June 9, 2014 Monday "Wakes up and cries for 1-2 weeks"

First Words

      …thoughts of an anachronistic, solo pediatrician

                            by Glenn Feole, M.D.

"Be careful too that the reading of your story makes the melancholy 

        laugh and the merry laugh louder," Cervantes, Prologue to Don Quixote

Contact: ishmaelish36@gmail.com

Blog site: ishmaelish36.blogspot.com

June 9, 2014 Monday

Chief Complaint:

     “Wakes up at night and cries for 1-2 weeks.”

Interesting Name:

     Da man (but he goes by “Porkchop”)

Anecdote:

     A young African-American boy, four years old, was gently fingering my silk tie as I talked to his Mother about his symptoms.  He was poor with the ubiquitous frayed, dirty jeans and soiled tee shirt that I see daily.  When we finished, he turned to his Mother and asked, “Can I get doctor clothes someday?”  
     November, 2011, South Carolina

Paint spot in parking lot at dusk

Poem:

I Ride Greyhound

because it's like being
in a John Steinbeck novel.
Next best thing is the laundromat.
That's where all people
who would be on the bus if they had the money
hang out. This is my crowd.
Tonight there are cleaning people appalled
at the stupidity of anyone
who would put powder detergent
in the clearly marked LIQUID ONLY slot.
The couple by the vending machine
are fondling each other.
You'd think the orange walls
and florescent lights
would dampen that energy                                            
but it doesn't seem to.
It's a singles scene here on Saturday nights.
I confide to the fellow next to me
that I suspect I'm being taken
in by the triple loader,
maybe it doesn't hold any more
than the regular machines
but I'm paying an extra fifty cents.
I tell him this meaningfully
holding handfuls of underwear.
He claims the triple loader
gives a better wash.
I don't ask why,
just cruise over to the pop machine,
aware that my selection
may provide a subtle clue.
I choose Wild Berry,
head back to my clothes.

    by Ellie Shoenfield

Coup d'essai:
     I just went to a conference in San Francisco - a paradise.  My life-long goal: music in California, yoga, sun, cool air, breeze.  Of course, one of the first things that I experienced upon arrival at midnight
was ambling off the plane, last of course, and talking for a few minutes with a woman who was taking a photograph of a light fixture…having "artist's eyes" to see.
     I arrived at the baggage carousel and my suitcase had been taken by someone, never to be found again.  I had guitar in hand and a small bag.  No clothes, socks, toothbrush,  sneakers…  After the initial feelings of being angry and sad, I thought... that this was ironic, poetic, spiritual.  I went to the conference the next day in the same dirty clothes, jeans and tee shirt.
    It reminded me of the boy in the anecdote above who had never experienced a tie or new clothes, or the many homeless people I saw in San Francisco.  One young man with dirty clothes I saw on my last night walking the city at 11 p.m., alone like me, yet energetically, with hope and determination, going from trash can to trash can collecting a few plastic bottles to recycle.  They all had the same hopeful eyes of my loved ones.  Or St. Francis, my hero, with his epiphany as he left his home splendidly suited up, riding a horse, only to meet a poor beggar.  He lept off his horse crying, embraced the man, and gave him all his clothes.  A moment of transformation for him.  I thought: I have a lot to learn from this.  I didn't even think that San Francisco, of course, means "Saint Francis."
    I had intended to stay in a hostel for a few nights anyway, to honor my children who had stayed there and to experience what they experienced.  It was $300 a night less expensive than the Westin Hotel and my "loss" confirmed that I would do this.  A blessing.  A wonderful experience, just like the poem above with the community of riding a bus, doing laundry on Saturday night.
     My meditations brought me to Bruce Hornsby's song with the phrase, "a prisoner on easy street."  Instead of sleeping alone (and lonely) in great comfort, sunk in a luxurious bed, I was in a bunk bed with a thin mattress and pillow with 3 others, sirens and people yelling outside from the bars until the early a.m.…a gentle lullaby actually; waking to bagels and cream cheese in the large kitchen, two girls gently washing their dishes in the sink as Beatles music played… everyone calmly eating together at big tables...a community.   I met two young girls from South Korea, very shy, who told me of their travels; a young man in the bunk above me who was from Bangladesh, very gentle and soft spoken and kind.  We shared thoughts of political and religious turmoil and wondered why people couldn't live together.  He worked in Germany as an engineer and was sent here for a conference.  I asked him if he liked Germany.  He smiled, looked down and shook his head no.  I then asked if he missed his family.  He said, "I want to go home."
     And lastly, I went to yoga at Satori Yoga, as recommended by one of my children's friends and had a beautiful session of "restorative" yoga with a Malaysian teacher, also very kind.  The usual experience of peace, mediation, serenity.  When I mentioned my clothes being stolen, she was upset and concerned, compassionate.  We talked of its meaning and she gently said, "Yes, detachment."