When the Roller Coaster That Was 2022 Executed a Barrel Roll

When the Roller Coaster That Was 2022 Executed a Barrel Roll

Michael Field

 

Everybody, every year, has ups and downs. But sometimes there is a chain of events in which the lowest lows and the highest highs tumble one after the other in quick succession leaving your stomach in your throat just as you want to shout with joy. When the scream that started its rise from your body in terror emerges as one of jubilation. Like a roller coaster car whipping through a barrel roll, up becomes down and sad becomes glad. Such was 2022.

My wife gets annoyed by my story telling style as I like to start at the beginning. Or, as she says, I relate the history of dirt. So, to tell the story of our 2022 trip to the Chautauqua Institution, I need to go back to the 1990s. During those years, we were close to a group of our friends who each year would make the trek to an intellectual El Dorado known simply as Chautauqua. We didn’t know exactly in what far land this modern Alexandria lay, but we knew it was in the middle of nowhere, in remote upstate New York well beyond the civilized environs of the city. In the fall, when the church year restarted, they would return brimming with inspiration and spiritual rejuvenation. We were intrigued but it did not appear to be a place for young kids, at least not our kids, so we decided to defer going to Chautauqua, instead putting it on our bucket list.

Fast forward to 2017. Now empty nesters having moved to the South, we pulled out our decades old bucket list and, seeing Chautauqua near the top, resolved to go that summer. We rented a room with kitchen privileges and, at the end of our week, we were so entranced by the experience we decided that we would return every year. The next two years we hooked up with that group of old church friends, sharing a house and the engaging group dinners with them. COVID intervened in 2020; however, in 2021, after successfully navigating a trip to multiple National Parks, we decided that doing Chautauqua again would be an acceptable risk. It was a spur of the moment decision but, fortunately, housing was still relatively available. We found a small, one bedroom unit with a kitchen in a renovated Victorian-style house called Collingwood, just two short blocks from the center of activity. At the end of that week, we immediately committed to rent the same unit for two weeks in 2022. The owner’s daughter, Megan, now in charge of handling the rentals, gave us the pleasant news that we would be able to bring our beloved dog, and good traveler, Bella.

Thus, there was an ironic aspect to our angst and despair when, a week before our scheduled departure for Chautauqua, Bella’s weeks-long health struggles came to a head and she crashed. I was in Charlotte at the 2022 International Convention of the Barbershop Harmony Society, one of the highest of the year’s high events. This was my first International and the Barbershop world had come together with two years-worth of pent-up passion which electrified both singers and audience. Lenora was supposed to be with me but had stayed back with Bella. As I readied for the last day, one with a packed schedule of the best of the best competing in finals, a distraught Lenora called to say that I needed to come home immediately. Bella had stopped eating which had the side effect of making it impossible to give her medication. That morning Bella’s ravaged body failed her as she was unable to get out of her crate. The roller coaster had flipped from highest high to lowest low, its barrel roll a gut-wrenching turn of events.

As I drove home, I reviewed the available courses of action. We had told the vet that we did not want invasive testing, but we had authorized a more conclusive $500 lab analysis of an already taken biopsy sample and were awaiting those results, results still some unknown number of days away. The imaging test, done the week before, clearly showed the presence of enlarged lymph nodes multiple places in the digestive tract, yet we were without a firm diagnosis. The imaging results were fairly conclusive but the initial analysis of the samples taken at the time had not confirmed the preliminary diagnosis of lymphoma. Bella had responded initially to the vet’s prescribed steroid treatment based on the presumed cause and her subsequent crash days later, in a terrifying way, confirmed the worst for us.

If the lab results were to confirm lymphoma, the treatment plan would have been simply to continue the prednisone. We had ruled out invasive procedures which would merely delay the inevitable while reducing quality of life. This was not our first time in this situation as our previous labradoodle, Lily, had died of lymphoma at age 7. We knew if the results were inconclusive we would be back to square one. As long as Bella was stable, waiting for the lab results was the obvious path, but that was not the case.

Basically, there were two choices - nursing a crashed Bella for as long as she could survive or releasing her from her struggles. This is where Chautauqua reenters the story. In exactly one week, Bella, Lenora and I were scheduled to set out on a two-day car trip to a remote part of upstate New York for our two week stay at the Institution. The path of nursing Bella had a fork – we could either cancel the already paid for Chautauqua trip so Bella could continue to be seen by her vet or we could subject her to the car trip then try to find a vet in NY. The decision was strongly influenced by the realization that a dog needing frequent walks due to diarrhea could not be left alone in the rental unit while we attended events.

For me, alone in the car with my thoughts, there was only one basis for the choice - love. I loved Bella dearly. She defined my day. When I took her out of her crate for her morning walk, she would jump up on the bed and lick my face as I put my shoes on. At the end of the day, I would rise from my chair and simply say “Bedtime” as she slept under the desk at my feet. She would then walk with me to the bedroom and get into her crate by my side of the bed. During the pandemic, Bella was the driver for my entire social life, as the only people I saw, save Lenora, were other dog owners out for walks. Bella was a beloved fixture in the neighborhood going from house to house collecting treats bought just for her.

But I loved my wife more and the morning phone call confirmed in my head what I knew in my heart. Lenora was in pain. She was having echoes of the pain of losing Lily and each day spent nursing Bella was costing her dearly. I knew that when I walked into the house, I would want to immediately go to Bella, but I resolved to comfort Lenora first as she needed me more.

Three days later, we walked out of the vet’s office having given Bella one last hug and kiss. We drove home to a house that we knew would seem empty, a house we needed to clear of all reminders of our dear Bella. Ignoring the fact that this was supposed to be our first trip there with Bella, we consoled each other with talk of how, in four short days, we would leave for Chautauqua, our happy place.

On Thursday, we packed the car for an early Friday departure. We eat virtually all our meals in the apartment and take food and wine as well as clothes for two weeks. It felt strange not to be packing the dog crate and the bag with ‘Bella’ embroidered on it that had been given to us by the breeder. This bag had travelled thousands of miles over the previous nine years carrying dog food, treats, bowls and toys.

Finishing early, we headed around the corner to our friend, Margaret’s, house for a glass of wine. As we walked, Lenora asked, “Why is your right leg red?” I looked down and shrugged. The leg looked like it was sunburned, but there was no good reason that only one leg would be red when neither had been in the sun.

Later, as we got ready for an early bedtime, Lenora again inspected the leg. It was now even redder and was warm to the touch. Dr. Google diagnosed the condition as cellulitis, a bacterial infection of the skin, and said that treatment would be a course of oral antibiotics. We checked out the options and decided that we could simply get up an hour earlier than planned and stop at an urgent care center to get the antibiotics. With the car packed and a plan in place, we reset our alarms for the earlier wake-up time.

The next morning, we arrived at the conveniently located Duke Urgent Care center in Durham at their 8:00 AM opening, and were promptly seen by a physician. That was when the wheels fell off the bus to Chautauqua. The Duke physician agreed in principle with Dr. Google’s diagnosis but said that she needed to eliminate the possibility of a blood clot. She took a blood sample for a D-dimer test that, if the result were in a certain range could eliminate a blood clot as a potential cause. The test result came back in a reasonable amount of time but was in a range that could not rule out a clot. The risk of a clot in my leg was that it could break free, travel through the body, then lodge someplace else doing catastrophic damage.

The doctor explained that I needed an ultrasound of the leg to be sure it wasn’t a clot. The roller coaster took a big dip when she added that I would need to go to an emergency room for the test. In a move that would prove ironic, she helpfully checked online to locate the ER with the shortest posted waiting time. The identified facility was a Wake Med hospital back on the far side of Cary, so, with no other option, Lenora and I hopped into the car for the 45-minute drive. As we headed away from Chautauqua, we hoped that was all the time we would lose.

The wait to be seen at the ER was reasonably short. By the time I was on the gurney in the examination room, my right leg was fire engine red and the heat being radiated could be felt an inch away from the inflamed skin. The affected area extended from my knee to the ankle. The primary ER person, who turned out to be an experienced EMT, was ominously shaking his head. The ultrasound cart was on its way but, for him, the cellulitis diagnosis was confirmed by the rapid and extensive spread of the inflammation. The discussion switched from diagnosis to treatment.

The treatment plan needed to be confirmed by a hospitalist, but it was explained to us that oral antibiotics would not touch this serious an infection. I needed to be admitted to the hospital for IV antibiotics. What we naively and optimistically thought would be a half hour delay in getting to Chautauqua, actually an inconsequential delay in getting to the hotel we would stop at Friday night before arriving at Chautauqua mid-day Saturday, was now obviously going to be a multi-day disruption. 

We began a long sequence of hurry up and wait. There was the wait for the doppler ultrasound cart which did, indeed, eliminate the possibility of there being a blood clot. Then we waited for the hospitalist to confirm the diagnosis, the treatment plan and the need for admission. The hospitalist did not have a good bedside manner and we did not look forward to working with her through the treatment. Then the seasoned EMT could not get a line in to administer the IV antibiotics. He called in the most experienced ER nurse who arrived with extreme confidence and left frustrated as she could not get the needle into any of my veins. That necessitated a wait for a different, phlebotomy ultrasound cart. Finally, that procedure guided the needle into the vein. I was still in the ER but at least was being treated for the infection.

Then, me on the gurney and Lenora on the hard plastic guest chair, began the long wait for a hospital room. I was being warehoused in the ER. We had arrived around 9:00 AM, had gotten the news about needing to be admitted around 10:00 AM, were told a room would open up in an hour or so at 3:00 PM, and, around 5:30 PM, were told that the room was ready but there was no tech available to push my gurney from the ER to my room. The irony is that I had walked into the ER under my own power, and could easily walk to the room, as people walk up and down hospital corridors all the time with their IV bags hanging from wheeled poles. It was past 7:00 PM when the tech arrived and the three of us made the trek to my hospital room.

Once we got settled in the room, everything went well. I was getting my medicine plus I had two remote controls – one for the bed and one for the TV. Lenora slept in the much more comfortable, reclining guest chair the two nights we were there monitoring my care. The nurses were very attentive. The hospital food was terrible but we had two weeks’ worth of food in the car, baking in the summer sun out in the ER parking lot. Lenora brought the real food in and we ate well. On Saturday, Lenora and a visiting family friend went out and got bagels with schmears, including one to bribe the floor nurse. The nurses were monitoring my blood sugar and the bagel and cream cheese did produce a significant spike.

Eventually, Sunday morning, a new hospitalist, one with excellent bedside manner, discharged me with prescriptions for two more courses of oral antibiotics. I had taken a shower and changed into clean clothes but Lenora was getting a little ripe. We filled the prescriptions on the way home. We were tired and discouraged by the one-two punch of losing Bella then the cellulitis; however, the prospect of losing another day of our precious Chautauqua vacation was even more distressing. Lenora showered while I threw out the food that had gone bad in the car. We had cancelled our Friday night hotel but now needed one for Sunday night; the much later start meant we needed a much closer waypoint.

Monday, just after noon, we arrived at Collinwood and started unloading the car. By hustling, we got our stuff stashed and headed off for the Monday afternoon lecture. Despite departing two and a half days late, we had only missed one keynote address. I was still slightly hobbled by the swelling and needed to keep off my feet with my leg elevated as much as possible, but I could still get to the key events.

One ameliorating factor was that we were staying two weeks for the first time. Missing one keynote out of ten was less impactful that one of five. We had never had the luxury of a quiet Saturday and Sunday between sessions to enjoy before. Saturday, we drove up the picturesque lake to a farmer’s market, bought a scrumptious pie from a popular bakery, and had lunch at a winery (only later finding out that we knew somebody related to the owners!)

Sunday was laundry day, then Lenora went off to a music event at a venue beyond my walking radius leaving me to my own devices. Chautauqua has a renowned history of celebrating the literary arts. Despite the wide range of offerings, we had rarely taken advantage of that aspect of the programming. Enjoying the novelty of the occasion, I checked the Sunday schedule and noted that there was an open mic prose and poetry reading. In the Spring, I had written a tongue-in-cheek essay about my first self-editing class. This essay was deliberately salted with the kind of bad writing that self-editing would target, but it also included an insightful reflection on how maintaining my authentic voice should override the editing process. On a lark, I decided to go to the reading and share this essay with fellow writers who undoubtedly would have had significant experience with the editing process.

Arriving at the event, I realized I had no idea what went on at a prose / poetry reading. My confused look caught the attention of the organizer who brought a form to fill out with space for a short introductory bio. As a late addition, the organizer said I would be up last. I sat there as published authors read excerpts from their next books and people whose names I recognized from the program schedule read from their lecture texts. I knew I was out of my league, but I was still confident that many would find some amusement in my essay.

It was a few minutes before the end of the event when the organizer introduced me, her body language making it clear she didn’t know what to expect from me. I enjoy my own writing, especially the piece I was reading, and delivered the story with relish. It was received with warm applause. As I went to leave, the organizer hurried over to me. “Do you know we have a literary contest here for short prose essays like yours?” “No” Handing me a sheet of paper with a URL, she said, “The contest closes in two days. You should submit your piece. Just go to our website and you will see the link.”

I returned to our apartment and borrowed Lenora’s computer. Typing in the URL, I learned two things: first, that the contest was sponsored by the Friends of the Chautauqua Writers Circle and, secondly, that first place in the contest carried a $100 prize and publication in their literary magazine. Motivated, I set to work. My essay about self-editing needed some serious editing before I would be totally satisfied. Just a few hours before the deadline, I clicked ‘SUBMIT’. Lenora and I then spent our second delightful week at Chautauqua and made our way home without further incident. The roller coaster had slowed and, to our great relief, resumed its journey back toward the sun and the sky.

A visit to my regular doctor revealed that the residual swelling in my leg, the stasis edema, was a problem that could trigger another bout of cellulitis, so I was referred to physical therapy where I was given the first of ultimately three leg wrap treatments which basically squeezed the fluid out of my leg. This served as a distraction both from thinking about Bella and from wondering how my essay fared in the contest.

In the beginning of August, I got an email from Chautauqua stating my essay had won a prize and that I needed to attend the award ceremony later in the month via Zoom to hear which prize level. I was elated and started thinking how I was going to spend the $100 first prize. Then the unthinkable happened. An assassin, motivated by religious hatred, had stabbed noted author, Salman Rushdie, on the stage of the Amphitheater at Chautauqua as he gave a keynote address, also injuring another person rushing to his aid. I felt like I had been assaulted, Lenora was sick to her stomach as now, truly, no place was safe, no place was sacred. This stage is literally a holy place as it serves as the chancel floor for religious events, primarily the morning Ecumenical services.

The attack happened on a Friday; the award ceremony was scheduled for the next Sunday. I felt intense dissonance between the joy of taking part in the Chautauqua literary tradition and the sadness that a terrorist attack had violated our happy place. The roller coaster had taken another violent barrel roll as the sacred had been sullied.

Another email arrived saying that the winning authors and poets could write a short paragraph about the attack which would be read at the beginning of the award ceremony. I put my feelings into words, then edited it to make it short. On Sunday, Lenora and I fired up the Zoom. We listened as the statements, including mine, were read. Then, one by one, the award winners were announced. My essay won second prize in this prestigious contest, my excitement, however, was tempered by the solemnity of the occasion.

The roller coaster ride that was 2022 has come to a stop rising to a high at the end of the year with news of our son’s engagement to a most wonderful woman. While my second-place essay did not get published, six other short pieces, including a rare for me poem, were published in an anthology. We are preparing to go back to Chautauqua, staying in the same place, for three weeks in 2023 while anticipating tightened security. I am currently looking over my writing with the expectation of submitting another piece for the 2023 contest. As a realist, I am not expecting lightning to strike twice. I have tens of thousands of words worth of essays inadvertently, but liberally, salted with bad writing that I need to edit in 2023. And, as much as we miss our dear Bella, we will be taking advantage of being unencumbered to travel.