I met a patient one day when I was still an ER tech whom we put into the cast room; an appropriate choice because he was dying of bone cancer. I've smelled bone cancer. It is so singular I can still call it up, 10 years later, at will.
He was black and had five children and a wife and they lived in a car together. But now he was in a hospital in Prescott Arizona in the cast room smelling of bone cancer and it was close to the end of the line. Homeless, and soon his children would be fatherless.
I remember this man, living - and dying - at the farthest margins of society and I think of the lady I met at Walgreen's today who showed me the way to the eyeglass screws.
"If we go to group health, those screws cost $10 each. Here," she said. "This eyeglass repair kit is only $2.99."
I was in a good mood today. I didn't bother to tell her how many of my friends would love to be able to complain about the challenges of group health, but we live on the margins - we like it there, to be honest - and on the margins, there is no group health.
On the margins, cancer can kill without a lot of grace.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Brad from Portland, drop me a line!
I'm working on a story and met a man with a two-tone Newfoundland on a frozen mud trail above Portland. Realized belatedly that he fit in perfectly to the story, didn't get his information; maybe he got mine. So Brad, if you're reading this, drop me a line, erica.ryberg@gmail.com, leave a comment on this blog or call 928-308-7650.
And have a nice Portland day.
And have a nice Portland day.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Reno does double duty as a white morass
Ok. I admit it. I'm writing this post to kill some time while I download some gypsy jazz given to me by a player in Reno. Dan left some iPod equipment behind and I told him he'd only get it back if he came armed with gypsy jazz.
Which I'm currently downloading at the Java Jungle in Reno.
The Java Jungle is a friendly damned coffee shop. It sits right in downtown Reno with mile-high casinos breathing down its neck on every side—a little refuge where I've already met a pile of nice people. I think it might even be a friendlier place than the shops in Prescott. I would have earlier claimed that's not possible, but there it is. Makes me wonder if I shouldn't be friendlier as well, and anyone who knows me knows I'm already pee-on-the-floor friendly.
In any case, Dan was saying that his friends are playing down at the Raven in April. Turned out to be the same band that my beautiful friend Candace wrote about at ReadItNews.com. And please know Dan and Candace both say you should go see 'em if you can.
Reno snowed me in and I'm still not sure I'll be seeing the other side of the Sierras anytime soon. I've sent out a dozen resumes to all corners of the country so far, but I think I'll have to belly up to a few publications to get the jobby of my dreams. Bellying up is, in fact, my dominant reason for being out here. I sort of wish I'd stayed home in Prescott for a few days to mountain bike in 70-degree weather rather than skulking in Reno coffee shops, but the fact is, only a deadline would have gotten my ass out of Prescott. And that deadline was last Saturday.
Still, I'm bummed with the stupid snow. Strong words for a devout snow lover, but there you are. And now, I'm off to buy chains and to call an award-winning editor of a Sedona pub.
Which I'm currently downloading at the Java Jungle in Reno.
The Java Jungle is a friendly damned coffee shop. It sits right in downtown Reno with mile-high casinos breathing down its neck on every side—a little refuge where I've already met a pile of nice people. I think it might even be a friendlier place than the shops in Prescott. I would have earlier claimed that's not possible, but there it is. Makes me wonder if I shouldn't be friendlier as well, and anyone who knows me knows I'm already pee-on-the-floor friendly.
In any case, Dan was saying that his friends are playing down at the Raven in April. Turned out to be the same band that my beautiful friend Candace wrote about at ReadItNews.com. And please know Dan and Candace both say you should go see 'em if you can.
Reno snowed me in and I'm still not sure I'll be seeing the other side of the Sierras anytime soon. I've sent out a dozen resumes to all corners of the country so far, but I think I'll have to belly up to a few publications to get the jobby of my dreams. Bellying up is, in fact, my dominant reason for being out here. I sort of wish I'd stayed home in Prescott for a few days to mountain bike in 70-degree weather rather than skulking in Reno coffee shops, but the fact is, only a deadline would have gotten my ass out of Prescott. And that deadline was last Saturday.
Still, I'm bummed with the stupid snow. Strong words for a devout snow lover, but there you are. And now, I'm off to buy chains and to call an award-winning editor of a Sedona pub.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Erica leaves Prescott and finds rain in Reno
“Pet friendly
Cookies
Free Internet”
- Hotel Sign in Tonapah, NV
Er sez: Cookies?”
In the last two weeks, following a not-unwelcome layoff, I packed, sold and stored my entire life.
Friday's yard sale was resplendent. I made a pile of money and the last truck pulled out at 1 pm with the last bit of my life loaded in the back. Incredible, or as my roommate Carol put it, auspicious. I'm in Reno now in a downtown cafe plotting my next move. I'll be a reporter somewhere, preferably at an award-winning publication with a strong, savvy editor.
Leaving Prescott was wrenching. I have to push through that pain to keep my eye on the future, but it's difficult. Like jumping into cold water. I had to do it and do it quick (life sorted, sold and put away within two weeks of being laid-off) and it's a deep shock to the system. Who in their right mind would leave everyone they love to seek their fortune? Me and every fairy tale hero, I suppose.
My mama always said, though, that nothing is written in stone or blood. I can always come back. That softens the pain a little, but not much.
The drive through Nevada was exotically weird. I crossed Hoover Dam away from my beloved Arizona saying the best prayer I could muster and crying my eyes out. But then I looked up and saw that Homeland Security is building a bridge up high across the gorge and well away from the dam and it was all lit up and little men (they looked little) in orange vests were crawling all over it—it being an incomplete arch suspended by wires—and I was like....whatzat? Like a little kid, I forgot to cry anymore. I'm guessing that's what this trip will be like. Struggling to let one season go, and then remembering that change is exciting, and that air that carries a new scent is always intoxicating.
When I passed through Vegas, it was Vegas, shiny and vulgar. My old schoolmate Lance lives there with his wife Natalie, and together they extolled the virtues of a place where possibility is the singular god, where anything can happen as long as it can turn a profit. A cool sentiment, but still, I gotta say Vegas is not for me. Too much hyper-stimulation for one thing.
The next day, I drove through an old mining town called Goldfield. It's in the middle of freakin' nowhere and the gas station there is also the diner. The creamer they serve is powdered. Goldfield is the kind of place that was absolutely kicking in the 1800's and the worn-out vestiges of gold rush largess remain. Goldfield is one of those worn-in spots, one of those places where the stakes are just not that high and so things are allowed to settle in. It has lots of tall, expensive brick and stone buildings and cute little cottages half-falling down – signs of life remaining just like alligator junipers whose normal growth aspect is one of healthy half-death. It's the kind of place I'd be happy to live.
I think of my last, fleeting boyfriend, the one who liked to find and sequester gold in the grand old tradition that sprouted places like Goldfield. There's nothing left from us but a polished, carved piece of jasper in my wallet and a chest full of doubt and relief, but the memories are fresh and they follow me across Nevada, a half-heeded whisper.
Forgive the digression, but it's my opinion that death is the most powerful and possibly the most positive force in our lives. We have to say no to far more than we're able to say yes to, and still everything ends. Those points of termination provide a preciousness and an urgency that will push me soon enough out of Nevada and into the Pacific Northwest. I've got my rain jacket donned, my résumés in hand and and a bellyfull of hoka hey – the sentiment that it's a good day to die.
Cookies
Free Internet”
- Hotel Sign in Tonapah, NV
Er sez: Cookies?”
In the last two weeks, following a not-unwelcome layoff, I packed, sold and stored my entire life.
Friday's yard sale was resplendent. I made a pile of money and the last truck pulled out at 1 pm with the last bit of my life loaded in the back. Incredible, or as my roommate Carol put it, auspicious. I'm in Reno now in a downtown cafe plotting my next move. I'll be a reporter somewhere, preferably at an award-winning publication with a strong, savvy editor.
Leaving Prescott was wrenching. I have to push through that pain to keep my eye on the future, but it's difficult. Like jumping into cold water. I had to do it and do it quick (life sorted, sold and put away within two weeks of being laid-off) and it's a deep shock to the system. Who in their right mind would leave everyone they love to seek their fortune? Me and every fairy tale hero, I suppose.
My mama always said, though, that nothing is written in stone or blood. I can always come back. That softens the pain a little, but not much.
The drive through Nevada was exotically weird. I crossed Hoover Dam away from my beloved Arizona saying the best prayer I could muster and crying my eyes out. But then I looked up and saw that Homeland Security is building a bridge up high across the gorge and well away from the dam and it was all lit up and little men (they looked little) in orange vests were crawling all over it—it being an incomplete arch suspended by wires—and I was like....whatzat? Like a little kid, I forgot to cry anymore. I'm guessing that's what this trip will be like. Struggling to let one season go, and then remembering that change is exciting, and that air that carries a new scent is always intoxicating.
When I passed through Vegas, it was Vegas, shiny and vulgar. My old schoolmate Lance lives there with his wife Natalie, and together they extolled the virtues of a place where possibility is the singular god, where anything can happen as long as it can turn a profit. A cool sentiment, but still, I gotta say Vegas is not for me. Too much hyper-stimulation for one thing.
The next day, I drove through an old mining town called Goldfield. It's in the middle of freakin' nowhere and the gas station there is also the diner. The creamer they serve is powdered. Goldfield is the kind of place that was absolutely kicking in the 1800's and the worn-out vestiges of gold rush largess remain. Goldfield is one of those worn-in spots, one of those places where the stakes are just not that high and so things are allowed to settle in. It has lots of tall, expensive brick and stone buildings and cute little cottages half-falling down – signs of life remaining just like alligator junipers whose normal growth aspect is one of healthy half-death. It's the kind of place I'd be happy to live.
I think of my last, fleeting boyfriend, the one who liked to find and sequester gold in the grand old tradition that sprouted places like Goldfield. There's nothing left from us but a polished, carved piece of jasper in my wallet and a chest full of doubt and relief, but the memories are fresh and they follow me across Nevada, a half-heeded whisper.
Forgive the digression, but it's my opinion that death is the most powerful and possibly the most positive force in our lives. We have to say no to far more than we're able to say yes to, and still everything ends. Those points of termination provide a preciousness and an urgency that will push me soon enough out of Nevada and into the Pacific Northwest. I've got my rain jacket donned, my résumés in hand and and a bellyfull of hoka hey – the sentiment that it's a good day to die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
