Titles, Inc.

Being Blonde

After Chemo treatments you lose your hair.  (If that were the only thing you lose…)  It’s a gradual process and rather disgusting when you find chunks of hair in your comb.

When my hair was wisps around my head I bought a wig  approximating my own hair – medium brown and wavy.  Actually it was much prettier than mine had been.  This was glossy, thick and bouncy, and $400. – ouch.                   

Two months later my pick-up walker and I fell down.  The walker was unscathed – I broke a mess of bones and needed surgery.  No point wearing a wig when your days are spent lying in bed.  It stayed on the closet shelf.                        

Then all of a sudden I had a cap of white hair.  This is about five or six months after the first Chemo. Soon after I had very curly, very sparkling white short hair.  Someone said, “I love your haircut.”  But the white startled me.  I had forgotten all the root touch-ups that kept me brunette. 

I looked around the rehab and all the ladies had white hair.  And they were old!  I knew that as soon as I escaped the rehab it would be straight to the beauty salon – for blonde hair.

Why blonde?  Why not?  I remembered the refrain from a hair product that said, “Blondes have more fun!”   I don’t remember the product, but the mantra stuck.

So there I was, in Blake’s chair picking out the color from among the pictured models in his large book.  Timidly I chose a pale blonde.  After the whole process and the shampoo that soaked the back of my shirt,  I was at the mirror with the wet towel on my head.  He whisked it off,  and there I was – still white.  He said defensively, “That’s platinum blonde.”  I said, ”That’s white.”  He said, “Do you have time?  I’ll repeat the process.”  He did.  And he whisked away the towel – still white.  I guess my stubbornness goes down to my roots.  I went back the next week for the promised do-over.  “OK,” I said, “Let’s go for a little more yellow.”   

So finally I am a blonde. Do I like it?  Not really.  My visiting LA. daughter said, “You look adorable,” or did she say cute. I believe her, and my husband, when they say they like it.  I pause at every mirror I roll by at the house. I’m not sure. 

There’s one thing I’m sure of – I had more fun as a brunette.  But then I had two dancing feet.

 ---Florence

Home Sweet Home

I came home.

I was going bonkers at the rehab with nothing to do. I couldn't hear the TV well enough, and unbelievably the closed caption words spun faster than I could follow. Art brought me "good books" but they demanded attention and I wasn't interested in focusing. His stack of New Yorker magazines worked best. The articles were the right length for a small bite at a time. I found myself sleeping nearly all day in my wheelchair and especially in the over-stuffed armchair, waking for meals. I did a lot of staring at the ceiling.

"Hey," I thought, "I can do this at home." And, at the house, I could have physical therapy and occupational therapy to make the right arm and right leg more functional.

So here I am either in the wheelchair or wobbly on the walker, or in an armchair. However I need someone guarding me as I walk up and down the stairs which still feels like an Olympic Event. I am not sleeping during the day. Oh, dozing off a bit. Art gets little attention from his archivist, Erica, who is busily at my beck and call, as basic as putting my meals on the table. When Erica's not here, Art is my hand-maiden. He just hooked up my bra.

I hate not being independent. Only now do I understand the sorry plight of the handicapped. And I am relatively healthy. Just some broken bones. As someone unkindly reminded me, "You don't heal as fast when you're an older person." Well, thanks a lot.

Anyway, it is great to be home.

---Florence

Credit Card Thief

Oh darn! I even had my attire picked out for my day in court. From my very limited wardrobe, here still at rehab, I chose a black-and-white patterned tee and a black sweater for the appearance of sincerity.

I rehearsed my role. The DA asks: "Did you give your credit card to this person? She tells me you gave it to her.” And I, outraged, reply: "No, never. I never give my credit card to anybody ever except to immediate family to buy something for me or to offer them lunch on me and even then they usually order Chinese carry-out, and anyone who says I gave her my card is a dirty, rotten, stinkin' liar."

Whereupon opposing counsel hollers, "Objection! 'No' will do." And I answer, contrite, "No."

Art called the DA's office because they hadn't got back to us with a time and place other than the Court House in Waukegan, an hour's drive away. And the DA told him, "We don't need you anymore. She'll be pleading guilty.”

What about her nursing license? I phoned the detective who nailed her. It's murky. She won’t be sentenced for many weeks. Because this is her only arrest and she is a single, unwed mother with several children, she might get weekends in jail. The police can't pull her nurse’s aide license. That's up to the agency that issued it. With an arrest on her record it's their decision whether she keeps her nursing license.

The detective agrees: we don't know that it's her first offense - we know that it's the first time she has been caught.

---Florence

Still Life

Maria, a nurse's aide, walked in, having been missing a week working in another wing, and went directly to the large windowsill with its many bouquets. "Oh," she said happily,"It's dead." She was looking at an arrangement in a very handsome glass vase. She had admired the vase when the flowers arrived and I promised it to her. "No," I said to Maria, "they are not dead, they are now dried flowers. They still have a lot of color left in them. I will give you the vase but not yet."

The window sill is very deep. The window is triangular in shape jutting outside to 36 inches where the two panes meet at an angle. The very large sill was filled with glorious bouquets, a veritable garden. They all died. (Dried.) I wasn't quite fast enough to stop another nurse, who after putting me to bed, grabbed two containers and quickly left, saying, "I'll get rid of these dead ones." The space has since been filled by a small pumpkin and a bunch of authentically dried small globes called Japanese Lanterns.

Art just brought in a full blown huge pink rose which bloomed for one day despite having an ingenious private water tube attached to it. I tucked the rather wilted bloom into the dried arrangement in Maria's vase. It enhanced the group and made the pink rose look important again.

Confirming Gertrude Stein: a rose is a rose is a rose.

Gotcha

The detective phoned Art to tell him that they arrested a nurse’s aide from the other rehab facility where someone had stolen my credit card and had rung up $6,000 in purchases in the neighboring state of Indiana. The detective gave the name of the nurse’s aide to Art. I phoned Sharron, a nurse that I stayed in touch with, and asked her if she knew this person, the one who had stolen my credit card. She responded, “Oh, she is such a sweet lady - but maybe she isn’t.” I’m sure she is. She couldn’t operate unless she was in your good graces. I said to Sharron, “Do I know her?” Sharon said, “No, you never met her. She worked night shifts only.”

The detective wanted to get a statement from me and we set up an appointment to meet me at this rehab facility at 10:00 the following morning. I was in my wheelchair eagerly awaiting him, when I got his phone call postponing it until the next day. This was a great disappointment because I was looking forward to this excitement. When he did come the next day, he told me her defense was I gave her my credit card. I said, “Yeah, right.” And then realized that if he didn’t get the heavy sarcasm, I was agreeing with her (everybody I tell this story to, when I say I gave her the card, each person says, “yeah, right”). I assured him I never gave the card to anybody with the rare exception when someone is buying something for me. This handsome young detective told me about the arrest and I asked how he found her and the story matches the TV police stories pretty accurately. They checked the ATM camera and found a very clear picture of the person who put in my credit card to get the cash and he matched it against the ID photos of the employees at the rehab facility. The match was perfect. He showed it to the head nurse who immediately identified the picture.

He wanted me to write a statement saying I never gave her my card, but seeing the cast on my arm he said, “You’re a rightie I bet.” I said, “Yes, I can’t write it, but I can sign it." He phoned and got permission to write this statement himself and we worked on it and I signed it. He said, “I hope you stay with this because too often since the bank removes the fake charges the card-holder doesn’t go to the trouble of prosecuting.” I said, “I don’t like being a victim, don’t mess with me.” When I asked him why the ATM gave her $2,000, he said, “The card has a credit value to it and they charge against that amount.”

“By the way, here is another clue,” I told him. “Since she works night shifts only it gives her access to steal.” He said, “No, a lot of the nurses choose to work night time because it fits in with their life’s schedule.” The detective asked whether I would go to court if it came to that, probably next month. I said, “I’ll be in a wheelchair, but I’ll make every effort.”

He said he wants to make sure that her license is rescinded, that she can't work in nursing homes anymore  victimizing helpless people. He is outraged that she is abusing a position of trust.

---Florence

Ms. Manners

I’m in the physical therapy room and doing knee lifts, two, three, four. My left knee says “nothing to this,” my right knee says “are you kidding?” I hear a bellowing noise ringing through the whole room and I ask my therapist, “what’s that?” He said, “a patient.” I say, “what’s it about?” He said, “he’s in pain.” “Oh,” I say.

Soon his wheel chair is rolled to a position opposite me. His wife following has seated herself next to him. Two very skinny nurses are urging him to get up from his seat and while they help him he’s howling: “You’re dropping me. I can’t. I won’t. Leave me alone.” He is really a big fella, I’d say late 50’s, with an enormous face with an enormous voice coming out of that face. The nurses are murmuring, “we’ve got you, you’re safe, we’ve got you, you won’t fall” and he’s overruling and overriding it with his bellows of “you’re hurting me.” His wife put out a little finger to smooth his pajama bottom and he howls: “Don’t you fucking touch me. Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

I was so enraged at his abuse to his cowed wife that I heard my voice bellowing out at him: “You  shutup. You cut that out. Don’t you talk like that. I’m in this room with you and I don’t have to listen to it.” We both stare at each other. Nobody more surprised than myself and I drop my eyes to my knee, two, three, four. It’s not the cussing that was offensive. It was his meanness to his wife.

The man was a F - - - ing bully.

---Florence

Out of My Pocket

Here is a little significant something that you don’t find out until you need it. Medicare requires 60 days between stays at a rehab facility. So I left my rehab and then fell down and smashed myself only 50 days afterward, meaning I’m not eligible for Medicare in the rehab facility where I spend considerable time restoring myself. The daily rate out of my pocket is so preposterous and is even higher because I insist on a private room.

There are four rehab facilities in my neighborhood. I was in one that I told you about before with their atrocious food and I have since received top notch outpatient physical therapy so I know what they were offering was negligible. That eliminates them as an option. Of the three remaining options, one was very highly recommended, but at $400/day I thought I would go second best -- although some people said that they were equal in physical therapy which is my prime concern.

My prime concern, because it’s my ticket out of here.

---Florence

Newer News. Bleh!

So, although I was still on a walker, I was home already, going up and down stairs and going to work. That was then.

We went to a little restaurant with my darling grandson Seth, my darling grand-daughter-in-law Kate and adorable baby Moses, eight months old. I had been wanting to share BBQ ribs with somebody. Seth said, “Ribs for me, too.” We peeled the meat off of one rib and stuck it in Moses’ hand. He popped it in his mouth. Ecstasy. Bliss. He knew it was better than squash. We had a good time.

Leaving, at the door my walker was unbalanced. I started to tip to the right in slow motion, calling “Arthur,” but I hit the floor on my right side. Splat. Lying there I knew I was in trouble. “Don’t touch me,” I said. I heard throughout the room, “Call 911.”

Paramedics took me to the hospital, which led to hip surgery on my right hip (broken in three places) and right elbow surgery a few days after that. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

After eight days in the hospital, I’m now in a rehab facility. I’m back to square one.

---Florence

NOTE: I dictated this to Bonnie, because I am unable to write.

Documentary in the Works

A documentary on Nelson Algren was filmed at Titles in Highland Park. At least a portion of the film. Being interviewed were ME, Art Shay (again) and surprise!, rock star Billy Corgan (Smashing Pumpkins).

Me first. They had to move the huge light stand to get my wheelchair in position. “Don’t look at the camera,” cautioned interviewer and producer Michael Caplan, Associate Professor and an Associate Chair of the Film & Video Department at Columbia College. “Address your answers to me.” Good advice – when I see Art’s camera aimed at me, I direct my most beguiling smile to this lens.

Since Nelson Algren hung out at our house long ago, Caplan was looking to me for some human interest. The first answer set the tone of our interview and was not what he was anticipating. He asked, “What was Nelson’s personality like?” “Personality?” I repeated. “He didn’t have one.” Mike baffled, just looked at me. I said “He didn’t have a Presence.” When he came to the house, we didn’t say, “oh look, Nelson’s here. He was just there.”

I had a few anecdotes to relate: Nelson shows up to join us at a party we will be going to. He asks, “Is this alright? I couldn’t find a belt.” He was referring to the rope through the belt loops. For Nelson it was alright. Do you think I’d let Art out with a rope?

Then Art, who has had two books published about Algren, “Nelson Algren’s Chicago,” and the second one, “Chicago’s Nelson Algren’s.” (No comment about the publisher’s choice of title on the second book – don’t get me started) was interviewed again with new questions.

Then Billy Corgan sat in the chair under the big lights. He had read all of Algren’s books and discussed them and how they related to his own life and this music. He discussed Nelson’s place in literary history. He spoke fluidly, explaining Nelson and his works.

We listened in awe at the scholarship of his presentation.

Thank goodness that’s not the Bily I know. The Billy I know buys books and chats. This other Billy is intimidating.

--- Florence

Celebrating, Mexican Style

We knew we were at the right house even though the numbers were too small to read because we could see clusters of people at the far end of the long driveway. As we approached we heard the strident music of a Mexican band and there they were – three trumpets blaring and a violin (at one side) and three guitars at the other facing side.

As I rolled between them I saw how elegantly they were costumed, black pants, white shirts, crisp white bolero jackets (although the super-fat trumpeter’s jacket made no attempt to meet at the middle). The large fuschia bows at the necks added a jaunty touch. I smiled kindly at them as I rolled through in my wheel chair. They were playing so loud and earnestly even though I was certain each was playing from a different song in his head. It sounded that way to me the entire evening, although they did begin and end at the same beat.

Then we approached the long table where several people were seated eating from the very many bowls lining it. Our host greeted us and encouraged us to sit down and partake of the large variety of Mexican food. I ate mostly guacamole. The bowl was decorated with two exquisite flowers hardly recognizable as the tomatoes they were. And whimsically the avocado pit was in the spicy mix too.

I whispered to a friend that since there were no napkins, was it fair to wipe my fingers on the runner down the center of the table? He jumped up and brought me a stack from the well laden bar on the back lawn although he had to tiptoe through the tomato plants to get there.

After eating from all the bowls that kept arriving on our long table, along comes a big truck down their driveway. Ovens are unloaded and tables are set up in the garage for the ovens and several Mexican ladies start cooking tacos. The truck forced the band onto the back lawn at my shoulder where they clustered in a group trampling down some garden growth. Now I noticed that one of the horn players was a vocalist. He had a little mike at his neck. I think he was good.

At one point the host’s daughter joined the band singing the Mexican song. It was a lovely moment. The only song I could catch a beat to was "Roll Out the Barrel." What?

We left before the birthday cake for the 50th birthday of our young host was brought out. I wonder what a Mexican birthday cake looks like?

---Florence