Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Watch how I pull this althogether in the end

Little known fact about me: I've seen Niel Diamond in concert 31 times.

I've just started reading a most intriguing novel, "Loved Walked In," by Marisa De Los Santos. I am only on page 20 so I don't yet know if it will hold up to the last page, but so far I am completely hooked. It reads like the webcam in my mind. Scary. Like this: If you are not a big believer in signs, then, trust me, we have that in common. If your impatience with people who are forever telling stories containing fairly ordinary coincidence that they interpret (after a pregnant pause) as "a sign" that borders on nausea, I'm right there with you. And if you've noticed that such people almost invariably opt to take as signs only those things that point them in precisely the direction they wanted to go anyway, while ignoring plenty of other seemingly valid sign options, well, my friend, we're three for three.

But then she goes on to describe her personal compilation of signs completely contradicting herself mere seconds beforehand. Which is totally something I would say, but reason that because I admit to doing it, my criticism doesn't apply to me, in fact it makes me even more in touch with the universe because I am so honestly intuitive. I know, I am seriously messed up sometimes.

So I read this passage as I am in the waiting room for the doctor. The cardiologist, as a matter of fact. And the reasons that I see a cardiologist are unknown to me--it is a mysterious cardiac condition that gets more mysterious as the years go by, and for some unexplained reason, I allow this because...I have no valid reason as to why I don't take charge of this situation. Anyway, I haven't seen him in almost a year because in cardiac terms pregnancy equals the plague. Completely hands-off for 40 weeks. No meds. No tests. He didn't want to see me, talk to me nor even receive my co-pay in the mail until I hatched. Fine, I say. So I had honestly forgot that I had an appointment today except for the helpful reminder call I got yesterday. I honestly forgot I had a heart condition anyway as well. But I go in anyway for sport. Here's the dialoge:

Dr. P: Anything new?

Me: No. I had the baby 7 weeks ago.

Dr. P: (Quickly flipping through chart.) How did it go? Any chest pain, shortness of breath?

Me: I honestly can't recall. I think the other miserable symptoms of pregnancy masked any cardiac troubles I may have had.

Dr. P: Ok, let's do a sonogram of your heart.

Me: Why?

Dr. P: Because we haven't done one in a while.

Me: OK. How was my ekg?

Dr. P: It was...(pause) okay. I schedule you for sonogram next week.

And what do I say? Nothing, because I accept the nebulousness of it all. So I get back into the beast of a car and even though the tank wasn't empty I fill up for $78. I flip through the satellite radio which is the greatest thing ever I determine, because the soundtrack of my life plays every day spanning the decades reminding me of memories I'd forgotten. I have a particular penchant for the 70's channel, because invariably, my mother's voice will sing (badly) along to the tunes. As today when I heard Niel Diamond 3 times. She used to love the Niel Diamond. And all of her friends, too. And I could never see the attraction because by the time I was listening to music with a discerning ear, Niel had just released that stupid "Heartlight" song, which even at the sage age of 10, I realized it was a complete sell-out. But over the years, after reacquainting my adult ears with songs like "Solitary Man," I've appreciated Niel in a different light. Today I listened to "Longfellow's Serenade," and "Sweet Caroline," and thought I can see why so many middle-aged women loved him in his prime. Then I thought about what it was like being her kid, and then I thought about Niel Diamond's kid who is Dustin Diamond--"Screech" from "Saved by the Bell,"-- and how that freak has his own reality show now and that's how I sort of consider these video blogs to be in a way, and Oh My God I am Screech, and then I thought about my Mom and her "Jazz Singer" album pressed against her chest like a swooning teenager, and my chest seized a little too and I realized that I doubt if the cardiologist can ever fix my broken heart.

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