Sweet Things

There is a wonderful bakery around the corner from my apartment. It is well known in the city, and there usually is a line outside. Its reputation is deserved. They make the best banana cake!

This week I watched three young boys enter the bakery and press their faces against the glass cases. They appeared to be second graders. Instantly I could sense the joy, wonder, and anticipation they felt upon looking at all of the sweet delights. The smell in that room is intoxicating. The visuals can put one over the edge.

These boys looked like they might live in the housing project down the street. They composed the only people of color in the room. The leader inquired about the cost of a cupcake, and the reaction was disappointment. His two friends sat down with frowns. One seemed uncomfortable and eager to leave.

The leader continued to review the options and make inquires about prices. Could he buy a cupcake without frosting? Was it cheaper?

As he deliberated, one of his friends walked to the front door, opened it, stood on the threshold, spit his sunflower seeds out onto the sidewalk in a beautiful three-foot arc, and walked back to his seat.

I exchanged a look with the man enjoying a piece of cake at the adjoining table. Neither of us could suppress our laughter. This young fellow's innocent lack of propriety was positively refreshing.

Finally the leader returned to his friends. He had purchased two cupcakes. He ate one and let his two friends share the other one. All of them seemed satisfied.

I felt as if I had lived through a Norman Rockwell scene.

The Event Without a Happening

This year I am grappling with a severe bleeding problem linked to uterine fibroid tumors. There is a whole cascade of events that led to this monthly hemorrhaging issue: oral contraceptives caused a blood clot that led to a pulmonary embolism that led to a year of blood thinning medication that made the bleeding worse.

I met with two surgeons in the past year in an attempt to address this problem. One lost my confidence when he failed to communicate with my hematologist, and I canceled surgery. The other suggested using a progesterone IUD until I was off of the blood thinner and able to have a safer surgery.

Fortunately, I saw my hematologist the day after a particularly bad bleeding episode which expelled the IUD. I was very weak and my INR had shot up due to the great blood loss. She insisted I have surgery as soon as possible to address this problem. For the first time that I can recall, a doctor related my inability to resolve blood disorders to this monthly bleeding problem.

The hematologist recommended a surgeon at her hospital. Everyone pushed their schedules so I could coordinate a surgery by late August. My COBRA insurance expires at the end of September.

I rushed to gather images, wean off of blood thinners, take additional blood tests, arrange to have someone pick me up the day of the procedure, notify the insurance company, and meet with the surgeon and hematologist to get clearance for surgery. I even learned how to self-inject Lovenox -- something I never thought I would be able to do. It was a lot of work.

Despite some minor drama with a persistently low iron level, anemia, and a positive D dimer test (an indicator of too much clotting material in the blood), my hematologist continued to advocate for the surgery and provided detailed instructions for addressing the clotting risk during and after the procedure.

Finally, I got clearance and went to the hospital anxious but glad that this problem would soon be resolved.

When I woke from anesthesia, I was a bit groggy and nauseous but delighted that my long odyssey was over. My dear friend showed up and we giggled as I drank ginger ale and read aloud post-op instructions to "not put things in the vagina for a week."

Then my surgeon entered the room and informed me that she had bad news. She was not able to remove the fibroid because it was too large. To get it out, a different type of surgery would have been required. There were options we needed to discuss at a later time, such as trying Lupron shots or a surgery involving an abdominal incision.

I was shocked and horrified. I would have to write a big check to pay for an unsuccessful surgery and self-inject Lovenox for the next month, yet the problem remained. Worse, I would lose my COBRA and have to resort to some crappy insurance that would probably cover a far smaller fraction of another surgery cost (if any).

Fortunately, I was too groggy to worry about these implications.

My dear friend took me home and fed me bread. I sat on the couch for an hour, and then felt like taking a walk. It was a beautiful day.

Since the operation didn't involve any cutting, I felt pretty normal. We went to the park and hit the Barney's Warehouse sale.

At least the recovery was better than expected.

Stunning

My yogini friend is taking off for Mexico to teach yoga at a spa. I won't see her for a few months, so I wanted to get some time with her before she goes away. I made dinner for her in my apartment. We talked non-stop for about six hours.

The weather is pleasant, so we ventured out after eating to walk to a couple of parks in my neighborhood. To our delight, there was a fantastic salsa band playing on the High Line. A large crowd was dancing. We immediately joined them.

That's how it is with my yogini friend. Each knew the other would want to dance. We dove into the crowd without saying a word.

While dancing I noticed a very attractive man in the crowd. The music stopped and my friend asked that we hang out so she could say hello to someone she knew.

Lo and behold, it was the gorgeous man.

They exchanged greetings and talked about yoga class. He was annoyed that some of the instructors argue with their boyfriends on their cell phones before class, and then preach detachment.

At some point my friend asked him whether he was still modeling. He said he hadn't in the past year because there was a problem. Now he is just teaching yoga for a fraction of what he used to earn.

She asked what the problem was. He shook his head as if it was to complex to convey.

I touched his arm, looked in his eyes, and said "It's because you're ugly."

He's a model. He knew I was kidding, and all calmness and sincerely said, "No, its because of this problem."

He was doing a job in Columbia, and was detained by US immigration when he tried to return to the US. It took a year and a half to settle the issue. In the meantime, he couldn't get any work while in Columbia because "everyone looks like me."

I said, "Everyone looks like you in Columbia? I am moving there!"

He was slightly offended. "No! No! I am not from Columbia!" He pointed to the middle of his chest, "In Columbia, they are only this tall. I am from Argentina!"

Note to self: I must move to Argentina.

As we walked away the yogini told me he was straight. My jaw about hit the ground.