CASE WORKER

“If you have some daily anguish from some cause that’s not really your fault — a rotten family, bad health, nowhere looks, serious money problems, nobody to help you, minority background (I don’t have that — a WASP — but I had other things), rejoice! These things are your fuel!

- Helen Gurley Brown

I read this quote from a review of a Helen Gurley Brown biography in the New York Times. I feel better. It gives me a lift. Like a strong cup of coffee.

I bike down to 1 800 Postcards near Canal street. We need more post cards for our short film!
I'll be driving to the University of Ohio on Friday to see a showing of the short.

A road trip to a Midwest University in Spring. I'm excited.

Another Feledenchrist session with Matty.
(By being in touch with your body and breath, you experience the moment with more clarity.

At work NYU calls about doing paid classroom work and...

I call that registered nurse back. I find out he's a case worker.
I find out it's a good thing to have a case worker. They help you organize your thoughts and help you come up with plan of action. They have access to resources.

When I get Richard on the phone,he tells me that he doesn't think I need a case worker quite yet (if I am going to work and biking around the city).

Now I'm trying to win him back.

He asks me about my walking and my living situation and my finances.
I'm plain and upfront.

My situation must sound pretty dour because he quickly agrees to open my case. Richard handles complex cases. He was going to push me off to a less serious case worker but after our mini-interview, he decides that he should be my case worker.

It concerned him that I live alone and have no immediate family near by. That I'm single.

(I find out Richard (who is calling from California) has never been to New York.

We decide that my next order of business is to get my living will in order. A priority.
He gives me the name of the website to go to for New Yorkers. yikes.

And, to get back to a PT. One that is in my network so that no extra charges are incurred.

I flirt with Jason at work, (a little). I take time out to do my foot exercises. I read The Heart of the Matter by Graham Greene.

I bike home and open my new laptop that came in the mail today and take that medication for the second night.

GUEST OF CINDY SHERMAN

In the morning I look over "Eric is Winning" on the web.
It makes me anxious. The little I read is all about toxic metals in products and living organically.
My apartment building was built over a chemical dump.

They still do testing for toxins.

I get a continual trail of smog-dirt from the Lincoln tunnel.
Should I get the hell out of here?

I call my friend Merrill and ask her if I should leave?
She is mildly irritated because I have always wondered about New York.
(After 9/11 I became a lifelong citizen)

We talk it out. I'll go to Key west for a couple of weeks to decompress. Drink herbal tea.
It's near my parents. I can do both in May.

At work. I am done with work. It is tiresome and stupid.
But Sally shows up and we smile and talk about art.

She tells me she saw the documentary, "Guest of Cindy Sherman" in the Village. It is finishing it's run this week.
I decide to go after work at 10pm.

I mean that’s why you live in New York, right?
You can go to a film at any time of night in any neighborhood and eat any kind of food.

I bike to the wrong theatre at 12th and 2nd but I have superb dumplings at Plump Dumpling on East 11th for $6.

I bike to the correct theatre on University and 12th.

"Guest of Cindy Sherman" is right up my alley. It's dishy, entertaining and mildly educating.
The movie reminds me that the city is a scene, and you either join the scene or you don't join the scene.

It startles me that what passes for glamorous New York City nostalgia is my recent past history.

Turns out, the art world is nonsense. Cindy Sherman is blessed. Her artwork is good but it is only AMAZING (to me) because the art scene made it iconic. When you see her work. the recognition factor warms your insides and you feel good and well fed. Because you recognize it. But her work is hit and miss (for me).

However, she is pretty and charming. Merryl Streepish in manner.

She followed her artistic impulse. This fires me up. No more trying to fit in. Create my own vision.

I begin taking the drug last night. It wasn't a problem. Just makes you sleepy.

MY GARDEN OVER THE LINCOLN TUNNEL SUNDAY APRIL 19

BREAK A LEG

On Tuesday, my agent leaves a message for me.

"First of all, I want to know how you are. Are you feeling better? And the next I want to know is if you are well enough to see the casting director for AT&T tomorrow at 9:30 in the morning. They want to match you up with a guy but he's in rehearsal for a movie so they want to read you early."

I'm at work. The message manages to neutralize and subtract the entire office.

I ask (someone) if I can use a conference room to make a private call?

The conference room is like a movie set. One entire wall is a window facing the lobby. A black (one way) scrim can be detonated at one's discretion. I push that button and I'm in a hushed vault.

There is a long elegant birch wood conference table with a black phone unit in the middle, surrounded by eight swiveling black leather chairs.

Recessed lighting pours eight equal columns of theatrical light.

It’s freezing.

I sit in the center chair alone.

I think of what to say to my agent.

I consider not calling back but I remember that there is no parent or supervisor or partner or wife to fall back on. I am alone in this. I decide the only way to go, is to be candid without sounding pathetic.

My agent takes my call right away.

"Hey sweetie, how are you?"

I tell him-

"I'm good!"

in my clear forced upper register.
And it is not true.
My voice is taking on characteristics described on the web. Yikes.
Sometimes (to me) I sound drunk. I have to take several breaths to get one full sentence out. (Not always) I have a hard time saying anything quickly. I sound nasal. (Sometimes).

But,

I tell him- "I'm up for anything but how much do they know?" (about my odd situation).

See… a few weeks ago I spilled to this agent. I told him everything on my iphone in the bathroom at the Cupcake Cafe.
I was on hold for a different spot. I'd been evasive. Booking out.

So he knows a lot but not everything.

" It's neurological, and I've been tested a million times. They don't know what is it is, really" (I emphasized and still hold onto hopefully).

So NOW my agent tells ME,

"all THEY know is that you aren't feeling well these days. I think the whole thing will be easy. A goofy spot. A couple of lines. Meet tomorrow and if it IS too much, it will be clear to you and you can get out of it."

Here I am exposing myself to my agent. I've actually told my voice over agent that I have trouble speaking. I also tell him that this production house is like a family to me in some ways. I am WAY over exposing myself, but once I start talking, I simply don't know how to stop.

I set my alarm for 7 am for my 9:30 appointment on Thursday.

Getting up, is like going to bed at midnight and waking at four to go to the airport. Even with coffee, I feel feverish and exhausted. I slept seven hours but these days I sleep ten.

The pre-booking audition goes well (I think). I read with a guy in a small booth on 36th and Ninth Avenue. He sounds like the younger brother from EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND. And I sound like... I'm not sure, but I KNOW I sound different from him which might create instant comedy? We record the spot several times. It could be a lucrative job. 32 spots for AT&T. And they're only reading us.

Deana, the casting director, seems pleased. She is super nice and super supportive to me.

Later, she tells me she can see I'm walking oddly but she says I sound fine.

(It was supposed to book Friday, I never heard anything).

After the audition, I bike home. I get a flat. So I walk my bike home.
But I feel good and hopeful because I pulled through. (I'll concentrate on voice-overs!)

I'm drinking coffee at home (staring at piles of dirty laundry and dishes) and I get a message from my insurance company.

Anxiety.

I call back right away. I worry it's about a delinquent payment or maybe its about my request to up my therapy visits.

"Hello? is this Richard at Blue Cross?"

"Is this Mr. Roberts?"

"Yep."

"I was given your number by Columbia Presbyterian. How are you feeling today?"

(He's syrupy nice and understanding. I am suspicious. He sounds like he's trying to soften "the blow". I assume he's going to tell me that they 're terminating my insurance.

"I'm okay... I'm GOOD!" I say trying to sound like I've got troubles but I'm toughing it out. Trying to sound like someone you might admire.

"Well good" Richard says. "How are you getting around these days? Let me explain. I'm a registered nurse and your Doctor felt it might be a good idea for us to meet."

(shock)

"Oh. Well. How am I doing? I just got back from an audition and I got a flat on the way home so I had to walk my bike home and later I'll be biking to work like I do every night. So. I'm fine.

I mean... my feet are tired ... but I mean ... I don't need a nurse."

"Oh well, good. Hey why don't we do this... why don't you take down my number..."

I interrupt.

"You know, the thing is, the thing is, is that I don't have a diagnosis yet so ... I'm sort of counting on this not going anywhere."

"Of course, of course. Well. You know we work with Screen Actors Guild all the time so... I guess.. break a leg. Do they still say that... break a leg?"

"Not really." ( I lie for some reason) They DO still say break a leg... but I guess not really for voice over auditions.

I hang up and feel nervous.

I remember the doctors and the nurses saying...

when I ask why no-one offers any hope for my improving- the kind and gentle PT told me,

"it's because we've experienced this thing going a certain way."

Hmmm.

Later that night I go to church and am reminded that as a man I hold dominion over my health.

I decide.

Thursday afternoon, I get a call from my (on camera) agent. She wants me to go out on a Vitamin commercial. Network. Friday morning.

I decide to go.

Friday morning. The audition room is crowded with four or five casting people.

I'm supposed to pick the vitamins off a shelf, remember what it felt like to feel young, and then jump onto a grocery cart like (a little boy) and glide off camera.

I feel like I'm in my bad (made for TV)-(disease of the week) movie.

The bald irony of the situation is pitiful.

I look at the grocery cart like it might kill me.

"Um. Do I have to actually jump on the cart? Now?"

"Uh, yeah. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Well... my foot hurts."

" You'd be fine at the booking. Right?

"Sure".

I do the spot a few times (without jumping on the cart) and I'm terrible. Wooden. (Let's get it over with) is my motivation.

I almost call my (on camera) agent afterwards to tell her my whole saga. (I want comfort and sympathy for my poor performance) BUT. I think... no. wait.
Tell her later, when you're feeling more okay.

I stay home Friday night and drink wine and create a group page on Facebook for my short film.

Saturday morning I go to work. It is a glorious (mountain air) New York day. There are only a few each year.

Work feels easier because of the stunning weather.
And I realize that there are two people interested in me; a woman Sally, and handsome Iranian Jason.

I can tell. I know.

Sally is a magazine writer and has brought me samples of her work.

Jason is way too attentive to me and at the end of the day he waits for me to leave. He times it. So we can walk out together.
But I still have more work to do so I rebuff him.

I feel like I look like I'm eighty years old. So I'm delighted and surprised at the attention.

And I wonder if I'm more attractive because I have zero energy and am so passive.

(You know?) like when people lose their voices, they get these weak scratchy voices, and (all of sudden) they seem sexy and more dynamic?

Maybe I have an attractive, humble, low voltage glow of illness about me.

TEN MINUTES

Wednesday.

I am going to be late.

I have an appointment with Matty. She's a good friend and former dance partner. We created a dance piece set to the music Juego Zagat called "Spies in Love" (many years ago). Everyone loved it. We performed it often.

Now Matty is Feldenchirst practioner.

I bike down the west side highway. The wind is blowing north (against me).
I take it personally.

There's a Housing Works thrift shop across the street from Matty's apartment building in the west village.
I love thrift shops.
Matty finds me there.

We scale the 4 or 5 flights or her building. The rickety building consists of tiny studios with non-working fireplaces all renting for $1500.
I climb the stairs like a toddler. My hands out in front of me. Paddling up the stairs.

Matty's work with me is microscopic. Feldenchrist is about teaching and listening to your body. It's intuitive.
When you make a small movement with your arm or foot or leg, observe how it effects the rest of your body, your breath. your thoughts, and later I realize, my voice

We talk about how learning through the discipline of lonely focused self discovery is (really) the most powerful.

In all disciplines.

It is that lonely commitment to being by your self and shutting out the rest of the world. The RISK! That this lonely work is worth it. It takes confidence and a leap of faith. Belief that the solemn alone time working on your body, your mind, your writing, your crafts, your piano skills, your book keeping, is just as valuable and worthy as the colorful, loud parade outside.

I bring Matty a portion of a chicken casserole I made in my new (Crate & Barrel) casserole dish.
She gives me an herbal helmet that has been found to be effective with MS and Parkinson’s.

She had given me the literature-instructions weeks ago.

I still have it.

Where?

Taped into a scrappy (to do) book? Shelved in a box? or a bookcase behind a stack of magazines I still to need to read?
(that New York Times magazine with the Neil Labute interview), The New Yorker, Men's Health - this year's 100 Things To Do! (to look your best and be your healthiest!)

Ha!

These sexy headlines don't hold sway over me (anymore). Eat the right things and lose that gut!?

I'm trying to hang onto that gut!

You realize that all of those healthy magazines are terrible nonsense... because in the end it's about being gentle to your body, listening to your own individual needs. Those magazines are an excuse to stare at pretty people and sell ads.

Of course.

We go over (as we often do) the various therapies that could be cool. There is a Tai-Chi Gong workshop coming up.
Maio Facial, cranial, so many therapies to think about! (To be confused about)

(I think about my friend Janet who, when she was ill, kept receiving books from friends and relatives about alternative therapies for cancer. She told me that she wanted to tell all her well wishers, " How 'bout this? ... why don't YOU read these books and then give me an outlined summary.
So I gave her my SAG screeners and a book of photography)

Matty and I talk about the power of mediation. Ten minutes a day. Ten minutes is all it takes. And I realize that everything takes a solemn, focused, lonely, ten minutes a day.

Matty's next client arrives and I bike to S'nice on Hudson and eat broccoli and cauliflower for $5.

Then I bike to Soho and go to CAFE CAFE.
I have a small coffee and a sugary bannana walnut muffin for about $4.

The guy behind the counter (25-ish) notices my iphone cover. We have an intimate talk about iphone covers.

(I had this same iphone cover conversation in the elevator at work yesterday. And will have another one later at the coat closet at Church. We are all looking for easy ways to connect to each other. The iphone cover conversation is ideal and easy for making a connection)

When our conversation about the iphone cover is done (hard plasic vs. soft rubber), the counter person and I are embarassed, because he has to go back to being a counter person and I have to go back to being a paying customer instructing him

"I want SKIM milk, not WHOLE milk."

I try to soften the blow of my damands because we're fellow iphone owners with concerns about the iphones covers. We've bonded.

At CAFE CAFE, I read a book about the wonders of guided imagery for people with HIV and cancer.

Another lonely, focused, 10 minutes (to add to my day).

Directly across the street, Uma Thurman is shopping at a super glamorous kitchen store.
There is a gaggle of photographers waiting for her outside.

I take pictures of the photographers (taking pictures of Uma) (with my iphone). They enjoy this.

I meander around Soho and marvel at the new construction.

I love Soho.

I've never been one to shun wealth.
And Soho reeks of rich, (well to do) family life. It feels grand and old world. The stores have to (work it) to survive the rent down there. I appreciate this.

At Church. Christ heals. All is perfect. No errors.
The power of G-d is always with you and G-d's power is a calm, peaceful one.

KILLING GIANTS

Tonight, I'm told the story of David and Golliath.
David didn't use a sword or armor to bring down the giant.

He used one stone and aimed well.

I already have what I need.

PET STORY

The next time I see Dr. Wang, I am late.
But I call first. Turns out I have the wrong day as well.

Such is my mind these days.

We go into his drab office and he begins the pre-needle interview.
He asks me if I have been doing my foot exercises.
I tell him I have. Ten minutes a day.

"Good, I can see that you've made progress."

He reminds me (however) that I must close my eyes and concentrate.
That I must shut the door and take a moment and say to myself,
"now I am to begin my foot exercises," and THEN... begin.
Using both feet at the same time to teach my lame foot to behave like my stronger foot.
I must take care. I must be solemn and pay respect.

(I picture the flower from the Little Prince. I am to think of my right foot as that needy conceited rose that the Little Prince loves)

I tell Dr. Wang I have a cat that insists on sleeping on top of my feet every night.
No matter how much I move, no matter how much abuse this cat receives from my kicking and turning over, the cat patiently waits for me to come to a resolve so that it may (again) nurse my angry feet.

My feet are the cat's needy flower.

This story creates a smile across Dr. Wang's face that so shifts and distorts his likeness (it startles me), a smile he can't shake, a smile that changes and grows so leisurely, we have to wait for it to finish before we can move onto the business of sticking needles into me.

(the power of a pet story)

After the session, as I lie on the bed (like a child being woken up by a parent) Dr. Wang stands before me and describes (with great animation) his successes helping people walk again.

I enjoy his story telling. It's inspirational and I feel safe and taken care of.

And I like Dr. Wang's plain direct approach.

Like,

I tell him that I feel tired and flu-ish.
He tells me that I'm dehydrated and need to check that my urine is clear.

Simple as that.

When I speak to western doctors or PT's they casually offer that that the symptoms I describe are signs of the disease.
(Don't say that! (I think) don’t offer up more evidence of doom!

Before I leave Dr. Wang’s, I use the bathroom and realize that this building isn't from the sixties, it's from the forties. (The fixtures are that confident, thick ceramic, sturdy kind, the kind that they don't use anymore.

As I leave, Mrs. Wang is working at a laptop next to the unplugged, vintage desktop from the '80's.

Later, I feel better. Exuberant.

EMAIL

Charlie,

How are you?? I am guessing not great – but perhaps
spring is lifting your spirits some? I find as I get older that Spring is a
very powerful drug for me.

What are you doing with your free time? Would you like to
go to a movie or something? Get a drink? Sit in the park? Can I bring you
some vittles? I am guessing that getting to the grocery store is increasingly a
pain in the butt.

Have you heard from Cee ? She sent me a disquieting email
about breaking up with Jonathan, and now she’s in CA and not returning calls
(to me).

Love,
Katelin



Katelin
I'm good.
A little sore and tired.
Sometimes angry, but good.
A lot on my plate.

I get up and bike to various appointments and go to work which I like-hate.
Frustrated because I've had to turn down paid acting work. I NEED money but my voice is tired and slow.

I just bought $250 worth of kitchen stuff from Crate and Barrel. And I am trying to blog about my adventures.

This sunday the short film I made is showing downt town in east village land.
I WANT to make another short and WILL as soon as I settle into some sort of recognizable plan of action.

I e-mailed Cee to bring the kids to my place for a weekend. An offer.
I got a fragmented email back. Short ... "I'll call you sometime"

That's how I respond to people.

I wonder if she's okay?
I guess she's at her brother's?

Hope YOU are swell.

Isn't life interesting?

Charlie

LETTER

Dear Dr. Ranjan,
I hope you are well these days.Thank you again for writing that letter. I called my insurance company but they had not received it yet. Sorry to bother you with this. I wonder if you would fax it again. Please fax it to 818 944 4423 attention Barbara Kesley.

Thank you Dr. Ranjan,

Best,

Mr. Roberts

APT. COMPLEX WEST 60

MAGIC ACT

I see Topal, physical therapist to the stars!

He works out of a red brick 1950's apartment complex on west 60th near Columbus Circle. I've passed it a million times. Now I am inside it.

Topal's office looks like a talent agency.
There are framed glossies of ballerinas, pianists, along with the likes of Al Green, Kathleen Turner, and Marlo Thomas.

The Russian receptionist (blond mop of hair, zebra patterned dress and diamonds on her mules) asks me to fill out one sheet of paper.

She is impatient. Either she's fed up with her job, or she's seen my type before.

Then Topal enters and takes me back to his work room.

He is high energy and I am very clearly low energy.
It would be unlikely to get "a rise" out of me these days.
So as Topal takes stage, I am his mousey stage assistant.

Topal's therapy is a magic act. He doesn't ask me questions, he tells ME answers.

It's nice to have someone take charge in high energy mode. And he should be in high energy mode because his fee is $250 for an hour visit, half of which he isn't present, his assistant takes over.

"Chaz, you're having problems is your right hip!"

"No", (I say) it's Charlie, like Charles. And my problem is a bit more extensive than that. I explain.

We go through the ritual of tests. The arm strength test. The balancing on one foot. The push down on the knee test.

My weaknesses both startle and invigoarate him.

"lie down on your back, relax!"

I lie down on his especially designed bed that can come part and move in different directions.

He presses his fingers into my internal organs and says "bereeeathe, don't pooosh)

His assistant joins us and my legs are being lifted and pointed in different diractions while the pressure points in my neck are being worked over.

I am the centerpeice in a three man magic act. Judy Garland warbles triumphantly from the Palace in the background.

" I am not Christ, I can't create miracles but I can make you feel bet-taire"
he says, his Russian accent thick and theatrical.

We talk about Mary (the friend who recommended him) He talks about her brother who drowned in Connecticut three of four years ago.

"Her brother, wonderful person, wondeful person. You know, (he confides as he pushes down on my diaphram and massages my inner neck) I think he knew he was going to go. I think he knew he would be leaving. Wonderful person."

They ask me to move my feet (in a way that I can't anymore) and then THEY move my feet FOR me.

"Ahhhh... that feels nice," I say.

Topal is concerned about my course of action and tells me to go see my Rabi. I tell him that I'm going to the Christian Scientist Church.

"ahhh, that's good, that's good."

" And you need to see Al- tare-no-tive doctaire, do you hear? Al-tare-no-tive doctaire." He looks me in the eye the second time to make sure I’m getting him.

(you're alternative- aren't you? I think but don't say)

I tell him, " I don't have a specific course of action but maybe just by feeling better in general, by seeing therapists like you , I can arrest the problem."

"Yes! yes, Yes! Deedn't you go to my website?"

The session is concentrated and energetic and pretty good. But a lot of money. My insurance may cover some of it.

They leave me alone to dress and attend to another patient.

An elderly man. He's talking about how when he was a young man, he used to drive across the country, There were no super highways, you drove through town to town. And because there was no air-conditioning , you had to drive with the windows down. It would take six to seven days.

"How many mile eeez that?" asks Topal or Topal's assistant.

"Thirty-five hundred miles", answers the older man.

(I memorize that number because when I was a young man, I biked across the country and people always ask me how long it took and how many miles, but I can never remember the number. Now I know.

It's 3500.

I dress myself and take a picture of the bed I've been lying in (with my I-phone)

The Russian blonde receptionist has to take care of paperwork. She is b*tchy. I am to pay the entire fee now and my insurance company will pay ME back. Do I know how to write to the insurance company?

I ask HER to take care of that. (Isn't that your job?!!!)

She agrees to do it without looking at me or cracking a smile. Like she was caught.

She asks me if I know the fee?

"Yes, $165."

"No, no, no, no, no, That was a long time ago."

"That's what's on your website," I say with out accusation. I'm just reporting what is on their website.

She doesn't respond.

I make another appointment for two weeks from now and wonder if I'll keep it.

DRESS REHEARSAL

I go the theartre, a dress rehearsal for MARY STUART at the Broadhurst on Broadway.

http://theater2.nytimes.com/2009/04/20/theater/reviews/20mary.html

I recognise people that I know in the audience. A couple of actors on stage. (playing small roles)
(I've lived in New York 24 years. It's a small community, really)

The produciton has traveled from the Donmar Warehouse in London. It stars Janet McTeer and Harriet Walter.

I watch people walk and run and kneel.


I'm not sure I want to go the theatre anymore.

LANGUAGE PROJECT

I bike to an acupuncturist appointment early Friday morning.

Spring is in the air.

The ride across 42nd Street is tiresome.
But my ride up Madison is an easy glide.

Dr. Wang's office is in an odious apartment building between Lexington and Third. The neighborhood is busy and unpleasant.
I am greeted by an unhappy doorman in a small third world lobby. There is a framed Jasper Johns poster by the elevator.

(I had the same one. I found it in my trash-recycle room)

They tear down a factory building from the 1850's across the street from my apartment buidling (it still had the brass fixtures by the doorways to wipe your 19th century boots) but these oppressive apartment buildings prosper.

I arrive at Dr. Wang's with a xeroxed copy of my insurance card and my check book in hand (ready to pay the $65 fee).

(My terrible undiagnosed disease has become my project. I am in project mode!)

At reception, Dr. Wang's wife greets me from a small desk that holds a old fashioned computer from the 80's. (It wasn't plugged in)

There is a mirrored wall behind Mrs. Wang's desk and three folding chairs in a row (near by) for patents.

I'm ten minutes early and boorish because I'm frustrated with the insurance nonsense.

I am ever so surly handing Mrs. Wang my paperwork.

Mrs. Wang's English is terrible.

I explain to her in loud simple English that the "1" in 1 Riverview (my address) is the number "one" not the letter "L".

At my day job, (on Madison and 29th) I call Chinese shareholders on the phone and most of them can't speak English. And they're rude on the phone.

"Not hee-ah! No own stock. Whot stock!??
(loudly)

These frustrating phone conversation bonds (all of us) cubicle workers.

"I got another one "no own Stock!!"

The cubilcle workers laugh, comment, identify, bond.

So Mrs. Wang's language skills sets me on edge, even though she is kind and polite.

I hear Dr. Wang (in another room) talking to a patient about Hasidic women and their wigs.

The patient says "Their own hair is considered very beautiful, so beautiful, that it should be seen only by their husbands."

Dr. Wang says something or asks another question. He is curious and a good listener.

He finishes up with his patient and it's MY turn now.

Dr. Wang looks around 60. He is thoughtful and tired. As if his work has both exhausted him and kept him alive and curious.

(I bet it's (a calling) to be a Doctor-Acupuncturist in China. I bet Dr. Wang had no choice).

He takes me into his plain office and we begin our verbal pantomime.

He asks me to walk around the room. He points out that I march as I walk.

"Your knees go up and down."

"Yes (I say) I need to do this to walk or I'll trip over my right foot."

He asks me to lift one knee at time. He pushes down on each one as I clutch the wall.

I sit.

He asks me to raise each foot.

And so on.

I've been through these same evaluations (over and over). Doctors forget (from appointment to appointment) and I am asked to perform the same tests.

This annoys me.

(Remember me from last week? Don't you keep notes?
That's RIGHT! I can't lift my right foot or move my toes or walk in a straight line and yes I know it’s terrible and serious. I know this ALREADY.)

They see so many patients they forget (I guess), but this reminder of my loss is the melancholy note that begins all of my appointments.

He DOES measure my thighs and calves with a sewing measuring tape. He looks worried.

(This is a new test for me)

And then,

I tell the tale of Charlie Roberts.

The initial sprain (playing tennis),last April. The tripping walking through the city. The exhaustion of walking to work.
The podiatrist. The lime, arthritis, and HIV tests.
The MRI's, and more blood tests, the EMGs, and more EMGs, the spinal tap.
The last evaluation.

Dr. Wang concentrates. Interupting with questions and listening to my answers intently. Like he might be get a pop quiz later.

I speak plainly and use large gestures
(this must seem annoying and condescending to him)
but I REALLY want to make my story clear.

When I talk about Columbia Presbyterian I gesture with my pointed hand uptown (north), and when I talk about NYU I point (south) down town.


Near the end of my story Dr.Wang asks,

"Does your family know?"

And I am reminded of the gravity of my situation.
But I detach and nod yes. (I have to resist fear and get some workable ideas)

I explain to him that there is no ready course of action. I have to create my own. Which is why I am here!

Dr. Wang sees my noble commitment and is more excited to work with me.
He takes me into a little dormitory of rooms with cots in them.
The walls are plywood, the doors paper thin.

I undress.
He asks me why my upper body is so muscular and my legs are so thin.

(I don't know what to say except that they weren't, at one time. More sadness for me to put off for a rainy day)

I lie on my back. He puts long needles into my legs with skillful expertise. There is no hesitation. The doctor is throwing professional darts. Each needle puncture creates a sudden shock of pain that dissolves in seconds. It feels right.

He puts more needles in my arms and then turns off the light and shuts the door.

Lying there, my mind is noisy but calms down like a dog in a locked room (barking and scratching) until sleep... at last.)

I sleep for 20 or 30 minutes. And it's over.

In the small reception area, Dr. Wang gives me the name of a massage therapist and instructs me to take B12.
I must see him twice a week. I have to do foot calisthenics twice a day.
Heat will help with circulation.
I must be careful not to exercise too hard. Listen to your body.

(I am told this again and again from various professionals)

I am a good student to his teacherly advise and am concentrating on listening (and while I listen) (I remind myself to listen!!!)

I write things down in my MUJI notebook (legibly).

I am in project mode.

I say goodbye to the Wangs and as I say goodbye I fall backwards onto the small reception desk almost knocking over the lifeless computer.

10th CHURCH