WHAT IS THAT AWFUL SMELL?

Good grief!  What is that rotten smell?  I stepped from the third plane of my trip from Gainesville into Monroe, Louisiana, home of many paper mills.  Many, many paper mills, all of which smelled revolting.  I was tired, hungry, dirty and my incision was leaking badly.  None of the ordered wheelchairs had been there and I hobbled from one concourse to another, leaking copious amounts of .....yucky stuff.

Monroe, Louisiana

At last I glimpsed Paul who seemed glad to see me in spite of my ghastly appearance.

"Don't hug me; I really need to change my bandage and I haven't been able to and it's ... leaking."

Paul blanched at this news in spite of having been a medic in the Navy.  We drove to the hotel as I regaled Paul with tales of my lengthy hospital stay.  My father had visited me right after my first surgery and thought I had been decapitated.  (I have the scar to this day.)  Paul told me about the youngest kids playing the King of Siam's many children.  One was three and one was four and they had been cast because they were adorable.  But when they got bored, the little girl did somersaults and the small boy picked his nose.  The resounding laughter these behaviors received from the cast and crew did nothing to discourage our young Thespians.  And yes, the dancer playing Eliza did have huge breasts which did as they pleased.  Paul did not seem unduly concerned by this fascinating display.

Anna and the King

What did concern him was that the custom in Monroe was apparently to hire a professional director with a great deal of experience and then allow anyone in the theatre to give amateur notes to the professional.  Board members, prop people, the costume lady, parents of cast members, the janitor--all were encouraged to give Paul nightly notes based on their complete lack of theatrical knowledge.  Paul was dumbfounded by this custom.

"Why did they hire me if the prop manager knows more than I do?  What about the big-breasted dancer?  Maybe she has some line readings she'd like to suggest.  The actors playing Anna and the King actually have a great deal of experience.  They know what they're doing.  But you don't see them giving me notes every night."

I had grown up in community theatre; I knew that Ego reigned supreme.  The less a person knew about acting and production, the more they felt qualified to give advice.  Mostly dumb advice.  Paul was having a hard time, but I was enjoying myself.  I slept late; I didn't have to work and every night I went to rehearsals and socialized with everyone.  It was exactly what I needed after My Kidney Stone Honeymoon.  And eventually Opening Night came as it always does.  The King and I was a huge success and everyone who had ever given Paul notes took sole credit for its shining glory.

                                                               To Be Continued

LEAVING SHANDS

The kidney stone surgery was over; I was out of Recovery and back in my room.  I was in pain.  A lot of pain.  I felt dreadful.  The phone rang.  I knew it had to be Paul.  As soon as I heard his voice, I burst into tears.

"I feel so terrible and it's an hour until my pain shot and I can't stand it.  I don't want to be brave and cheerful anymore.  I'm NOT brave or cheerful.  I want to go home!"  I went on and on and couldn't stop.  Paul murmured comforting words and I couldn't stop sobbing and sniveling.  We talked for a long time and at last the sweet nurse came in and gave me a pain shot.  Paul kept talking softly until I fell asleep.  The next day I felt no better.  Meals consisted of watery brown soup and Jello.  I hate Jello even now.  I was poking at the green Jello with my spoon in spiteful jabs when someone came in.  I looked up and saw my husband who had taken three different planes to get from Monroe to Gainesville.  My husband who hated to fly and said the Rosary many times when in the air.

"You must really like me," I said.  He smiled.

We spent the day together.  Paul regaled me with stories of rehearsals and Paul could always tell a good story and make me laugh.  The show had already been cast before he got there and not always wisely.  The beautiful Tuptim who sang the show's loveliest songs with her forbidden lover was being played by a very plain girl in glasses who couldn't sing very well.  Several blond teenagers had been cast as the brunette wives of the King of Siam and would all have to dye their hair.  The dancer playing Eliza was so buxom that when she leaped from one ice floe to another, her gigantic breasts bobbed up and down in a most distracting fashion. By this time I was laughing so hard I thought I would burst my stitches

"But most dancers are rather flat chested," I said.

"Not this one," said Paul.  "Not this one."

Late that night after Paul had left to begin his long, long return trip to Monroe, I lay awake thinking that soon I would leave this place, cured, and I would never have another kidney stone in my life.

And that is exactly what happened.

KIDNEY STONES AND TUMORS, OH, MY! Part Two

"Why aren't you wearing glasses?" the doctor asked mildly.  "When was your last eye exam?"

"This is my first," I said reluctantly.  The doctor looked at me as if I had said I had just arrived from Pluto.

"You should have begun wearing glasses years ago.  Get some as soon as you go home.  And you have calcium crystals in your eyes."

Calcium crystals?  I had heard a lot about calcium in the past few days.  Apparently, it was all over where it shouldn't be.  I wasn't allowed to drink milk.

  

The surgeon was smiling at me so how bad could it be?

"We've discovered what the problem is.  You have a tumor on the parathyroid gland which is causing your body to make massive amounts of calcium and that's what is causing you to rapidly manufacture kidney stones.  We're removing it tomorrow."

"And the kidney stones too?

"No, that's a whole separate operation.  The parathyroid gland and the kidneys are not even close.  We'd have to make a very large incision."  The doctor laughed merrily.

All rightie then.  By the next afternoon the offending tumor was gone and I was out of recovery and back in my room.  I staggered to the sink to brush my teeth.  When I looked in the mirror, I screamed.  Apparently, I had been decapitated during the surgery and my head had been sewn back on with big black stitches.  I was pale as a ghost.  Perhaps my future included starring in horror films; I wouldn't even need makeup.  I had never looked more dreadful in my life.

At that moment an extremely handsome young man in a white coat entered the room.  He looked at me, then immediately averted his eyes.  I didn't blame him.  As he helped me back to  my bed, this blue-eyed vision told me he was Doctor Larkin and he had come to take my medical history and was I amenable to that.  Oh, I was amenable all right.  He didn't want to take blood; he didn't want to take X-rays; he didn't even want me to pee in a cup.  He just wanted to talk.

Dr. Larkin gave me a dazzling smile and said, "Well, how are you, Miss Linda?"

"I think I'm the bride of Frankenstein's monster."

We both laughed.

To Be Continued

                          

                                

KIDNEY STONES AND TUMORS, OH, MY!

I came out of the urologist's examining room wondering when I'd have to go to Shands in Gainesville, where they were doing research on recurring kidney stones.  Paul and my father were sitting in Dr. Giordano's office looking profoundly serious.

"I've already made arrangements for you to be admitted to Shands tomorrow for various tests and of course more surgery.  There's no escaping that.  Hopefully, they will find what's causing you to rapidly produce kidney stones, fix it, and you'll be fine!"  Dr. G smiled reassuringly.  Dad and Paul attempted to smile.

I felt scared.

By the next afternoon I was sitting on my hospital bed at Shands, dressed in a huge hospital gown, saying Goodbye to Paul.  He was to direct The King and I in Monroe, Louisiana.

He looked very sad.  Jumping into my usual role of Court Jester, I said, "I'll be there in about two weeks at the most.  The King and I is a wonderful musical.  You'll have so much fun and so will I when I get there!"

"All those little kids and hoop skirts.  The King of Siam!"

"Topsy and Little Eva and the Small House of Uncle Thomas," I cried.

We hugged and Paul was gone.  I knew he would light a cigarette as soon as he was outside.  I sat on the bed and wondered what to do with myself.

Many years later I learned that Dr. Giordano had told Paul and Dad that it was imperative that the doctors at Shands discover  what was causing me to rapidly produce so many kidney stones.  If they did not,

I would not live very long.  Blithely unaware of this prediction, I looked ahead to the future.

To Be Continued

STREETS OF CARACAS

I stared at my cup of mud wondering what it could possibly be.  Paul had a strange look on his face and he didn't pick up his cup.

"Ah, Leenda, you do not like expresso?"

So that's what it was! "Ah, no, sir.  I find it to be a bit too strong for me.  I guess it's a man's drink!" 

 Paul gave me a thunderous look.  Now his very manhood was at stake!  Why did I always say things without thinking?  He didn't want to drink black mud either!

But he did.  And he studiously avoided looking at his wife who had betrayed him. I prayed he would not throw up.  At last our luncheon was over and Paul was glad.  Back down the mountain we went at death defying speeds.  Our generous hosts wanted us to see the city.  They drove us through the very wealthy part of Caracas first and all the         homes were large and very beautiful. I       asked why all the windows were barred.

"There are very poor people in Caracas, so poor that they will reach into an open window and steal things off the dresser.  Naturally,    the wealthy must protect themselves."

As we entered the city streets, Caracas became a different world.  Groups of people surrounded the car, speaking rapid Spanish and handing flyers and pamphlets through the open car windows.  The car slowed as we made our way through the city.  Our hosts seemed unconcerned about the intensity of the crowd, but I was upset.  I looked at Paul.

  "They want change," he said in a low voice.       "They are desperate."

I couldn't take my eyes off their faces. I    can still see them, sweating in the intense     heat, begging us to notice. 

       Suddenly, I wanted to go home.                       

AN INTERESTING LUNCH IN CARACAS

At last we arrived at the glamorous hotel and very high up it was.  I was pale and Paul was green.  We both thanked God for our deliverance and tottered inside.  Our gracious hosts were solicitous.

"We drive a little too fast for you, Leenda?"  Leenda was weak in the knees and clutched her husband.  "Oh, no, not too fast," I lied.

"I'm just not used to mountains.  I live in Florida, you know."

"Not too many mountains in Florida," said Paul in a vain attempt to be lighthearted.

Suddenly, both men looked very serious as we studied the menus which, of course, were in Spanish.  I realized my three years of Spanish in high school were totally worthless.

"Now, Leenda, a few precautions.  Don't drink the water.  And no lettuce or raw vegetables, very unsafe.  We don't want you to be sick."

I nodded as the list of forbidden foods went on.  What could we eat that would not make us violently ill?  Paul and the two gentlemen had a lively conversation in Espanol and the three of them came up with a menu.  Plates and dishes and bowls and platters of unidentifiable foods were brought.  I was at first tentative, but everything was delicious.  Juan,the young, handsome waiter eyed me every time he came to the table and smiled most provocatively.  Finally, he said something to the men, but looked at me.

"What was that all about?" I said to Paul.

"He thinks you are very pretty, but too skinny. He is bringing you a very rich dessert with his compliments. And he asked if you were married to any of us."

I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened had I not been married?  I pictured Juan emerging from the shadows and pulling me into his arms.  In this little fantasy Juan looked like George Chakiris in West Side Story.  Ah, here was Juan coming toward us in the flesh carrying some unbelievably scrumptious masterpiece. He placed it before me with a shy smile.  Did this type of thing happen often in Caracas?  Who knew?

"Muchas gracias....Juan."

Then each of us was given a small cup of what appeared to be .... black mud.

                                                                 TO BE CONTINUED

CARACAS, VENEZUELA 1965 -- The Very Rich and the Very Poor

 Caracas, Venezuela

After taking lots of painkillers, I felt I could accompany Paul into the city.  He had lived in South America for four years when he was a boy when his father worked in Buenos Aires.

Representatives from that company in Caracas were to meet us and show us the sights.  Notice the mountains.  I was a Florida girl.  Little did I know what lay ahead.  We rose early to watch the ship dock.  The impressive mountains seemed to have brown rectangles everywhere.

"What is that all over the mountain?" I asked Paul.  "It looks like a bunch of boxes."

A long pause.

"It IS a bunch of boxes.  Packing boxes for refrigerators, stoves, things like that.  The poor take them out of the garbage of the rich and live in them.  They have nothing." *

"I don't understand.  How can you live in a box?Where do you go to the bathroom and bathe?"

"Here there are only the very wealthy and those who live in poverty.  There is no middle class."

Up until now I had thought that I was poor.  Now I realized I was not.  Remember, I felt too ill to leave the ship in Haiti where naked children begged so I was unprepared.

Two charming gentlemen met us as we left the ship.  They immediately presented me with a huge orchid corsage.  I was overwhelmed.  In the States those orchids would have cost a fortune. I said Muchas Gracias about a hundred times. Although their English was quite good, Paul's Spanish was excellent.  The three men chattered away in Spanish as I tried to adjust my world view.  And I was about to be shocked yet again.  Our gracious hosts were beautifully dressed and had important jobs, but their car was very old and banged up.  Paul and I sat in the back and the gentlemen sat up front and explained that there were no automobile manufacturers in Venezuela at that time so old cars no one in America wanted were shipped to Caracas at great expense and then sold to men like them for a great deal of money.  Then the ancient auto took off at great speed on the narrow mountain roads--guard rails were non-existent--and we climbed higher and higher and I knew I would soon be in Heaven one way of another.  I saw that Paul was silently saying the    Rosary as I gripped his hand in mine.  I prayed we would be at the hotel before I experienced heart failure.  We flew into clouds.                             

                                                       TO BE CONTINUED                                                            

 *I could not find a photo of what was on the mountain in 1965.  The above pictures must reflect more modern times.