Busy reading weekend if not a particularly remarkable week, otherwise. The highlight was taking the cat to the vet to find out if there's a medical reason he's "leaking" all over the place. Turns out kitty has an infection of the urinary tract - and how the vet took the urine sample I do not want to know.  All I can say is when they brought him back to the exam room he was so freaked out he attempted to hide in one of those tiny pull-out keyboard trays - the kind that's about a foot long by three inches high. He launched himself up like a rocket, compacting his body into the tray, haunches and tail hanging out. It took two of us to pull him out the first time.

THEN HE DID IT AGAIN.

The physics involved, my friends… I can't even go there. This is not a small cat. This is a 14 pound, spoiled rotten cat who pees in the house like a damn lawn sprinkler.

WTF?

All this – plus cat hair up my nose, down my throat and blowing across the floor like tumbleweeds – to hear Oliver needs a tiny bottle of antibiotic liquid, the cost of which is roughly equivalent to the price of gold per ounce. "The dose is small", the vet told me. "I'll have the tech come in and show you how to do it."

Okay. She shows me the syringe and tells me to fill it to one ounce. She doesn't do it for me, mind. She just shows me how, handing the box and syringe to me before bolting out the door. I pony up the $ 140, shove the cat back in his carrier, and it's on my merry way I am.

I got home and it seemed as good a time as any to go ahead and give the cat his medicine. After he's just had a nervous breakdown and all. What could go wrong? I filled the syringe to one, picked up the cat, cradling him like a baby and tried to stick the syringe in his mouth. After I wiped up my blood and found the cat again, it was round two: Oliver 1, Lisa o.  This time, in the blur of flying hair and drops of blood, he opened his mouth all the way and I squirted that medicine in for all I was worth. Good thing the family was home to tie a tourniquet around my bleeding stub of an arm. But hey, the cat's on the mend.

CAT, YOU ARE THE SUPERIOR BEING.

If all this doesn't work (and why would it, really?) the next thing it could be is "kitty stress," exhibited, apparently, via his preference for lying around the house on his back, like a bear rug, directly in the path of my Point A to Point B. I have to stop short rather than trample him, momentum taking me up and over, like a cross between a rag doll and a ballerina, landing when some part of my body encounters something sharp or otherwise unforgiving. Then I curl into a ball while I bleed and cry simultaneously. Looking on, the cat licks his crotch and leaves. I have spoiled his solitude. No doubt his having to drag ass out of the room contributes to his tension.

Thankfully, there's a cure for kitty stress, too. It doesn't even require a feline psychologist. It's a little something they call kitty phermones, phermones that promote kitty relaxation. Kitty weed, in other words. It's sprayable, or you can buy the sort you put in a warming thing in the electric outlet. Hell, if this works I'll be snorting the crap.

I was going to go on to talk about books after I quickly caught you up to date on Oliver but now, to tell you the truth, I don't even feel like it. I've exhausted myself. I was up late, hopped up on the rusty smell of blood. I didn't sleep much.

So I'm going to take a nap. Screw it.

Made it through another week but it was a squeaker. So much going on Chez Guidarini. Too much going on Chez Guidarini.

I had my consultation with my new physical therapist on Friday, in yet another effort to work on getting me to the point I'm able to walk like a normal person my age, instead of an ailing 90-year old.

Chronic pain is depressing, you know? That's like saying people breathe an awful lot of oxygen – duh. But if you've never experienced it you don't realize to what extent it makes you feel awful or in how many ways. It has an impact on everything you do, from the inability to walk more than a half hour before you need to lean on something, to walking around hunched over for five minutes to warm up your legs enough just to straighten  them – in terrible pain, holding onto things for support - after sitting for any length of time. It's wicked nasty and it's gotten me way, way down. I have to plan around being unable to walk, so shopping trips or even leisure activities are a serious concern.  So I'll do what my doctor advises, exercise in the way the PT has approved and follow all the necessary steps until I get better.

As to the toll it's taking on me, I didn't have as far to fall as a lot of people, seeing as I battle chronic depression already. So in a way I'm used to it but it's easy to fall into a self-pity trap, thinking no one has so much to deal with as I do. Granted, there's a lot on my shoulders but then I hear about other people who have it potentially worse than I do and it adds a feeling of shame to my already overwhelming sadness.

I haven't talked about depression for a really long time here, partly because I was trying to turn into this New Person, so much more serious about blogging, trying to impress potential editors, etc., to keep the work coming in. Now that I've reached that tipping point, having taken on more than I should, I still want them to consider me professional. But I also want others suffering the same malady to know they're not alone, that a lot of people can relate; a lot of people have been there, or are there. If that's unprofessional I frankly don't care.

Clinical, chronic depression isn't a sanity issue. It's a chemical imbalance that occurs in the brain. A lot of my issues are Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder related, due in part to heredity and partly because I grew up in an abusive situation, raised by parents so far from normal I still don't always know what normal is. I lost a brother who was only 36. He had controllable diabetes but also a compulsion to eat what he shouldn't. In essence, he committed a very slow act of suicide out of what I now believe was chronic depression.

Depression is facing self-hatred every day, blaming yourself for things logic tells you are not your fault, feeling inadequate, afraid and alone. It can manifest itself in so many ways. You may not realize what you're feeling is clinical depression. Some people lash out; it's common to find yourself unbearably irritated by the people closest to you. Others are shopaholics, alcoholics or battle addictions to gambling, drugs or any number of other things. Then there are the sad ones who find themselves crying all the time, having no energy, taking pleasure in nothing. In a way I'm lucky, never having become addicted. Mine manifests inwardly, mostly, though you can ask my family how irritated I get, how much alone time I need. Those depression commercials are so right: depression affects everyone around you.

There is help out there, in the form of therapy and, in some cases, medication. But you have to do your own work in digging out from under depression. It requires so much work and it's so exhausting. I'm not in a position to give anyone the key to a magic cure. I still fight it every day. But it's so important not to feel ashamed, to tell your doctor, to ask for help from friends and family. It took me about 40 years until I started asking and I've been battling with help for six years. I still don't know when or if I'll think of myself as normal. Maybe I never will. Sometimes it's a matter of promising yourself – and others – to stay alive, day by day. Then you may have a reprieve lasting anywhere from a few days to – if you're lucky – weeks or months. But it comes back eventually and you have to use all the skills you've learned about battling the disease to get through to your next period of "remission."

Remember, when you're depressed concentrate on life's basics: try to eat well, get moderate exercise, take your meds (if prescribed) according to the doctor's directions and get enough rest. Concentrate on accomplishing these tasks, even if everything else feels beyond you. When you take care of yourself it will eventually convince you you're a person worthy of being cared about. The process is slow. You really have to work hard but it will happen.

If you know someone who is or may be battling depression keep judgment to yourself but help them, please, if they want help or not. And if you are fighting the battle you can always email me: lisaguidarini AT yahoo DOT com to chat. I will answer you.

Take good care – of yourself and others

 

 

 

Mood: Pissy to partly pissy.

I'm angry there are people actually celebrating that it's 97 degrees  today with nasty humidity: people who are biking, running, moving in any fashion, not shut away in their homes with air conditioning blasting. And it's blindingly sunny. When I'm pissy I hate the sun. Quit your smiling, people! If you don't I'm going to steal your Christmas. I hope all your shoes stick to your now-partially-liquid asphalt driveways.

You people who are out and about provoke my scorn. Have you lost your minds, riding in your cars with the windows open instead of hermetically sealing yourself in air-conditioned comfort? What is wrong with you? Don't you know your careless behavior slaps the face of whoever discovered freon?

OH, NOBLE GAS!

I was out earlier today, risking my life hunting and gathering bagels for the family's breakfast, braving the 75 degree heat. That was about 20 degrees ago and I already had the windows up and the A/C blasting. Now I'm holed up, blinds pulled, a/c rumbling, cursing just about everything and everyone, but especially the fact at my son's eighth grade graduation ceremony I damaged something in the frontal area of my knee, beneath the patella – something by that one vertical tendon-thing. AND IT HURTS LIKE HELL! And it's hot outside! And I lost my iPhone last week! And I think it may have been accidentally (or maliciously) thrown away!

[You may notice a marked snarkiness to my overall demeanor. Just be glad you aren't here.]

Okay, let's do this thang. Maybe it'll get my mind off the almost overwhelming urge to rip the heads off squirrels with my bare teeth.

 

Book stuff this week:

 

Turn of Mind by Alice LaPlante, Grove Press, 320 pages, March 2012

[Read for online book club facilitation; free copy from publisher]

 

 Former neurosurgeon, Jennifer White, is descending quickly into dementia. During her long career she was an esteemed neurosurgeon, specializing in hands: the repair and amputation thereof.

A couple houses down the street, her friend of decades, Amanda, is found murdered, her fingers removed with surgical precision, though not completely "finished" as a professional would have done.

Could Jennifer have committed such a heinous act toward her best friend? If so, why?

The story is told both in current times and flashbacks, as the story of Jennifer's life is revealed, layer by layer. Meanwhile, the investigation into Amanda's death is ongoing. Jennifer is the prime suspect but too far gone to be reliable. Only one policewoman, Inspector Luptin, sticks with the case - a policewoman who's also lost a loved one to Alzheimer's.

The book's hard to put down, a "stay up late" read. I'm fascinated by novels that delve deeply into the psyche of those who aren't "quite right." Normal people bore me no end.

And I love flashbacks for the bits of revelation they give, things you can refer to after the book's done to see how the author pulled everything off. If it's written well, that is. A good writer always leaves a few breadcrumbs.

My only complaint is a couple threads are never resolved but some of that is a factor of the disease itself and Jennifer's inability to wrap things up neatly. But it's a fast-paced book kept taut all the way through. The ending may or may not feel satisfying but the overall a great read.

 

Ongoing:

Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake by Anna Quindlen, Random House, 208 pp. April 2012

[Kindle, personal purchase]

This is a girlfriend read for the more mature set. I'm younger than Quindlen (she proclaims with glee) but can still get where she's at in life, especially with my oldest perched to leave the nest.

I'm not quite halfway through yet but far enough to say Anna Quindlen speaks in a friendly, open and honest voice. If she's deceiving the reader I certainly can't detect it. The book feels like you're sitting with the author on her front porch, rocking on wicker rockers side by side, the ubiquitous cold tea at your elbow. Very comfortable, very laid-back.

Lots here about marriage of a long duration, how it isn't supposed to be happy, happy, joy, joy and why that concept is so unreal. Her husband irritates her, and she irritates her husband. It's very real.

Occasionally, she thinks the completely human "What if…" questions, what if I'd chosen a different path, etc. But, all things being equal, she's a happy woman. Not annoyingly so or I wouldn't still be reading this book.

Happy people are unbearable, really. Can't find a dark cloud for your silver lining? SEE ME.

 

The Red House by Mark Haddon, Doubleday, 272 pages, June 2012

[Free review copy from publisher]

 

Any new book from Mark Haddon is reason for much rejoicing. Yes, even from this prickly old librarian. About halfway through The Red House and it's almost as unputdownable as Turn of Mind, so you may imagine this pleases me as well as anything ever does. Not counting attending a Sebastian Barry reading, that is. Or anything involving Sebastian Barry.

What ho!

Basic story: the matriarch of a family dies. One of the children – Angela, a mushy, middle-aged hausfrau, lived near her and did all the work taking care of her mother until her death. Meanwhile, her brother Richard – a disgustingly well to do doctor with a young trophy wife – doesn't show up 'til the funeral. And the mother had only asked to see Richard during her illness, natch.

Angela carries a bit of a grudge. Who could blame her? To try and make amends, Richard and his family offer to pay the way for a vacation in Wales with Angela and her family. Angela accepts, with reservations.

Turns out the area of Wales is a gorgeous backdrop as this family makes an attempt to let bygones be bygones. With occasionally very funny results.

A favorite quote, Angela's husband, Dominic, looking at his wife:

"She disgusted him now, the size and sag of her, the veins in her calves, almost a grandmother. He dreamt of her dying unexpectedly, rediscovering all those freedoms he'd lost twenty years ago. Then he had the same dream five minutes later and he remembered what poor use he'd made of those freedoms first time round … All those other lives. You never did get to live them."

 

Amen.

In contrast, Louisa, wife of Richard the doctor:

 

"Richard had remarried six months ago, acquiring a stepdaughter into the bargain. Angela hadn't gone to the wedding. Edinburgh was a long way, it was term time and they'd never felt like brother and sister, just two people who spoke briefly on the phone every few weeks or so to manage the stages of their mother's decline. She'd met Louisa and Melissa [daughter] for the first time at the funeral. They looked as if they had been purchased from an exclusive catalog at some exorbitant price, flawless skin and matching black leather boots."

 

You see the set up. Not only are these siblings at odds but their children are so radically different. Melissa, Louisa's daughter, is high-maintenance, high fashion and hot. Alex, Daisy and Benjy, on the other hand, are – in order – athletic and hot for Melissa, going through a religious phase and very conservative in dress and manner, and intelligent in that acting very strangely, as if he's been dropped on his head as a child, way.

And it works… Does it ever work. Very, very funny.

So, that's not all there is but I need to take my daughter shopping so I'm cutting this off. It's a miracle I got this much in (that's what she said).

Have a day.

 

 

 

 

 

Not reading quite the heavy volume I usually do lately, which you'll have noticed if you're still coming by to check my pulse regularly. Life events – in this case a terminal illness within the family, in case you haven't read my earlier posts – have turned daily routines on their heads, to a certain extent. My husband being gone so often, not to mention his general exhaustion paired with grief, forces me into a more active role at home. And with more going on within the household finding time to read has certainly suffered.

I'm being forced to read on the fly these days, or while the TV is on or the kids in motion and anything but quiet. I need heavy concentration to read. I'm not one of the lucky souls who could read in the middle of a war zone, if necessary. The days when shutting out the world was possible are over for me. I blame it on having children, becoming accustomed to having one ear on alert against the possibility of sudden choking or impending electrical shock, or any of the millions of life-threatening situations children are so well-equipped to get into. No matter their age, there's obviously some lever in the brain that trips with the increase in hormones involved in their development. Until and unless I can locate and reset that lever I'm doomed to a permanent state of fight or flight.

 

 

 

 

What I have been reading won't take me all that long to discuss, it's just that pathetic. For my Classics Group I've been attempting to re-read Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, failing miserably I'll admit. I first read this in high school – for my own pleasure, not for assignment – and my memories of it are glowing. This time through it's a plodding bore. It starts with a loooong section of padding, boring me nearly to tears. I'm reading it on my Kindle, so I don't know exactly what page of the actual book I'm on, but I should be well into something resembling plot by now. Instead, a few character names I vaguely recognize are just now being bandied about without so much as a hint of what I recall as the main plot. I feel quite irritated with myself for feeling this way, too, which drives another nail into the coffin. I'd been looking forward to this re-read for one of the most romantic plots in any novel I've ever read, yet I may have to abandon it, unfinished.

 

 

 

Next up, and much more to my liking, is Frank Delaney's latest The Last Storyteller. You may recall I earlier decided Delaney's video series on Ulysses will be the backbone of my read of the novel starting this Bloomsday. Well, the same man who's a broadcaster, speaker extraordinaire and scholar is also the author of several books set in – get ready for it – Ireland!

And this is a lovely one, for reasons that make it unique. It's written in such an unusual and pleasing framework – Irish legendary tales mixed with modern day re-tellings mixed with the beginnings of the era of the IRA – but it took a while to get into. In fact, I failed in my first start and had to go back to the beginning all over again.

Shades of Hunchback, I thought at first, but coming back into The Last Storyteller I realized attempting to start it while activity in the household was in full swing was a poor idea. This was not going to be Maeve Binchy's brand of writing, all thatched roofs and emerald green smiles with a heavy dose of broken hearts. This was much heavier, in the guise of a piece of fiction relying on Irish fiddle music and mischievous tales told by sage keepers of tradition.

It's all that, too, but woven in with much more substance and darkness. Like Ireland itself, you could say, with nearly unbearable beauty mixed with equal sadness. It isn't quite Sebastian Barry's Ireland – not so dark, or anywhere near as poetic and handsome heartrending – but more more like than Binchy's, let's admit it, fluff. Fluff I enjoyed as a youngster celebrating my Irish-American heritage, left behind with other childish things.

Frank Delaney's publicist sent me a finished copy of The Last Storyteller for review, telling me I could send him interview questions if I like. SEND FRANK DELANEY INTERVIEW QUESTIONS?! Slap me silly and call me Shamrock if that isn't a staggering offer. Have I mentioned he's referred to as THE MOST ELOQUENT MAN IN THE WORLD by NPR? Likewise, have you gathered I'm a blithering idiot, myself? Coming up with anything aside from stuttering foolishness will be a miracle.

Try asking such an author a question he hasn't been asked one million times. Okay, I've accomplished it before but not without a lot of brain-wracking and actual research in sources I won't tell as I'm greedy that way. It's nearly as tough a challenge as being asked to hug Sebastian Barry and then let go. Or finally visit Ireland, then return home to the States. Not sure I'm capable of doing either.

But yes, I will interview Frank Delaney. Posthaste, as it's nearly St. Patrick's Day and I have nothing at all prepared for that save the phrase I'd like to coach all non-Irish speakers to employ in addressing Irishmen on the holiday. A phrase sure to make an impression. We'll talk about that later.

 

In addition I'm reading a memoir written by Churchill's youngest child for review in Library Journal. Ron Rash's The Cove for review at BookBrowse.com and a slew of others for the Independent Publisher award. Then, there's the Charles Todd mystery I picked up for 99 cents for one of the Amazon Daily Deals and am finding more lifeless than I'd expected considering the lovely, compelling covers of his books.

Yes, I do judge them by their covers.

 

That will wrap up today's Salon, in which I wrote much more than I thought I would. Sorry about that. I just feel so discombobulated and a general mess. Then again, when don't I. But there you have it, a bit of what I'm working on lately, having finished so little and making slow progress on everything else.

Do have a lovely week.