I'm reading Sherman Alexie's book You Don't Have to Say You Love Me.
Now, Dusty Springfield's voice runs through my head. I wonder how long that will last? It could be minutes. It could be years. The funny, the funny and sad thing for me is that Alexie changed that song from a love song to a song that a child sings to his mother in an instant. The tragic switch in perspective of that song threw me. Hard. It's hard enough to listen to when it's a love song. It's agonizing when it's a lullaby a child sings to himself at night.
My heart aches just thinking of it it.
So, as I listen to the funny tragedy of this book Sherman Alexie wrote, I find myself talking to him, almost out loud. I try to tell him through the ether that things are going to be okay.
I don't actually know that things are going to be okay. I just want that to be true for him. I need that to be true for him.
Alexie's story is raw. He makes it real. He makes it real funny sometimes. When he wrote about the ICU nurse telling him about his response to his own nakedness in recovery, I laughed.
I was swiftly brought to my own naked-on-the-operating table story. It stands out in my head in vivid color in that white operating room, the doctors and nurses already wearing green or pink scrubs and white masks.
I was twenty-four and in the OR for a laminectomy. I couldn't feel my right leg. I was cute, not beautiful and still looked like I was fifteen. I had long dark hair that would have reached a third of the way to the floor. I was still innocent, mostly, and had big brown doe eyes. I wasn't yet anesthetized, but the anesthesiologist had given me something to make me relax, completely relax. I was so very relaxed, aware that they'd put me on the operating table and that I was completely uncovered, but I didn't care. That is not a state that is natural for me. I am not comfortable being naked in anything resembling the public.
But, I somehow I started a drunken rant and told five dirty jokes I knew. These were three-beer dirty jokes. I told them one right after another. I got good laughs. I loved it. I would have kept going except that a rancid nurse said, "Doctor, shouldn't we get started?"
And the doctor replied, my doctor, my wonderful doctor said, "Do we have to?"
Can you picture that scene? That was my first and last standup comedy set.
Sherman Alexie, thank you for reminding me of that moment.
But hey, dude, take your time with your grief over your mother. If it was complicated in life, it will still be complicated after her death. I know. I wish I didn't know. And feel free to hide under the covers out of the public eye until you're done. We can wait. We love your work, but we are happy to wait until you're through at least a few stages of your grief.
Thank you for listening, jb
Now, Dusty Springfield's voice runs through my head. I wonder how long that will last? It could be minutes. It could be years. The funny, the funny and sad thing for me is that Alexie changed that song from a love song to a song that a child sings to his mother in an instant. The tragic switch in perspective of that song threw me. Hard. It's hard enough to listen to when it's a love song. It's agonizing when it's a lullaby a child sings to himself at night.
My heart aches just thinking of it it.
So, as I listen to the funny tragedy of this book Sherman Alexie wrote, I find myself talking to him, almost out loud. I try to tell him through the ether that things are going to be okay.
I don't actually know that things are going to be okay. I just want that to be true for him. I need that to be true for him.
Alexie's story is raw. He makes it real. He makes it real funny sometimes. When he wrote about the ICU nurse telling him about his response to his own nakedness in recovery, I laughed.
I was swiftly brought to my own naked-on-the-operating table story. It stands out in my head in vivid color in that white operating room, the doctors and nurses already wearing green or pink scrubs and white masks.
I was twenty-four and in the OR for a laminectomy. I couldn't feel my right leg. I was cute, not beautiful and still looked like I was fifteen. I had long dark hair that would have reached a third of the way to the floor. I was still innocent, mostly, and had big brown doe eyes. I wasn't yet anesthetized, but the anesthesiologist had given me something to make me relax, completely relax. I was so very relaxed, aware that they'd put me on the operating table and that I was completely uncovered, but I didn't care. That is not a state that is natural for me. I am not comfortable being naked in anything resembling the public.
But, I somehow I started a drunken rant and told five dirty jokes I knew. These were three-beer dirty jokes. I told them one right after another. I got good laughs. I loved it. I would have kept going except that a rancid nurse said, "Doctor, shouldn't we get started?"
And the doctor replied, my doctor, my wonderful doctor said, "Do we have to?"
Can you picture that scene? That was my first and last standup comedy set.
Sherman Alexie, thank you for reminding me of that moment.
But hey, dude, take your time with your grief over your mother. If it was complicated in life, it will still be complicated after her death. I know. I wish I didn't know. And feel free to hide under the covers out of the public eye until you're done. We can wait. We love your work, but we are happy to wait until you're through at least a few stages of your grief.
Thank you for listening, jb
No comments:
Post a Comment