Mercy Medical Center, Mount Shasta: Adrienne is recovering from the Komodo Kitty bite, or rather she’s recovering from the vile and pernicious bacterial infection, which, untreated, would have made her a dead person by today. It’s been pretty hard on her.

For one thing, Dr. Miller has installed tiny tubes inside her fingers which drip gorilla-cillin down into the infection, and she has these two valves which must be reset every hour. Drip on one tube, then drip on the other tube, then drip on the last tube.

Even on a Serta-brand mattress, waking once hourly for carburator adjustments does not make for a good night’s sleep.

And the lack of sleep is taking its toll.

Towards morning today, exhausted, life was looking pretty bleak. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” she asked me.

I told her I didn’t think she would die, because in fact the hand is on the mend. I think it’s the wipeout from the powerful antibiotics and the lack of sleep that make her feel grim.

She’s also oppressed because she’s had about all she can take of being wrapped in plastic tubes, machines that beep, blood being taken, stinging veins, gastric turmoil, no appetite, and she can’t get her hair washed.

She just feels like she can’t take any more. And to make matters worse, we heard yesterday that Kaiser, from whom we have our insurance, was making arrangements to haul her in an ambulance down to San Rafael, for further tests, and another long hospital stint far away.

I have implored Dr. Miller and Dr. Gunda to persuade Kaiser to forswear this trip, if possible, but they’re warning her to prepare to travel. A large packet of copies of her x-rays was sitting on the bed. Gloom prevailed.

She was apologising for, as she described it, coming apart. I tried to reassure her that it was mainly the fatigue making her feel so overwhelmed, and I remembered something that happened to a buddy of mine.

His name was Tom and he ran an answering service near Ventura some years ago. He got smart and sold the business and bought a Grand Banks, which is a large and fancy powerboat, and last I heard he’d sailed off to adventures. If the Pirates of the Carribean didn’t get him, for all I know he’s sailing still.

But this story was back when he was an air-force pilot. As part of their training, they had to learn to survive, with nothing but half-rations and one sleeping bag, behind enemy lines. So to help them learn, they’d be dropped, pilot and co-pilot, way out in the boondocks, and they had to make it through the miles and the cold, and all without being spotted.

His co-pilot was a rugged fellow named Jim, and they made good time the first day, slept fairly well in some found shelter that night, and the next day got pretty lost and it turned nasty cold. After a long, a hungry, and an exhausting day, they’d finally rigged a lean-to for shelter, and there was no help for it but they’d need to sleep together for body heat.

Tom crawled into the shelter, into the sleeping bag. “Come on,” he said.

Jim paused. Tom lost patience.

“Come on, dammit!” Tom said, “We’ve got to rest.” Jim paused. He swayed. Tears ran from Jim’s eyes.

“But, but,” he said, “But that’s my side!”

. . .

I am delighted to report that the nurse just announced that reason has prevailed. Assuming no last-minute complications, Adrienne need not be hauled to Kaiser. Adrienne will be released tomorrow.

I kissed the nurse.

And Adrienne’s daughter Celina just arrived, to wash her hair.

Mercy Medical Center, Mount Shasta: I mean, bad kitty! Bad cat! It happened like this …

Adrienne was taking care of a kitty for some friends. The kitty’s name is Kitty, which is odd because when my brother David was a child, he also had a kitty named Kitty. That’s some kind of coincidence!

So as to prevent cat conflagration, we kept Kitty out of the house, which means he’s been batching it with me in my office, and hanging out in the garage.

The trouble started when he escaped a few nights ago.

He scooted under the deck. I failed to check immediately, and apparently he ran out into the driveway. He comes when Adrienne calls him, so I asked her to. She failed to find him beneath the deck, but found him in the street and picked him up.

She was about to place him back into my office, but she didn’t see our own cat Percy sitting there. When she began to put Kitty down, he figured that she was feeding him to Percy, and he freaked out and bit her very badly.

She came with tears from the pain. We tried to make it bleed more to get any germs out, and put band-aids on it. The next morning, however, it was badly swollen, so we resolved to visit the 5pm drop-in clinic, because it was getting worse instead of better.

They sent her to the emergency room, where she got an intraveinous drip with antibiotics, and some more to take, and we went home.

And it got far worse.

On her follow-up the next afternoon, they admitted her to the hospital, and an orthopedic surgeon inserted some thin tubes to get bacteria-killers down into her fingers, so she was very uncomfortable with a lot of tubes in and out.

Other than childbirth, she’s never been in a hospital, but she got to spend Christmas Eve there for her first visit. Running a high fever and dopey from morphine, she dozed fitfully through the night.

I told her that it wasn’t so much a family Christmas that had turned surreal, but rather that she was having an adventure, and that for her first visit to the hospital, she’d already made arrangements for her daughters to come and visit.

She was starting to feel better, and had finally dropped the fever this morning, but this afternoon when her daughter Layla arrived and we went to see her, she’d had a bad relapse, with raging fever, lots of pain and nausea.

I feel so sorry for her, though I’m grateful that our town has such a nice hospital with skill folk working there. Everyone has been very nice to her.

In the meantime, our traditional Family Christmas Dinner of Chinese Food will be held without her.

Bummer.

From The Onion: “If someone you know is too drunk to drive, demand that he let you have his car keys. If he refuses, pull out a gun and demand the car keys again. This also works with people who are not drunk, and whom you do not know.”

Want more handy tips? Visit The Onion’s Tips Section.

Schoolyard, New Hampshire, 1954: Adrienne was in first grade, and the other little girl smelled like dog poop.

“You smell like doog poop,” Adrienne told her.

It didn’t go over very well.

In fact, later that day, the little girl’s mother confronted Adrienne out in front of school. Forty or fifty children and teachers were watching. The little girl’s mother was angry.

“Did you tell my daughter that she smelled like dog poop?” the woman demanded. Adrienne looked up at her.

“No,” Adrienne said, “No, I didn’t.” The woman was flustered.

“Are you sure you didn’t say that?” she demanded again.

“No,” Adrienne said, “No, I didn’t.”

As the woman stalked away, Adrienne became aware of three things. First, that what she’d done, telling a lie, was really bad. Next, a kind of triumph that she could fool them all. Last, a kind of pity that they could be so easily duped.

I can remember telling a lie, in my grandmother’s house. I’m no longer clear what it was, but I remember the bitter-sweet feeling of being able to mislead the grown-ups, but anxiety that I’d need to remember to keep this story straight … forever.

As it turned out, time erases the need.

This morning I’m driving to some doctor’s appointments in Marin, where we have Kaiser coverage. It’s a days drive, and we need to change our insurance, but for now, I must drive. Adrienne told me, “If Celina (her daughter) wants you to bring presents up, it’s OK.”

I looked at Adrienne in puzzlement.

“I mean,” she said, “I won’t peek. I would never peek.”

Since only yesterday afternoon, she’d peeked inside the wrapping on a present from one of her ex-clients, I was dubious. On the other hand, this was great teasing material.

“You’d never peek?” I said, “When you were peeking just yesterday?” It didn’t phase her. Not one bit. Women. Made for deceit.

On the other hand, I can remember, at age eleven, how badly I wanted the little plastic spacemen figures, and how this one box rattled just like plastic spacemen. I couldn’t wait; in secrecy I peeled the wrapping open, slid out the end of the box, and pried it open. Plastic spacemen!

Aha! I thought. But then, the anxiety of wrapping it back up so my mother couldn’t tell. Then, wondering if she knew. Then, on Christmas morning, opening the spacemen, trying to act surprised and pleased.

It ruined the pleasure of plastic spacemen. I’ve not peeked since. Peeking, I decided at age eleven, carries its own punishment.

I can recall, earlier, perhaps at age four, standing in our miniscule living room. My mother’s brother was Dr. Hurn, she was his nurse, and we lived behind the doctor’s office. We had a large kitchen, small bedroom and bath, and this tiny living room recaptured from a storeroom.

There I stood, hardly older than an infant, perhaps four years old, startled because I’d just got a strange picture in my mind. I’d suddenly imagined that all grown-ups were a kind of dark angel, and that they could see me, even when they weren’t there in the room. It was a startling and frightening realization.

I could see them, somehow, even though they weren’t there … and they could see me.

When we’re very young, and have so little judgement, we make decisions that affect our lives all down the stream. But they’re not exactly like decisions. They’re more like perceptions. We see that life is a certain way. And all our subsequent thoughts and beliefs are built on these primitive building blocks, these decisions that happened as perceptions, made with so little knowledge. And because they’re so basic, it’s eternally difficult ever after to find our way to question them, because life just looks that way.

You can imagine that, given my perception at age four that grown-ups can always see us, it was a great relief at age eleven when I discovered that I could mislead them. And the wonderful thing was … they didn’t know.

Now, as an adult, it’s clear that neither perception was exactly right at the time. Times I thought they knew, they had no clue. Times I thought them ignorant, they surmised. Still, both realizations were turning points, of some kind.

Adrienne tells me of her friend Jenna, now nearing ninety. Jenna says that one Christmas when she was young, sitting beneath the tree some days before Christmas, she was overcome with curiousity, and unwrapped every package under the tree. She just couldn’t wait. Of course, she was quite unable to wrap them up again.

I don’t know what happened then, but she said that from then on, she just accepted that she couldn’t wait, and would unwrap presents before Christmas. Her husband Maurie worked out a Christmas solution.

Every year he found her two presents. One to put beneath the tree, which she’d invariably open before Christmas. And another which he’d hide, so she had something to open, come Christmas morning.

Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, December 17, 1903: After a string of glider tests, Orville launches the world’s first airplane, as Wilbur watches.

Steering by shifting his weight, Orville is aloft for 120 feet. It took 12 seconds to change the world.

New Hampshire, Summer 1955: Adrienne’s mother dressed her in a leotard and pink dancing pumps, and they drove to Meadow Hearth. From the road, unseen, but rounding the footpath through the trees, they came upon the meadow.

On the far side of the clearing was the stage, with mirrors and exercise bars extending back into the room behind. The woman who ran it hauled the backdrops up from New York city. An artsy-type, wearing dance clothes and a headband.

There the little girls learned to dance. Toward the end of the long summer, a recital, and in the twilight, with the meadow filled with parents and friends, and fireflies flickering through the dark beneath the trees, the girls danced and presented their play.

Does the dance ever end?

Fifteen years ago, Adrienne told me this story, describing how magical the place was, how she sometimes seemed to see glimmering fairies brushing through the leaves, how the light was golden and the music floating across the meadow.

Ten years ago, when I came to see the house she’d rented for herself and her daughter Layla, I noticed the small sign of carved wood. Secured to a metal upright, it stood in a corner of her garden. “Meadow Hearth” it said.

And did the home become Meadow Hearth? Adrienne worked so hard, year after year, planting the bright flowers, fixing up the house. The landlords couldn’t have cared less. I moved in; her daughter moved out. There were ups and downs and a neighbor on the sun side proposing a construction project. It came time to move away.

In our new home in Mount Shasta, I notice in a corner of the garden, a small sign of carved wood. A bit more weathered now, but still proclaiming “Meadow Hearth”.

Are we in Meadow Hearth?

My personal belief is no, we’re not. I think perhaps Meadow Hearth is far away, further than miles, further than rivers, further than roads. There at the far side of memory, Meadow Hearth remains, bright, perfect, shining, as once upon a time.

But the dance goes on.

The Fairmont Hotel, Dallas Texas, 1964: As perhaps you know, there is a rivalry of many years between the football teams of University of Texas in Austin (the Longhorns) and Oklahoma State University in Stillwater (the Oakies). It’s a big deal.

This year the teams were neck and neck, and the final game was held in Dallas. I drove down from Denton with my girlfriend Carolyn to spend the evening with Dr. Martin and his family for the big game.

The Fairmont Hotel is old and snooty, so that’s where they stayed. I’m lukewarm on sports, but I was looking forward to a great meal in the hotel restaurant.

We started down in the elevator.

Everyone in the elevator, honest Texans all, were all a-jabber with excitement about the game. The elevator kept stopping at floors, adding more people going down to the restaurants, looking forward to the game.

The elevator was growing packed. Folks became quieter.

The doors opened on floor three.

A very tall brunette, very stylish in a black and white dress and rather a large hat stood at the door. Pinned to her bodice was a cardboard sign.

It said, “To HELL with Texas.”

Nobody said a word, just soberly watched her. She seemed to shake herself slightly, then stepped into the elevator, and turned to face the door.

Just as the doors closed with a soft thump, from the rear of the car, a man spoke up in a friendly voice.

“Hiya, Oakie,” he said.

San Francisco, 1978: The answering service had expanded, driving me out of Apartment #8. Rosie and I moved up the hall to Apartment #5. I was working out, and staying thin.

Actually, I personally believe that riding the motorcycle, which is both very physical and kind of dangerous, kept me wide awake, and staying slim was pretty easy.

I saw a lot of women, too.

And then one day I had a wart on my nose.

When I was a kid, I’d got a wart on a finger. That was frozen, cut off, and stitched up. A few years later, another on a knuckle was treated with radiation, which made it very unhappy and it went away.

And now, when I was getting plenty of dates, there was a wart on my nose! Not like it was hidden away somewhere. Right there on my nose, as if scouting where I was headed for.

Not attractive, no.

I decided that I didn’t want a wart on my nose.

I decided to make the wart uncomfortable, so that it would go away. I decided that I wanted it to drop off my body.

Every day, in the morning and again in the evening, in the bathroom of Apartment #5, I stared at the wart in the mirror. I touched it with my finger, and said — with lots of intention — “I want you to extend out of my skin, turn into a ball, and fall off.”

Every day, morning and evening, I focussed as best I could.

In a couple of days, the skin around the wart changed shape. It began to protrude from the skin, and then, at the base, grew thinner. Finally, one day it just fell off.

My nose again proud and happy, I returned to my busy life.

I hate to be rude, but some visitors are just unwelcome, and that’s all there is to it.