Thanks, That Was Fun!

I am being discharged from Baltimore's Sinai Hospital tomorrow afternoon, and I have to say it has been a wonderful experience -- far less traumatizing than I feared. I think I'd equated returning to a hospital with returning to the useless, helpless blob I was during my last hospitalization.  It didn't happen. Having hip surgery did not turn me into the nearly dead thing I once was. This time around, I was just Susan in the hospital.

Surgeons found my hip to be even more messed up than they expected, but the surgery went smoothly. Pain wasn't anywhere near as bad as I anticipated. And, most importantly, the staff here at Sinai -- including the rehab unit -- were INCREDIBLE. I have spent the last ten days with some of the most compassionate, skilled, and truly dedicated people I've ever met.

So tomorrow, after a full week on the rehabilitation floor, I am headed home for about five more weeks of restricted movement and physical therapy. I know I will do fine. I have to -- looks like I'm coming back here in a couple months to do my knee. Woo-hoo! I'd be dancing right now, but I'm not allowed.

Hasta La Vista, Baby

I'm going in for surgery tomorrow morning. Please send me any spare positive vibes you might have lying around, and l'll check in when I can. Thank you!

Susan

I'm (so not) Ready For My Close-Up, Episode Two

 

Corolla, NC with Celeste and the film crew 

Starting a new relationship is a risky proposition, and whether we realize it or not, we often go through an inner bargaining process before we take the plunge. We negotiate with ourselves over this basic question:  is our desire to experience something wonderful stronger than our desire to avoid painful loss?

     Economists and investors refer to this behavior as “loss aversion,” and studies have shown that we humans have a much stronger desire to avoid loss than acquire gains of the same value.  I think this tendency can exist in the realm of the heart, too. We all know someone who’s given up on romance because the last time they entered the tunnel of love they crawled out with a fatal case of black heart, and swear they’ll never go prospecting again. Maybe we are that person.

     I bring up the concept of loss aversion because it came into play back in the summer of 2013, when I had to decide whether my boyfriend should become part of the Love Between The Covers documentary in which I was featured. Filmmaker Laurie Kahn and her crew had already spent quite a bit of time with me by then. They’d gone with me to the gym and to appointments with my prosthetist. They’d filmed me in my writing studio, sitting under the trees on my back deck, and hanging out at home surrounded by friends and kids and dogs. And now Laurie and her crew wanted to join Celeste Bradley and me on our annual beach writing retreat to Corolla, NC. There was a catch:  Celeste and I planned to bring significant others along for the first time, which was a risk in itself. Would the two men – who had never met – like each other? What would Celeste and I do if they didn’t?  And did we really want a film crew there to document the unknown?

    On a personal level, I had to ask myself whether my ten-month relationship with Martin – and the twenty years of friendship that preceded it – was solid enough that I wouldn’t one day look back on the documentary and cringe. Were Martin and I going to make it in the long run?  Would we stay together through the years, as we both hoped? Would we even make it to the movie premiere?

I was a little surprised that Martin had no concerns about being in the film and happily signed up for the adventure. I assured him he could change his mind and not appear on camera if he wished, or even choose not to go to the beach at all, but he seemed genuinely happy about the whole thing. His enthusiasm helped me kick my nagging loss aversion tendencies to the curb. Besides, what would one more leap of faith matter? My entire relationship with Martin had been nothing but a grand, go-for-it, no-regrets kind of risk. And once we were there at the beach house, there were many moments when I would see the gentle, fun-loving glint in Martin’s eye as he hugged and kissed me –with Joe’s camera shoved in our faces and Dan’s tiny personal microphones clipped to our shirts --  and my doubts would disappear. 

      At this juncture, you might be waving your hands around trying to get my attention. “Uh, Susan?  Hello? Did I miss something? Who the hell is this Martin guy and when did you become a couple? How did you meet?”

     Those are valid questions and you have a right to ask them, since I did sort of spring this on you. I met Martin in 1994 at a gathering at my best friend Arleen’s house. I really enjoyed his company. I spent time with him off and on through the years, and always thought he was funny and charming. Then, in 2005, I went on a trip to New Mexico with a group studying the similarities between ancient Celtic spirituality and Native American traditions. It was a life-changing trip for me, and Martin was there. We got to know each other. At the time, I was on the cusp of leaving my husband and going through all the emotional turmoil that entails, but I remember Martin was kind and attentive to me, making me laugh when I was on the edge of tears. It almost felt like he’d taken it on himself to help me through the chaos. And, unless I was mistaken, I sensed that he might have had a little crush on me.  The time wasn’t right for anything like that, of course, and we parted with a big hug and best wishes going forward, the way we always did.

     The years went on. Martin lives about an hour and a half from me, but we kept running into each other at get-togethers. I always liked him. Arleen and I went to visit him when he was in the hospital after Achilles tendon surgery. I went to his wedding. He came to visit me in the hospital many times, bringing all kinds of gifts, and sharing with me that his marriage was over. On Thanksgiving of 2012, I noticed that Martin was flirting with me outrageously, in front of his whole family in fact, and I realized I liked it. A lot. And for the first time I really thought this might work – I might be able to date my best friend’s brother.

Flirting at Thanksgiving Dinner, 2012

     Yup, you read right. I’m sorry for burying the lead. Martin is Arleen’s older brother. We began seeing each other after Thanksgiving, 2012. He was so good to me and I had so much fun with him that I fell in love. He did, too. Martin enjoyed doing things for me like cleaning the garage, fixing my back-yard pond, and helping me purge and plan for the inevitable move from my home. It’s nice having a German engineer as a boyfriend – he gets things done and he gets them done on schedule. With Martin at my side, all these stressful and dirty jobs were almost fun.

     Martin brought me flowers often and for no reason – big, beautiful, extravagant bouquets. He held me while I sobbed over what had happened to me and all the challenges I faced. He even took me tent camping, and was willing to deal with all the extra crap required for camping with a one-legged, pain-ridden, middle-aged woman who couldn’t even walk to the campground bathroom. Basically, Martin was wonderful, and he took care of me in a way that no man in my life ever had.  We started dreaming about the future. RV trips we would take, mountain cabins where we’d live, and our eventual return to New Mexico – together.

      So I suppressed my loss aversion long enough to be okay with him being documented on film for all eternity as my sweet, patient, loving, and devoted boyfriend.  I told myself that my relationship with Martin was part of my journey, a journey I had agreed to share in the documentary. True, I have no idea how much of Martin will end up in the film and how much will end up on the cutting room floor. I don’t even know how much of me will appear in the final cut. But I do know the crew was there for some extremely personal moments, especially the first time I stood in the sand on a prosthetic leg.

      Simply put, one of the things that kept me alive while in the hospital was the dream that someday, somehow, I would walk on the beach again. I wasn’t ready to try during the 2012 beach retreat – I couldn’t even fathom how I would go about doing it. But Martin made it possible the next year. The cameras rolled as I trudged up the wooden steps bridging the dunes, in horrible pain. But Martin was at my elbow, whispering encouragement to me, and keeping me laughing until I made it to the top of the steps. He hugged me when I cried in relief. Everything – on camera.

Martin reading one of my books, 2010

Once on the sand, Martin pushed me up and down the surf in a beach wheelchair, pulling wheelies and racing around while I laughed and screamed with happiness. All on film. We flew a kite together, me standing in the sand with Martin helping to keep me balanced. Documented. Martin sat with me on the deck and held my hand as we watched the sunset. Documented.  Kisses and hugs. Documented. Martin even happily agreed to do a solo interview with the crew, during which he told Laurie how we got to know each other on the New Mexico trip and all the reasons he loved me the way he did. Afterward, Laurie said to me, “You’ve got a keeper, Susan.”

With Martin at the beach, 2013

      Soon after we returned from North Carolina, I found out why I had been in so much pain – I had a malformation of my right hip and I was going to need surgery. The news devastated me. I completely freaked out knowing I would have to go back into the operating room, and all those horrible traumatic memories and fears got the better of me. Martin held both my hands in his and told me everything would be all right, that I would not go through it alone, and that he would be with me every step of the way. I have to admit that hearing this made the idea a lot less terrifying for me.

My mother died on October 22. Martin didn’t come up to see me. He did come the following Sunday afternoon, however, and we went on a drive and out to lunch. I felt it – there was something wrong. He was impatient with me, annoyed that I needed extra help getting out of the car and walking into the restaurant. But you know what? I didn’t have the energy to make a big deal about it. I was exhausted over my mother’s death and just happy to have Martin around.

       Listen, I didn’t live in denial. I knew it SUCKED that I couldn’t join my boyfriend in many of the things he loved – biking, walking around D.C., going to Nationals games, hiking, sharing outdoor art shows, dancing – but he assured me those were minor issues, and besides, we knew that after my hip surgery I could go back to physical therapy and in time I would walk again.  But after that rather awkward lunch, Martin began to disappear from my life. He was busy. He was sick. He couldn’t help me move because he had plans to play Frisbee golf with his friends. I was supposed to be joining his family – Arleen’s family – for Thanksgiving again, but one day before the celebration he texted me with this news flash: I think we should just be friends. You can still come to Thanksgiving if you want. I promise I won’t be an *(&hole.”

     Dear blog reader, if your mouth is hanging open, I understand. My mouth hung open, too. Arleen’s mouth hung open. My kids’ mouths hung open. Celeste’s mouth hung open. And when Laurie found out, her reaction was “WHAT  THE (bleep?) HAPPENED?”

     I had no answer for her. I had no answer for myself, let alone anyone else.

      Despite the enticing invitation, I didn’t attend Thanksgiving dinner. Martin didn’t help me move, I didn’t see him over Christmas, and he won’t be at my side when I go into surgery in two days. In fact, we’ve never seen each other since that uncomfortable afternoon together in late October. We wrote a lot of emails back and forth and we did talk on the phone once, back in January. As he explained to me, there was no real reason he broke up with me except that he wanted his freedom, and he couldn’t deal with the possibility that he had disappointed me or made me angry. He still loved me, though, he said. He just didn't want to be in a relationship with me.

      The moral to this blog story? I guess there are two.

       1.      Don’t date your best friend’s brother, especially if you’re already like a member of the  family, because if it doesn’t work out, you’ll lose a boyfriend and a family;

      2.      Taking a chance on love is fine --  just think long and hard before you let a film crew document that chance-y love for all of eternity.

      Laurie has invited me to the premiere of Love Between the Covers next  February at the Library of Congress. She’s also asked me to sit on the panel and answer questions afterward. Honestly, I don’t know if I can do it. I’m not sure I am brave enough to watch that movie.  I know it will be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I’m not sure I could handle it. I’ll have to answer this question for myself:  Do I desire to take part in this fabulous and important event more than I desire to avoid having my guts ripped out in front of an audience and then answer questions about it afterward?        

Thank God I have a few months to figure it out. But I can tell you this – if I do go to the premiere, I will walk in there under my own power, without Martin (or any other man) at my elbow. It may sound hypocritical coming form a romance writer, but I think I better keep my heart to myself for the foreseeable future.  I've had all the loss I can take.

I'm (so not) Ready For My Close Up - Episode One

Writing Retreat, 2012 

. . . And the day came that a cameraman and sound guy followed me into the bathroom so they could document how I brushed my teeth while standing on my prosthetic leg. Why, you ask? It’s a long story. Let me tell you all about it.

I started working as a newspaper reporter just out of grad school, and followed that career path for about a decade. Back then, newsrooms were cavernous spaces bustling with ringing phones, clacking keyboards, screeching police scanners, shouting editors, and reporters incessantly on the phone. It was that way at every newspaper I ever worked for, from the smallest daily to one of the behemoths of American Journalism. And I loved it. The commotion energized me.

So imagine how jarring it was when I switched to fiction writing and found myself sitting in the near silence of a home office. I remained there, hour after hour, alone save for a few of my closest personal friends (and yes, I’m referring to my personal computer and my personal demons.) It was hard for me to adjust. Honestly, after fourteen years I’m still adjusting.

     Spending so much time locked up in a room made it easy to become eccentric. What saved me from going completely cuckoo was that at the end of every workday I had to make re-entry into the world of family life. I would immediately transition to fixing dinner, fetching one kid from baseball and the other from ballet, and taking the dog for x-rays because he may have swallowed portions of a houseguest’s 36-C underwire bra. But still, I spent so much time alone that I often forgot I was part of a multi-billion-dollar global publishing industry full of writers much like myself.

Celeste and Me, 2011

     Luckily, I write romance, and when I joined Romance Writers of America, I became part of a huge, well-organized, and diverse community of authors. We meet up regularly at conferences. We give workshops together and sit shoulder-to-shoulder for group book signings. We prop each other up in bad times and celebrate together in good. (Also, we drink a lot and laugh so hard our jaws and bellies ache.) Through this organization, many writers build lifelong friendships. I count myself very fortunate to have dozens of writer buddies from all over the world. Then, at the 2004 RWA National Conference in Dallas, I met my creative soul mate.

There was something about Celeste Bradley’s writing that I loved. Her romance novels were set in Regency England, which has never really been my cup of tea (pun intended.) But she wrote such funny, sexy, and action-packed stories that I couldn’t resist. So by the time I met her at a cocktail party hosted by our mutual literary agent, I was already a fan. Besides, our worlds overlapped so much that I couldn’t have avoided her if I wanted to. In addition to being represented by the same agent, we started our careers about the same time, were contracted with same publishing house, and even had the same editor.

So that night in Dallas I was doing my usual social butterfly routine, chatting up a bunch of writers with my vodka and cranberry in hand, when I saw Celeste sitting near a window talking quietly with one other author. Celeste was a tall woman, with volumes of thick, dark hair that fell down her back. She seemed so poised – calm and self-contained. In other words, the opposite of Susan Donovan, who was short, loud, and goofy.

If this is starting to sound like a love-at-first-sight/opposites-attract opening scene from one of my novels, I guess there’s a reason for it. I walked over to Celeste and introduced myself. We began talking. We clicked. We made each other laugh. And I thought to myself, “what a dignified lady she is.” Flash forward to the next year, at the RWA National Convention 2005 in Reno. Along with a few other middle-aged-mom-type romance authors, we spent a rather surreal night on the town. Much of it is still a blur, but I know it involved karaoke and random cowboys who insisted on stripping for us when they found out we were attending a romance writer convention. This was followed by a group excursion to a . . . well . . . if you must know, we went to a BDSM-themed novelty shop.

Oh.

My.

Lanta.

I think the field trip left me scarred for life, and must be at least partly to blame for why, many years later, I failed to enjoy the infamous  Fifty Shades of Grey as much as others did. I guess I had this image burned into my memory: Celeste Bradley bringing an assortment of handcuffs, whips, and chains to the cash register – along with various and sundry latex novelties – to calmly ask for clarification on their uses. No, Celeste didn’t really buy all that stuff. And yes, the clerk hated us with every fiber of his being. But I remember looking at Celeste up there at the counter and thinking to myself, “This chick is going to be one of my best friends.”

As fun as that was, Celeste and I lost touch for a few years. Later we would discover that we had simultaneously been going through the divorce-and-starting-over phase, and had both pulled away from the social aspect of romance writing. But we met up again in 2009, when the annual conference was in Washington D.C. I remember I just walked up to her and told her I had this feeling we were supposed to write a book together, and a had this idea for a novel simultaneously set in historical London and modern-day Boston.

Yeah, I know. I would have called hotel security, too. But Celeste looked at me serenely, smiled, and said, “Let’s do it.” Looking back, it was fate. Pure and simple.

Celeste, Denver 2010

The next year, Celeste and I participated in a romance reader event in Denver, and we started brainstorming on the book that would eventually be titled A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man, and later re-released as Unbound. It was shocking how fast and easily our ideas meshed. It was as if our brains shared the same operating platform. Basically, we spoke each other’s language. We ended up plotting the entire 125,000-word novel in a couple days. We were still taping notecards to the wall five minutes before I had to rush off the airport for my flight home. We went back to our respective towns and began writing. A couple months later, we met in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and hammered out the whole thing, piecing scenes together, writing transitions, drinking potent coffee and staying up till all hours. Again, we worked right up until I had to race to the Albuquerque airport. We hit the “send” button to our editor and shot out the door.

I believe Courtesan/Unbound is one of the best things I’ve ever written. I know Celeste feels that way, too. I’m so proud of what we did with that story. So when our publisher asked for a follow-up, we signed on the dotted line. Of course we did! Celeste and I were on top of our careers. Life in general was very good. The following May, Celeste and her sister, Cindy, traveled with me to Spain to celebrate my 50^th birthday, and we returned home just before Courtesan was published. A couple months later Celeste and I went to New York for yet another conference. I was up for an award.  We knew there was no limit to what we could do together as a writing team. Nothing was going to stop us now. 

So when a documentary filmmaker named Laurie Kahn asked Celeste and I do an on-camera interview for her project Love Between the Covers, we answered with an enthusiastic “absolutely!”

It was a fun interview. We joined Laurie in her hotel suite, which had been turned into a film studio, and met Dan (the sound guy) and Joe (the cameraman) for the first time. We had so much fun in that interview. Celeste and I laughed and chatted about our lives and the adventure of writing – together and as individuals. It’s all recorded for posterity, and watching it is a bittersweet experience for me. I don’t want to be too maudlin here, but I look at myself in that clip and I see how happy I am. I look so healthy. So sure of myself. In other words, so completely clueless about the darkness about to put an end to everything – my happiness, my health, my faith in the wide-open possibilities of my life.

Sorry Laurie, but here’s the honest-to-God truth: If I had known that fun little interview would open the door for a film crew to document my deeply personal struggle with illness and recovery, I probably would have declined the offer to take part in the film.

Happy, Healthy, Hopeful -- and Unsuspecting. Summer 2011

Laurie called me many months later, in April 2012, to see if she could catch up with me. Of course, she had no idea what I had been through. I hadn’t made a public announcement about it, and it would be another year and a half before I started this blog. Laurie was devastated to hear the news but planted a seed in my head:  maybe one day I would be willing to talk on camera about it.

Sure, I said. Maybe. One day. I’d keep in touch.

Whoo, baby! I would end up doing more than talking. I would end up welcoming the crew into my home, my physical therapy sessions, my family, and my annual writing retreat vacation with Celeste. That’s how Joe and Dan ended up in the bathroom with me.

But don’t change that channel! I’ll be back with another episode soon.

The Worst Novel In the History of Humankind

If there is a lesson to be found in this life-crushing medical nightmare of mine, it’s this: most things aren’t that bad in comparison.

To be honest, my unexpected illness kicked off an avalanche of bad shit in my life. But as I sit here this morning at my desk by the window, I am proud – maybe even a little surprised – that nothing’s made me crack quite yet. People sometimes tell me I’m the strongest person they know. At this point, I’m staring to think they might be right.

Here are some challenges I’ve faced since all this started (not necessarily in order) and how the “new and improved” Susan has chosen to react to them.

My mother died last October. I was devastated and I miss her every day. But as woo-woo as this may sound, I still feel her.  Maybe going mano-a-mano with death myself has left me more open-minded about life and energy, but I swear she is still here. I believe she'll always be.

My son wrecked my car. Sure, I was hacked off, but he wasn't hurt and it was just a car. I got another one. I don’t let him drive it.

My brain took so long to heal that my income stream dried up. Some books were finished years past their deadlines or not finished at all. But I kept going, one month at a time, hoping for the best, having faith that I would eventually be able to write like I used to.

Then the day came that I couldn’t afford my humongous medical co-pays. Next, it was my living expenses. I had to drain my savings and much of my retirement just to keep going, but, hey, at least I had savings to drain, right? It’s not like I had to declare bankruptcy.

            I had to declare bankruptcy. I lost my beloved old house. But I managed to find a nice, single-story home to rent while I got my life back on track, a place big enough to operate as home base for my college-aged kids. During this time of transition, my friends rallied around me, gifting me with love and support and furniture moving. It was easy to see that I was blessed. I held on to the gratitude. I hung on to the belief that it would get better.

           Even when it didn't.

The sweet, loving, and generous man to whom I had given my heart decided I was too much effort. No, this is not the young “hottie” from my earlier blog, though it may have a familiar ring to it. This man is my age. I'd known him for twenty years. He was a friend. But after about a year as a couple, he decided he was done. No particular reason, he said – he just would rather play Frisbee golf than be with me. Ouch! Didn’t see that one coming! So what did I do, you may ask? Did I chase him down like a dog in the street? Of course not. I’ve never been the dog-chasing type, even when I had two legs. I simply let him go, set him free to chase his Frisbees. It felt like a betrayal, and it hurt a lot. 

But something else started to hurt more. The dull ache in my “good” leg got so painful I couldn’t continue physical therapy, and doctors found a congenital malformation of my right hip that would need surgery in early 2015. The joint disintegrated much faster than anticipated, however, and the pain got so horrible that I was confined to my wheelchair 24/7. The surgery was moved up to August. Yes, it’s rotten timing, since I’m in the middle of several writing projects. But it has to be done. 

Next up: I had to hire a lawyer because my ex-huuuuh . . .  whoops! I almost forgot that I’m not allowed to talk about this. So I'll just say that  the absolutely last fucking thing I needed right now was a court battle with the father of my children, the man I was with from the age of twenty-two to forty-five. But that’s exactly what I got.

And as the pièce de résistance . . . drum roll please . . . the IRS is really mad because I’m still behind in my taxes, despite my best efforts to catch up. The bright side is I’ll probably get a lot of writing done in federal prison, where there are fewer living expenses and distractions. Plus, my kids won’t be able to hit me up for cash at all hours, with the metal bars and all. Think of the savings!

           And so, dear blog-follower, I have survived all this and more. Sure, I can get ratcheted up about crap occasionally, but not the way I used to, back in the B.A. (before amputation) era. Nowadays, life seems simpler. I do my absolute best at any given moment and have faith that everything will be all right – or it won’t. I’ll make it through – or I won’t. And there is no point in twisting myself into knots over shit I can’t control, right? 

Then one morning . . . oh, Susan! Susan, Susan, Susan, Soooo-zaaaan! What were you thinking? How could you? Haven’t you been tortured enough for several lifetimes? What in the world possessed you to go online to see if anyone had reviewed your latest novel?

            Yep. They had.

"…awkward, raw underage sexuality …"? 

An anonymous review had appeared in the June 30, 2014 Publishers Weekly. For the non-authors reading this, a review in “PW ” is considered a coup. With thousands of books being published in print and e-format each month, having your popular fiction novel selected for a PW write-up is a really big deal. I’ve had PW reviews before, and some of them have been wonderful. It’s quite affirming when that happens. However, the review of my upcoming August release, The Sweetest Summer, was anything but affirming. Have a look-see:

    

“Donovan (Sea of Love) opens this ostensible romance with a most unromantic prologue of obscenity-laced, macho dialogue among adolescent boys. The most profane and contemptuous of the lot grows up to be 32-year-old Clancy Flynn, a divorcé and a coward. Oh, and the chief of police, because this is a romantic thriller, with a child in peril, a slimy federal politician, and more than a few laws broken—many of them by the heroine, Evelyn McGuinness, who crosses state lines to abduct her orphaned niece. Once past the decidedly off-putting entr’acte, Donovan lays down a plot that entertains, but it’s staffed by characters who clearly exist to fill a genre slot or set up a few gags. The obvious puppet strings prevent strong reader identification with the story’s imbroglios, situational or emotional. The success of the story hinges on flashbacks to 14-year-old Clancy falling in love with Evie the first time, and the awkward, raw underage sexuality will make some readers squirm and others sigh. (Aug.)”

That is, by far, the worst review I have ever received in my fourteen years as a novelist. Perhaps it is the worst review, period, of any novel ever written in the history of all humankind. It took me days to uncross my eyes.

All my writer friends said, “Let it go. Let it go.” They are right, of course. It isn’t worth getting worked up about, especially since I don’t even recognize the novel described, because it’s not the one I wrote. For whatever reason, the nameless individual’s evisceration of my little book was way more than a review of a paperback mass-market romantic comedy/suspense beach read featuring teenagers who kissed a few times and once rolled around in the sand while fully clothed. Only that person knows what fueled such a spasm of polyglot-tastic spite.

So here's the question: Am I going to let The Church Lady’s book review take me down? Of course not! Not after fighting so hard to remain alive and hopeful these last couple of years. That would be ridiculous.

I decided to have a little fun, instead.  I got out my thesaurus, then found my French and Italian dictionaries, and voila! I wrote a review of the review! Check it out. It’s short:

    

           “Anonymous (Publishers Weekly) -- take that ostensible imbroglio of a book review and shove it up the off-putting entr’acte of your genre slot.

–      Susan Donovan.”

Hey, I said I was strong. I didn’t say I was a saint.

The Grapes of My Wrath

Let me start by saying that this essay is not an insensitive rant against people living with cognitive disabilities. I feel a great deal of compassion for my fellow humans with limited intellectual function. Like all of us everywhere, they are perfectly imperfect beings. I am aware that you might have a child with a mental impairment. Or a sibling or neighbor. You might even work with children or adults with cognitive limitations, and to all of you, I send my sincere blessings. I mean no offense.

But I have an announcement to make:  That's not my disability. I got ninety-nine problems but my frontal cortex ain’t one. My brain has always worked pretty darn good. It still does, despite all I’ve been through. And just because I lost a leg in a freak medical catastrophe and now rely on canes, crutches, walkers, or wheelchairs to get around in the world, it doesn’t mean I’m intellectually limited.

You might be scowling right about now. You may be saying out loud – “Whaaaat? Well, of course not, Susan! Jeesh! Everyone knows that!”

Wrong. As I have learned, everyone does not know that.

I discovered this one morning when I went to the gym to meet my fitness trainer, Chad, for one of our appointments. I drove up, strapped on my trusty little knapsack, and exited my car – slowly and carefully. I then stepped up on the sidewalk and, with the help of two canes, made my way to the gym entrance. All the while, I noticed a woman in my peripheral vision, standing by the door. Since I need to focus on the movement of my feet (the real one and the fake one) I allow myself only brief glances ahead as I walk. Here are the steps to this dance:

1.  Glance ahead.

2.  Look down and walk, walk, walk, walk.

3.  Glance up again.

4.  Look down and walk, walk, etc.

                                                                                    

         The whole time, I knew the woman was there, waiting for me, holding open the door as she studied my sassy stroll. I looked up.

         Oh, craaaaap.

        “Well, good morning to you, honey!” She was in her early sixties and dressed quite nicely – a lot nicer than me, anyway. Her hair was styled and her jacket matched her yoga pants. She was leaning toward me a bit, a sweet, sweet smile plastered on her face, her eyes blinking with exaggerated friendliness. I notice that she was bent at the waist in that position adults sometimes assume when speaking to a child. Or a puppy. Or a simpleton.

            I stopped. I felt my eyeball twitch. Wait. What’s going on here?

“You just keep coming, honey. I will stay right here where I am, holding the door open for you just like this!” She spoke slowly. Her words were overly enunciated. Her tone was sugary sweet. Her voice was as sugary sweet as the blueberry pancake syrup at your neighborhood IHOP.

But this wasn’t possible. Seriously. Didn’t she just see me get out of my car? Wouldn’t that imply that the State of Maryland had found me competent enough for a driver’s license? She can’t possibly think I’m –

“Come on, now! Don’t give up! You’re almost here!”

Perhaps I should stop at this juncture and admit something. If you’ve been reading my blog all along, you probably know this already, so forgive me for pointing out the obvious. But here’s what I need to come clean about: I cuss too much. A lot of this cussing takes place in my head, but still, I do a lot more cussing than your standard middle-aged romance author should. I like cussing. It feels good – you know, it cleanses my energy field and all that shit. And I have a few favorite words and expressions I turn to when nothing else in the English language will do.

So as I stood there in front of the lady who clearly thought I was mentally disabled, I wanted to say every single one of them. But then Arleen’s mantra spoiled the fun. As my best friend always reminds me, they mean well . . . they mean well . . . they mean well.

           So how is one supposed to respond in a situation like this? I’m not sure Emily Post covered that scenario. I just smiled and said “thanks,” as I let her hold the door for me.

           Moments later, when I described the encounter to Chad, his eyes got huge with disbelief – just before he exploded into laughter. I don’t think I’d ever seen him laugh that hard before, nor am I likely to in the future.

          These encounters happen every so often, and for the most part they’ve all blended together in my memory. There is one experience that stands out, however. That would be the incident with the grapes.

          Last year at this time was my daughter’s college orientation. Kathleen is my youngest, and I really wanted to share the experience with her, but I didn’t know how I would get around all day on my own. Fortunately, Kathleen’s father decided to come, too. Unfortunately, that meant I’d be spending the day with my ex-husband as he pushed me in my wheelchair. The idea put the fear o’ God in me.

I'd like to go into detail about this, but because of some pesky legal matters of late, I’m not supposed to talk about John on social media (not that I ever have) so I’ll keep it brief. John might be a wonderful physician and a near-genius, but the dude isn’t all that observant. Our kids sometimes refer to their dad as “Mr. Oblivious.” Therefore, I was prepared to spend a day being knocked into curbs, nearly dumped over ledges, banged into concrete planter boxes, and abandoned in hallways. And I was. The best, however, was careening through campus streets in a pummeling rainstorm, nearly getting hurled from the chair when John steered me into a giant pothole.

But enough of giant holes.  Let’s move on to the grapes.

That afternoon, while our daughter, Kathleen, was out getting oriented to college life, John and I were in a lecture hall attending a financial aid seminar for parents. We were in the very back of the room, where I could remain seated in my wheelchair without getting in anyone’s way. At intermission, John went to the men’s room and I hung back to check my voicemail and email. Since it was crowded, a steady stream of people passed in front of me on their way to the lobby. I was in the middle of reading an email from my literary agent when I heard a woman’s soft voice.

“Do you want some grapes, sweetheart?”

I didn’t pay any attention, because I figured the lady was talking to her kid. God knows I had spent dozens of years schlepping around fruit and granola bars in an effort to keep my children from melting down in public.

“Would you like some of our grapes?”

It was much closer that time. The overly sweet tone of voice and the careful enunciation of words made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I was having déjà vu. I slowly looked up from my iPhone to see a lady in her late thirties hovering close to me, bent at the waist, smiling and blinking, holding open a plastic baggie of grapes about an inch from my nose as her terrified preschooler hung onto her leg. “Do you like grapes, sweetie? Are you allowed to have grapes?”

I know. I know. She meant well. But think about it. How many times have you attended an event and had somebody invade YOUR personal space and offer you grapes from a plastic baggie? Or, conversely, how many times have YOU leaned down into the face of another adult – a stranger at a financial aid seminar, for example – and asked them if they were allowed to have grapes?

Yeah. Me neither.

So my mouth fell open. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say to the chick with the grapes, but I was pissed. I hadn’t been drawing any attention to myself in any way. I was in the back of the room checking my iPhone. I hadn’t swallowed my tongue. I hadn’t slithered down onto the floor. And I certainly hadn’t snapped my fingers and yelled, “Yo! I need some grapes over here, bee-yatch!”

So how did I react to her condescending intrusion? I gave her a quick smile and said, “Thank you, no.” Then I went back to my iPhone, reviewing an ad for my latest novel that my publisher was placing in USA Today.

Is it any wonder I’ve decided that leaving the house is overrated?