunch break, and come back at 1 pm with J, for a word with Dr. P. Of course, that word will include my marching orders and tell me how soon I’m getting those gamma rays pointed at my brain. I’m starting to worry about this old brain. I know the risk of the surgery is quite minimal, but what if all this writing suddenly… leaves me? I find myself composing even as I’m walking down the street, right now. What if I forget a third of my vocabulary because the laser goes astray? Or what if I don’t like The Mekons anymore, post-op? (Impossible.)

I think I sorted out Young J’s allergy agony this morning with some eye drops, and found a good allergist we’ll return to after the crisis for a comprehensive set of tests. I was happy to spend the morning with Young J. I got him a doughnut after the doctor’s visit. I am proud to say I did not also get myself a doughnut.

Earlier, while we’d waited for the (woman) doctor to see him, and he shifted around, nervous about the possibility of getting a shot, out of the blue he told me he prefers women doctors. He hasn’t had much experience with male doctors (except for his male dentist, who sings to him). He remembered the name Elizabeth Blackwell, and he actually said, “We owe her a debt of gratitude!” This kid. THIS KID.

Last night I stayed up irresponsibly late. Until almost 1 a.m. I’d taken my nighttime knockout trio (Ativan-Benadryl-melatonin) and then somehow forgot to just stop thinking. I’d had the best evening with the boys – J was out playing basketball and even though they got to bed late it didn’t really matter. I just loved them so hard. I wasn’t emotional at all, just present with them and soaking up their love.

Then it was time to sing their lullaby (I’ve tried and cannot find a more decent version on YouTube – this one is a little creepy). I’ve sung it thousands of times now. I started and I noticed that my voice was sounding much better now that I’m tapering off the steroids. Two weeks ago it cracked a lot and I was almost singing in a whisper. Last night, my brain played another nasty trick, though, and while I sang I got to thinking, “I should record this for the boys. Just in case. In case there comes a time when I can’t sing it to them anymore.” And then I couldn’t keep singing, I started crying right away and I had to tell the boys it was because I was so happy I’d gotten to spend the evening with them, and that I am finally feeling better and am so relieved.

I’m not averse to being overtaken by the enormity of what is happening to me. I accept it. It’s not all sarcasm and cynicism around here, especially at night, before bed, when I’m talking with J.

I just wish this particularly heartstring-yanking moment would have waited until my song was done, the anti-bad dream spray from the empty spray bottle was sprayed in every corner Young A instructed me to spray, and I’d closed their door for the night.

I think I may be past the worst of the steroid withdrawal, but I’m still feeling the crazy energy, the gregariousness (God forbid you run into me grocery shopping on a Monday morning), and the not letting one single thing slip past. It makes it hard to get to sleep at night. I take my cocktail of Ativan (as I have learned the cool kids call it), Benadryl, and a couple melatonins and feel my head getting heavier but still – working working working. I need a brain cutoff switch. I should be grateful there is no such thing, of course, but I’ve wanted to invent a new product forever – why not that?

Luckily this morning I put that crazy energy to good use. While grocery shopping, I saw a new load of pastries coming in and snagged a couple of concha rolls, one chocolate, one vanilla, for a coffee break with Rosa (not her real name) who was at home cleaning today. My whole reason for shopping had been to get more spray cleaner for her to use, though, and I forgot that until it was time to check out. Luckily it wasn’t busy so I snagged that. Nothing, not a thing forgotten. I got the groceries home and waited until Rosa could take her break. I made us some decaf con leche and we had our good talk. My Spanish was much better this time, two weeks later. And it reminded me of Mom and our cleaning woman, Lucrecia (may she rest in peace) sitting at our kitchen table eating lunch together for an hour. Lucrecia liked to gossip a bit though – Rosa is not that way. She’s a very positive person who’s had very negative things happen to her. I like her energy.

After our coffee break (remember, it was decaf, but the roll was sugary), I got on the allergy path. It was time to end Young J’s suffering. I left a message for his pediatrician. He’s supposed to go there next week for a camp checkup, but that’s the day of my next MRI and I read today that we’re actually in the middle of a pollen tsunami this week, due to the harshness of the winter and all the trees shedding pollen at once. The pediatrician called back and immediately recommended an allergist. She didn’t know whether the Flonase I snapped up at the drugstore this morning (because it was actually in stock – the allergy aisle has been basically plundered for a week) would actually work better than what we’ve been using. I just want him to stop suffering. Stop digging holes in his already-stinging eyes.

Oh thank GOD. I am looking out the cafe window right now, and I see an umbrella open and a possibly gathering rain. I didn’t actually think that would happen today. We need a really strong, deluxe city-wash kind of storm. I hope we get one. I don’t even mind getting soaked on my walk back from the cafe as long as my laptop survives it.

I wound up unfolding my latest health tale over the phone to Young J’s pediatrician, because they’ve sort of been following my story. By the time I got done explaining my latest news, Dr G said, “I honestly don’t know why you called in the first place!” It must be odd, to be a medical practitioner solidly in one corner of a field and suddenly hear all these details about what is going on in a totally different neighborhood. I was glad my news was good and hopeful. Obviously, I hope it stays good.

I called the allergist, who takes our insurance, and made an appointment for tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning! I couldn’t believe it! What doctor in this city has availability that soon, and during a pollen tsunami no less? More luck, more luck, more happy luck. I felt even luckier when I called our insurance company and heard we’ve met our deductible for the year already (I SHOULD F-ING HOPE SO). Young J, your deliverance from suffering is at hand. In the meantime, come straight home from school today, scrub your hands and wash your face… and for the love of all that is holy, keep all the windows closed, my love.

I had a glorious Mother’s Day. There was a lot of chocolate at the beginning of it. I was shaking after a bit, and it wasn’t steroid withdrawal. You gotta do what you gotta do. I ate all the chocolate. My double cappuccino was decaf. Thank you J, Young J, Young A, for making it a perfect day.

It became a less perfect day when we headed out to the campsite where the kids will be going to day camp this summer, for an open house, and after 90 minutes Young J’s seasonal allergies flared to crisis mode. I’d been having such a good time with Young A (they split the group by age), watching him run around with kids he knew from school and kids he didn’t know yet. I introduced myself to the proprietor of a cafe chain that J and I very much enjoy, and praised his decaf beans effusively. (His kid is going to same camp.)

When we reunited with J and Young J, my heart sank and my head started hurting and it was all referred pain. Isn’t that what it’s called? I was in physical pain for my son. I never had seasonal allergies. J did, as a kid, and keeps insisting to Young J that he just keep his hands behind his back and not rub his eyes. That isn’t exactly working, or comforting. I wish I could do some kind of voodoo shit, squirt breastmilk in his eye (none left), find some magic herb that would make it all better. He’s got continual nosebleeds from the antihistamines we give him, drying him out. I’ve got to do better. My week is pretty wide open. I will fix this for you, Young J. Because I’ve got the cancer in the brain under good control, actually. And I looked at the Weather Channel’s seasonal allergy forecast for the next three days and it makes me want to keep you home from school and under the shower constantly. My poor, sweet love.

In other, happier news we celebrated J’s grandfather’s 103rd birthday yesterday, and the celebrations keep getting more and more over-the-top awesome. I think he was exhausted by it, but we certainly had fun. Our family wrote him a song cataloging events from the year he was born (yes, we mentioned the Titanic in passing). J’s cousin’s family went over the top with a gifting to all in attendance of foods that have been around since 1912. I couldn’t believe the variety. From Morton’s Salt to Hellman’s Mayo to Goo Goo Clusters (which they ordered specially from Nashville) to Life Savers to jellied cranberry sauce. It was a panoply of 103-year-old treats. I wondered if the SunMaid raisin girl and the Morton Salt Girl maybe knew each other.

Also my brother G announced a project yesterday which will earn him his own blog post this week. It’s something awesome, generous, and will be very exciting to the people involved. More to come when I figure out how to write about it anonymously!

To give a new reader the sense of the range of this blog, I’ll leave you with a few cultural tidbits to chew over.

I thought of this Emily Dickinson poem tonight. And I like that I thought of it. If you are the type of reader to read a line like “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain” and start freaking out because the person who suggested you read it has cancer in the brain right now – then perhaps it is not for you. If you like to think metaphorically, enjoy.

And now I’ll leave you with two YouTube supercuts as bookends to my state of mind just over three weeks ago, contrasted with my current state of mind.

April 15:

May 10:

It’s been that kind of time. I have no doubt things will continue along the Owen Wilson/WOW path. Because that’s immunotherapy for you.

The other day I ran into my neighbor R who’d been in the dark about my entire ordeal for the past two years, and she was the perfect person to tell this story to. She was jaw-droppingly amazed by what I had to tell her about my treatment plan. So, I think, still, am I.

PS I briefly considered tonight getting some cheap business cards printed up because giving out the address of this blog is getting tiresome. Some phones autocorrect it to “lillies”. I need to move it over to my newly registered domain (thanks and smooches to J), but I did for a second think of using this free design:

I repost last fall’s tribute to mine.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

I know I said I’d shut up for a bit. But I’m on a long car ride, the kids have eaten their pb&j’s and are busy looking for wildlife overpasses, and something amazing just happened. Again. Yes.

I haven’t had to call the doctor all week. I’ve really been feeling great. But today, at dawn, I woke up with a bad neck ache. I took Tylenol and got a little more fitful sleep.

Later, I tried calling the answering service, imagining tumors rapidly proliferating all the way down my spine. I knew it was much more likely I have muscle soreness from tapering off steroids, which happened last time too.

The service told me the ER was covering all weekend. That would have been the most unproductive call ever, with a resident who might not even know what immunotherapy is. (That happened last fall too.)

So I take a chance – I send an email to one of the nurse practitioners, and guessed at the address of the other one. I told them I knew this wasn’t protocol. But I needed some reassurance. I didn’t truly expect a reply. And we needed to get on the road for a family function.

As we pass from Staten Island into Jersey, my phone rings. RESTRICTED. It is Dr. P herself. She tells me, “Nurse Practitioner R is at her brother’s graduation. What’s up?”

I keep thinking there is no possible way to love these people more, and then suddenly there is another way. “Yes,” she said, “it’s the steroids. If it keeps up you can come in for an MRI next week.”

“And hey,” she says, “I’m just doing paperwork today. It’s good to talk to somebody.” Then she has a big coughing fit, and calls herself Typhoid Mary.

Get well soon, Dr. P.