Black Sabbath, or why I don’t drink much

I was born with red hair, bright as a new, copper penny, but it darkened to a shade of auburn when I was 12, and then it faded to a mousy brown when I was 16. I felt betrayed by my changing hair color, but I emulated all the clichés of being a redhead.

I carried all the markers including packing a fierce temper, pale freckled skin that easily burned, and I have an unusually high tolerance to pain. The pain threshold is an interesting quirk, I remember coming to during all my operations— when I had my tonsils removed, I remember my doctor’s face with the convex mirror on his forehead. He said it wasn’t possible.

My oral surgery, my first knee operation, I remember them all. During one operation, I was struck with inconsolable grief and began sobbing, my anesthesiologist had to tell me to stop crying for what, I don’t remember. But I bore witness to all my operations, much to the dismay of my anesthesiologists.

I took to warning my doctors that I carried the redhead gene, but they didn’t listen, or didn’t believe me—until after my last knee operation, when I began to recant the playlist, as if it was a profane litany. It surprised me that my knee surgeon, who owned a race horse, was into the Scorpions and Black Sabbath.

MAYDAY: HOLDING VIGIL FOR SINEAD

The sun is shining,
and the sky is that incredible cerulean
I stare straight up at infinite blueness,
and forget everything for a moment
only to have an egret enroute to the lake
cross my trajectory and I remember
we're in the city after all:
that distant pounding of surf:
really cars on the freeway
I hold vigil for my cousin in NICU,
a victim of that same stretch of road.
Hit and run. who could do that to another?
With shaking hands, I paint three silk scarves,
the gutta, forgiving. I painted beauty:
Roses, egrets, orchids,
and the sky emerges from void.
We wait for a pattern to emerge from the catscan.
Any sign of recognition will do.

5/2005






Where the sun is shining, and the sky is that incredible cerulean when you stare straight up at its infinite blueness, and you forget everything only to have an egret enroute to the lake cross your trajectory and you remember it's in the city after all: the distant pounding of surf, the cars on the freeway while I hold vigil for my cousin in hospital, a victim of that same stretch of road. With shaking hands, I made three silk scarves, the gutta forgiving. Roses, egrets, orchids, sky emerge from the void.

EGRETS FOR SINEAD

Where the sun is shining, and the sky is that incredible cerulean when you stare straight up at its infinite blueness, and you forget everything only to have an egret enroute to the lake cross your trajectory and you remember it's in the city after all: the distant pounding of surf, the cars on the freeway while I hold vigil for my cousin in hospital, a victim of that same stretch of road. With shaking hands, I made three silk scarves, the gutta forgiving. Roses, egrets, orchids, sky emerge from the void.

MAYDAY: HOLDING VIGIL FOR SINEAD

If. Whatever's burning up your mind, freewrite (Merrill Gardens journal)

And so they asked me, it was my turn, and I had asked them to ponder on "if." A hypothetical question, but also a loaded statement in a rest home. Especially when asked if you had to live your life over. By asking them probing questions, I was asking them to not only to delve into the past, but also to share their souls with each other. 

Many of these folks had lived together for years and still didn't know each other's life stories. I thought, these were the lucky ones, the ones who lived charmed lives, an ambassador, a designer, a concert pianist, and an organizer. What emerged, was that each, thinking the others life was more glamorous than their own lives. Envy. 

One person chose to say her life was perfect. She was content. Another devalued her life experiences. We all gave her a mouthpiece. And another added her story to the collective invisible pile, as if the laundry of the soul was laid out to dry on the breakfast table. 

Then it was my turn. They called in the chips, and here I was, 3 to 4 decade younger than there, feeling valueless and fragile and the Oldsters were telling me that I still had plenty of time left. But I was not convinced. 

Madeline Bedal from Montana, who took just turned 91 wasn't with us. I miss her terribly, as she is my touchstone for the residency. She, who was a kindergarten teacher, who became legally blind, who thought she had nothing of value to contribute, told us extraordinary stories of her pioneer childhood, enthralled us.

I savored those bittersweet precious moments as we made plans for the future, knowing that nothing is really certain, not even the next time that we will meet. And we met fully in the moment and made plans anyway. These senior citizens and I are sharing our life stories. I told them that it felt like I had a roomful of grandparents, and they all smiled and laughed. We reaffirmed each other's existence.

Enroute to the senior center Alene (?) and I pass the scene of an accident, a young man being lifted up on a gurney all cerulean and blue, the colors of the sky. His car looked like in overturned beetle. An SUV had run right over it. I wondered would he make it.

I couldn't help but think of my cousin Sinead emerging from her own darkness, thankfully oblivious to her ordeal, her memory having been wiped clean, her slate blank, so that she couldn't bear witness to the darkness that she had experienced. She fought back. She fought back the darkness, not ready yet. She  began to remember and she raged and raged against the dying of the light. She did did not plant go gentle at that junction of "if."

6/4/2004 Writers' Group

• In the rain without an umbrella, freewrite
• Madeline Stannard Bedal Chapbook
• Della Madeline Stannard Bedal obituary
• EGRETS FOR SINEAD