Hospital 5

I've been having at least a glass of wine every night before I go to bed. Tonight, I shared a bottle with my brother. It's funny how people deal with grief. My brother, the geneticist, went online and came up with what he admits is a crazy idea about curing my mom's cancer. Something about mitochondria. He's going to talk to her oncologist about it tomorrow. And then we distracted each other with stories from our everyday lives.

Today was a strange day. Good and bad. My mom's pain was better ... or, rather, better-managed. She did a pretty good job of recognizing when she needed to take her pain meds. They've started giving her OxyContin (20 mg) and that seems to be working pretty well. Tomorrow, my brother and I will pick up a prescription for both oral diladin and oxycontin for her to take by mouth at home. Yes ... if all goes according to plan, she should be home tomorrow.

The ultrasound from yesterday showed that her kidneys are functioning okay. The doctor also ordered an ultrasound for her legs to determine whether she was developing any blood clots (her legs have been in pain for awhile now, too). No clots. She's eating a little bit better ... mainly because we make her. They've taken her off of her IV and are beginning to adjust her to what life will be like at home as opposed to in the hospital (hydration and pain meds by mouth instead of intravenously).

We did learn, though, that I was right ... her liver is failing. We don't know any details just yet--my mom has told her doctors that she wants to know as little information about her condition as possible. The only reason I was able to get confirmation about her liver was because I was standing outside the hospital with my aunt when her doctor walked by (following the doctor out of the room after an exam, after all ... impossible). So we know that the albumin infusions have done very little. We know that her spleen has become enlarged because her liver isn't functioning properly. My brother and I plan on finding out what the prognosis is when we pick up her prescriptions tomorrow. In some ways, that will determine how soon I'll come back here. In other ways. I know I'll come back on Sunday or Monday. My dad needs me. He's lost and heartbroken.

My mom use to tell me that friends are great ... but when it comes down to it, they have their own families, husbands, wives, children. Another way she tried to convince me to prioritize marriage. I don't blame her for being so mistaken. How could I? All the offers to drop everything to come see me ... to make arrangements to take care of my furry-ball-of-death-by-headbutts ... for knowing the fucked up variety of distractions and sympathies that I need ... and just, just, just--how??? I don't know how. Thank you, with the fullness of my full full full full heart.

Hospital 4

Mornings are always better. And then, just after lunch, it's a quick descent into pain.

No good news today. She continues to get her albumin infusions (the last one will happen at midnight tonight). The swelling hasn't gone down ... but, apparently, these things take time. The doctor ordered a CT scan on her chest this afternoon. My mom and I waited in the hallway while another patient finished up in the x-ray room. During that time, another patient came by--an emergency--so the technician came out and wheeled my mom's bed flush against the wall because she'd need to wait a little longer. She went in soon after.

I don't have exact details about what that scan showed. I had gone to my aunt's house (she lives a block away from the hospital) for a quick dinner and some rest and called my dad's cell phone to let him know that dinner was ready and he could come by for some food (we've been taking shifts). My mom got on the phone, sobbing. What I learned from her then was that the lesions in her lungs have also grown. Something about them being very close to the heart. She had been complaining about not being able to breathe earlier today. And she's been coughing up blood and bits of who knows what for the last few months. We returned to the hospital to comfort her. After another dose of diladin, she started to feel a little better. I think they should up the dose to every two hours.

She was also feeling some pain in her left kidney today. They'll do an ultrasound on it tomorrow morning. I'd just like her to come home. I pick up my brother from the airport tomorrow morning.

Me?

Well, I've been eating three meals a day, which (if you know me) I pretty much NEVER do. And yet I've lost weight.

I'm beginning to think I'll need to cancel my trip to Europe this summer. I have no idea right now about my mom's prognosis ... but I don't like the thought of being way over there. Could I possibly have a good time? Moreover, writing a presentation on Brain Fies' Mom's Cancer is just way too ridiculous. Somehow, I know that my research will, in the longrun, be okay. Right now, though, I don't know if I can do it.

I return to Seattle on Saturday, but I doubt I'll stay for very long at all. Any thoughts on what one does with a lonely prrr-monster? I'd like to bring her back with me, but I don't know if that's a possibility right now.

When my dad and I got home tonight, I poured myself a glass of wine and my dad heated up some dinner for himself. We sat in front of the TV and watched a stupid, fucking, bald Howie Mandell say, over and over again, DEAL OR NO DEAL. And for just a few minutes, both of us forgot about everything except the assbrain who passed up 113,000 bucks. We both said the Hindi word for "owl" (phoenetically, "oo-loo"). It's funny that over here owls are deemed as wise ... and over there, owls are used to describe idiocy.

I don't know where I'm getting this strength from. Probably inherited from my mom. Things are okay as long as my mind is occupied and my hands are busy. Things are okay when that doesn't happen, too ... except that my head feels like an inverted punching bag.

And thank you, dear hearts, for everything so much. I think I'll write a letter to Al Gore and demand that he run for president.

Hospital 3

When we got to the hospital this morning, she looked good. Or better, maybe. Her face was less swollen. She was completely lucid. Joking. Happy. I had every reason to believe they would send her home today. I was even contemplating just keeping my ticket and coming home to Seattle tomorrow.

After lunch, though, she slowly started getting worse. The pain returned. She didn't describe it as pain, though. More like a weird discomfort that she had never felt before. The gastroenterologist came by and explained that my mom's albumin levels were very low, causing edema in her feet, thighs, abdomen, and face. This swelling, in part, was what was causing the pain in her stomach--his diagnosis. She is now receiving albumin infusions to get those levels up to something like normal.

The oncologist also came by and explained that much of her discomfort is being caused by her liver mets (where her cancer has metastasized). We didn't get too much information, here ... my mom wanted to remain largely in the dark. She did ask, "More than 30% of it [the liver] is covered?" And the doctor said, "Oh yes"--as if to suggest that the percentage is much higher than that. He said that once the albumin infusions are completed, he would see about sending her home. He's going to give her some oral diladin (the pain medication she's been on--a form of morphine) to help with the pain.

Basically, though, the disease is running its course. What a stupid expression. As if it's a short distance runner.

I secretly think (and, now, not so secretly, I guess) that my mom's liver is failing her. Apparently, albumin is formed in the liver. I learned this online. There's something very wrong about that.

I extended my visit to Saturday. My brother arrives on Thursday.

Whoever said that blood is thicker than water is an idiot. I don't mean to suggest that my family hasn't been incredibly supportive of each other these past few days ... but just that I seem to have found the most amazing collection of friends ever. Thank you for all your phone calls and e-mails. I'll need to break down soon--and I feel okay with that only because of you.

On a lighter note ... as I was driving to the hospital this morning, I had this thought about how weird it was that the streets in this town are so familiar to me. I lived here more than ten years ago ... and feel so very little connection with any of it anymore. But I knew exactly how to get from one place to another--which streets to avoid; which shortcuts to take.

On an even lighter note ... I am totally okay with that remake of "Goodbye to You" on that commercial for something or other. But only because it reminds me of the original.

Ugh, that's kinda sick, huh? I didn't mean it that way ...

Hospital 2

Still no diagnosis. Three days in the hospital, and still no diagnosis.

Her CT scan showed what we kind of knew--the cancer in her liver has spread. But that's not what's causing the stomach pains. No bowel obstruction. And everything else looked fine, apparently. Still, she needs morphine injections every three hours.

Tomorrow, a gastroenterologist will come by to see her. He can give us some answers, right? I mean, he wears a toupee and everything!

Chances are I'll need to extend my trip by a few days. I'll learn more tomorrow.

Please call me, e-mail me, distract me with all things everyday and polka-dotty.

Finally--It was oddly comforting when the doctor told us about his son (or maybe daughter ... I can't remember) who lives in North Carolina and my mom responded that her son lives in North Carolina and they talked about grandchildren and what they look like and so so so many things and then as he was leaving, she echoed through the room, "But my DAUUGGHTER isn't married yet!!!!" Comforting because familiar? Something.

Hospital

Friday evening, my mom went to the emergency room. I got a call from my dad while I was having dinner at a friend's house. They told me not to worry. Not to rush. Finish up. There was nothing urgent. It was just that the pain that she had been feeling in her stomach for the last couple weeks had become unbearable.

She's still there this evening ... and we have no clear sense of when they'll release her. Last night, they gave her two units of blood. Her hemoglobin was low. They've also been pumping her up with intravenous antibiotics, which seem to have helped to lower the fever she's been running for the last few weeks. Every four hours, they've been administering pain medications for her stomach. They were helping up until a few hours ago, when her body suddenly decided that it just wanted to feel the pain. They gave her a different pain med and that seems to be working for now. The on-call doctor thinks she might have a bowel obstruction, so tomorrow morning she'll get a CT scan done on her abdomen. Also, she stopped taking her chemo.

That's it for now. I have many observations in my head all swimming around like fish gone mad, but I can't write them down right now. They feel better all crazy and zigzag zigzag than they would all organized and then, then, then, then.

One thing, though--I hate that the doctors are all acting like it's time it's time it's time to go so let it happen. FUCK them.

33

I got a Bush press conference for my birthday. He was on the TV going "blah blah blah blah" when I came downstairs for breakfast.

*blows party favor*

Sylvia Cat (edited)

It's not totally clear yet ... but that title is actually punny. Like think of Sylvia Plath. Except if Sylvia Plath were a cat. And if "cat" and "Plath" were the same word. Um, yeah.

Okay, anyway ...

My cat knows when I'm about to leave town. I don't know how, but she does. It must be something I'm giving off ... a certain kind of nervousness. She gets morose. Her head hangs low. She won't leave my side. She looks at me like she does when I'm eating ice cream--a slow and solemn stare. When the suitcase finally comes out, it's all over. Then she's like, "See, I KNEW it." When I was packing for Mexico, she spent the afternoon sitting in the suitcase. I don't think it was that she wanted to come with me ... but more that she knew I couldn't finish packing if she sat there, determined, on top of the socks and t-shirts. When I lifted her up and put her on the bed, she must have thought, "Drat! Foiled again!" (I really do hope cats say or, at the very least, think "drat"--because it rhymes with cat, and rat ... and cats should only speak in words that end in -at.)

For the last few days, Kittie has been unbearably pathetic. The stares. The listlessness. The WOE IS ME of it all. What's so heartbreaking is when I toss her ball past her and you can tell that she only decides to chase after it to humor me. Or when I give her a treat and you can tell she doesn't REALLY want it. "How could you DO this to me?!!" "Why do you HAVE to leave?" It's interesting that she knows the difference between a long work day and a full-fledged trip.

(And, wait, I guess she'd say something more like, "What! Cat at flat?!! SHAT!!!")

While I was doing the dishes earlier this evening, I noticed that Kittie was sitting in the corner of the kitchen--tucked into a small space between the wall and the radiator box. I gave her a couple of, "Hi Kittie!"s and then turned back to do the dishes. When I turned back to look at her, I couldn't see her head. She had also coiled herself up into a tiny ball. I said, "Kittie ..." I said, "Kittie ..." again. Nothing. "Kittie ..." Still, nothing. I washed the soap from my hands and went over to her. She had put her head through a gap at the bottom of the radiator box. NOW does the title make sense?

She mewed cutely when I went up to pet her ... withdrawing her head. I don't think that she was trying to commit caticide or anything ... but, you know, I thought the story would make for a good blogpost.

And, plus, I wanted to be able to create some way to talk about how scared I am about this trip to California, and thought it would be easier if I did so through my funny little cat. I don't know what to expect. I know I can't prepare myself. The greater part of this weekend, I was able to get my mind off of it all by working and thinking, thinking, thinking of other things (you know who you are, and thank you, sweet). I was able to fool myself, but clearly my cat saw right through me.

Not with the head in the radiator theatrics. That was just funny.

Summer Reading #1

Joann Sfar's recent graphic novel, Vampire Loves, introduces readers to the life and loves of Ferdinand the vampire, a rather unlikely bloodsucker, sucker of blood, he that thirsteth after blood. While true that Ferdinand shares a resemblance to Nosferatu (he, too, is greyish-purple, bald, and sports pointy ears), he is something of an awkward and aloof vampire, content to watch the bull ride by, rather than to take it by the horns. It's not that he's inactive or dull at all. In fact, life and lifeforms of all kinds (phantoms, ents, humans, etc.) find him, fall in love with him, and compel him to battle mummies, capture murderers, appease crying golems, go dancing^*--and--kiss kiss kiss kiss. KISSSSSS.

We could easily tsk Ferdinand's flighty approach to life and love, but we never do. Ferdinand does have a conscience (a little green blob that occasionally floats around his head) ... and so we might be tempted to think that he has moral fiber, soul, good sense, discretion. Yet that's not what keeps us from passing judgment on him. Indeed, Ferdinand never poses as one of those bleeding heart vampires whose foolish behavior we can pity or forgive; and, more to the point, he loses his conscience about three-quarters of the way through the book to a lisping monster determined to make a meal out of him--and he's still the same Ferdinand, stumbling playfully through life. And that's the thing: What makes Ferdinand so irresistable is that he's so incredibly ... human. We've probably been him ... and, at one point or another, we've also probably been those phantoms, ents, and humans that choose to love him ... or leave him. Rather than serving as a metaphor for some vague aspect of humanity as many vampires do, Ferdinand plays out his humanity. Day by day, come what may. Unlucky in love, perhaps. Some hurt feeling, certainly. But he moves forward, without regret, or lessons learned, or tra la la la now what? even.

He does miss his mommy. There IS that ...

In any case, you should read this book because it's sweet, charming, funny, and incredibly smart. It's one of those books that you read when you feel like you need something that might untangle the jumble of feelings you have inside ... and one of those books that, upon reading, makes you feel just a little annoyed, but mostly overjoyed and relieved, because you realize that the jumble of feelings inside you makes perfect sense, just as it is.

^*Yes, of COURSE, going dancing is as weird a thing as battling mummies!

Today's to do list

1. Clean kitchen
2. Take out trash and recycling
3. dust/vacuum/mop
4. overhaul bathroom
5. straighten out bedroom
6. do 734892q loads of laundry
7. grade remaining finals
8. grade 5-10 Writing and Culture papers
9. Shower
10. pay bills
11. eat sushi
12. feel really bad about not doing 1-10
13. turn that frown upside down
14. Use new-found energy to construct amazingly lifelike Mita-bot
15. Name Mita-bot "Mita Ma-bot-o" (thank you, Alison--a step up from Mita Mop-ato, no?)
16. Program Mita Ma-bot-o with detailed instructions for next 100 years
17. Move to Mexico
18. bake cake
19. Mmmm.

Breasts

Get your mind out of the gutter.

I just finished reading a couple chapters from James Olson's Bathsheba's Breast: Women, Cancer, and History for an article that I'm writing on how cancer is dealt with in comic book memoirs. Much of the history that Olson provides was new to me, and rather fascinating. For instance, while touring the Rijksmuseum in 1967, T.C. Greco, an Italian surgeon, diagnosed the model who posed for Rembrandt's painting, Bathsheba at her Bath (1654), with breast cancer. Olson recounts Greco's experience: "He detected an asymmetry to the left breast; it seemed distended compared to her right breast. He also detected a swelling, or fullness, near her left armpit. The left breast appeared discolored, and [he] saw what might be 'peau d'orange,' a pitted section of skin with the texture of an orange peel" (9). It's true that scholars often have this horrible problem with finding evidence of their work in everything they see. I know I've been guilty of that--scrutinizing anyone who uses the word "metastasize" outside of the context of cancer, for instance, and making it MEAN something very, very evocative. I just had to read the most, um, icky book on the representation of insects from The Aeneid to Fear Factor in which every single bee buzz in Corialanus meant something really, REALLY important. Greco may have been making something out of nothing, but he subsequently learned that the model, Hendrickje Stoffels, indeed died after a long and unnamed illness. In any case, I think the value of the story is in the way it takes our usual, eroticized, and isolated perceptions of breasts and reattaches them to the living, breathing, feeling women to whom they belong.

What the book also does, then, is to provide a history to what we might already know of breasts and breast cancer. And history makes things scary. By keeping scientific advancement in the present, far removed from the history that got us to where we are, we can feel like we're at the pinnacle of discovery, close to a cure, achieving new heights of knowledge every single day. Once we attach our new knowledge to an old and long history, we might see how little distance we've covered, and, in some cases, how we've actually taken a step back. It doesn't always work that way; I mean, the airbus seems like a HUGE step backward until you see it on a timeline starting with Michelangelo's flying contraptions. Maybe. But if you're reading about breast cancer and you happen to have breasts, thing get a little scary and disheartening.

Like I've known for awhile that women, for god knows why (and please, god, if you DO know why, I'd very much appreciate an explanation that makes sense and that's fair) who don't have children (or women who have children later in life) are more likely to develop breast cancer than other women. Olson raises this point, though, historically, by way of a discussion of the mother of Louis XIV, Anne of Austria, who discovered a lump on her breast in 1663 (14). Before that happened, though, Anne, not on the best of terms with her husband Louis 13, developed a very close-knit group of female friends at the local nunneries, where she became witness to the ravages of breast cancer. Here, Olson doesn't spare us the details of one of Anne's visits to Val-de-grace in 1647: "The smell of death was in the air. Cancer cells not only divide rapidly, they also die rapidly, and when a patient is laced with tumors, the body is riddled with dead, necrotic tissue. Those tissues are rancid and rotton and emit a foul odor. To [her] horror, Anne ... saw that a tumor had destroyed one side of the nun's torso, allowing a peek into her chest cavity" (18).

See what he did there--the way he brought up a case from the past and made it a present experience? The smell of death was in the air YET the body is riddled with dead tissue. So we have the potential to become just like that 350 year old nun. I mean, I'm all for intercourse; but it troubles me that our bodies are designed (and I don't mean designed by god) to punish the nonreproducing female body. So if before I was sitting here thinking, "Great, if I don't have kids I have a higher risk of getting breast cancer," now I'm sitting here thinking, "Great, if I don't have kids I have as good a chance of getting breast cancer as a nun in 17th century France." See, we've come a long a way. Anne, by the way, thought that her cancer was a punishment from God for her vanity as doctor after doctor told her that her condition was incurable. Today, you'll still hear cancer patients talk about their cancer as if it's a punishment--if not for religious immorality then for more basic lifestyle choices. So it could have been that. It could also have been that she had her first child at 36. It could have been a lot of things.

I'm just kind of rambling now, so here's the thing (and then I'll get back to talking about giants and zombies and possibly their breasts). Maybe at one point in human evolution, it was important to encourage population growth and, as a consequence, allow those who were reproducing a better chance of survival than those who weren't (another point that Olson raises is that humans are the only mammals whose breasts appear in puberty and not during pregnancy (109) ... in other words, breasts are a sign that we're ready to copulate and increase our population). But now that population is the least of humanity's concerns (well, unless you live in Russia, apparently), can't Evolution broaden what it means to be "fit" to survive? In no way do I think mothers should be punished instead (I love moms, and I think it's important to state that it's not like younger mothers are suddenly granted immunity from breast cancer and all other manner of illness by virtue of their fertile wombs--that's far from the truth). But, seriously Evolution--breast cancer for childless women?! That's soooo 4000 B.C.

And while I'm pretending that Evolution can snap it's fingers and make it so, if I could also ask it to make the polar bears be okay and for our bodies to be made mostly out of chocolate instead of water, that would be great. Thanks!

Stars and a giant

I know you don’t want to. But I also know that you can’t help but wonder whether the contours of her face match yours. Oval. Round. Heart-shaped. Square. You know her hair must be blonde, or red, or perhaps brown--and that her eyes are probably light, or at least lighter. Her skin is certainly freckled, or maybe bronzed by the sun, or likely, pasty and translucent. Really, you have no idea, do you? I think she’s pretty. Not that it matters. And you do know, right? That there have been others besides?

That night that you traced constellations on his face, pressing your fingers gently from one eyebrow to the next and then up and across the curve of his forehead and back down along his chin, did you actually begin to see stars? I know what it’s like. I’ve been there myself. You feel so light and warm it’s like you could be planet-hopping--visiting soft, puffy lands where fat pixies spoon-feed you the gaudiest butterflies that even still are tussling in your stomach. But, now, the feeling isn’t so much light and warm as it is heavy and nervous, right? There’s been a certain sadness inside since he last said goodbye. I know that you tried not to feel like that, but I also know that you couldn’t help but get carried away and that you’d forget your feet and that you’d lose yourself amongst those stars. It’s like that with stargazing sometimes. You get so entranced that when you look back down again, you find your feet are at least a yard away from where you began, and even further away from where he was standing. And when you look back up at the stars, they seem different, don’t they?

When you finally turned off the light that night, your head wasn’t cradled in that shallow hollow between his shoulder and his chest the way you thought it would be, was it? Instead, your back was facing him. Your body, curled, small, and a little cold. His body, spread out across the rest of the bed--warm, comfortable, solitary. A giant could have been sleeping between you there was so much distance. Were you still seeing stars then? And if you were, was it their brightness that kept you up? Or was it something else? Was it the giant breathing down your neck? There’s a story, isn’t there, about a giant who plucks stars from the sky? Does he burn his hands when he touches them? Does it hurt? Does he flinch?

You told me that you told him that night, “You’ve touched me.” And I forgot to ask you whether he knew what you meant. Did he give you a funny look? Did you make a joke? Did you say, “I mean, yeah you did. Here and here.”

The giant, I remember now, didn’t want the stars in the sky at all, but those he saw reflected in a broad pool of dark water. He stooped down, so captivated. They were so much closer than those heavenly stars. And so he reached in, unsure of what it would feel like to touch a star; warm or sharp or delicate. He clutched at the water, but the star he thought to find solid in his fist disappeared and then suddenly it multiplied and scattered on those echoing, concentric waves left by his withdrawn arm. Those galloping stars--they made him feel both sad and giddy.

I know it doesn’t matter, but I know that you’re only thinking about her face because you’re wondering about your own--more curious than jealous. And everything's going to be okay, I think, because that giant gulf that you felt between you was actually a sympathizing friend.

Back to the future

Ours is a forward facing culture. And facing forward supposedly means moving forward, into the future, away from the past. Progress. No regrets. No baggage. The past holds us back. The future awaits.

But what if we have it backwards? What if the past awaits us? What if the future holds us back?

Today on Weekend Edition, Scott Simon interviewed linguistics professor, Ken Olson, about a recent study concerning the Aymara, an indigenous group from the Andean region whose concept of time might generate some rational musing on such otherwise cat-in-the-hat type philosophizing. According to the study, conducted by cognitive scientists Rafael Nuñez and Eve Sweetser, the Aymara conceive of the past as ahead of them or in front, while the future is behind them or in back. This concept manifests itself both linguistically (the Aymaran word “qhipa” means both back and future, and “nayra” means both front and past), as well as physically (Aymarans gesture behind them to refer to the future, and in front of them to refer to the past). In response to Simon’s request to help us understand how the Aymara see the world, Olson asked us to imagine looking out onto the landscape. What is in front of our eyes is what is known, as the past is known. What is behind remains unknown, as the future is unknown.

It’s a strange way of understanding time, especially for a culture so heavily invested in the jargon of “moving on,” “getting ahead,” and “facing forward,” as ours is. We fondly cherish our best memories, yet at the same time, we diligently try to put our pasts behind us. The past can hold us back. The past is over … done with. The past can turn us into sulky and lamenting pillars of salt. Ah woe is me.

I think that in most cases, our determination to look forward into the future is rooted in our desire to command that unknown entity of what might be. If we can predetermine or prefigure the future, then we can make the unknown something that is known, comfortable, and malleable. After all, the unknown is a scary thing … almost as scary as those questionable decisions, irrational actions, and stupid ideas that checker our pasts. But if we can manage to put our missed, hurtful, or unhappy pasts behind us, then we can flee at full speed into a future that is at our command. We can make our future selves better than our past selves by moving on, getting ahead, and facing forward. As long as we can put it behind us, our past becomes a learning experience. No regrets. No baggage. Progress. Growth. Drive. Maturity. Anything else and we’re moving backwards. Living in the past. Going in reverse. Stuck in a pattern. Repeating history. Ah woe is me.

Of course, such forward determination can sometimes, unconsciously, tinge our happy pasts with a sense of regret and sadness. We think, “It’s time I put that behind me” and “I must move on.” The future awaits. I can see it. Smell it. Taste it. And so we let go. Leave it behind. For better or for worse.

Ours is not a wholly terrible way of understanding the passage of time. If anything, it's familiar. We can’t exactly put ourselves into the mind’s shoes of the Aymara. Not in our culture. Not with our language. Not with the spontaneous and mechanical ways our arms move behind us to address yesterday’s events and ahead of us to imagine tomorrow's. But I do think that it might be worthwhile, sometimes, if we can manage it without getting too confused, too dizzy, to look ahead and see the past. And sometimes, to let the future rest, unknown, behind us.

biological clucks

If you’ve spoken to me about Winged Migration or Grizzly Man, you might be aware of the expectations I hold for nature documentaries. So last night, I went into watching March of the Penguins with a critical eye. The film has been both censured and lauded for the sympathy it garners through its anthropomorphized penguins. People everywhere gave their enthusiastic thumbs up, way up, for those cute, downy chicks. Indeed, such strategic heartstring tugging makes me skeptical about the goals and effects of most any film. But oh come on! They’re baby penguins. And when those little, fuzzy creatures with their tiny, tiny beaks and their plump, plump bellies appeared on the screen, I found myself leaning forward on my sofa; the left side of my mouth curled upwards; my forehead went taut as my eyes widened; and oh the kinds of cooing sounds I made! I would take a quick breath in, and then exhale with an “Awwww.” Or I would tsk my tongue once, and then promptly follow through with an “Ohhhhhh.” Should I feel guilty that my heartstrings were playing mad concertos, crescendoing each and every time a tuxedoed bird slipped on the ice?

But then I had to ask myself whether I should judge March of the Penguins by the standards by which I judge most documentaries. One of the film previews included on the DVD introduces us to a Pixarish tap-dancing penguin; and one of the special features is the Bugs Bunny episode in which Bugs befriends the dancing penguin from Hoboken with the top-hat. And we need not look outside of the film for betrayal of the documentary objective; Morgan Freeman tells us, close to the beginning of his narration, that “This is a story of love.” So, no, you don’t watch March of the Penguins to learn about how the digestive tract of a penguin is able to store food for such long periods of time (I mean, if I ate that much food and was asked to walk seventy miles, you can bet I’d be shitting all of it out along the way). And you won’t learn what that milky white substance is that the male penguins produce out of their throats to feed the newly-hatched chicks (when all they tell you is male and milky-white substance, there’s only so far the anthropocentric mind can go). And what distinguishes the calls and chirps that makes recognition amongst mating pairs and their offspring possible? Forget about it. No, you watch March of the Penguins to learn about how much we like the idea of formal-wearing, fancy foot-working birds falling in love with each other. Chilly-Willy, I’m so winking in your direction. Wallace and Grommit, how dare you!

In other words, March of the Penguins is about what we want. So don’t watch it expecting to learn about penguins. Watch it to learn about what you want out of your own life. You like to be around people like you, who share similar goals. You know that amongst these people, you will find a mate. Or you better find a mate, because if you’re one of those unlucky and partnerless ladies, your story isn’t important enough to be told (seriously, do the spinster penguins just go back to sea? Do they dig a hole and die in it? Do they start a blog?). You like to cuddle (have sex). You like it that you can leave the house to have a bite with the ladies while Daddy stays at home to care for the kid (oh and Daddy, you be careful. We’re very, very proud that you’re taking on child-rearing responsibilities, but if something happens to Junior while mom’s away, your story is even less important than that of the spinster). And you don’t mind so much that your gut has become a bit flabby because it means that you now have the cutest ever offspring to keep warm and nurture. Ah humanity.

Of course, I’m very uncomfortable right now for many reasons. My cooing at the baby penguins … does that mean I secretly harbor a desire for offspring of my own? And when I find a mate, does that mean I need to go to the designated mating ground and have a kid? Or if I do decide to have a kid, does that mean that my life becomes an easy set of decisions and actions determined by a list of shoulds and should-nots? Will Morgan Freeman suddenly identify me only as “the mother,” and that guy next to me as “the father”? I felt so sorry for the young penguin parents who couldn’t get their egg to roll from the mom’s feet to the dad’s feet the right way; the egg kind of just rolled around on the ice until it cracked. Along with the spinsters and inadequate fathers, their story was left untold too, but the camera made sure to rest on the image of the cracked egg before returning to the moral families and their displays of masterful egg transfer.

So I don’t think that my main problem with the film is the anthropomorphizing of the penguins; you realize pretty quickly that you don’t watch this film to gain knowledge. My problem is with what the anthropomorphizing entails. If we understand these penguins as humanized, then what it means to be characterized as human, and humans in love, and humans with kids, is so simplified, so limited, so … not human. If the film were also about digestive tracts, and the content of regurgitated food matter, or what happens to penguins that aren’t “fit” parents for whatever reasons, it seems like audiences might not only be able to learn about actual penguins, but also begin to appreciate the complex and variegated nature of nature; penguin, human, or otherwise.

In conclusion, baby penguins are totally cute, but ew, it's not like I actually want one.

Second person

Seattle wasn't designed to get this hot. You know it's bad when your cat is staring up at you with that, "Oh my human, please make it stop," kind of look in her eyes. You tell her, "Oh my kittie, I'm sorry you have fur." And then you try to comfort her by petting her, but that's the last thing she wants. She walks away, her head hanging low, disappointed. You yell after her, "I can shave you if you want." She's not amused.

And then when she's not in the room any longer to distract you, you're confronted with your own discomfort. It's dark outside. The windows are open. Even the fan is on. But the air is sitting and warm. You've recently grown attached to sparkling water and so there's a tall, cold glass of that on the table, which offers some comfort. But then as you reach out for the glass, you realize that the skin on your back has blended somehow with the fabric on the sofa. You become fascinated by the way your back almost peels away from the dampening material when you lean forward. You listen closely for the "pop," but it doesn't happen, so maybe you mimic the sound you wanted to hear with your tongue. Maybe. The playfulness passes to be replaced by worry that the sweat will stick and sit and smell; you're having guests this week. Will they smell your smell? Will they smell?

And you wonder how hot it is in San Francisco. Los Angeles. Louisiana …

You know its just a matter of waiting--it will get cooler and the tiredness will take over. In the meantime, distractions help. You're almost done reading Ian McEwan's Atonement. But Briony seems particularly annoying right now. You know that you're supposed to appreciate the development of her character from the precocious but bratty child she was to the world-weary and heart-heavy nursing student she is. And there are times when you slip into the story; I mean, imagine the guilt if you weren't exactly in her shoes when she's faced with caring for the soldier with the shrapnel in his leg, or the one with the missing nose and cheek, or the french one—half his skull gone, his brain exposed. But then, and maybe it's the heat, you can't help but get annoyed with Briony because you remember what she was like when she was younger and maybe she's just playing out another fantasy of what she thinks her life should look like if she wants to be our heroine. You want it to be about the soldiers, maybe returning to Robbie's perspective. But it's hot and maybe you just need something different to read. Or, for now, to realize more familiar fantasies.

And so you pick up the book you bought earlier today and you realize you should have gotten some more lighthearted reading material because what you pick up is Brian Fies' graphic novel, Mom's Cancer. And, yeah, this one you can't put down even if you wanted to because imagine the guilt now. And you think, I can't write about mom's cancer better than he does, so maybe I should just stick to my bogeys and my pirates. There are tears in your eyes because the story has a happy ending. And then there are tears in your eyes when you read the afterward and learn of another ending. And you've known so many of these endings.

A lot of it is the heat--because heat makes you feel your body just a little bit more than you normally would--but you imagine what it would be like to be like that. To see the seizures, or the fever delirium, or to have to joke about things because how else can you deal with dying. Sometimes you don't have to imagine too far. And then you know it's like you're seeing yourself on the pages in front of you, and then you're standing outside of yourself, looking back at yourself.

Your first person and your second person.

There’s a cat attacking your foot—the foot that’s still a little tender from a couple weeks ago. And you forgive her because it means that it’s cooler now and she has fur and you're her human.