tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69512947035008640802012-01-25T21:06:40.830-08:00A story about madness, mayhem, and mother love<br>P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comBlogger541100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-91008838988795362792012-01-19T11:30:00.000-08:002012-01-19T11:34:42.043-08:00

‘“Personally,’ he said, ‘my great ambition is to count all this’—he waved vaguely at the treasure around him—‘and possibly sort it into piles.”’--The dragon in Jason Gardner’s Grendel1. LongingI’m going to try to set this down faithfully, without concern about whether what I write is literature, or if the dangly earring he wore from one unpierced ear at the fire circle should symbolize latent

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-2070316251680800882011-10-18T08:56:00.000-07:002011-10-18T13:17:24.655-07:00

‘“Personally,’ he said, ‘my great ambition is to count all this’—he waved vaguely at the treasure around him—‘and possibly sort it into piles.”’--The dragon in Jason Gardner’s Grendel1. LongingI’m going to try to set this down faithfully, without concern about whether what I write is literature, or if the dangly earring he wore from one unpierced ear at the fire circle should symbolize latent

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-29999718291251137062011-10-18T08:41:00.000-07:002011-10-18T13:58:41.908-07:00

As you may have surmised, there have been problems. The publisher wanted to make some changes that I disagreed with, and there was a falling out. But then there was a reconciliation, and now we are tentatively trying to work together again. The result is that after four or more years of publishing various versions of this story here, and trying to get this book in print via a publisher in the UK,

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-9016482543241807342011-07-12T07:49:00.000-07:002011-07-12T08:02:40.805-07:00

After running into Trilby outside the bathroom, Max spent the rest of the day in a state. He didn't know what to think of that wild-looking red-haired girl. They’d caught her with his iphone, but she said she didn't take it. Would it be stupid to believe her? He wanted to. Very much. Of all the pretty, interesting, sexy, and even dazzling girls he’d noticed on campus his first day--and there had

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-5381482022087756482011-06-26T13:49:00.000-07:002011-06-26T14:23:43.660-07:00

Once she was alone outside, waiting on the steps for her dad to pick her up, her mind cleared. It was a beautiful spring day, and two birds were singing in the giant elm tree that shaded the campus. The traffic was thin out on 19th Avenue, and the air was tinged with salt from the ocean that lapped up against the Great Highway, just 20 blocks away. A piece of foil from a discarded gum wrapper

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-58283347844515653072011-06-16T10:54:00.000-07:002011-06-16T11:02:38.564-07:00

Trilby saw the new boy jogging up ahead, his bushy brown hair flapping on his forehead each time he made a stride. His long legs made him naturally faster than she was, and she had to work to catch up with him, but she didn’t mind. She was full of energy after her victory, and thinking about the gratitude the new boy was going to feel for her when she gave him back his phone. The sound of her

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-38552827876833556822011-06-09T10:47:00.000-07:002011-06-09T10:59:17.500-07:00

Trilby was fast asleep in her bed on the morning of her 16th birthday when the little icon she hangs from the door to her closet started shooting off sparks. The icon is a silver image of a naked woman--a universal woman with no face or hair, just the rounded breasts and hips that signify her gender. She has a name. According to the decorative stamp glued to the back of the piece of wood she is

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-40610298357488616062011-06-02T19:22:00.000-07:002011-06-16T11:33:10.001-07:00

I am a writer, photographer, and journalist based in the San Francisco Bay Area. I'm trying to get all my work online, and also upload ebook and paperback versions to Amazon. Here's my current plan. First, you'll need to go to the Home page (link to the side) to find all the links I'm about to describe.Trilby Awakes is a new venture into the young adult fantasy genre and a work in progress. I

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-44058984637015406452011-05-26T13:28:00.000-07:002011-05-26T13:59:30.435-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe night before Jo was scheduled to meet her surgeon (“Oh, you have a surgeon now!” her friend Karen exclaimed, as if Jo had purchased an expensive hat), she woke at 4 in the morning and wondered what the doctor would do with her breast. Would she want to “remove” it (take it somewhere else, perhaps)? Or could she make, merely, a “large area excision,” as suggested by

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-92121627361600644072011-05-19T13:21:00.000-07:002011-05-19T13:49:40.205-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThey kept Eddy in the hospital for eight days. When Jo and Larry arrived at the ward Friday afternoon to pick him up, he was dressed in his street clothes and standing expectantly at the nurses’ station.“Hi, Mom and Dad!” he said cheerfully. “Are we ready to go?”“I guess so,” Jo faltered.“There are some forms here that you need to sign,” the nurse behind the counter

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-29495872531758982862011-05-14T09:44:00.000-07:002011-05-14T10:15:19.335-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartBack in the dressing room, Jo found she couldn’t pull on her clothes fast enough. Out in the lobby, she pulled Larry out of his chair.“How was it?” he wanted to know. But she shook her head and kept her mouth closed until they were outside the office. “Let’s talk about it later,” she said then. “It’s visiting hours at the psych ward. Let’s go see Ed.”Now that they knew the

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-21831947297149944162011-05-05T15:16:00.000-07:002011-05-05T15:24:22.872-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartJo’s biopsy was scheduled on Monday. Larry hadn’t been with her to a doctor’s appointment since their children were born--19, 18, and 14 years before. But she asked if he would take her to this one, and he agreed, a bit perplexed by her need. After they arrived, Larry sat in the front waiting room near the patronizing attendant while another worker took Jo to the back, gave

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-65800051768906332882011-04-28T16:33:00.000-07:002011-04-28T16:52:38.274-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe next day she was back in my clamshell chair, so I knew she had forgiven me for taking liberties. What’s more, she arrived at the office bearing gifts: two lattes and some gingerbread she claimed to have baked herself (I was dubious). “I know you don’t want me to pay for these sessions, but I figure you deserve something for listening to my tale of woe,” she said,

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-44716857418224378532011-04-21T11:31:00.000-07:002011-04-21T11:54:31.801-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartAfter talking continuously for 50 minutes, Jo stopped. Her eyes usually looked they had in high school⎯bright and curious, intense⎯that’s how I had recognized her in the supermarket after not seeing her for 20 years. But that afternoon, when she told me about her son’s breakdown, they looked empty. I felt helpless to comfort her.“That’s a lot to go through,” I offered.“Yes.

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-89303029749344358482011-04-14T08:59:00.000-07:002011-04-14T09:37:01.829-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart“Are you sure you want to hear all this?” Jo asked in a plaintive tone. “Of course,” I nodded. "How am I going to counsel you if I don't know the whole story?" “We could talk about something else. Music for instance. What kind of music are you listening to these days? Do you still play the piano?” she tilted her head to one side and gave me a look. “Are you flirting with me

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-31681489554070531362011-04-06T23:26:00.000-07:002011-04-06T23:49:46.418-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartWe sat in silence for a moment after Jo told her mammogram story. Then she brightened."Have you ever heard that old cowboy saying, 'He's got his tit in a wringer?'" "Yes.""It's so strange that cowboys would invent a saying like that, because it's prescient. That's exactly what having a mammogram feels like.""Really? I can't imagine it.""Really. It's awful. And a

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-41090535450119397742011-03-30T20:50:00.000-07:002011-03-30T21:02:57.274-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe mammogram Jo was able to schedule a few days later didn’t go well from the outset. When she checked in at the Women’s Center in the Sisters of Infinite Beneficence Hospital, the receptionist wanted paperwork she didn’t have. “Do you have the referral from your primary care physician?” the receptionist asked cheerfully. She was young and blonde and wearing blue scrubs,

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-55862688584323947822011-03-24T07:14:00.000-07:002011-03-24T07:37:33.001-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartIt took two 12 more sessions just to hear the whole story before Jo walked back out of my life. But I didn't see that coming. I made a commitment. I cleared my calendar. She came every day. Her words spilled out in a rush. At the start of the second session, I pulled out a recorder. She pursed her lips and frowned at me from under her brow. “What’s that for? Are you

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-69860520521652718852011-03-17T10:12:00.000-07:002011-03-20T09:20:20.674-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart She is a 45-year-old woman, mother of three, wife of one. She would like to say “recently-turned” 45, but doubts that five months ago counts as recent. Still, 45 isn’t what it used to be, she insists. “60 is the new 30” was the headline she read on a magazine at the dentist’s office. It had a picture of Lauren Hutton on the cover, focusing on the sexy gap between her

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-89658704630199991342011-03-10T10:31:00.000-08:002011-03-17T14:21:29.670-07:00

“Personally," he said, "my great ambition is to count all this"—he waved vaguely at the treasure around him—"and possibly sort it into piles.”--The dragon in John Gardner’s Grendel1. LongingI’m going to try to set this down faithfully, exactly as she told it to me, without concern about whether her memory is accurate, or if the dangly earring he wore to the fire circle should symbolize mental

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-35740944391593116912011-03-10T10:12:00.000-08:002011-04-06T23:54:25.592-07:00

Jo Kasten’s middle child has always been difficult. Fiery, defiant, startlingly handsome and hyper intelligent, Eddy’s childhood years were full of turmoil and conflict. But when he reaches manhood, things change--for the worse. Eddy’s struggle with schizophrenia begins in a men’s bathroom at a local junior college and carries him to the deepest recesses of the human mind. In the midst of his

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-16821690233981918642008-05-18T21:16:00.000-07:002011-03-10T10:10:57.121-08:00

Jo Kasten’s middle child has always been difficult. Fiery, defiant, startlingly handsome and hyper intelligent, Eddy’s childhood years were full of turmoil and conflict. But when he reaches manhood, things change--for the worse. Eddy’s struggle with schizophrenia begins in a men’s bathroom at a local junior college and carries him to the deepest recesses of the human mind. In the midst of his

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-34548804156019097012008-05-11T09:23:00.000-07:002008-07-07T17:08:46.669-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartAfter the radical mastectomy and after the first frightening chemo and after my hair started coming away from my head in handfuls but before my skin turned gray and before Lawrence buzzed me bald and before the hideous cold sore on my lip which flowered tenaciously for more than a week making me feel like a (perversely appealing) gargoyle, Rose suggested spending a day

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-45654928125949464632008-05-04T11:01:00.000-07:002008-05-04T11:55:51.174-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe last time I saw Jason was when Eddy was still in the partial hospitalization program which the hospital had prescribed as part of his “exit plan.” He arrived with his girlfriend Susie on a Saturday, poking his head tentatively through the front door. I came out from the back of the house at his call and ushered them onto the couch. It wasn’t like old times. Jason didn’t

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-37622668738412567262008-04-27T07:05:00.000-07:002008-04-27T07:29:50.912-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartEddy stayed longer the second time around, still without much effect. It would be another year, and a third trip to the hospital, before he was willing to try medication and psychiatry—to make a serious effort to come back. When we passed the three-day threshold of the 5150 “hold for observation” without comment from the doctors, we knew we would be in for a long haul.On

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-10193991406846359352008-04-19T15:33:00.000-07:002009-05-25T08:50:03.669-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThat night I had the dream. Eddy and I were down in his room, the one that belongs to Henry now, beneath the rest of the house. It was dark. We were huddled beneath a blanket. The blanket was gray, or iron blue, rough in texture, like the old blankets my father brought home from the army after World War II. Itchy and tightly woven. Warm but uncomfortable. The opposite of

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-30298837547993075462008-04-13T16:38:00.000-07:002008-04-13T17:07:39.568-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartI awoke in the cold cabin to thin morning light and the familiar sound of Jean putting on her shoes. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep as she walked by my bed and out the door, which swung shut with a loud bang. Next I heard her trudging up the hill to the toilet, and knew it wouldn’t be long before she came back. “Are you awake, Jane?” I asked quietly, looking up

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-61705620210366002212008-04-06T11:20:00.000-07:002008-04-06T12:58:13.939-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartAfter the Cronus fiasco, Eddy somehow managed to pull himself together before I left for camp. At first Lawrence said he would stay home with Eddy, that I should drive up to the Mendocino Woodlands—to the Tall Trees Family Camp we’d been visiting at the end of July for the past 10 years, a vacation which we’d already paid for in advance—with just Henry and Rose. It would be

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-82385390748428733652008-03-30T16:50:00.000-07:002008-03-30T17:30:59.168-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThere was a moment in recovery when a large, distorted face leaned over me, shouting, as if from a distance. Can you hear me? Wake up! “Was something wrong?” I wondered fearfully. “Were they unable to revive me?”Then two people were rolling me into an elevator, one at the head of my bed and one at the foot. We took up the whole car. They brought me to a big room with bright

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-446460981036272032008-03-23T18:38:00.000-07:002008-05-25T11:56:38.382-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe night before surgery we tried to behave as if nothing unusual was happening, but my nerves hummed. I felt like I was being tumbled by a big wave at Santa Cruz. “Don’t fight it,” my parents had instructed me early. “You cannot beat the Pacific Ocean. Roll with it. Or press your body flat against the sandy bottom--wait for the wave to pass over. Then swim up.” Lawrence

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-71655478964248610822008-03-16T08:46:00.000-07:002008-03-21T18:13:19.437-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartIt was a tremendous relief to have Eddy back at home. Every possibility had passed through my mind during the five or six hours he was missing. He might be hurt. He might be lost at last to drug addiction or madness. He might disappear and never be heard from again. To actually have him in the house, physically safe, calmed the worst of those fears. But what were we to do

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-54151516599872497362008-03-09T08:34:00.001-07:002008-03-09T08:58:33.150-07:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe day before the operation Lawrence and I went to the hospital for pre-surgical orientation. First we sat on upholstered chairs in a cramped, hidden lobby, tucked behind the main lobby with the smoothly sliding glass doors, and filled out questionnaires. I wielded the clipboard and pen. Lawrence sat close beside me. My anxiety rose as I worked down the sheet and watched

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-80034601094639031762008-03-02T07:25:00.000-08:002008-03-02T13:46:02.970-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartFour days in the wilderness did not cure Eddy, or deepen his relationship with Charles (they argued), or make him any happier to come back to our house, nor did it open a spot for him in Project 60, or even a bed in the less desirable Palm Avenue detoxification center. When Eddy got back from camping, he burst through the front door without saying anything and went straight

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-64796165646949140142008-02-24T09:33:00.000-08:002008-02-24T10:09:45.596-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThere was an in between time—after the recommendation by the surgeon but before the mastectomy—when Lawrence and I began drawing closer. When he left the house, I wanted to go with him. When we walked down the sidewalk, we held hands. One morning, we went together to several home consignment stores looking for used couches. Normally, I would leave the decorating decisions

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-13189660320954460822008-02-17T08:32:00.000-08:002008-02-24T10:03:46.723-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartProject 60 had no openings that day—a Sunday. If Eddy wanted a slot in their program, they said he would have to show up for an interview on Tuesday. They also recommended a 72-hour stay at Palm Avenue Detoxification Center, which would provide proof that the client was clean and sober. Palm Avenue was not a requirement for admission, but it could create a recommendation,

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-1269847694951594122008-02-10T08:08:00.000-08:002008-02-24T10:03:15.282-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe next day Eddy kept his distance. Kay and I lured him into playing the promised game of Settlers, which he won as usual, despite his apparently dulled senses, but he spoke little during the game, made his moves without enthusiasm, and left soon afterwards for a walk on the beach. He was gone for hours, reappearing briefly to rummage through the refrigerator, while making

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-30263041267666749552008-02-03T09:01:00.000-08:002008-02-10T09:15:49.631-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartEddy made it through the end of the semester at CSM, living on his own in his apartment at the eco-commune, being transported to school and to counseling appointments by his father, who reported to me that our son seemed to be on the mend. I didn’t see much of him for two or three weeks.When school was over, he and his father brought his things back home.“Are you going to

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-44731852253336008092008-01-27T00:05:00.000-08:002008-02-10T09:14:49.950-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThey say that mother’s milk is the most nourishing and healthy substance on the planet. When I heard that I had breast cancer, in addition to the fear of death and mutilation, I felt insulted that it had manifested in my milk ducts; it seemed an aspersion on my femininity, on my gender, on my suitability for motherhood. I remember when my breasts first filled with milk. I

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-38364898588081608512008-01-20T00:01:00.000-08:002008-02-10T09:14:08.323-08:00

Photo by Lauren HillWhen we study Greek mythology at Santa Inez High, I always begin with the creation of the universe. First there was only Chaos, and Night, I tell my freshmen, holding up a picture book I inherited from my teacher sister, Jane. Then Mother Earth emerged, the progenitor, the creator of all living things, but she was barren. So she gave birth to Father Sky, who lay over her and

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-38557086112731267472008-01-13T08:37:00.000-08:002008-01-20T00:33:57.845-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartClaire did come to the appointment to meet with the surgeon. Rose came too, home from Costa Rica just long enough to play a significant role. And Lawrence, of course. The four of us took up half the seats in the waiting room, where an older woman with no hair—her bald head covered by a blue kerchief—sat at one end and an older man reading a magazine sat at another. Lawrence

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Photo by Brendon StuartAfter the doctor called to tell me I had cancer, I continued driving the car home. Jean continued crying, but I felt no pity for her. Claire continued comforting Jean, but I felt no gratitude. When we pulled up in front of my house, I briskly went into the living room and sat down by the phone. “I want to call Lawrence,” I curtly told my two sisters when they came in behind

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-74211393163919367322007-12-30T07:47:00.000-08:002008-01-13T08:56:37.903-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartI called the three psychiatrists Dr. Hu had recommended. One of them sounded like a pompous ass on the telephone. A second had no openings. A third suggested Eddy come into his San Mateo office to communicate with him over a television monitor while he worked in his office in San Francisco. I asked if Eddy could come to his San Francisco office instead. He said no. The

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-13361173885060021772007-12-23T10:25:00.000-08:002007-12-30T07:50:29.836-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThey kept Eddy in the hospital for three days that first time, just like the intern had said they would. Legally, she’d explained, that was as long as they could keep him without getting a judge to approve an extension. In police lingo, it’s called a 5150—a hold for observation, allowable in California only if the detainee poses a threat to himself or others. A person could

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-42690818426168236772007-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:002007-12-23T10:31:22.206-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartTwo days before I was scheduled to meet my surgeon (“Oh, you have a surgeon now!” my friend Angela exclaimed, as if I had purchased an expensive hat), I woke up at 4 in the morning and wondered what she would want to do with my left breast. Would she want to “remove” it (take it somewhere else, perhaps)? Or could she make, merely, a “large area excision” as suggested by

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-83459995780143265252007-12-09T07:14:00.000-08:002007-12-19T18:48:58.387-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartI woke at 4 a.m. again today and considered the academic term “sequence of events.” In high school, we teach students to pay attention to the sequence of events in literature, to make sure they fully understand what came first and what came next. One graphic organizer pictures the sequence of events like this,implying that one event leads inevitably to another. If I filled

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-80119120513295635082007-12-02T00:01:00.000-08:002007-12-19T18:47:10.534-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartSometimes I wonder if I brought these catastrophes upon me, lured them to me with a subliminal siren song while I worked or slept.I remember one day before all the trouble started, when Greta came over to do a tarot reading. A fellow teacher at Santa Inez High School, I first realized she was interested in the mystical cards when she invited me to a tarot crafts party at

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-68063996446637701922007-11-25T09:09:00.000-08:002007-12-19T18:45:51.587-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartWhen we got home the night that Eddy was checked into the hospital, I tried to sign up for a substitute teacher online. I put in my request, anyway, before crawling in bed beside Lawrence. Even though it was 1:30 in the morning—10 hours after Eddy had called home with a bleeding hand—and I was dead tired, I had enough presence of mind to realize I wouldn’t want to go to

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-43657625403829473202007-11-18T00:01:00.000-08:002007-12-19T18:48:08.671-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartWhen I told my friend Angela I had a biopsy scheduled, she asked if I wanted her to go with me. That was the moment I began to realize that something serious was happening. Taken off guard, I said no, I would probably go myself, or I could ask Lawrence to come with me if I wanted company. Lawrence hadn’t been with me to a doctor’s appointment since our children were born—19

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-62100391328054592522007-11-11T00:41:00.000-08:002007-12-19T17:20:13.853-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe emergency room was at the back of the hospital. The waiting area was large, with seating for maybe 30 people. There was a television tuned to The Oprah Winfrey Show mounted high on the wall in the corner and two bored looking viewers sitting on hideously upholstered chairs. The nature of their emergencies wasn’t readily apparent. The woman held a baby whose nose was

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-26077075525654133292007-11-04T00:10:00.000-07:002007-12-19T18:04:13.420-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartThe mammogram didn’t go well from the outset. When I checked in at the Women’s Center, the receptionist wanted paperwork I didn’t have. “Do you have the referral from your primary care physician?” she asked cheerfully. She was young and blonde and wearing blue scrubs, as if she was working in an operating room. I wondered if they performed surgeries in back.“No, I don’t.

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-87369158933305441572007-10-28T00:00:00.000-07:002007-12-19T18:03:10.550-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartA week after the homelessness argument, I got a call from Eddy around 2 in the afternoon.“Hi Mom”“Eddy, Hi!” I gushed, relieved he wasn’t still angry, glad he’d made the effort to call. “How are you doing?”“I’m okay,” he stretched out his words, a sly smile in his voice. “But I need you to come pick me up.”“Come pick you up? Why, honey? Where are you? What’s going on?”“I’m

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-29524599017248851882007-10-21T09:00:00.000-07:002007-12-19T17:17:22.326-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartA week or two after the correspondence on Instant Messenger about the simultaneous consumption of psilocybin, caffeine, methylenedioxy, and methamphetamine, Eddy showed up at the house to talk. He sat on the bed in the back room, with his shirt off. He appeared to have lost weight since the last time I’d seen him. I attributed this to his new preoccupation with raw food. As

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-90254770265906216932007-10-14T09:00:00.000-07:002007-12-19T18:01:59.845-08:00

Photo by Brendon StuartAccording to the experts, (Aristotle? Aaron Spelling?) there are five stages of plot in every story. The first stage is exposition, when the characters and setting are introduced. Then comes the rising action, when a series of conflicts face the hero, or heroine, as the case may be. During the rising action, which typically begins with an “initial incident,” things usually

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-87671061113043976422007-10-07T11:10:00.001-07:002011-03-10T10:29:20.540-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart“Personally," he said, "my great ambition is to count all this"—he waved vaguely at the treasure around him—"and possibly sort it into piles.”--The dragon in John Gardner’s Grendel1. LongingI’m going to try to set this down faithfully, exactly as she told it to me, without concern about whether her memory is accurate, or if the dangly earring he wore to the fire circle

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com4