This is My Body, This is My Blood

Eerie Canal

A couple weeks ago I ended up with an outer ear infection--commonly known as swimmers ear-- most likely a result of soaking for long periods my new bathtub. Not one to immediately seek Western medical attention, I tried a few homeopathic remedies--the first being to fill an old sock with heated table salt and lay it under my right ear. My mother swore the hot salt would draw out  infection  I don't know about the method's curative qualities but the warmth did ease the pain and removed one mateless sock from the pile of renegades in my bottom drawer.

When the pain worsened my friend J suggested I let her pour a little warm olive oil down my eaustatchian tube. She'd read somewhere that  coating the inner ear with oil will heal  the infection and the warmth soothes the pain. That might be true, but I should have checked the temperature before letting her pour the scalding "remedy" into my ear as I lay with my head on her dining room table. Screaming ensued, followed by endless apologies from my well-intenioned friend.

My grandfather used to inhale from his curvy pipe and expel the tobacco smoke into my ear when we were kids and as much as I abhor cigarette smoke, I still love the smell of pipe tobacco thanks to the memory of his gentle earache treatments. S tried hotboxing my ear after taking a pull on his tiny pipe, but it just wasn't the same. Memories of my towering seven-fingered grandfather were replaced by memories of smokey basements filled with  bad poets and stoned dropouts. And my ear still hurt.

Eventually I took myself to the ER and got fixed up with an antibiotic and  some Vicodin. Yeah, well, I tried all the natural stuff and it didn't work, so shoot me. And when my son, J, ended up with an outer ear infection the following week, I trotted him right down to the health cllinic where they were nice enough to squeeze him between scheduled patients. Unfortunately the only available space was a gyno-room and when I tracked him down after filling out paperwork, found him wide-eyed--surrounded by cross-sectioned vaginas, diagramed penises, and godforsaken photographs of horrible venerial diseases in various stages of digress. Adding to his horror were the speculum and swabs neatly laid out on the counter.

"You need to move to the table so the doctor can examine you," I said.

He pointed to the stirrups with knitted socks dangling from the ends. "I'm not sitting there. I know what happens on that table."

"They change the sheeting between patients, dummy."

He stayed fastened to the doctor's stool. "I don't care. I'm not going to sit there."

When the doctor finally entered, she poked a light in his ears and tsked. "You put any bubbles in your bath?"

J nodded.

"You know," she said, "The ear canal isn't all unlike the vaginal canal."

J physically jerked, made a face at me that said, She did not just compare part of my face to a twat and promptly pulled his head away from the doctor. The comic in my brain contain the urge to blurt out, "Eusatchia is the new vagina!"

"It's true," she continued. "Lot's of girls and women get infections from soaps, perfumes, bubblles, bath salts, etc. It messus up the Ph balance."

Eventually my trauatized son and I left with a prescription for an antibiotic (no Vicodin) which I promptly filled. Two days later my own ear infection returned. I wasn't about to take more antibiotics so I made for Rite Aid to find an OTC medication.  Passing by an aisle towering with pads and tampons for which I no longer have use, I headed for the ear treatments. As I stood stdying wax removal sytems and various swimmer's ear remedies, I remembered the kind doctor's words.

Are you getting ahead of me yet?  Yes, I returned to the "feminine" aisle and yes, I did purchase MonoStat and I indeed did squirt the stuff in my ear and no, Roz, I cannot hear people coming. In fact, I can't hear a damn thing with this crap in my head but I'm glad the doctor didn't compare ears to anuses because if I'd used Preparation H  I wouldn't be able to hear for shit. Har de Har.

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Aged Whine

The years teach much which the days never knew.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

is this how it starts--
this sliding away of brain cells
like change down the sofa cushions
hidden away in dusty recesses--unseen
but not unmissed?

Take this morning, for instance
reaching for massage oil
you pump liquid soap instead
an easy mistake, maybe
but later you're making a point
--or trying to--about famous people
in politics,when suddenly the name of that actor 
(you can see his face) turns to vapor
before reaching your tongue

you squint real hard as if
you might squeeze the name
from behind your eyelids
well, you know who I mean, you say

it's not just the memory, no
it's the body, this body
once lean and strong and sexy, my god
how it thrilled you to own it
before you began waking during the night
right arm aching, fingers numb
the wood floor like gravel
beneath your bare feet each morning

as you stumble to the kitchen
groaning--ow, ow, ow
no one hears you complain, though
because the bed is empty
no lover waiting for your return
no coffee delivered by gentle hands
no dent left by his body
in the crumpled sheets

and you're okay with it, really
measured it all very carefully
the weight of love against
this solitary life, their neediness
against your need to mold each day
with your own hands, hands that remind you
of your mother's now, folded
across your chest, listening to your own breath
as you wade through a hot flash t
hen bolt upright, eyes wide
Martin Sheen!
   
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