PaperGirl Blog by Mary Fons

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14 Apr 2016

Irony.

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life, Sicky | 4

Banded iron formation specimen, Upper Michigan. Image: Wikipedia

I’m back home in Chicago! Being in Iowa was great, but whenever I get back to the city, I realize how much I missed the pigeons.

There were so many errands to run. My main task was to go into Northwestern Hospital for an iron infusion. I’ve got another week from today. I’ve been getting cozy with these things since I basically ran out last year; aside from the weird stuff that likes to show up on my CT scans, I’m anemic. My hemogoblins have been hanging out at 9 out of the recommended 14, so I need Fe pumped into Me. I’ve also been eating nothing but filet mignon and steak tartare, naturally. Sometimes I’ll have a porterhouse. Maybe a fox or a deer, if they’re running around. Or your delectable neck, my pretty… Mua-ha-ha!

Getting an infusion of X or Y or Z isn’t that big of a deal. You go in, they stick a sharp object through your skin into your vascular system and gravity assists in transfusing liquid into your bloodstream. I sat in a room with many people getting various intravenous medicine; my infusion took a little over an hour. I spent some time on Instagram, I looked through some papers. The nurses were nice.

There were numerous occasions over the course of 2011-2014 when I would take the Michigan Ave. #147 bus to that hospital from my home, sure that whatever was wrong with me was bad enough that I’d probably be admitted when I got there and I was usually right. I learned to pack a bag and turn off the lights before I left. If you’re going to be admitted, you might not be back for a long time and you’re gonna want stuff like your computer, phone, phone charger, book, couple Diet Cokes, actual shampoo and soap (as opposed to whatever that stuff the nurses give you when you actually are well enough or stinky enough to have a shower.)

I thought about that today because I walked home after my infusion was done. The sun was beautiful today. The walk takes about 40 minutes and on a busy Thursday, there’s so much to see. I remember this one particular time I was in the hospital for the third time in six weeks or something. They had just come in to say I couldn’t go home, that I’d probably be there at least until the next week. I remember freaking out and feeling trapped. My IV was a chain, a bond. My gown was revolting. My hair felt so bad. My body hurt. My body felt weak. I was hot. I was cold. I couldn’t just be in my bed. I couldn’t just go to the fridge. Surrender, Dorothy.

Sitting in my comfy chair on the 14th floor having some really basic, really innocuous procedure done, I felt glad that the infusion was all that was next to my name today. Many people have a longer list and no comfy chair at all. Every time I’m at Northwestern, I think about all that.

14 Apr 2016

Quilt Your (Quilts of Valor) Heart Out!

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 0

Me and Mother Unit. Photo: Joe Mazza, Bravelux.

There’s a fresh PaperGirl post coming later today, but for now, know that the latest episode of Quilt Your Heart Out is up on the site! Mom and I give quilting and life advice and speak to Ann Rehbein, Executive Director of Quilts of Valor.

She reads a letter from a veteran who was awarded a quilt. You will need kleenex.

Quilt Your Heart Out,
Mar

11 Apr 2016

“Existential Cheese Baby.”

by Mary | posted in: Day In The Life | 1

Not so long ago, I walked past a cheese shop on Lake Street (this was in Chicago) and something caught my eye. Was Jersey Blue on sale? Was my eye drawn to a crunchy breadstick tree or a jar of free-range quince jam? No. I saw a baby hanging comically in a sling and had to investigate. I decided if I found a wheel of $20/lb. cheddar cheese in the process, well, that was fine.

I watched it at it as it hung there, totally powerless and adorable while Mom browsed the bins. As I marveled inconspicuously — I did get this single picture, unseen — I was plunged into a line of existential questions that I know the baby would have answered if it could have.

Existential Cheese Baby, what do you see? Do you see the array of cheeses or do you just see shades of yellow? Can you identify yellow, yet? Do you realize that if I had to try and explain to you what color is, it would take me so long to make any sense of it you’d have a beard by the time I was done? Oh, you’re a girl baby. Sorry.

Do you know purveyors of cheese used to be called cheesemongers? No, I don’t know why they’re not called that anymore. Things change, Existential Cheese Baby, and they keep on changing. Why, not so long ago, I was your age and my entire life was before me. That’s what I thought, but who knows? My entire life might be behind me because I could walk out of here and get hit by a bike messenger. You don’t think that would be enough to kill me? Have you seen those guys? I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.

What are you good at? You don’t even know! You don’t even know what your interests are, much less if you’re good at any of them. You could be good at sports or arithmetic or spelling or capoeira but we won’t know for years! And your parents might not give a rip what you’re interested in and push you to do something you hate because they wanted to do that when they were young. Then whose life are you living, Existential Cheese Baby?? Life is absurd and confusing and then you end up in a cheese shop at thirty-six, staring at babies, only later to write about it publicly while slumped in a chair in Iowa wearing a pair of socks you borrowed from your philosophy professor boyfriend who technically lives in Germany.

Your mother appears to be wearing fringed hotpants. I thought you should know.

10 Apr 2016

The Farm, The Weariness.

by Mary | posted in: Family | 3

The bus stop my dad made for me and my sisters so we would have shelter waiting for the school bus each day. Photo: Me

Claus came over from Chicago for a visit while I’m here. Aside from the interest he has in seeing where I grew up, it’s objectively great for him to see a quaint Midwestern village. It would be the same for me if I were in Germany; I’d probably travel miles to see a “real life” German village. I’ve shown him the theater; we went to see some covered bridges; we’ve eaten several meals at the local Northside Cafe; we checked out the high school football field.

And this afternoon, we took a drive into the countryside. But it wasn’t just any old Sunday drive; we drove seven miles south-ish and west-ish of town to the farm where I grew up.

Lord Almighty, all our old pains. So precious, so deep, so white-knuckled. Our most blinding pains are woven into us and the older we get, the older the pain gets and don’t you dare pull that thread. It’s the first tragedy of my life, leaving that farm, and the story of it — mythic, epic, now — has been squatting on my heart ever since, despite hours of therapy, true love, art. Despite travels to Chicago, New York City, Washington, DC, to the far reaches of the galaxy, to Florida. I’d love to say it was different, that I’m resolved and actualized and enlightened by age if nothing else, but I see that farm and it all comes back. Blah, blah, blah.

I was little. My sisters were little. My mom and dad were getting divorced. My sisters and I got on the school bus one day. We never went back to the farm. We didn’t know we wouldn’t go back, we just never did. We never slept in our beds again. We never saw our toy box again. We didn’t say goodbye to our cats. We were country kids, then we were not. Cry me a river. Amazon.

Why go out there? I don’t know. One may select from a variety of Sunday afternoon activities and ghost-hunting is an activity one may choose to select when you’re me, in Winterset. It’s all out there, just seven miles out, south-ish and west-ish of this particular and particularly quaint Midwestern village. The acreage looks a lot different from when I was eight, but it’s the same. It is exactly, exactly the same and I would know because I know every inch of that place.

There’s a long drive to the property from the road. It’s not possible to get to the house without making a big production of it: you don’t visit my farm by accident. I don’t know the people who live there, so Claus and just parked the car on the road. That was for the best. I wouldn’t be able to handle touching the yard, the doorknobs. I just know I couldn’t. Squinting at things from far away was plenty.

Claus took pictures of the landscape and of me. Of all the pictures he took, there’s one that truly works. It’s a closeup of me. I’m wearing my Iowa Hawkeyes hooded sweatshirt. The wind is blowing my hair around and I’ve got one hand up to hold it back. My nails are lacquered red because I got a manicure for TV taping tomorrow. The sun is glinting off the gold baby ring I never take off. I’m squinting because the sun is behind the camera. I look every day of my thirty-six years. I’m not smiling. But I’m not crying. The farm is behind me, blurry.

*There’s more about all that right here.

8 Apr 2016

A Wedding Today: Part Three

by Mary | posted in: Family, Luv | 0

The daisy is the flower for the five-year anniversary. Here's to the first five years -- and many more. Photo: Wikipedia — The daisy is the flower for the five-year anniversary. Here’s to the first five years — and many more. Photo: Wikipedia

You’ve been very patient. I’m proud of you. You can get a cookie and come back. Are you back? Okay.

I always figured courtroom weddings took place with a judge behind the bench, looking over his spectacles, saying something like, “By the power vested in me by the State of Iowa, I pronounce you husband and wife. Congratulations, I hope you have a pleasant day.” Maybe there would even be a gavel swing, maybe even a “Next.” But that wasn’t what it was like at all. Mr. Hanson, the magistrate, came to the center of the room and said, “Okay, you ready to get started?” Everyone straightened up and the bride and groom went to stand near Mr. Hanson.

“Would you like to say anything to each other before we get started?” he asked them. He had papers in his hands. The bride and groom looked at each other, smiling, nervous. They shrugged and the girl half-asked, half-said, “Well… Let’s do this.” Mr. Hanson went into the script and at the beginning, I zeroed in on the couple. I felt all the, “This is the beginning of their lives together!” and “Love is amazing!” feelings one feels at a wedding. But I wasn’t full on wedding-crying, yet.

That happened when I looked around at the family. They showed up. It was a Wednesday afternoon. People took off from work. They put on their Sunday best. The younger girls were taking pictures; Mom seemed to be filming the whole thing on her phone. It was a family. It was a family doing what families are supposed to do, even if they don’t like it all the time: they show up. They may think you’ve lost your mind, they may not understand you a lot of the time, but they love you, and even if you’re the black sheep this year, they’re gonna take off work and get to the courthouse. I think it’s because we all know — or certainly should consider — that we’ll be the black sheep in the family sooner or later. We’d better be nice; we’re gonna need it.

When that family sentiment hit, that’s when I got the warm wedding tears and stabbed at my eyes with the sleeve of my Iowa Hawkeyes sweatshirt. I made every effort to be silent with my emotions, but one of the rough guys (uncle? brother?) caught me. I saw him turn to his wife or girlfriend and jab his thumb back at me and whisper, “She’s frickin’ cryin!”

The ceremony was done when Mr. Hanson said, “You can kiss the bride.” It was like any other wedding in that regard. I didn’t stay a moment past the end. I clapped, quietly, and smiled at the group. I caught the bride’s eye and whispered, “Congratulations!!” And then I left. This was most definitely not about me, even though if I had stayed two minutes longer I’ll bet you I would’ve gotten an invite to the bar.

Best wedding I ever crashed. Only wedding I’ve ever crashed, actually, and I did it on accident. It took a special blend of circumstances for that to happen. I like that kind of thing.

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