Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 8
February 28, 2021
Vive le Français!
Not too long ago, I resumed writing the sequel to my book, L’Amérique, which was published by a small university press. It’s a thinly disguised partly fictional autobiography—something I like to call faction (fact/fiction, get it?) and when it came out, it was relatively well received. I still get royalty checks in the single digit.
I stopped writing the untitled sequel because a book I wrote a year later, Montparnasse, was nominated by its publisher for a Pulitzer, and though I had no chance of winning, I had hoped the nomination might bolster my career. It didn’t. The Pulitzer people do not allow nominees to boast of this honor—no mention on the cover or the back cover blurb or, for that fact, anywhere.
This was disappointing and I was struck by the futility of it all. Here I had devoted more than two thirds of my life to the written word, and I was making more money correcting the works of others than authoring my own stuff.
But writing is what I do. An idea germinated, grew and bloomed, and I was once again dealing with L’Amérique’s protagonist, Jeanot, a French youth generally flummoxed by America, and his struggles to understand and fit in les États Unis.
In L’Amérique, I used a number of French phrases that either needed no translation, or whose meanings were made clear by their inclusions. In the sequel, I started thinking about how colorful French is, and how some commonly used phrases defy translation.
Être con comme un manche à balais. To be as stupid as a broom handle. The word con, by the way, cannot be translated into that horrible English term used to denote female genitalia. It merely means being stupid beyond comprehension and is now a banal, and sometimes even affectionate, insult.
Tu déconne! You’re kidding!
Jeter un coup d’œil means to throw a glance at.
Mêle-toi de tes oignons. Mind your own onions, or business. This is one of my favorite expressions. I use it as often as I can.
Avoir le cul entre deux chaises. Having one’s ass on two chairs. Straddling a fence.
Faire la tête. To make a head, or to sulk.
Casser les pieds. To break one’s feet. To annoy.
N’être pas sorti de l’auberge. To not be out of trouble yet.
Tu me fait chier. Literally, you make me defecate.
Un pet de madeleine. A nun’s fart. It’s a pastry. Really.
Être aux anges. To be with the angels; to be happy.
Ah, la vache! Oh, the cow! An expression of pained surprise. A vache can also be a nasty, vindictive person.
Il me court sur le haricot. He’s running on my bean. He’s getting on my nerves.
Avoir le cul bordé de nouilles. Literally, your ass is surrounded by noodles. You’re very lucky.
J’ai le cafard. I have the cockroach. I’m sad or blue.
Pisser dan un violon. Pissing in a violin, or wasting time.
Une histoire de cul. An ass story, or anything having to do with sex.
Poser un lapin. To put a rabbit; to not show up for a date.
Ça me fait une belle jambe. It gives me a beautiful leg. I couldn’t care less.
Faire l’andouille. To make the sausage; to act stupidly.
Remember: If you throw any of these expressions into a casual conversation, you’ll be considered a worldly person!
I love the French language.
I stopped writing the untitled sequel because a book I wrote a year later, Montparnasse, was nominated by its publisher for a Pulitzer, and though I had no chance of winning, I had hoped the nomination might bolster my career. It didn’t. The Pulitzer people do not allow nominees to boast of this honor—no mention on the cover or the back cover blurb or, for that fact, anywhere.
This was disappointing and I was struck by the futility of it all. Here I had devoted more than two thirds of my life to the written word, and I was making more money correcting the works of others than authoring my own stuff.
But writing is what I do. An idea germinated, grew and bloomed, and I was once again dealing with L’Amérique’s protagonist, Jeanot, a French youth generally flummoxed by America, and his struggles to understand and fit in les États Unis.
In L’Amérique, I used a number of French phrases that either needed no translation, or whose meanings were made clear by their inclusions. In the sequel, I started thinking about how colorful French is, and how some commonly used phrases defy translation.
Être con comme un manche à balais. To be as stupid as a broom handle. The word con, by the way, cannot be translated into that horrible English term used to denote female genitalia. It merely means being stupid beyond comprehension and is now a banal, and sometimes even affectionate, insult.
Tu déconne! You’re kidding!
Jeter un coup d’œil means to throw a glance at.
Mêle-toi de tes oignons. Mind your own onions, or business. This is one of my favorite expressions. I use it as often as I can.
Avoir le cul entre deux chaises. Having one’s ass on two chairs. Straddling a fence.
Faire la tête. To make a head, or to sulk.
Casser les pieds. To break one’s feet. To annoy.
N’être pas sorti de l’auberge. To not be out of trouble yet.
Tu me fait chier. Literally, you make me defecate.
Un pet de madeleine. A nun’s fart. It’s a pastry. Really.
Être aux anges. To be with the angels; to be happy.
Ah, la vache! Oh, the cow! An expression of pained surprise. A vache can also be a nasty, vindictive person.
Il me court sur le haricot. He’s running on my bean. He’s getting on my nerves.
Avoir le cul bordé de nouilles. Literally, your ass is surrounded by noodles. You’re very lucky.
J’ai le cafard. I have the cockroach. I’m sad or blue.
Pisser dan un violon. Pissing in a violin, or wasting time.
Une histoire de cul. An ass story, or anything having to do with sex.
Poser un lapin. To put a rabbit; to not show up for a date.
Ça me fait une belle jambe. It gives me a beautiful leg. I couldn’t care less.
Faire l’andouille. To make the sausage; to act stupidly.
Remember: If you throw any of these expressions into a casual conversation, you’ll be considered a worldly person!
I love the French language.
February 21, 2021
Treasures
I have treasures. There are fewer now than when I lived in a house, but the ones I really care for made the move without too much difficulty.
My best treasure is an 18th century chest of drawers that belonged to my grandfather. It’s not am elegant piece—it is oak, dark, squat and heavy, and I suspect it spent a century in a middle class home’s living room. The top is cracked and buckled, marred and stained by wine glasses and spills. There’s a chunk missing from its surface and many decades ago my father tried to fix it with plastic wood. It didn’t work. In Paris where I was born, the piece held the silverware and linen brought out for special occasions. The drawers are rudimentary—no slides, or ball bearings. Twice a decade I take a candle and run it along the drawer bottoms so they open easily.
The second treasure dates from a little later, the early 1800s, possibly. It’s a secretary with a fold down desk. Inside are eight little drawers for all the necessary writing utensils and other ephemerals needed to draft a billet doux or more likely, pay bills. There’s a chunk missing from one of the legs. What I’ve always loved about this bureau is its not-so-secret compartment. Right between the small drawers is a horizontal sliding panel that reveals a space just big enough to hide a carton of cigarettes, which is exactly what my mother used it for. She kept her Pall Malls there, and I stole them from there.
I have an ebony Buddha and the carved head of a lovely Asian woman. My father brought these back from Indonesia where he traveled as a British lord’s secretary in the 1930s. He also brought back a silver filigreed hash pipe from Tunisia (don’t ask), and a beautiful metal box from Ethiopia.
I have my great uncle’s kepi from World War 1, and a silver and ivory letter opener given to guests at the opening of my grandfather’s opera, Mona Vana. There’s a mah jongg set with ivory pieces my mother bought in Algeria during World War II, and my father’s Légion d’Honneur medal. I have his war diaries, and a children’s book my mother wrote and illustrated.
There are a few other things, more recent. My acoustic guitar sold for less than $10 in the Sears & Roebuck catalog of 1939. It’s not worth much, and the sound it makes won’t threaten a Martin or a Gibson, but it’s the instrument I learned to play on. There are two dark portraits of an abbot and his wife, possibly from the 1820s. My mother used to say they were ancestors, but I know for a fact she picked them both up for a song at the flea market in Paris.
And then there are my mother’s paintings. I only have five or six of them. My sister has a dozen or so, and many were sold at shows both in Washington and Paris. I don’t know what happened to her most ambitious project: a ten-foot long canvas depicting all the First Ladies from Martha Washington to Jackie Kennedy wearing their inaugural dresses. I always thought Mamie Eisenhower looked as if she had on a potato sack, a homage, perhaps, to the designer Cristóbal Balenciaga who created that sad fashion. It broke my mother’s heart that neither the Smithsonian nor the White house were willing to accept her gift of the painting, and she folded her artist’s trestle shortly thereafter.
And there are books, including a cookbook from 1745 and Les Aventures de la Famille Fenouillard, among the first graphic novel ever, that delighted my childhood.
I’m not sure what will happen to my treasures when I pass on. Some will go to my nephews in Europe, and others to friends. I do hope they find a home, even if one man’s treasure is another man’s trash.
My best treasure is an 18th century chest of drawers that belonged to my grandfather. It’s not am elegant piece—it is oak, dark, squat and heavy, and I suspect it spent a century in a middle class home’s living room. The top is cracked and buckled, marred and stained by wine glasses and spills. There’s a chunk missing from its surface and many decades ago my father tried to fix it with plastic wood. It didn’t work. In Paris where I was born, the piece held the silverware and linen brought out for special occasions. The drawers are rudimentary—no slides, or ball bearings. Twice a decade I take a candle and run it along the drawer bottoms so they open easily.
The second treasure dates from a little later, the early 1800s, possibly. It’s a secretary with a fold down desk. Inside are eight little drawers for all the necessary writing utensils and other ephemerals needed to draft a billet doux or more likely, pay bills. There’s a chunk missing from one of the legs. What I’ve always loved about this bureau is its not-so-secret compartment. Right between the small drawers is a horizontal sliding panel that reveals a space just big enough to hide a carton of cigarettes, which is exactly what my mother used it for. She kept her Pall Malls there, and I stole them from there.
I have an ebony Buddha and the carved head of a lovely Asian woman. My father brought these back from Indonesia where he traveled as a British lord’s secretary in the 1930s. He also brought back a silver filigreed hash pipe from Tunisia (don’t ask), and a beautiful metal box from Ethiopia.
I have my great uncle’s kepi from World War 1, and a silver and ivory letter opener given to guests at the opening of my grandfather’s opera, Mona Vana. There’s a mah jongg set with ivory pieces my mother bought in Algeria during World War II, and my father’s Légion d’Honneur medal. I have his war diaries, and a children’s book my mother wrote and illustrated.
There are a few other things, more recent. My acoustic guitar sold for less than $10 in the Sears & Roebuck catalog of 1939. It’s not worth much, and the sound it makes won’t threaten a Martin or a Gibson, but it’s the instrument I learned to play on. There are two dark portraits of an abbot and his wife, possibly from the 1820s. My mother used to say they were ancestors, but I know for a fact she picked them both up for a song at the flea market in Paris.
And then there are my mother’s paintings. I only have five or six of them. My sister has a dozen or so, and many were sold at shows both in Washington and Paris. I don’t know what happened to her most ambitious project: a ten-foot long canvas depicting all the First Ladies from Martha Washington to Jackie Kennedy wearing their inaugural dresses. I always thought Mamie Eisenhower looked as if she had on a potato sack, a homage, perhaps, to the designer Cristóbal Balenciaga who created that sad fashion. It broke my mother’s heart that neither the Smithsonian nor the White house were willing to accept her gift of the painting, and she folded her artist’s trestle shortly thereafter.
And there are books, including a cookbook from 1745 and Les Aventures de la Famille Fenouillard, among the first graphic novel ever, that delighted my childhood.
I’m not sure what will happen to my treasures when I pass on. Some will go to my nephews in Europe, and others to friends. I do hope they find a home, even if one man’s treasure is another man’s trash.
January 11, 2021
The Cretins' Coup
This year the Darwin Awards may have to create a sub-category for coup cretins. The Cretin-in-Charge, Mr. Trump, will be given a special mention, but let’s face it, even his idiocy was surpassed by that of some of his followers.
Like everyone else, I particularly enjoyed the horned and befurred ‘shaman’ who luxuriated in his two minutes of fame. I understand he’s an unemployed man who lives with his mother and obviously spent his $600 government check at Costumes-R-Us. I can almost hear the phone conversation with his Mom.
“Hi, Mama? Yeah, it’s me. Oh, pretty good. Got my picture in the news a lot. I liked the one where it looks like I’m howling at the moon. Did you see that one, Mama? Tons of mentions in Parler! Say, can you do me a favor and UPS me my spare set of buffalo horns? The cops took mine. Yeah. The spares are in the closet with the Yahtzee set. Also, can you find a good place to dry clean the coyote skins?”
The guy trying to leave the Capitol with the speaker’s dais was one chalupa short of a Happy Meal. Where did he think he was going? Did he really hope to get the thing back to his rec room?
The best, hands down the Grand Prize Winner, was the guy who posed in a congressional office with two semi-automatic rifles. Turns out he accidentally—and repeatedly—Tasered himself in the crotch, leading to a fatal heart attack. Really. This is the sort of thing that makes you believe God does have a pretty good sense of humor.
On a serious basis, what amazed me was the lack of good sense. The rioters, ninety-nine percent white, managed to botch an invasion when the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor. They outnumbered the Capitol Police who’d called for help that came far too late. It appeared that some police officers actually invited the rioters into the building and politely pointed the way to congressional offices. It was interesting to see windows energetically shattered when nearby doors were open, and climbers scaling the walls when unguarded stairways were a few feet away.
Personally, I’d have had second thoughts the minute I realized that Trump, who said he’d march to the Capitol with his mob, of course did not, but instead repaired to a sheltered White House media room where he and his family and friends enjoyed the riot from a very secure distance. Big surprise there.
My days of protest are largely over. I’m a Vietnam era guy, and I did almost get shot by a cop while covering an antiwar demonstration in Georgetown for The Washington Post.
Even back then, demonstrations were for many a recreational outlet. We didn’t do selfies, and the cops were a not as kind as the ones on Capitol Hill. They charged the crowd, wielding batons and tear gas, and you could look forward to a serious beating and hospitalization if you tried to stand your ground.
The January 6 people came to Washington, preened, and posed for a lot of photos of each other, broke stuff, and left behind a trail of trash. Then they took trains, planes and automobiles back home so as not to miss their Thursday evening shows. A good time was had by all but the five people who died, including the cojones Taserer.
No doubt they’ll be back because the riot was the highlight of their lives, something they’ll boast about to like-minded buds. They’ll buy tee-shirts and embroidered caps displaying their participation, and ballyhoo their courage. But be reassured—in the end it was a cretins’ coup, badly planned, stupidly executed, and without a snowball in hell’s chance of success.
Like everyone else, I particularly enjoyed the horned and befurred ‘shaman’ who luxuriated in his two minutes of fame. I understand he’s an unemployed man who lives with his mother and obviously spent his $600 government check at Costumes-R-Us. I can almost hear the phone conversation with his Mom.
“Hi, Mama? Yeah, it’s me. Oh, pretty good. Got my picture in the news a lot. I liked the one where it looks like I’m howling at the moon. Did you see that one, Mama? Tons of mentions in Parler! Say, can you do me a favor and UPS me my spare set of buffalo horns? The cops took mine. Yeah. The spares are in the closet with the Yahtzee set. Also, can you find a good place to dry clean the coyote skins?”
The guy trying to leave the Capitol with the speaker’s dais was one chalupa short of a Happy Meal. Where did he think he was going? Did he really hope to get the thing back to his rec room?
The best, hands down the Grand Prize Winner, was the guy who posed in a congressional office with two semi-automatic rifles. Turns out he accidentally—and repeatedly—Tasered himself in the crotch, leading to a fatal heart attack. Really. This is the sort of thing that makes you believe God does have a pretty good sense of humor.
On a serious basis, what amazed me was the lack of good sense. The rioters, ninety-nine percent white, managed to botch an invasion when the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor. They outnumbered the Capitol Police who’d called for help that came far too late. It appeared that some police officers actually invited the rioters into the building and politely pointed the way to congressional offices. It was interesting to see windows energetically shattered when nearby doors were open, and climbers scaling the walls when unguarded stairways were a few feet away.
Personally, I’d have had second thoughts the minute I realized that Trump, who said he’d march to the Capitol with his mob, of course did not, but instead repaired to a sheltered White House media room where he and his family and friends enjoyed the riot from a very secure distance. Big surprise there.
My days of protest are largely over. I’m a Vietnam era guy, and I did almost get shot by a cop while covering an antiwar demonstration in Georgetown for The Washington Post.
Even back then, demonstrations were for many a recreational outlet. We didn’t do selfies, and the cops were a not as kind as the ones on Capitol Hill. They charged the crowd, wielding batons and tear gas, and you could look forward to a serious beating and hospitalization if you tried to stand your ground.
The January 6 people came to Washington, preened, and posed for a lot of photos of each other, broke stuff, and left behind a trail of trash. Then they took trains, planes and automobiles back home so as not to miss their Thursday evening shows. A good time was had by all but the five people who died, including the cojones Taserer.
No doubt they’ll be back because the riot was the highlight of their lives, something they’ll boast about to like-minded buds. They’ll buy tee-shirts and embroidered caps displaying their participation, and ballyhoo their courage. But be reassured—in the end it was a cretins’ coup, badly planned, stupidly executed, and without a snowball in hell’s chance of success.
December 18, 2020
The Joys of Hearing
Not too long ago I was sitting at an outdoor table having tea with a friend when I mentioned that I was getting hearing aids. Traffic roared fifty feet from us and an ambulance’s siren added to the din.
My friend smiled and nodded. “That’s great. I won’t have to shout anymore!”
“You’re not shouting,” I said.
She smiled again. “I’m shouting right now.”
Ah.
I’ve been losing my hearing for more than a decade. It’s been incremental but obvious to almost everyone who knows me. I ask people to repeat themselves. I read their lips. I pretend to hear, smile and nod in deaf understanding. My hearing loss has led to some classic misunderstanding (“I said art, not fart!) and I have learned to look interested during group discussions when all I could make out was an occasional word.
So after wasting money on Facebook-advertised cheap hearing aids that cost less than a hundred and mostly whistled and whined in my ears, I was told that Medicare would spring $2000 towards a pair of $4300 Phonak aids. It was a tough bullet to bite. I can’t remember the last time I spent more than two grand on myself and the truth is, with Covid-19 raging, I see fewer and fewer people. Listening is not a must. I’d also heard of people who’d spent small fortunes on hearing aids and, in the end, found them impossible to tolerate. The 45-day try-out period, and the guarantee of a full refund if I didn’t like the Phonaks, sold me.
I was fitted with them this morning, instructed on recharging procedures, and downloaded the app that would allow ne to use them with Blue Tooth. The Phonaks come with a bunch of bells and whistles, even though their price is considered mid-level—above a Hyundai but far below a Caddy.
I was amazed from the git-go. Not only could I clearly hear the audio technician who explained the finer points of the devices, when I left, I could hear my footsteps!!! Also the wooshing sound made by an elevator, and a car starting 200 feet away.
I stopped at a coffee shop on the way home. Four teen-age girls were at an adjoining table. One brayed; another had a voice reminiscent of the squeal of a puppy whose tail is stepped on. I used the Phonac app to change the hearing aids’ settings.
The Phonacs are paired to my phone, so when I got a call, it rang directly inside my head and I jumped out of my skin. I have to work out some of the finer points. Right now, the clattering of my keyboard, the sighing of the heat coming through the vents, and the stereo voices of the dishwasher and clothe dryer are providing a not unpleasant cacophony but add to this the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the hallway, and it’s a little too much.
Still, this is nothing short of miraculous. Another plus: By pressing a small button on the side of the right hearing aid, I can mute them both and be deaf again, because you never know. Sometimes silence is golden.
My friend smiled and nodded. “That’s great. I won’t have to shout anymore!”
“You’re not shouting,” I said.
She smiled again. “I’m shouting right now.”
Ah.
I’ve been losing my hearing for more than a decade. It’s been incremental but obvious to almost everyone who knows me. I ask people to repeat themselves. I read their lips. I pretend to hear, smile and nod in deaf understanding. My hearing loss has led to some classic misunderstanding (“I said art, not fart!) and I have learned to look interested during group discussions when all I could make out was an occasional word.
So after wasting money on Facebook-advertised cheap hearing aids that cost less than a hundred and mostly whistled and whined in my ears, I was told that Medicare would spring $2000 towards a pair of $4300 Phonak aids. It was a tough bullet to bite. I can’t remember the last time I spent more than two grand on myself and the truth is, with Covid-19 raging, I see fewer and fewer people. Listening is not a must. I’d also heard of people who’d spent small fortunes on hearing aids and, in the end, found them impossible to tolerate. The 45-day try-out period, and the guarantee of a full refund if I didn’t like the Phonaks, sold me.
I was fitted with them this morning, instructed on recharging procedures, and downloaded the app that would allow ne to use them with Blue Tooth. The Phonaks come with a bunch of bells and whistles, even though their price is considered mid-level—above a Hyundai but far below a Caddy.
I was amazed from the git-go. Not only could I clearly hear the audio technician who explained the finer points of the devices, when I left, I could hear my footsteps!!! Also the wooshing sound made by an elevator, and a car starting 200 feet away.
I stopped at a coffee shop on the way home. Four teen-age girls were at an adjoining table. One brayed; another had a voice reminiscent of the squeal of a puppy whose tail is stepped on. I used the Phonac app to change the hearing aids’ settings.
The Phonacs are paired to my phone, so when I got a call, it rang directly inside my head and I jumped out of my skin. I have to work out some of the finer points. Right now, the clattering of my keyboard, the sighing of the heat coming through the vents, and the stereo voices of the dishwasher and clothe dryer are providing a not unpleasant cacophony but add to this the sound of a vacuum cleaner in the hallway, and it’s a little too much.
Still, this is nothing short of miraculous. Another plus: By pressing a small button on the side of the right hearing aid, I can mute them both and be deaf again, because you never know. Sometimes silence is golden.
December 17, 2020
Covid Scare
For the past three months, I’ve been working on a book, the biography of a local entrepreneur who made good. He came from Europe in the early 70s with his family and over time opened a number of stores that proved very successful and have made him wealthy.
We meet once or twice a week and I interview him. I listen to the details of his life in Europe, his first jobs in New York, and the slow ascent to success. I like him. I’ve known him many years and have been privileged to enjoy his friendship, so this project is special.
Our meetings usually are held at a local restaurant where we sit, maskless, across from each other. I order tea, he has coffee and a bear claw pastry. I record his remembrances on my phone, and then send the audio files out for transcription.
We were supposed to meet this past Monday and he didn’t show up. This has never happened before. I called him and he apologized profusely. He was sick in bed with a serious fever.
To make a long story short, my friend has contracted Covid-19. He texted me the next day to say the test had been positive.
Ten minutes later, I was on my healthcare provider’s website, feeling slightly foolish. How many days since I’d seen my friend? Had he appeared normal? I couldn’t remember whether he’d been coughing or not, but it seemed likely. And he did appear sort of pale, but that could have been the diner’s fluorescent lighting.
I made an appointment online to be tested the next day. That night, I felt a tickle in my throat. Was that a symptom? What about the sneezing? I’d been sneezing in the morning for a couple of weeks and thinking it was allergies. In the dark and from the safety of my bed, I tried to analyze every discomfort, no matter how small. I obsessed over the fact that I am more likely to succumb to Covid than are many others. I have cancer and am going through immunotherapy. I am older, diabetic, overweight, and my immune system has been compromised.
The next morning it snowed and I slipped and slid to the Tyson’s Kaiser Permanente clinic. Q-tips were rammed up my nostrils. On the drive back home, I sneezed constantly and depleted my car’s supply of napkins stolen from Panera.
Test results would come within 48 hours. I checked my email every ten minutes.
At 7 a.m., the next mornhing, a message from Kaiser appeared but I couldn’t download it. I signed in and out of their site three times before an email titled Test Results appeared. My stomach did a somersault. I took a deep breath, held it, clicked on the message.
Test negative.
I printed out the mail and read it again. Moments later, a nurse called me to tell me my test were negative, but that I should be wary and report any symptoms.
I celebrated the verdict by eating a large, salted pretzel and drinking too-sweet coffee. It stopped snowing.
The next day, my friend texted me to say he felt much better and his temperature was normal. I spent several hours working on his book.
I’ll have to write a Covid chapter.
We meet once or twice a week and I interview him. I listen to the details of his life in Europe, his first jobs in New York, and the slow ascent to success. I like him. I’ve known him many years and have been privileged to enjoy his friendship, so this project is special.
Our meetings usually are held at a local restaurant where we sit, maskless, across from each other. I order tea, he has coffee and a bear claw pastry. I record his remembrances on my phone, and then send the audio files out for transcription.
We were supposed to meet this past Monday and he didn’t show up. This has never happened before. I called him and he apologized profusely. He was sick in bed with a serious fever.
To make a long story short, my friend has contracted Covid-19. He texted me the next day to say the test had been positive.
Ten minutes later, I was on my healthcare provider’s website, feeling slightly foolish. How many days since I’d seen my friend? Had he appeared normal? I couldn’t remember whether he’d been coughing or not, but it seemed likely. And he did appear sort of pale, but that could have been the diner’s fluorescent lighting.
I made an appointment online to be tested the next day. That night, I felt a tickle in my throat. Was that a symptom? What about the sneezing? I’d been sneezing in the morning for a couple of weeks and thinking it was allergies. In the dark and from the safety of my bed, I tried to analyze every discomfort, no matter how small. I obsessed over the fact that I am more likely to succumb to Covid than are many others. I have cancer and am going through immunotherapy. I am older, diabetic, overweight, and my immune system has been compromised.
The next morning it snowed and I slipped and slid to the Tyson’s Kaiser Permanente clinic. Q-tips were rammed up my nostrils. On the drive back home, I sneezed constantly and depleted my car’s supply of napkins stolen from Panera.
Test results would come within 48 hours. I checked my email every ten minutes.
At 7 a.m., the next mornhing, a message from Kaiser appeared but I couldn’t download it. I signed in and out of their site three times before an email titled Test Results appeared. My stomach did a somersault. I took a deep breath, held it, clicked on the message.
Test negative.
I printed out the mail and read it again. Moments later, a nurse called me to tell me my test were negative, but that I should be wary and report any symptoms.
I celebrated the verdict by eating a large, salted pretzel and drinking too-sweet coffee. It stopped snowing.
The next day, my friend texted me to say he felt much better and his temperature was normal. I spent several hours working on his book.
I’ll have to write a Covid chapter.
December 3, 2020
One Fine Day
My friend Sameer wrote a book, One Fine Day. There’s nothing unusual about this; I have a number of writer friends who’ve written books. That is after all, what we do. But I think this work is special.
I first met Sameer in the hallway of my apartment building. He was walking slowly, oh so slowly with the assistance of a cane, from his door to the elevator. I think I held the elevator for him as he made his way there. He thanked me, and I commented that it looked as if he’d gone through a rough time. He nodded, smiled and said, “Catastrophic hemorrhagic stroke in my cerebellum.”
He got out—slowly—at the first floor. I rode down to the garage. At the time of our initial meeting, I’d just gone through yet another cancer operation and was feeling sorry for myself, but it was obvious that Sameer’s woes were far more overwhelming than mine.
A couple of weeks later, we met again in the hallway. We exchanged a bit of information. He asked what I did and I told him I was a writer. His eyes lit up. “Really? I’m writing a book myself!” We decided to meet in the near future and have lunch.
Sammer Bhide, I learned, had been levelled by his stroke when he was 47. At the time, he was married with two kids and lived in a Washington, DC, suburb. He’d spent a month in an induced coma and there were serious doubts that he would survive. If he did, most doctors thought, he would be severely impaired.
During lunch at a nearby Lebanese restaurant, he told me a ghost writer was helping him with the first draft of his books, and it would be more than just a recollection of his stroke and his healing. He wanted it to be a treatise on gratitude. He had survived, he told me, and wanted to help people faced with situation similar to his, be they medical, emotional, or mental. His life had changed drastically in an instant, and his survival would depend on his ability to seek acceptance to what he called a new normal.
Over the last few years, I’ve helped people with their books—with plotting, character development, pacing, and all the other fine points that make a work readable. During the next couple of months, Sameer and I met for coffee and spoke often about writing, and I was impressed with his dedication to the task. Eventually, he asked if I’d go over the manuscript and come up with suggestions.
The first thing I noticed was, indeed, Sameer’s gratitude. He insisted on thanking all the people who had helped him—physicians, nurses, assistants, rehabilitators, the whole gamut of specialists in the US and in India who’d cared for him. He thanked his friends, dozens of them, some of whom had escorted him to India and back to the States. He thanked his wife and his children, and I learned that he’d gone through a divorce while he was healing. He thanked his mother, and his mother’s neighbors and friends in Mumbai. He thanked so many people that I suggested he consider doing an epilog where he could name all the people to whom he owed a debt of gratitude. Sameer opted to get treatments encompassing both Western and traditional Eastern medicine. The descriptions he offers of the treatments received in the US and in India make the book worth reading.
One Fine Day is officially coming out next week. Look for it on Amazon. It’s a good book, a guidebook, really, on how one can prepare for and embrace their new normal, whatever it is might be, with positivity, grace and gratitude.
I hope you’ll read it. It’s well-deserving of a wide audience.
I first met Sameer in the hallway of my apartment building. He was walking slowly, oh so slowly with the assistance of a cane, from his door to the elevator. I think I held the elevator for him as he made his way there. He thanked me, and I commented that it looked as if he’d gone through a rough time. He nodded, smiled and said, “Catastrophic hemorrhagic stroke in my cerebellum.”
He got out—slowly—at the first floor. I rode down to the garage. At the time of our initial meeting, I’d just gone through yet another cancer operation and was feeling sorry for myself, but it was obvious that Sameer’s woes were far more overwhelming than mine.
A couple of weeks later, we met again in the hallway. We exchanged a bit of information. He asked what I did and I told him I was a writer. His eyes lit up. “Really? I’m writing a book myself!” We decided to meet in the near future and have lunch.
Sammer Bhide, I learned, had been levelled by his stroke when he was 47. At the time, he was married with two kids and lived in a Washington, DC, suburb. He’d spent a month in an induced coma and there were serious doubts that he would survive. If he did, most doctors thought, he would be severely impaired.
During lunch at a nearby Lebanese restaurant, he told me a ghost writer was helping him with the first draft of his books, and it would be more than just a recollection of his stroke and his healing. He wanted it to be a treatise on gratitude. He had survived, he told me, and wanted to help people faced with situation similar to his, be they medical, emotional, or mental. His life had changed drastically in an instant, and his survival would depend on his ability to seek acceptance to what he called a new normal.
Over the last few years, I’ve helped people with their books—with plotting, character development, pacing, and all the other fine points that make a work readable. During the next couple of months, Sameer and I met for coffee and spoke often about writing, and I was impressed with his dedication to the task. Eventually, he asked if I’d go over the manuscript and come up with suggestions.
The first thing I noticed was, indeed, Sameer’s gratitude. He insisted on thanking all the people who had helped him—physicians, nurses, assistants, rehabilitators, the whole gamut of specialists in the US and in India who’d cared for him. He thanked his friends, dozens of them, some of whom had escorted him to India and back to the States. He thanked his wife and his children, and I learned that he’d gone through a divorce while he was healing. He thanked his mother, and his mother’s neighbors and friends in Mumbai. He thanked so many people that I suggested he consider doing an epilog where he could name all the people to whom he owed a debt of gratitude. Sameer opted to get treatments encompassing both Western and traditional Eastern medicine. The descriptions he offers of the treatments received in the US and in India make the book worth reading.
One Fine Day is officially coming out next week. Look for it on Amazon. It’s a good book, a guidebook, really, on how one can prepare for and embrace their new normal, whatever it is might be, with positivity, grace and gratitude.
I hope you’ll read it. It’s well-deserving of a wide audience.
November 30, 2020
Inshallah
When I was a tiny kid, an infusion was a benign beverage, chamomile or peach tea, that my great aunt Tatie—the one who slept with her hat on–drank in the early afternoon as she nibbled on sugar cookies and told tales of colonial Africa.
Now an infusion is a cocktail of unpronounceable drugs administered via an IV to bolster my immune system against cancer. Times have changed.
Today was my third immunotherapy session; I’m halfway through the process. I’m in the medical version of a Barcalounger. In the station next to mine, an elderly man moans rhythmically while across the aisle, a woman works her cross-word puzzle.
When the drug—Pembrolizumab—hits my system, I get a rush of heat, like walking into a sauna. I close my eyes and the warmth ebbs. The side-effects are entirely endurable—fatigue, some nausea, itching. The nurse, a small, thin Asian woman, chirps as she works, a model of efficiency. I am amazed by the amount of stuff she discards: five pairs of latex gloves, some 20 feet of IV tubing, two sets of needles, a half-empty bag of saline, and various bits and pieces whose uses are mystery.
The moaning man is now talking on the phone in Arabic. His phone is on speaker and faraway voices take turns asking questions. There are old voices and young ones and a crying baby is brought to the phone so we can all hear it wail. The man says inshallah a number of times. After a while, he hangs up and begins moaning again and I inshallah that his whimpering stop. God hears me and it does.
An hour later, I am talking with the oncologist who tells me most of my chemistry is normal, save my calcium, which is borderline. Next week, I am scheduled for a cystoscopy, which will thread a small camera up my urethra and into my bladder to see if the cancer there is receding or progressing. Immunotherapy offers a 30 to 40 percent chance of improvement in my condition. I can’t do the standard chemo anymore because my body has become intolerant to the chemicals used.
I walk back through the infusion center. The old man’s eyes are closed and he is moaning again. I say, “Salamo Alaykum,” one of two expressions I know in Arabic. His eyes open, he smiles and nod.
I feel better about having inshallah-ed him earlier.
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Now an infusion is a cocktail of unpronounceable drugs administered via an IV to bolster my immune system against cancer. Times have changed.
Today was my third immunotherapy session; I’m halfway through the process. I’m in the medical version of a Barcalounger. In the station next to mine, an elderly man moans rhythmically while across the aisle, a woman works her cross-word puzzle.
When the drug—Pembrolizumab—hits my system, I get a rush of heat, like walking into a sauna. I close my eyes and the warmth ebbs. The side-effects are entirely endurable—fatigue, some nausea, itching. The nurse, a small, thin Asian woman, chirps as she works, a model of efficiency. I am amazed by the amount of stuff she discards: five pairs of latex gloves, some 20 feet of IV tubing, two sets of needles, a half-empty bag of saline, and various bits and pieces whose uses are mystery.
The moaning man is now talking on the phone in Arabic. His phone is on speaker and faraway voices take turns asking questions. There are old voices and young ones and a crying baby is brought to the phone so we can all hear it wail. The man says inshallah a number of times. After a while, he hangs up and begins moaning again and I inshallah that his whimpering stop. God hears me and it does.
An hour later, I am talking with the oncologist who tells me most of my chemistry is normal, save my calcium, which is borderline. Next week, I am scheduled for a cystoscopy, which will thread a small camera up my urethra and into my bladder to see if the cancer there is receding or progressing. Immunotherapy offers a 30 to 40 percent chance of improvement in my condition. I can’t do the standard chemo anymore because my body has become intolerant to the chemicals used.
I walk back through the infusion center. The old man’s eyes are closed and he is moaning again. I say, “Salamo Alaykum,” one of two expressions I know in Arabic. His eyes open, he smiles and nod.
I feel better about having inshallah-ed him earlier.
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October 19, 2020
The First Infusion
The first immunotherapy session was anticlimactic.
Two days before, I had been tested for Covid, an unpleasant and exceptionally long 30 seconds during which a hazmat-suited nurse twirled Q-tips into my nostrils. This was my third test and I have not gotten used to the procedure. A day before that, I’d given up a half-pint of blood to be analyzed. I arrived at the clinic early, prepared for a bad time as my earlier experiences with BCG chemo were, towards the end of the treatment, downright unpleasant.
The nurse, a young Hispanic woman, was solicitous. We talked about side-effects and I told her I was particularly concerned with ear and nose hair loss. It’s difficult, when wearing masks, to read another person’s expression. I know I was smiling, but her eyes remained blank. She nodded and assured me that hair loss-anywhere-was rare with this particular medicine. I was likely to be fatigued and experience some gastro-intestinal issues and maybe experience some joint pain. If I became nauseous or short of breath, I was to contact the clinic immediately.
I sat in the medical version of a Barcalounger. Next to me was a lady with snow-white hair who glanced at my tee shirt and asked, “What’s Cancer Can Rock?” I told her it was an organization that gave musicians with cancer the opportunity to record a song for posterity in a professional studio, and have it mixed by a Grammy-winning producer. She thought about it for a minute and nodded her head, said, “My great-grandson plays guitar.” Then she returned to her crossword puzzle.
The nurse took some blood, sent it to the lab and twenty minutes later told me my calcium level was low. I remembered being told dried figs were good for that and promised to buy some on the way home. She hooked me up to an IV, sticking a needle in the crook of my left arm, then told me to wait. The pharmacy would be mixing the chemicals to be infused and it might take a short while. She handed me a print-out on Pembrolizumab (who comes up with these names?) and I read once again about the potential difficulties with the drug.
When my dosage arrived, she ran some saline to make sure the tube going into my arm was clean and clear, then connected the plastic bag of Pembrolizumab. Minutes later, I felt a small rush of heat go through my body, as if my temperature had risen. This went away after a few minutes.
I sat in the Barcalounger close to an hour, drank a couple of cups of coffee, played a word game on my phone, read emails, and sent messages. Then I dozed off.
When it was done, we made an appointment for three weeks hence. On the way home I bought figs and tried to determine if any part of me felt different. I tugged at a nose hair and it stayed in place.
So far, so good.
Two days before, I had been tested for Covid, an unpleasant and exceptionally long 30 seconds during which a hazmat-suited nurse twirled Q-tips into my nostrils. This was my third test and I have not gotten used to the procedure. A day before that, I’d given up a half-pint of blood to be analyzed. I arrived at the clinic early, prepared for a bad time as my earlier experiences with BCG chemo were, towards the end of the treatment, downright unpleasant.
The nurse, a young Hispanic woman, was solicitous. We talked about side-effects and I told her I was particularly concerned with ear and nose hair loss. It’s difficult, when wearing masks, to read another person’s expression. I know I was smiling, but her eyes remained blank. She nodded and assured me that hair loss-anywhere-was rare with this particular medicine. I was likely to be fatigued and experience some gastro-intestinal issues and maybe experience some joint pain. If I became nauseous or short of breath, I was to contact the clinic immediately.
I sat in the medical version of a Barcalounger. Next to me was a lady with snow-white hair who glanced at my tee shirt and asked, “What’s Cancer Can Rock?” I told her it was an organization that gave musicians with cancer the opportunity to record a song for posterity in a professional studio, and have it mixed by a Grammy-winning producer. She thought about it for a minute and nodded her head, said, “My great-grandson plays guitar.” Then she returned to her crossword puzzle.
The nurse took some blood, sent it to the lab and twenty minutes later told me my calcium level was low. I remembered being told dried figs were good for that and promised to buy some on the way home. She hooked me up to an IV, sticking a needle in the crook of my left arm, then told me to wait. The pharmacy would be mixing the chemicals to be infused and it might take a short while. She handed me a print-out on Pembrolizumab (who comes up with these names?) and I read once again about the potential difficulties with the drug.
When my dosage arrived, she ran some saline to make sure the tube going into my arm was clean and clear, then connected the plastic bag of Pembrolizumab. Minutes later, I felt a small rush of heat go through my body, as if my temperature had risen. This went away after a few minutes.
I sat in the Barcalounger close to an hour, drank a couple of cups of coffee, played a word game on my phone, read emails, and sent messages. Then I dozed off.
When it was done, we made an appointment for three weeks hence. On the way home I bought figs and tried to determine if any part of me felt different. I tugged at a nose hair and it stayed in place.
So far, so good.
October 17, 2020
I Voted
I voted yesterday. I got to the polls shortly after they opened at 1 p.m., and already the line waiting to enter the McLean community center stretched and wound 600 yards. The sky was the color of dead fish and spewed an intermittent misty rain. Everyone wore masks and kept a distance between those behind and those in front. It took two hours, from start to finish, shepherded by volunteers, one of whom recognized me from my World Bank days.
A lady in an ill-fitting red wig handed out Republican ballots instructing conservatives how to vote. A rail thin elderly man wearing both suspenders and a belt—a pessimist, I gathered—did the same for the Democratic ballots.
The voters were overwhelmingly white, as is McLean. This was not a social event. It was not a cheery crowd. It was stoic, determined, and mostly silent. There were no protestors with or without firearms, no police, no one trying to shift opinions. Neither were there camaraderie and idle conversation. The voters looked just short of grim. They had a job to do and were willing to stand and shuffle for two hours to exercise their voting privilege.
I had been obsessing for weeks about voting. I had registered early and considered going to the Fairfax government center until a friend told me the wait there was five hours. That was longer than my body would tolerate.
I desperately wanted my vote to be counted, though. I had voted in the last presidential election safe in the conviction that a blonde buffoon could not possibly be elected, and I was wrong. Now my stomach turns when I think of the damage done to this amazing country over the last four years. I now firmly believe that another Trump term will damage the US beyond repair. The number of people willing to sacrifice their afternoon to stand in line showed me I’m not the only one riddled with angst. Still, I worried about the quotidian, about going to the toilet, about having left my umbrella in the car. About being at the right place at the right time. About what I would do or say if challenged. My concerns were unfounded. The man in front of me asked if I’d save his place in line while he went to the bathroom. Minutes later, he returned the favor.
We shuffled forward, the distance to the center’s doors counted in feet and minutes. I filled out the ballot, listened to the volunteers’ instructions, slid the thing into a scanner. There. Done.
I left with a deep sense of relief, smiled at the people still in line. My illegally parked car hadn’t been ticketed. The sun broke through the clouds. I went to Starbucks and got an espresso and a donut. Life was good.
A lady in an ill-fitting red wig handed out Republican ballots instructing conservatives how to vote. A rail thin elderly man wearing both suspenders and a belt—a pessimist, I gathered—did the same for the Democratic ballots.
The voters were overwhelmingly white, as is McLean. This was not a social event. It was not a cheery crowd. It was stoic, determined, and mostly silent. There were no protestors with or without firearms, no police, no one trying to shift opinions. Neither were there camaraderie and idle conversation. The voters looked just short of grim. They had a job to do and were willing to stand and shuffle for two hours to exercise their voting privilege.
I had been obsessing for weeks about voting. I had registered early and considered going to the Fairfax government center until a friend told me the wait there was five hours. That was longer than my body would tolerate.
I desperately wanted my vote to be counted, though. I had voted in the last presidential election safe in the conviction that a blonde buffoon could not possibly be elected, and I was wrong. Now my stomach turns when I think of the damage done to this amazing country over the last four years. I now firmly believe that another Trump term will damage the US beyond repair. The number of people willing to sacrifice their afternoon to stand in line showed me I’m not the only one riddled with angst. Still, I worried about the quotidian, about going to the toilet, about having left my umbrella in the car. About being at the right place at the right time. About what I would do or say if challenged. My concerns were unfounded. The man in front of me asked if I’d save his place in line while he went to the bathroom. Minutes later, he returned the favor.
We shuffled forward, the distance to the center’s doors counted in feet and minutes. I filled out the ballot, listened to the volunteers’ instructions, slid the thing into a scanner. There. Done.
I left with a deep sense of relief, smiled at the people still in line. My illegally parked car hadn’t been ticketed. The sun broke through the clouds. I went to Starbucks and got an espresso and a donut. Life was good.
October 14, 2020
A New Direction
I have decided to leave my cancerous bladder, still-healthy prostate, and nearby lymph nodes, where they are, which is to say inside my body. The operation I was considering on the advice of my oncologist was simply too complicated and hazardous. The removal of several organs from my innards held no charm and promised an extremely long convalescence and recuperation. It would require at-home aftercare for an indeterminate amount of time. Plus, I don’t have good luck with surgery. Twice, I woke up during operations, much to the consternation of the attending surgeons. I can assure you this is not a pleasant experience. More recently, what was supposed to be a simple cataract surgery somehow went wrong and now, after three additional procedures, my left eye is essentially blind and I can no longer drive at night. So I think keeping razor sharp implements away from my mid-section is probably wise.
What I have opted for is immunotherapy using a drug called pembrolizumab. This is a relatively new process endorsed by the Food & Drug Administration in January 2020. It claims to work well on the type of cancer I have, which is called ‘BCG-unresponsive, high-risk non-muscle invasive.’ I am unresponsive to Bacillus Calmette-Guerin (BCG) treatment perhaps because it was invented in France, and I am French. If this is the case, I am not amused.
This being said, I may have jumped from frying pan to fire. The list of immunotherapy’s possible side-effects is a full page long, and a video offered by my provider as an informative 90-minute tranquilizer did nothing of the sort. I learned arthralgia–joint pain–is a possibility, as is vitiligo, which can affect the pigmentation of your skin.
I’m fortunate, though, that the infusions will be only once every three weeks, and last less than an hour. Having had friends whose chemo sessions lasted far longer makes me realize that though my illness isn’t much fun, it could be far, far worse.
It’s occasionally hard for me to count my blessings. I have a tendency to ask, “why me” when the question should be, “why not me?”
I wish I had answers to one, or both, questions.
What I have opted for is immunotherapy using a drug called pembrolizumab. This is a relatively new process endorsed by the Food & Drug Administration in January 2020. It claims to work well on the type of cancer I have, which is called ‘BCG-unresponsive, high-risk non-muscle invasive.’ I am unresponsive to Bacillus Calmette-Guerin (BCG) treatment perhaps because it was invented in France, and I am French. If this is the case, I am not amused.
This being said, I may have jumped from frying pan to fire. The list of immunotherapy’s possible side-effects is a full page long, and a video offered by my provider as an informative 90-minute tranquilizer did nothing of the sort. I learned arthralgia–joint pain–is a possibility, as is vitiligo, which can affect the pigmentation of your skin.
I’m fortunate, though, that the infusions will be only once every three weeks, and last less than an hour. Having had friends whose chemo sessions lasted far longer makes me realize that though my illness isn’t much fun, it could be far, far worse.
It’s occasionally hard for me to count my blessings. I have a tendency to ask, “why me” when the question should be, “why not me?”
I wish I had answers to one, or both, questions.
