Black Eye: Escaping a Marriage, Writing a Life

“J Jumped for It”

Early March, a little like spring, at last. I took my Standard Walk today, an hour-long circuit over the hill and through Hoyt Park. I wanted to check on my favorite pussy willow, a huge shrub, like a small tree, eight or ten feet high. Each spring, it puts out the fattest, softest “pussies” I’ve ever seen. Today, its yard was a giant frozen puddle, smooth as a skating rink, and the buds were enclosed in shiny brown sheaths, just a little gray showing through. I have a special fondness for pussy willows, maybe because they were the subject of my first published poem. (Or maybe they were my subject because, even in second grade, I had a special fondness for them.) I still have the poem, clipped from the mimeographed Tele-Falk. But I don’t need the clipping; it’s the only poem I’ve ever written that I know by heart: Today I looked out in the snow And what do you think I saw? I saw some pussy willows grow Out there in the cold, cold snow . . . n Wednesday evening, June 25, 1986 There is nothing like seeing Martin Shapiro to make me feel I am getting somewhere. Stu is so confused and upset by not knowing how to respond—to Martin and to me—it is a delight to behold. It is about time 193 “J Jumped for It” n he realizes he does not have all the answers! I think he may eventually learn something from the experience—and we will all benefit. Because I felt sorry for Stu and good about myself, I suggested before he went off to race that he not get too tired. He seemed pleased at my taking the initiative, but after the race, he sat in his study, depressed and upset because“you’re only interested in making love when we’re seeing a psychiatrist.” I said,“I am only interested in making love when I feel we are making progress and I have some power in the relationship.” I also said that I’d told the owner of the Rowen Street house that it was the right house,but the wrong time. n My annual checkup with the oncologist looms, and even though I am now more than fifteen years past my diagnosis of Hodgkin’s disease , the anxiety grows as I approach the appointments for blood work, X-rays, the meeting with the doctor. Yesterday’s mail brought the latest issue of Surviving!, a newsletter for cancer survivors. Just before bedtime, I read an article by a woman who had a miraculous recovery from a particularly virulent form of breast cancer. Later, in a dream, my breasts oozed an ominous, sticky substance that I took to be a sure warning of imminent death. But I don’t need doctors’ appointments to remind me of my mortality. In recent conversations, I have forgotten the names of colleagues , the titles of books, the subject of the radio program I produced last week. Maybe the increased forgetfulness—or my increased awareness of the same old forgetfulness—is tied to Helen’s death, to the strokes that caused her devastating memory loss. Until I was in my late thirties, I was sure I would get multiple sclerosis, that I would lose physical capacity and even my sanity just as my mother lost hers. Cancer trumped that fantasy. But now I wonder if I’m losing mental capacity, as Helen did. This afternoon I walked to the drugstore to pick up my prescriptions for synthetic thyroid hormone and for Fosamax. The radiation therapy zapped my thyroid; I have been taking thyroid pills since I ”J Jumped for It” 194 finished treatment. The Fosamax treats the bone loss that set in after menopause, induced by chemotherapy when I was thirty-seven. I refill these prescriptions every month; every month, I remember why. When I got back from the drugstore, I found e-mail from Norcroft . Would I like to come back for a week in June? Each year they draw the names of four past residents from a hat. Would I like to come back?! Who gives a fig for mortality? I’ve won the lottery! n Monday, June 30, 1986 I have spent at least half an hour staring at my bulletin board with the announcements David once lettered for casseroles I made for a...