Several months ago, I spent five weeks in the hospital with an infection that went to the bone in my left leg. A miserable condition that required massive amounts of intravenous antibacterial therapy sometimes rendered by graduates of the Josef Mengele Venipuncture Academy. I was not my usual charming self; treatments were awful and I missed Isis. I find that, in a hospital, the little things mean a lot. Stuff you normally see stuck to the bottom of a dumpster covered with flies becomes tonight's culinary creation whipped up with care by that talented Chef, Monsieur Lamumba. Who knew there was a five star cooking academy in Haiti? Chef Lamumba would sometimes make the rounds of the patient areas to see how his creations were received. He would remove the toothpick from his mouth and his one tooth, gold of course, would sparkle in the lamp light as he accepted his praise. We lived for the chef's tease to make more "chooklut mouse" next week.

But those are different stories. And the one I've got to tell is better. Or worse. I guess it depends on your perspective. However, when I'm hospitalized, I make it clear that I don't want visitors. I do it because it's a pain in the neck for family/friends to accommodate hospital visiting hours to their already tight schedules to 'visit' with someone who secretly wishes you'd leave because a) they look like hell b) they feel like hell c) they've got more gas than Saudia Arabia and d) the nurse will arrive any minute with an enormous enema that was prayed for with teary eyes; they want to fondle it and kiss it before application. Aunt Harriet doesn't have an air bag on her walker just inches from the bathroom and any after shock may cause injuries. Let's face it, I don't have the butt muscles of Barishnicov. And Aunt Harriet doesn't have enough sense to realize what is going to occur; she wonders why the nurse is taking me in the bathroom with an icing applicator. Poor Aunt Harriet. Get out Aunt Harriet.

It was late morning and I had just changed 'gowns'. I asked for something simple in a chiffon and didn't get a laugh from the Aide so I was pouting. The term 'clean' is relative when you're in the hospital. I was ‘clean’ though I looked like I combed my hair with an eggbeater; I was wearing running pants under my gown (clean but wrinkled), black and blue arms and a day’s worth of stubble. “Hi Richard,” I heard. I stopped reading the magazine. I sat frozen, and finally looked up. It was her. Amelia Constance Taylor Davenport Zurat. My ex-wife. We hadn’t spoken since our son’s wedding about a year previously. I was determined to make that a pleasant, peaceful experience for all concerned. Prior to that, we hadn’t communicated for over thirty years. Needless to say the divorce and subsequent child custody litigation (both of which I ‘won’) were poisonous and lasted years, cost a fortune and hurt so many innocents, especially my son. There’s no need to go into that here other than to say it is amazing what divorce does to people (or should I say ‘divorce lawyers’)

Eric’s wedding was lovely, his bride (Blythe) charming and they both are very happy. I couldn’t ask for more. Ever since the wedding, Amelia (no one calls her ‘Amelia’ except me. She’s ‘Mimi’ to the rest of the world) would call me on holidays to wish me a happy birthday, happy Thanksgiving, etc. Very nice and very thoughtful.

“Richard?” She spoke again. “Eric told me what you’ve been going through. I wanted to stop by to see if I can help.” I snapped to attention. “You could kill the night nurse,” I replied, immediately realizing that my usual escape from pain/unpleasantness, humor, was inappropriate. And this woman could always read me like a book. She smiled slightly, shook her head slightly, and hugged me. And she gave me a brief kiss on the neck.

And I started to cry and couldn’t stop.

Feeling embarrassed and foolish and somehow physically defeated (like the loser in a prize match), I accepted the tissue she offered and said, “I don’t know where that outburst came from,” and forced a laugh. “Really, Rich, how are you?” Out came the saga of the leg infection and other sundry events. As she gave me the latest news of her parents and brother, I examined her carefully. Strange, but my usual feelings of revenge, pain, frustration, desertion didn’t disappear, they diminished. Our son’s wedding helped calm the waters; for the first time in ages we were Mimi and Rich, not Plaintiff and Defendant.. For Eric’s sake and our own, I would do anything to ensure a pleasant, meaningful day. And that’s just what it was.. There were several pre-wedding planning sessions and phone calls and one lunch with the bride and groom, Blythe’s mother and Amelia and I. All went beautifully. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Frankly, it was nice to interact with Amelia one on one, no judge present

Eric and Blythe said that they wanted to meet with Amelia and I at my place on the Friday before the ceremony. “Oh no,” I said to Eric, “what’s wrong?” “Nothing,” he replied.. “Oh, Dad, you don’t mind having my mother come over to the house on Friday do you.” “Eric, come on. How insensitive and petty do you think I am?”, I asked. “As long as you give me enough time to hide the bank book, put away the check book, change the computer access code and hide the knick-knacs, everything will be fine.” “DAD”, he covered his mouth to hide a grin. “You never give up do you, Dad?” “What do you mean,” I sounded as wounded as possible..”Come on, Dad. Remember when you and I went to DisneyWorld when I was 10? The Snow White ride? Every time we went on it and the witch appeared, you’d wonder out loud how early Mommy had to get up to get a flight here so she could be part of the ride. Then you’d say to me, “wave to Mommy, Eric.” OK, a bit sophisticated for a 10 year old, but funny none-the-less. Humor comes easy to me so I used it. I found it easier than ‘divorce decree’, physical versus shared custody and all of the legal crap. Friday night arrived; Blythe and Eric wanted to go over the ceremony on the boat since Amelia and I had minor parts to play. When the happy couple left, Amelia put her arm around my shoulder and sighed, “They remind me of you and I.” I stifled my, “Yeah, but he’s still got his bank book’ comment. I didn’t want to overdo it. Even ‘funny’ has its limits.

A year had gone by already since Eric and Blythe tied the knot. Amelia kept up with her phone calls on special occasions or just to say, “Hi.” All of which I appreciated. Amelia was still updating me on her parents; I looked at her carefully as she spoke. Still so pretty. Her hair was piled on to of her head in sort of a knot. That has to go. Extra pounds. Too many. I should talk. I always told her that I preferred some flesh on a woman’s bones; there’s nothing so ugly as the scarecrows that take the runway for the cuture houses. She caught me staring and exclaimed, “Don’t look at me. I’m fat. I’m starting a diet tomorrow.” “The farmers will be upset,” I told her. She laughed out loud. “You could always make me laugh,” she said and put her hand on my knee. "It covers a lot of your pain and anger, doesn’t it?” Hearing it from someone else’s lips was like a slap across my face.”It sure does. And I’ve got years of practice,” I told her. While we were on the subject of slaps, I decided to ask her about her husband; she married him as soon as our divorce was final.


To be continued………………

*snort*

Actually there were a range of emotions in there

Please don't be too long with the continuation!

Aw Richard, I had been missing the tales of Mimi.

Yesssssssss!! More more!! (please)

Ah, such a potential-loaded tale in the works . Can't wait to read more! And I, for one, have not read of this "Mimi" before - so am especially anxious for Chapter 2. At the moment, I have the mental picture of her being resemblant to that Mimi creature on "The Drew Carey Show" (only because that's the only one I'd ever heard of prior). And, of course, that Mimi is a rather distracting picture to carry about, rest assured. A new Mimi would be welcomed.

Looking forward to what happens next with this real one ! And, based on "so far", if they ever make a movie of this, Vendome, I'd say Rob Reiner just has to direct it....

Who could play Rich, I wonder??

I am sorry to learn of your recent illness, how are you feeling these days? Who is minding Isis? Oh I hope that good health returns to you so that you may be together again with your dear dog and you can take care of one another. Best wishes friend....

edited for spelling error

Hi BurgGurl--Isis is coming along; dare I say slightly improved. I had a grooming service come to the house to give him a puppy cut so he wouldn't have so much hair around his face and eyes and ears.

He's cautious when walking around so he hasn't walked into any walls; he still sits beside 'our chair' trying to get my attention or to be held. But I'm not in the chair; I'm in the kitchen. That's hard to take.

He's still 77 human years old, blind and almost totally deaf but, so far, he's managing. And, thanks to the caring of FunTriviaites, I can look at the situation objectively yet with love and tears too.

Thanks for asking. I started an 'Isis update' thread to the original post.

Oh, and I'm feeling fine after my latest 'adventures in health care'

Pleased you are feeling better and Isis has you back home again - but where is the ending to the story! Can't take the wait any longer.

lady1-your post gave me one of the best laughs I've had in a long time.

"you're OK..the dog's OK...Fine, swell, good....now where's the story?"

I'm working on the story every day. I want to make sure it's totally accurate, that I quote my ex-wife accurately, events are in proper order etc.

I'm glad (and rather surprised) that you find it worthwhile.

Thanks.

Well your story made me laugh too. I will try to be patient and keep checking back to see when it is updated.

Is it done yet?

Just kidding.

HA!!

Ok, I gasped, I smiled, I chuckled, I laughed, then I cried. I can't take anymore....

Updated January 23, 2008

oh jesus - you leave it there??? Soap opera writers could learn tips from you!

I think vedome is doing this to torture us. I don't think he is realy a funny person but a nasty man!

Love the latest addition - for those who haven't realised, he edited the first post and added a new chunk to the bottom of it!

THANK YOU, SUE! I never would have thought to look back at the original! Wonderful!

Sue:

I was trying to be fancy with this. Should I just add a section at a time and not 'blend' them?

Is this how Earl Stanley Gardner got his start?

You do it which ever way you like Rich - just let us know if you add to the original again.

It took me a while to find where the old one left off, I have a horrible memory.

Great story!

Story continues from where it left off:


Now it was her turn to cry. A strange cry. Anger, not sadness. No tears. Clenched fists. Directed at me. “Do you want to know why I left? I needed someone to need me.” I started to interrupt; she told me to let her talk.. “You don’t need anybody,” she whispered..

----------------------------------------

I needed to talk to someone. This isn’t fair, I thought. It’s obscene, barbaric. All of these people I never met telling me how ‘beautiful’ she looks. She was either ‘beautiful’ or they took my hand and told me how young I was as they choked back tears. It was déjà vu. I had been standing in this very spot exactly ten months ago at my father’s ‘viewing’. This time, it was my mother’s. And who knew that four months later I would be standing here again for my aunt, my mother’s sister, with whom I had moved in after all of the deaths. I was fifteen years old. Going on fifty. All of the deaths were slow and painful; metastatic cancer. My two sisters had it easier than I; they were both married and living away from home. I had to exist in the house of death along with some private nurses. And people treat you like you’ve got leprosy when you’re surrounded by death. I know it’s because they don’t know what to say or do, but it’s still uncomfortable.

I finally wound up living with my younger sister, her husband and their two kids; she was expecting a third. I know they wanted me to stay but I felt like a third wheel. They needed the room for their upcoming baby; they didn’t need me. I found a job at a large teaching hospital and my other brother-in-law, Harry (Vivian’s husband), countersigned for an apartment for me. I had always been a shy, introverted kid now it was.grow up time. I knew that if I dropped out of school to mourn I would never go back so I left school for just one semester. Terrified of being alone, and needing to pay living expenses, I worked every available hour, learned as much as I could. My free time was spent teaching myself how to cook, do laundry, clean, minor repairs, and so on.

-----------------------------

.
“I know how hard you had it as a boy,” she said,” and I’m sorry. But you’re an intimidating presence.” She continued to tell me that she always felt inferior, never quite good enough for me. Just like at home.. “At home?” I asked. “Come on, Rich,” look at my rival, I mean, my mother.” She continued, “Do you remember what she was wearing
when you picked me up for our first date?” “No, I was busy looking at you. But I don’t remember what you had on either. Why does it matter?” “When she found out I had a new date, she started getting ready in the afternoon,” Amelia explained. “What does this have to do with anything?” I was getting frustrated. “Let me jog your memory. When we got in the car, Rich, you asked me if my mother always dressed like that.” Now I remembered. Her mother is a beautiful woman; not pretty, beautiful. And she knows it. And she plays with it. For our first date, I nervously fidgeted as I rang the doorbell. I swear that there were violins hidden in the bushes ‘cause they started to play, Daaaa Daaaa Da Ta Da, Da Da Ta Da………and Loretta Not-So-Young gyrated to the door, opened it gracefully, holding back the floor-length over skirt to give a glimpse of tapered thigh. And did a pirouette back towards the living room where some hors d’oeuvres waited. “Mimi isn’t ready yet.. You’ll have to put up with me for a while. Wine?” “O, no thank you, Mrs. Taylor .” It crossed my mind that, if this was several years ago at my house, my Mom would have answered the door holding a dust cloth wearing a housedress. “Hors d’oeuvre?” “Yes, thank you.” “Make yourself comfortable.” “Thank you” I was thinking that I hadn’t said so many ‘thank you’s’ in my life. I was standing near the end section of the sofa, so I proceeded to sit down. This was followed by one of those embarrassing vinyl on leather gas-passing sounds as my leather belt made contact with the thick plastic slipcover that seemed to be on every object in the living room. My backside kept traveling until it reached the end of the cushion then slammed to the floor. There I sat with my knees touching my ears holding my hors d‘oeuvre wondering where Amelia was. I needed her.

Amelia should only know that her mother had called me several times over the years to ‘keep me up to date’ on things. One of the main things was Amelia’s sudden marriage to Bill Zurat, a guy she met and married shortly after she had a near fatal auto accident. Her mother told me that it was a suicide attempt because the next day I was going to finalize the divorce. She said that several eye-witnesses stated that the car was proceeding normally then suddenly sped up and drove into a tree. Amelia has been under psychiatric care ever since. Her mother further explained that she and Mr. Taylor have disowned Amelia. Things came to a head when they got a call from a local hospital
telling them that Amelia was admitted with several broken ribs; they suspected spousal abuse which Amelia subsequently confirmed. The Taylors demanded that she leave Zurat. She refused, And refuses.


To be continued.............

Oh Rich, first you made me cry, then you made me laugh - I am now wondering what to do. Your writing style is really something - don't stop writing.