Poet Healed
A collection of
writings
By
John Crandall
fireartsofsacramento.com
Copyright John Crandall 2005
Smashword Edition
Published By Crandall Writers on Smashwords
Thank you for downloading this eBook. A portion ($5.00) of the proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to the Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento, Resource Library.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book contains works of fiction as well as those that are autobiographical. The autobiographical works reflect the author’s remembrance of events only and may not be true to the memories of others.
Mature Reading
Material
-best read in smaller doses-
Help
a
broken mirror
a beam of sunlight
darkness vanquished
ignorance
flees
another beam of sunlight
another darkness
vanquished
again ignorance flees
break my mirror
pass
around the pieces
illuminate the darkness
of others
join me
help me
heal
Table of Contents
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Table of Contents
We Become What We Pay Attention To
Work
In Progress
Cold
Quiet
1
Quiet
2
When
the Doctor Told Me I was Ill
Disgusted
You
Took Aim
There
is a Pain
In
Spite of Evidence to the Contrary
He
Was a Master of the Occult
Depression
On
Dieting
Should
I Eat a Cookie?
Boom
Death
Toys
The
Sun has Deigned to Make an Appearance
Questions
Getting
Old
Needing
Nothing
Quilt
Alone
Fighting
Observe
and Report
What
Skeleton of Dust?
Please
Wait
I
Am Here, Yet
Frog
Soup
The
Joke
Should
He?
I
Want to Be Remembered
Chapter 2 - Autobiographical
Where
Are You From (Coming From?)
Names
1
Names
2
Things
I had Forgotten
Mud
Puddle
Summer
of 1956
Japanese
Earthquake--a photograph
Fishing
Trip
Happier
Memories
I
Will Not Forget My First Brain Concussion
Chapter 3 - Families and Friends
Dining
Time
Who
to Tell What?
Dreams
and Memories
Dreamers
Dreaming Dreams
Cancer
Who
Lynne
Sat There Crying
whwhwhwhwhweeeeeddtt
Peace
Comes
A
Metamorphosis
The
Piano
For
Seventy Years
Family
Secrets
Secrets,
Killing Secrets
Patrick
James Martin
Intake
I
Cannot Remember my First Love
Helping
Others, We Say Thank You
I
hope I Die Warmed by the Life I Tried to Live
Chapter 4 - Life and Living
Why
Are You Here
Quilting
I
Chose Not to be Kind Today
Marta
Sat with Her Head Thrown Back
Famous
Magic
Words
On
Becoming
Times
of Quiet and Peace
Objects
He
Was Ready to Go
Mankind
at Large Marches to the Tap Tap Tap of a Drummer
The
Heart Remains Broken
Why?
For
my late
cousin,
Bonnie Salma
*****
Foreword
Struck with angina / A heart loses its magnetism / It is broken
John Crandall, from “The Heart Remains Broken”
Some say we write to find out what we are thinking; John Crandall writes to embrace a fuller acceptance of himself and in so doing takes us along for the ride. These days it’s unusual to find someone who seeks healing from heart disease through writing. John Crandall is such a man: blacksmith, bookbinder, anger management counselor, engineer, electronics tech, and healer.
He didn’t consider himself “a writer” when he joined Sutterwriters, a writing group for patients, caretakers and loved ones, in September 2003, and little did he or we know that he would publish a book of these writings two years later.
John Crandall writes about what claws at him inside. I am often asked for writing exercises, especially for those who are ill. I know of no better place to direct someone than Poet Healed. John Crandall doesn’t tell but shows the reader how. There are often things we can’t tell anyone, especially ourselves. Angina strikes the very core of our being, yet we can’t admit it. Our bodies are sore, no longer supple—we ache. These are the areas explored by John Crandall. He makes it safe for the rest of us to go there, too.
Chip Spann
November
2005
Sacramento, California
Chip Spann, Ph.D., practiced as a physician assistant before completing his doctorate in creative writing with an emphasis in medical humanities. He founded the Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program (LAMP) at Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento.
*****
Acknowledgements
Before I met Chip (Dr. Lawrence Spann), I was neither a poet nor healed. The extent of my poetry was leaving rhyming messages on my wife’s message machine and putting cute salutations on greeting cards.
The writing groups at LAMP (the Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program) have been an integral part of my physical and emotional recovery. As far as being healed, in many ways I have been helped by the process. This is not to say that my underlying health issues have disappeared.
Writing in a structured environment is a documented method of improving health. Reading personal writings to a group whose responses are limited to “What was strong? What did you like? What stays with you?” only enhances the process. Furthermore, listening to other’s stories augments the therapeutic effect. So thanks must go out to all of my fellow Sutterwriters, without whom this book would not have been possible.
Without Chip Spann’s input, encouragement, support and assistance, this collection would never have happened. Jane Hobbs’ input was invaluable. Jan Haag provided me with the professional input I needed to keep this anthology readable.
Denise, my wife, has, read and listened to and edited every piece in this manuscript. She has been supportive and has contributed her excellent editorial skill. Kathy Smith, a friend, has also heard and read this manuscript, and she, too, has been inspiring.
The fine folks at the Sutter Resource Library have been encouraging and supportive in many ways. So thank you, KD, Theresa, and Sharon.
*****
Introduction
This selection of writings is mostly from the first two years of my participation in LAMP at the Sutter Resource Center’s Library. Many of them are in response to prompts involving an object or a poem. I believe that Chip, as group leader and one of Pat Schneider’s disciples, garnered quite a few exercises from her book, Writing Alone and With Others. Her workshops and the Amherst Artists and Writers Group also inspired him. Other writings are in response to people and events of the time that I was able to express as a writer. Some of the inspirations for these writings are a phrase or a line from a poem; some are discussed in the footnotes.
The writings are somewhat loosely organized according to the following themes: Health Issues, Autobiographical, Family and Friends, and Life and Living.
In the spirit of Pat Schneider and Chip Spann, I have observed and now report—in writing. Most of these writings are minimally edited, although I do include some before and after writings. There are a few that are incomplete; they are the beginnings of stories that you might see again later.
I invite you to join me in my journey toward wholeness. If you find that you are drawn to a particular piece, please let me know. For the enjoyment of copy editors, I have left a few errors.
*****
Chapter 1 - Health Issues
The Question
You ask—How are you?
What answer should I craft?
The truth to me is
boring.
And you, you couldn’t handle the truth.
Suffice it to say—I
am OK.
Any other answer would label.
And then I would
have to work work work,
Yes, work real hard for you to see
Me.
We Become What We Pay Attention To
John Crandall is here because he has not died. There were a number of times when an audience would have been certain of his demise. But in spite of heart attacks, surgeries, diabetes, thyroiditis, halitosis, degenerative gums and God knows what else—he endures. When met by old friends and acquaintances, he is regaled by their observation that he looks great—never better, never healthier. This is one of the reasons he remains alive and writing—in spite of it all. He needs the help of these opinions to nurture a healthy sense of denial.
The prompt for this prose poem was: “You are here because . . .”
Work in Progress
This is my chance to set the record straight. Anne Marie Sladewski did not cause my first heart attack—it was preordained. Whether we had danced or not, the big one was on its way.
I admit to having a harmless crush on my sister-in-law, and when we get together, about once a year, we have fun. Then we won’t see or talk to each other for months. Anyway, Denise’s brother Kevin’s wedding was the scene of this particular reunion and since dancing is an integral part of weddings that is what we did. Anne Marie and I were ready to play—hard. Most of me was in excellent shape—cigarettes were gone, excess weight was gone, and good habits had taken their place. High-impact or step aerobics occupied their daily niche. I had even managed to reverse my hypertensive trend. So I was ready, and we danced all night. No room for conversation, food, or alcohol, just “good ol’ foot-stompin’ fun.” I was able to ignore that burning in my chest, just as I had during aerobics, and kept dancing. Needless to say, that evening is one of my favorite memories.
A week later, on my way to pick up my wife, Denise, for our daily aerobics class, my heartburn got bad—really bad. The doctors Denise worked with instantly corroborated her diagnosis: I was having a heart attack. So she took the wheel, and I got an E ticket ride to cardiology land. That fling with Anne Marie did more good than family members could imagine. She gave me reason to recover. To this day, 13 years later, there are some who would blame her for what my genetics did.
As time went by, I became adept at the process of recovery, but that was not good enough. The heart disease and diabetes and high blood pressure were for the most part held at bay by newer treatments. However, each positive change in lifestyle that I made seemed to herald another heart attack. Eventually I developed a phobia to ambulances, emergency rooms, needles and angioplasties. To this day, I avoid admitting that I have an elephant on my chest, or angina radiating to my jaw or arm, or getting out of breath easily, or yes, dammit, to having another heart attack, just to not go through that dreary process again. I needed a sense of control, so I held on to the hope that I could recover and all would be well.
After a hiatus of about a year, I began to experience angina again and I made an appointment with my cardiologist. Because of her own stress, sex with my wife was sporadic at best. Saturday night promised a change for the better until Mr. Elephant landed in the middle of my chest. Suffice it to say that the evening was over. I took nitro, which helped but also confirmed the reality of the situation—my arteries were clogged again. They were clogged enough that some intervention would be called for. I hid my pain from Denise but could not hide my inability to finish. I finally admitted to my difficulties and got trucked away in an ambulance—shouldn’t have waited so long to make the damned appointment.
Again, I am on the table, it is cold, and I am afraid as usual. Overhead, the bright lights belie the temperature. Beneath the painted drop ceiling, I can see the metal beams that hold all of the equipment suspended above and around me. Hanging to the left of me is a bank of monitors where the doctor will be able to see my vital signs. There is one for the EKG (electrocardiogram), showing the familiar traces of my heartbeat, from twelve different leads. There are several others for viewing real time and delayed X-ray pictures of my heart. From experience, I can visualize, and feel, the progress of the probe as it enters my heart, searching for occlusions. I can remember, too, the warm and almost overwhelming feeling in my testicles when the doctor injects the radio-opaque dye. There are the usual smells of the antiseptic used to clean the room after the last patient, and then there is the smell of anesthetic and fear coming from my own breath. The “lead tent,” below the table to protect the cardiology team from radiation, is in place, as is the clear plastic (and lead) shield that will be between the doctor and me during the procedure. Above my head is the X-ray generator, which will be moved to above my chest at the appropriate time. The sharp pain in my left arm is the needle that carries the requisite saline solution and is the conduit for any anesthesia they may offer. Someone’s favorite music is playing in the background—Jimmy Buffet, I think. I have experienced this enough that it should be old hat. But that just makes it worse; I know what is coming, dread it and would like to run but won’t.