More Hospital Visits (and Bobcat Visits), a PR for Poets Talk with Kelli Agodon, Glenn Graduates, and More

Red Sunflower from our garden

A Bit of a Chaotic Week—Hospital Visits, Bobcat Visits, Glenn Graduates, and Kelli and I Talk PR for Poets

Yes, it’s been a chaotic week, which included a rush to the hospital after a bad reaction to a new antibiotic, a bobcat night visit, Glenn’s graduation from Pepperdine’s MSBA program in Data Science, and a Zoom conversation with Kelli Russell Agodon about PR for poets, including talk about doing it with limited funds, with chronic illness and disability, and getting over the ick factor.

In the meantime, we’re in the middle of another hot streak—it was 90 when Kelli and I were talking PR—and our garden is giving us a last showing of dahlias and sunflowers, including the one in the picture above.

And you didn’t think I wouldn’t give you a video of the bobcat video—this was about four in the morning, the night of my ER trip. What do bobcat visitors represent, do you think?

More Thoughts on Writing and Survival from a Fainting Couch

Charlotte on the new fainting couch

This new piece of furniture—a gift from Glenn for our anniversary – could not have felt more apropos than this week, when I was barely able to get out of bed. Charlotte, of course, has made herself quite at home on it as well.

The last two weeks have made me contemplate, once again, the challenges of being a writer with my particular health challenges. This week a doctor told me my immune system was worse than her bone marrow transplant patients, and that I might need regular immunoglobulin infusions, as well as monoclonal antibodies for my current illness to be able to fight it off. The doctors were indeed worried I might not make it this last two weeks, which is always scary. I wish this week (and the last) could have been about gardening and writing, but instead it was about fighting to stay alive, with infusions of nausea meds and antibiotics and saline—not ideal. At 50 I find I have more fight in me to stick around than I did even a few years ago, when I was (incorrectly) diagnosed with terminal liver cancer (tumors still around but not dead yet.) Back then I thought, I’ve had a good life, I’ve accomplished enough—this time around I thought, I’ve still got so much to do! Maybe that has to do with the new book manuscript I’ve been working on, the new friends I’ve been making, the chances I’ve been taking, the steps I’ve been making to embrace life even as the pandemic has a minisurge and I fight to stave off even fairly normal germs. I am not ready to go yet. Writing seems like one way of making a survival stance, doesn’t it, a way to holding on, of marking down your name, of saying you were here. I’ve written eight books – six poetry, two non-fiction, and I’m not done yet. Will any of them survive a hundred years, or even outlive me? I’m not sure yet. Sorry for the more morbid bit of thought here—I tried to keep the tone light during my PR for Poets talk earlier today, but these kinds of thoughts kept slipping into my mind. Why, after all, do we promote our books? Yes, to honor the work, to honor the publisher’s work, but also, because we hope to leave something that lasts.