We're Not in the Hospital or the Morgue

Everything pretty much went according to plan. Getting my mom out of the car and into a wheelchair at the curb at BWI with an icy wind howling. Me with four suitcases trying to find the wheelchair attendant and my mom after we got separated. Walking/wheeling to the very last gate. Running for snacks and water. All the usual airport stuff. We got on board, flew for hours, landed, found another wheelchair attendant, claimed our luggage, got in the town car I'd ordered to take my mom home in comfort.

And then, in free-flowing L.A. traffic shortly after 2:00 p.m., the car died in the fast lane of the 405 Freeway. Stone cold dead-stopped. Folks, we have a problem, the driver said. He mumbled and tried to start the car. I commanded him to put the flashers on. He began trying to call his boss. I called 911. We are in serious danger, I told the dispatcher as cars screeched and careened around us. The person the driver was talking to said he'd send a car to pick up the passengers. I said this is a fucking emergency. Six terrifying minutes passed and I called 911 again just before I heard the sirens. An LAPD vehicle parked behind us, lights flashing. The officer was calm. Do not get out of the car, she said. A freeway emergency tow-truck came. A minute or two later, a CHP officer ran a traffic break, closing down all northbound lanes of the 405. He then escorted my mom to his vehicle as I followed behind.

For twenty minutes or so, we sat in his SUV on a nearby street chatting until the transportation company sent a van for us. Thank you so much, I told the CHP officer as we got out of his car and he helped my mom into the van. It's what we do, m'am, he said as if it was a line in a movie script.

There's nothing like a brush with death for a jolt of energy. I cooked a nice dinner. Did our laundry. I am wide awake. I walked across the freeway with my 90-year-old mother.

R.I.P. Chinua Achebe

Chinua Achebe has died. His book, "Things Fall Apart," written in 1959, did not enter my world until one (or maybe both) of my daughters read it in school. I picked it up and found it a chilling read.

In the book, a man who comes from a unsuccessful family achieves great fame and attains the prosperity that eluded his father. But things fall apart, as the title says. He beats his wives, hurts people, kills intentionally and accidentally. His final wrong, which he views as justified vengeance leads him to take his own life.

From a writing standpoint, it is a classic example of an author pushing a protagonist closer and closer to the edge. Trouble, danger, more trouble, more danger equals a reader turning page after page---something I'm trying to take to heart as I revise a bunch of short stories.

The other morning, M and I had a conversation kind of about the dangerous mis-steps that present themselves in this life. Neither of us feels that we are above or beyond doing something bad. I'm sure we have our separate reasons for feeling that way, but she and I agreed that we are unlikely to say, "Oh, I'd never do anything like that...." Whatever that may be. I've long had a weirdly morbid fear that I could end up in jail.

A fellow writer pointed out the other day that my protagonists are often on the run.

I hope every day to be a better person, but I often feel that the woman I want to be is ahead of me, turning the corner, slipping out of sight. I ache for goodness, seek it everywhere, but I do not take it for granted. I feel that I could be doing a better job at almost everything. Mind you, I'm not berating myself here. I'm not looking to be reassured. I know I do many good things in the course of a day, but moment by moment when the day is replayed, there are things I don't like.  I don't really take much comfort in the "oh...you did the best you could at the time" philosophy. Really? I ask myself. Really? Did I? Maybe I could have done better. I like wondering about that, actually. Wondering what might have been different.

I also like getting my characters into more and more peril while I try my best to stay out of danger. But it's always good to imagine that moment when everything might change. "In a flash Okonkwo drew his machete. The messenger crouched to avoid the blow. It was useless. Okonkwo's machete descended twice and the man's head lay beside his uniformed body." Writing-wise, that's pretty swell. I like how it's the machete descending--as if it is doing the deed, rather than Okonkwo himself. That is exactly how things fall apart.