Up the River

I love my family above all else but have weirdly always put my job first. No matter how dire my domestic circumstances, for nigh on 45 years I’ve dragged myself to work. When I was slogging through a brutal regimen of surgery-chemotherapy-radiation, a substitute was hired to fill in for me on days I was too sick to come in—but the sub was never needed. A senior colleague rebuked me for that extreme work ethic: “You don’t have to be Ms. Cancer Super Star, you know.” I’ve had many jobs at Time magazine—proofreading, reporting, writing—but toward the end of my career, I asked to be reassigned to the copy desk so I could have a regular schedule and spend less time traveling. The regularity helped, but it’s been a while since I looked forward to going to work.   My current job is not difficult, and since I turned 67, I’ve worked just a day or two a week, but understaffing has made it stressful. So at the end of a close, I’ve felt no sense of accomplishment—but a big sense of shame about the

A couple nights ago I dreamed that I could carry a tune—and all night long I warbled happily to myself. Then I woke up to the truth—that I cannot now nor have I ever been able to sing.  Last night I dreamed one of my regular panhandlers asked me for my phone number. No, he wasn’t making a pass. He wanted to remind me to put cash in my pocket so I’d have it when he asked for it. Addendum: And a few days after I posted these dreams, I had another good one. Michelle Obama and I took our rifles and went to a shooting range to do target practice together. She’s a crack shot!

I do not want trivialize LGBTQ issues--or commit cultural appropriation. But. Sometimes people address me as a man. And sometimes they eye me with perplexity as if trying to figure out what the hell I am. I get it. Though it's none of my business, I too try to attach a gender to people I meet. And I am tall with short gray hair and an unreconstructed mastectomy, and I wear jeans and T-shirts. So who can blame people for wondering? It's just that 10 years ago I had no idea what "trans" meant. And now I feel like I have some idea of what it feels like--from personal experience. The other day, I bought a tote bag with bright rainbow-striped straps, and on the outside pocket is a children's-book rainbow arcing over a little red heart. It looks like a mom bag, but also like a pride statement. Now when people look at me with inquiring eyes, I can't tell if the answers are clearer or murkier.

 I’ve gained access to a secret garden not far from where I live. It’s on the roof of a garage and it’s absolutely packed with flowering plants and tiny water features. I am torn between telling everyone I know about this wonder and keeping it entirely to myself.

The organ recital has been an important part of my social interactions for a while now. When I get together with old friends—meaning friends who are old—we cheerfully recount our diseases and conditions. Some might call us morbid. But I have learned a lot about the human body, how it works, what can go wrong with it, how to fix it. These conversations are generally more enlightening than depressing, because most of us still have pretty good health overall—or realistic hopes of regaining it. And I know volumes now about heart disease, cancer, autoimmune conditions, various kind of injuries. Lately, though, a new, more ominous, note has crept into the discourse. A friend who once had an unerring mental compass arrives late because she lost her way to the restaurant where we had arranged to meet. It’s the second time in a row she’s done this. The first time I was surprised. The second time got me worried. When another friend, whose mop of curls gives her the kooky glamour of a screwball-c