A Writer’s Diary Entries From Early November, 1998
Monday, November 2, 1998
9:30 PM. Although I sort of dreaded teaching the Coral Springs class because it’s so large and rowdy, I had a good session tonight.
The students are mostly government workers, the kind of people I’ve always been able to relate to, and a lot of them are New York City types – Italian and Irish mostly, but also Hispanic and Jewish and even one Korean. They’re firefighters, cops and other civil servants, people from the same social class I grew up around.
Apparently they can’t relate to their Thursday night Management teacher, who’s a very stern, no-nonsense corporate executive, demanding and unable to understand people who work in the public sector.
I’m tired, though – especially my voice and my legs – so I don’t expect to sleep well the next couple of nights.
Dad came in just behind me from his own job at the mall in Coral Springs. Tomorrow morning is his cataract operation, and this afternoon there was a major crisis. The hospital said that if they didn’t get the report on Dad’s chest x-ray by 3 PM, the surgery would be canceled.
Mom made phone call after frustrating phone call to the primary care provider and the surgeon, and finally Dad left the store, went to his primary care doctor, got the report, took it to the eye surgeon’s office, and they faxed it to Memorial Hospital in Pembroke Pines.
This morning I stayed in the house till after 11 AM. I exercised, read the chapter on warrants in the Rottenberg text, and read the election news in the paper.
I love politics and government, but the level of campaign discourse is now so low and elections seem to be only about money and attack ads. At this point I could never be a serious candidate, though in another time I might have made a pretty good legislator.
Well, in Maryland’s Public Affairs Reporting Master of Arts program, I should see a lot of national politics close up, and that will be a great learning experience for me.
Today’s noon class at Nova went well although our spirited discussion about university policies got a bit out of hand at times. Still, I’d rather have students interrupting each other than sitting back like bumps on a log.
Although my students are all over 18 except Serge, who’s a Russian citizen, only two out of 20 plan to vote tomorrow. They just don’t see the point, and I think most Gen Xers are like them.
It’s hard to believe that when I was a college sophomore in 1970, CUNY gave us a two-week vacation so that students could work on campaigns – and that 28 years ago, I was working for Dick Ottinger, the Democratic candidate for Senator from New York.
Sharon Dynak sent me a note from Ucross. The fall has been lovely, she said, warmer than usual without any snow yet – unlike last October when the winter blizzards had already begun.
I had no time to grade any more papers today, and I got about 33 new ones.
Thursday, November 5, 1998
8 PM. I got into bed very early last night, so I caught up on my sleep. Up at 5 AM, I exercised at 6 AM, and when I went to eat breakfast I saw Dad lying in the living room. He’d been up all night, in terrible pain and feeling nauseated.
Dad looked really ill, and I woke up Jonathan and Mom. I thought he should go to the hospital ER, as I was concerned he might be having a heart attack or at least very serious complications from cataract surgery. Jonathan called the surgeon’s number and left a message.
I had to go to school and dress up in a tie and jacket because of the Broward Cultural Affairs Council meeting.
It had been raining hard, with howling winds. The Nova parking lot was a lake, and I got all wet as I walked to the Parker Building, and later, to the temporary building, which was inaccessible without going through ankle-deep water.
I did have decent attendance, and although I hadn’t wanted to teach, once I was up in front of the class and discussing how to approach the first draft of the research paper, my mind cleared of all worries about Dad.
After dismissing my students, I drove to Fort Lauderdale, going to the Wendy’s by the 17th Street Causeway off U.S. 1 to get a baked potato and a salad bar.
The Broward Cultural Council meeting was moved to the DoubleTree Hotel by the Galleria to coincide with the Fort Lauderdale Film Festival there, so I drove up A1A to Sunrise Boulevard. The storm was pounding the surf, and the Strip and the beach were deserted.
At the hotel, I easily found the meeting room, where Mary Becht, the Council’s director, greeted me and introduced me to the head of the Council and a few other people. It disappointed me that Michael McKeever, the other arts grant fellowship winner from Broward, wasn’t there to be honored with me.
Mary had asked me to read “a paragraph” from my work when they called me up, but after I was at the podium, I knew nothing I read would be appropriate.
The people on the Cultural Affairs Council included two county commissioners and other WASPy, wealthy types as well as a couple of dabblers in the art world, and I didn’t know what to read.
So I just thanked them and babbled something, then sat down next to some pretentious, obnoxious woman who wanted to distribute her ugly slick magazine guide to South Florida cultural events.
The meeting was boring, though I did catch some of the politics involved in the public art that was put up in front of the new National Car Rental Arena (for the hockey team) and some other matters.
I guess groups of people like these are necessary, but I had enough of bureaucratic meetings when I worked at CGR; until today, I hadn’t realized what a relief it has been not to have to attend meetings this past year and a half.
The luncheon upstairs turned out to be pretty boring. It was sponsored by FAU, and the big donor was this guy who’s the CEO of Rexall Sundown, who bankrolled the Film Festival and introduced Amy Pascal, the head of Columbia Pictures, who gave a rather inept keynote address on how she got started in the movie industry.
I kept hoping she would talk about recent trends in films or have some interesting topic like “Women in Hollywood.”
I sat with some people from the Cultural Affairs Council — like Michael, an artist and writer who used to work at Brooklyn College while I was a student there and who is now an administrator at Nova.
There was also this grey-haired, well-groomed, affluent black guy who I’m pretty sure was gay. He said he thought that hip-hop was “not music,” and I just rolled my eyes and didn’t bother to respond.
When he got up and told the FAU students present that he had graduated from FAU “decades ago [sotto voce] in 1972,” I felt better because I realized he was my age but I looked much younger – or maybe just acted it.
That made up for the weird feeling I got when I opened the program and all the words on the page were so indecipherable that I could barely discern that they were written in English and not some language using ideograms.
I left after dessert and the speeches and awards. They gave me some kind of little glass sculpture by a local artist, which was kind of nice and thoughtful, I guess.
Dad and Jonathan came back from the doctor about an hour after I arrived home. There’s probably part of the lens and cataract that came apart during surgery that’s now behind Dad’s retina.
It’s causing the pressure, which in turn results in the pain, nausea and the bruising now evident. Somehow the ophthalmologist relieved some pressure; I guess he drained some fluid.
The earliest Dad could get an appointment with a specialist at the Bascom Palmer Eye Institute was December 1. I suppose he’ll have to have this operation – apparently serious surgery – to fix the problem.
I don’t know what he’s supposed to do till then. There’s a possibility it will dissolve by itself, and Dad said his vision was a little better today than it was yesterday.
After grading 14 papers, I still have three more to grade for tomorrow. I haven’t read today’s New York Times, but I don’t feel up to it right now.
Saturday, November 7, 1998
9 PM. I accomplished a lot today, mostly because I spent nearly the whole day out of the house, trying to avoid being upset about Dad. He’s getting better, yet he says he “can’t deal with” seeing a non-HMO approved doctor or suing for malpractice.
To my mind, something went very wrong during the surgery: as a direct result of a mistake on the surgeon’s part, there’s probably a retinal tear in Dad’s eye, and he needs to be compensated for lost income, pain and suffering.
Dad is effectively disabled: unable to see properly, to drive, or to work. But he’s so used to being a powerless victim, he doesn’t know how to do what he needs to do. This unfortunate complication of the cataract surgery exposes Dad’s great flaw: an inability to cope with unforeseen change.
I get so upset seeing him suffer (and not in silence – instead of being angry at the doctor, he turns his anger on us and even more on himself) that I am getting ill. Last night I had these terrible neck and shoulder pains that are result of tension even as I slept.
Look, I’m almost 48 and I will not let myself get sick over this. It’s my own fault for not getting my own apartment, of course. At least in my own place I wouldn’t have to see Dad lying in pain and despair on the couch every time I enter the house or leave my room to go to the kitchen.
I have to deal with my own aging process, and unlike Dad, I need to accept my age. At the bookstore I saw the new issue of XY, but when another older man (he looked older than I, but he could have been younger for all I know) grabbed a copy, I put mine back, feeling like a dirty old man.
I need to stop looking at younger guys and try for relationships with guys my age or even older. While I may not be attracted to an older guy’s body, maybe it would be good for me to be the one thought of as a younger and more attractive partner for a change.
As for middle age, I’ve been having trouble dealing with my own physical aging. My presbyopia and even the benign prostate hypertrophy (BPH) that causes urinary frequency, hesitation and “dribbling” are parts of the aging process that I’ve got to accept – or do something to mitigate their effects.
As for my appearance, about all I can do is keep well-groomed (I got a haircut this afternoon), eat healthily and watch my weight, continue to exercise, and learn to love my wrinkles, sagging skin and other by-products of nearing 50.
Although I don’t see it and feel I’ve aged a great deal in recent years, I probably still look younger than most people my age. But so what if I didn’t?
At 78, John Glenn returned today from ten days in space aboard the space shuttle. It will still be 25 years before I’m Dad’s age – assuming I even live that long.
I’m entitled to enjoy myself and I can’t let Dad’s illness let me forget I have a life apart from my parents. My being with them is only temporary. Six months from now, I’ll be away from them and Florida, and I’ll rarely see Mom and Dad after that.
This morning I went to Delta and changed my return flight from Phoenix to New Year’s Day. That will give me time to prepare for my first class on Monday night, January 4.
At Barnes & Noble, I picked out the five books I’ll be using in my Literature class: A Good Man Is Hard to Find, Go Tell It on the Mountain, Slaughterhouse-Five, Seize the Day and The Crying of Lot 49. That’s only three white males out of five authors of the 1950s and 1960s.
I’ll supplement the books with xeroxed stories and some films. Maybe if I teach books and authors that I really like, it will only help make the class better. I just hope it isn’t canceled, though Ben didn’t say anything about that.
I graded all but one paper from both the Coral Springs class and also the other three classes while I was at home early this morning, in my office at Nova, and at Barnes & Noble – which just bought Ingram, so now the book’s biggest bookstore will own the biggest book distributor.
I graded the Monday papers “lightly,” giving nobody less than a B and avoiding my usual comment about every error or problem. It feels good to know I don’t have these papers hanging over my head for the rest of the weekend.
Igor called to tell me I had a free ticket to the show he and his literary and artistic mates were putting on tonight in South Beach, but I told him I was unable to go, using Dad’s health as an excuse.
I didn’t get the Sunday papers today because I could barely find time to read the Saturday papers.
Monday, November 9, 1998
10 PM. I just arrived home after teaching in Coral Springs. I didn’t keep the class late, but the students are very upset about that Thursday night Management teacher, and they wanted to talk to me about it.
This guy, an executive vice president at Citibank International, is telling them weird stuff in an autocratic manner and seems to have a personality problem.
The students have scheduled a meeting with Frank, the cluster coordinator, before class on Thursday. But Frank asked the teacher to come and they told me they were worried he will retaliate against them.
I said that I know only that I try to adapt myself to each particular class and that as a teacher the last thing I want is to have a supervisor like Larry Brandt or Ben Mulvey get student complaints about me.
I’ve been up since 5 AM so it’s been a long day, and tomorrow’s another long day, but I don’t expect to sleep well tonight.
A sore throat started to creep up on me this afternoon, though it’s hard to believe I could get yet another cold three weeks after the last one.
This morning I spoke to Teresa from home, and it was a comfort to hear her voice. It was also helpful to have someone to talk to about my problems with my parents. Sat Darshan also gave me some good advice on coping in an email she sent.
Teresa told me that Jade is going to Vermont because of a boy, a really nice kid who’s the only one of her friends who talks with her and Paul when he comes to see Jade.
She hasn’t dropped out and will finish the semester although she withdrew from Statistics. Now Jade drives up to Purchase for classes only three days a week.
In January she and this guy will go to Burlington, where they’ll work and he can do the snowboarding that he loves. Jade’s mother and her husband will be close by enough to keep an eye on her.
Pam came over to Teresa’s house last Monday after her first day as a teacher. The Bronx school gave her a second grade class for the day, and she’ll be floating around as a per diem teacher again this week.
Pam has never taken education courses, but the New York City Board of Education is so desperate for teachers that she may end up with a class of her own at P.S. 163: a first grade class that has already had three teachers this year.
Yesterday at Susan’s apartment in Manhattan, Teresa told Susan and her friends with babies that they all have worked so hard to be educated and wealthy and yet they entrust their children first to uneducated caretakers and then to teachers who make pathetically low salaries and therefore aren’t that competent. Good point.
Teresa said that in January she’ll go to San Francisco to visit Deirdre and attend a food convention.
As for Dad, it turns out he had to go back to the surgeon this Thursday, an appointment he’d “forgotten” about. And they moved up his appointment at Bascom Palmer to next Tuesday.
Dad still can’t see too well – certainly not as good as before the surgery – but the pain and nausea are lessening, and he did say he sees a little better than he did last Thursday.
At Nova at 10:30 AM, I handed in my book lists (“Good books,” said Maria when she saw my American Lit novels) and I xeroxed the sample student essays that I used in class tonight.
After teaching, I went back to the office and got on the computer. I answered four personals on Digital City, using the same message that I replied to the first one with, all to guys over 30.
This afternoon I went to the Publix ATM and took out a cash advance and a checking withdrawal, and at the post office I got a money order to pay my $301.40 car insurance premium. I’m still using the Gainesville address, so I didn’t want to write a check.
Tuesday, November 10, 1998
2 PM. Dad has to have his operation on Friday. When I got home today, Mom said that Jonathan had just phoned after this the specialist examined Dad. Earlier, Bascom Palmer called and told Dad to come in immediately.
He’s got particles behind the eye, and this supposedly happens in one out of bazillion cases of cataract surgery. They need to operate as soon as possible; they’d do it tomorrow but need to wait for something to rest or heal, either from today’s exam or last week’s surgery.
Mom is very upset, of course, and I’m sure Dad will be a basket case. The specialist said that they can’t guarantee Dad will improve even after the surgery. I think he’s got an incredibly big malpractice case, but Mom said not to say a word about it now. My own opinion is that Dad will never work again.
“How will I pay the mortgage?” Mom wailed.
I told her that she should never have gotten herself into this position, that a year ago after Dad’s heart attack, they had vowed he wouldn’t work again, that they would sell the house and move to a cheaper lifestyle in Arizona – and nothing happened.
As horrible as this is, maybe it will shake them up enough to do something finally and change their lives. They need to get a broker to sell the house soon and get out of Florida. And they need to sue for malpractice. Dad needs to be compensated for his suffering and loss of income.
Mom admitted that she thinks the possible threat of legal action is why the HMO approved everything so swiftly.
Dad and Jonathan haven’t come home yet, but I’m certain that Dad, a nervous wreck under the best of circumstances, will be hysterical over the next couple of days.
As expected, I didn’t sleep much last night and I’m exhausted after teaching this morning and knowing I face a long night teaching in Boca tonight. Well, I’ll just do the best I can.
I changed the due date of the first drafts of the research papers until the day before Thanksgiving so I’ll have the four-day weekend to grade them.
For whatever reason, I doubt that this surgery will do that any good – and of course, as a cardiac patient, Dad is at risk during surgery. I’m very worried and depressed.
*
10:30 PM. Dad just came in my room to tell me he’d lost five pounds this week, according to his weight as measured in the hospital today.
I got home a little while ago, letting my class in Boca go long past the point where I started babbling and my mind went blank.
I immediately went in to talk to Dad in the bedroom, and he told me about his experiences at Bascom Palmer. He has great confidence in Dr. Cousins, the doctor who diagnosed his problem in less than two minutes.
Dad has one big fragment of the cataract and lots of little ones. Apparently Dad knew that he had a very “hard” cataract that might shatter into pieces like glass.
Last Wednesday, when they removed the bandage, he panicked because immediately he knew that something went terribly wrong. He has no vision at all in the eye, and as the doctor told him, he’s got nothing to lose now.
Because there’s so much blood behind the eye, the sonogram couldn’t tell whether he has a retinal tear. But this is considered emergency surgery, postponed till Friday only because there’s so much inflammation right now.
Jonathan, whom I haven’t seen, must be exhausted – and he keeps missing days at work. I suggested to Dad that on Friday, Jonathan can go to work and I’d take off and go with him to the hospital, but he said that Jonathan had already called his store.
I’m exhausted myself right now.