The instant-messages that fly between Lulu and me are always scintillating and, as you can see, sometimes even touching:
Yo-Nenny — I keep telling you: if you want me to write about you too, you have to come over so I have something to say. Okay?
Honestly: daughters!
I spoke with one of my doctors today. Not my new foot guy from England or my old foot guy whom I miss. Not the eccentric surgeon who became an MD at 21 in India. Nor my GP whom I’d follow to the ends of the earth and in fact do follow all the way to Folsom. No, this is another of my legions. When I log onto my HMO’s web site, the dropdown menu of my docs practically hits the floor.
Don’t worry: I won’t rattle on about what body part is doing what (though “rattle” is descriptive of my general comportment). Suffice it to say that something’s been up for the past six months, maybe an allergy, that makes eating painful. And there are unidentified neurological goings-on that have my medical battalion baffled.
So on the phone today, Doc 847 asked a number of questions, probing for the tiniest clue. Suddenly his nose twitched (probably) as he scented a warm trail. Something about temporal lobes.
Have you been experiencing a heightened religiosity lately? he asked.
Huunh? I replied delicately. Me?
Or are you writing more than usual?
Uh, well, actually…
I ask you, gentle reader of my imagination: Do those four blog entries last night count?
No, really. That’s creepy. How did he know about all this writing? Suddenly I don’t feel like writing any more. Goodnight.
Speaking of which, I dreamed last night about my dead friend Kathy. I saw her in a rich but subdued garden: exotic, dark plants without blossoms or color. It was her garden, she told me, and she’d planted it in the year since she died. Now she spends all her time tending it and redesigning it. She’s doesn’t miss radio at all, she said, and the gardening keeps her from missing us too much. She’s used to being alone anyway. Unlike my most of my dreams about dead people, I got to touch and hug her before she faded.
You wrote about me! ME! I’m so excited. And I must concur: we have the most scintillating conversations.
You are indeed the most elegant-spoken critter I know of. I’ve told you, time and time again, that you should keep an eye on your temporal lobes! Otherwise, they skitter off into your peripheral vision, like oh so many large grey tarantulas; and suddenly you’re blogging all night.
That is a sad but strangely pleasant dream.