Letter to Dr. M.

The Southern Review, Autumn 2014

Dear Dr. Maddingly, I’m writing
to let you know I took

seriously your admonition
not to go running for at least

three weeks until whatever the
vitreous jelly stuff that’s

making those gray shadows tree branches
flashing lights in the peripheral

vision of my right eye gets settled. In order
to prevent serious retinal problems

that require surgery. I did the
following alternate exercises:

riding—you did say I could
go riding—my friends and I laughed

at the stable about how you probably
OK’d riding because you don’t

know what it is. Most people
seem to think it’s sitting on a

horse! Ha ha! We love picturing
those people on a horse—or

my favorite—we love picturing
our bosses on horses!

How about riding a horse
in a tornado? I forgot to

ask about that. Restraining the
horse I just hopped

off of during the actual
blast as she stood on her

hind legs and waved her
forelegs. (I was in an indoor

arena, a barn—that counts for
something, right?) Or tornadoes

in general. Or rescuing
horses in a debris-strewn

windy pasture in the dark
after. Who are hysterical

and afraid. I hear today
the other side of the

arena was “badly damaged”—
would that be “torn off”? I didn’t

even see it, though I heard
a splintering crashing noise

that activated the
“This could be it” idea. My

therapist asked what I was
thinking. I said I was concentrating

on taking care of Ruth’s beloved
Vaydran, who is a pet who is

sweet, if obsessed with food,
and was frightened. I think

I thought I might end up under
a pile of lumber (my personal

euphemism, I guess) with her.
And I thought okay but was

ashamed that I had for this
one stupid time only not been

vigilant about warnings and even
more ashamed later when I

learned there had been twenty-five-plus
tornadoes in my area. That’s when

I learned shame would
probably be with me

at my death—my
default setting. Saliva

tears snot and the sense that
I’d done something irreparable.

The other thought in there
somewhere was that my accounts

were cleared, fairly, and “my
side of the street” was

clean. You see I was thinking
of my friend Karin who lay

in cardiac critical care
on life support—but with her

(heavily sedated) brain intact—
I was pretty ass angry about

that and not thinking one
speck about my retina

and its goo.
And then, Zumba—you didn’t

mention. I did it Saturday
after I’d learned about the induced

coma and today
after I learned she had died.

I went to Indianapolis to see her
yesterday. I forgot about

my retina! I swear
she knew me—my voice—

and was responding with
her eyebrows forehead

and chin. Had the nurses lightened
up her pain meds, or . . . ? I told

her I thought she would
make it. Denial has

its value though it does
make me forget to baby

my eye and to think
strictly of the letter of

the law rather than
the spirit when it comes

to your restrictions. Zumba is
fantastic! It is pure joy.

I knew it was the totally
right thing both times I

went. I tried not to jump.
I did the tossing yes

and a lot of pelvic
thrusting—fabulous—

it made me think of when
I was twenty and took modern dance

in a storefront on Magazine
Street in New Orleans with

a six-four sexy guy teacher and a live
conga drummer. My legs were

so long—as tonight—it
took me a split second

longer to swing them around
and up and down and I had to

compensate. The whole street
could see us and I didn’t care.

I’m in that mood now
too. Sixty and going to

get a shorter haircut so I can do more
sweaty things and wash it

in the shower anytime I
feel like it. So I can smell

like horse as often as I get
the opportunity. I truly

hope the Jell-O
is settling or recongealing

or whatever it’s supposed
to do. I’ll be in to let

you shine that huge lens
with the shocking

light behind it in there
and have me swivel

my eye to each of the numbers
on an imaginary

clock face to check it. Like you told
me to do when I was

in a week ago. Only a
week! (Look how hard

I’ve tried to obey.) And two more
to go. I don’t think I’ll

be able to invent
anything else to bend the

rules. Joy, Dr. M. Joy! The body!
I love your soft hands on my

face. Your voice. I’ve always
loved you. More about

that later. Yes, I’m still
seeing a few shadow branches

and twigs dangling around
my visual windshield. In the deep

dark of my right peripheral
vision, some brilliant meteor showers.

Let me tell you, Tom (may
I call you Tom?), I got lucky

twice. The tornado.
And landing in my friend’s one

conscious window. No one
can explain that. Her sighs,

the movement of her chin,
her raised eyebrow and

her wrinkled forehead. The
sighs showed up on the

breathing monitor and there was
occasionally a skipped

heartbeat (“not atypical”
the call nurse said). Karin, I waited

for Joe, the nurse I liked,
“your” nurse, to return from

lunch because I felt the nurse
in the hall screwing around with

a laptop was not adequately
solicitous. She said some woman

managed to get through on the phone
from Michigan. The woman said you

were driving by one day
and saw her Chow attacked

by some pit bulls—and stopped and
saved him/her. She heard you

were ill and wanted to inquire.
I didn’t tell you. I wanted

you to myself. I inscribed a cross
on your forehead as a priest

taught me to do a long time
ago, then apologized—

you weren’t big on God.
I had two lucky opportunities.

In the cross hairs of
bad weather and the Cardiac

Critical Care Unit. I don’t
know why. I don’t

believe in a personal favor
kind of god. Love

and Godspeed to you Karin.
And Dr. M., Tom, I’ll try

not to get in any more
trouble—will take it all

in the hips, rather than jumping
up and down, in Zumba,

and ride a horse just by sitting there
as you must have envisioned—will

see you in two weeks, after
the holidays, the travel,

my friend flying along beside
me, as she did in life, I don’t

doubt, and you somewhere
waiting with your clock face,

your lovely kind voice and
soft steady hands, peering

into my eyes’ dark depths
with your “opthalmoscope,” I

just found out it’s called, its
searching magnifying light.