Memoirs, Projects, a Scary Doctor Visit

This past month I have been piecing together a manuscript that I hope will be published by someone who can recognize the overlap of memoir and self-help. I have been so completely wrapped up in it that I temporarily forgot the wise words of poet Chris Ransick who warned all of his "students" in a Lighthouse Writer's class, that eventually you have to stop revising and revising and let it go. I think writing a very good poem or, in my case, a very poetically written memoir, can never be finished. I can polish it one thousand times and I will still wake up at night and think,"Oh, I should have put in this, or reworded that." So far, I have given my draft to poet friend JD Frey; Scott and Mary Jean; Liz & John; Barb, and my son Aaron. So far, I have had feedback from four of them on the actual writing and JD gave me insight as to marketing and the strategy of establishing a platform. Sigh. I am in love with my own work and it is temporarily calming my thoughts about my upcoming visit to that Denver neurologist Dr. L, who I never really liked and who holds the key, so to speak, to whether or not I am a good candidate for deep brain stimulation (DBS). Even the thought of someone poking around in my brain while I am conscious is enough to make me want to vomit. I have never wanted to go back to the University of Denver Hospital because when I'm there, I feel like I'm a rat being experimented on. Dr. L makes me feel like that too. The worst thing about disease is that you begin to feel like your body no longer belongs to you. It becomes public property. Sometimes the doctors invite interns into the room—cherub-faced girls and boys who sit and stare at you like you are some kind of circus oddity. This time, Dr. L will not have room. I am bringing my own small army: my mom is flying out here in a few days, my husband is coming and my best friend, Liz, who is an excellent advocate and hears things that I sometimes miss.

Well, Happy Thanksgiving to you too! I must stop this dark brooding. It's supposed to be a happy day. And, it was. My husband and I had turkey with Liz & John, their three kids, my sons, Kristin and Barb. Aaron & Barb ran around snapping photos of everyone. Liz had her new floors to show off and we had five kinds of pie. The Broncos stomped the Giants which probably plunged my papa into a foul mood, and best of all next Thursday, after my mom has left and I know my fate concerning DBS, I am meeting with a girlfriend who does stunning photography (http://www.bethphotography.com/#a=0&at=0&mi=2&pt=1&pi=10000&s=9&p=11) and we are going to collaborate on producing a book that explores the stages of a woman's life. Ah, I can hear the universe out there yawning. Such a thing has been done a million times before. But my voice is still my voice and I am in the moment always with this disease of mine. I think I have a little edge, a little razor-sharp edge that keeps slicing into me, bleeding me for words and more words.