11.01.06 Any Serious Cure for Hiccups? — Guest Blog

[2:15 PM] OK, the excitement mounts as the day progresses, not just for my hiccups. I receieved the Gues Blog from Daisy / DZD that will be posted today. I'm just going to check for typos and tease you all a little longer. Pleae check back later on for another perspective on this strange saga. It's down below...

* * *

Can anybody help with this? The last time I got hiccups it lasted for about 6 hours and was less than entertaining, this time it's been about 45 minutes and any suggestions are welcome. Note, I did check online last time and it seems like I read almost everything in the world and not a single thing worked. Still, my fingers are crossed. What do you know?

Franky Scale: 5ish.


Guest Blog by DZD

[Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2006 13:00:11 -0800 (PST)]

hello faithful readers. dzd here, usually a faithful reader/bloggee but for today, elevated to the glamorous role of guest blogger due to our recent journey to Seattle. who I am in general, and in the life of our much-loved Mr. J, is simple — I am an old friend, I am an (old) “ex,” and Mr. J holds a seat in my pantheon of Important People.

I was nervous to see him. it took me a while, but I figured out why. I discovered that while I really wanted to see him, what I feared was that final moment, that last time saying goodbye, when my visit was over. (in telling this to J a while back, he said it is a familiar syndrome with a name even, the Last Night in Town Syndrome, and that most of his visitors experience it - so I’m not so special ;) - my words, not his). at any rate, I hate the idea that this might be the last time I ever see him. Mr. J is someone I always assumed would be out there somewhere. whether we were in regular contact or not, I counted on being able to call him up, drop him a note, and say, “where are you? what’s your life all about?” it breaks my heart to think that may not be the case. in all truth, I can’t get my head around it. I don't understand.

which brings me to how it felt to see Mr. Jones. was it hard? was it sad? yes, most definitely. it was also normal. it was nice. he sat across from me at brunch, later on drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, at his home for dinner. he is the same solid person, a tangible presence, I can reach across and touch his arm. I can sneak peeks at him when he isn't looking to check and see if he seems different. all reports thus far are true — he looks mostly the same, if slightly more slender, with shadows that cross his face now and again, with a gravity to him that is weightier than before. like I said, I do not understand. it is hard to believe how sick he is despite what we know, what he knows, what he has to constantly face.

our conversations phased between heavy and lighter. it was good as always to hear him talk, to know that he is still the same smart, reflective person. there was no taboo subject. how to best handle complex relationships, friends, and family. how to “do” what he is doing and still try to find little bright spots, little moments that are pleasant. how nice it would be to be able to live in denial more often.

it was a good visit. we (me on my own, as well as my little family unit — Chris & Sadie) spent as many moments as we could together, in between resting periods for us all. I got to see the cats. I got to see J’s life: his apartment, his neighborhood, his city. and of course I got to meet The Girl in his life, who I respect and appreciate, and who is an amazing cook. thank you both for your graciousness and hospitality. it was so nice to just be in your home and eat a meal with you while Sadie cat-hunted. and now we’ve been introduced to mini-kiwis — a very exciting discovery (no more of that furry stuff to deal with).

on the surface of it, an observer might think — it was a standard sort of visit. out of town guests, your usual kinds of activities. but it was not that at all. it was loaded, for sure. there was a heavy knowledge we all carried with us, whether we were talking directly about it or not. (we did both, talked about it, and didn’t). there was a poignancy to everything, each detail mattered. memories floated everywhere.

now I think this can’t be the last time. I can’t imagine that it will be. I will see you again. you are dear to me.

J, there are many things I wish possible for you, though perhaps they are impossibilities. early on after you’d accepted the position at your place of work, you told me that life seemed sort of mundane — each day similar to the last. working for a living and all that. in part that is what I would wish for you — the mundanities in life without any angst. the sense that things could just go on indefinitely. waking up in the morning, going about your business, coming home, feeding the cats, sleeping without pain, waking again without worry aside from the day-to-day variety. the mundanities take on a certain sparkle depending on the perspective from which you view them.

one last thing — a memory, of which I have many. but this particular day is one of doing regular things that took on a certain sparkle due to the company kept. it was Salt Lake, early 90s. a fall day with some rain. if memory serves, we drank some coffee. we browsed the packed aisles of an art supply store while I picked up things I needed and things I didn’t for school. the smell of paints and sharpened pencils and oil pastels, pads and pads of fresh paper. ah. we loved it. most likely after that we ate some food at Cafe Trang or the Red Iguana. then perhaps we napped, read books, ate again, visited with friends. maybe watched a movie. it was a place and time when, cliche as this might sound, everything seemed simple and the company — yours — was what made everything so satisfying and important. thank you for that.