Nina Gaby

Essays, art, and healthcare


Content Warning: there is talk of the abyss and procrastination

Fencepost sepia

Whatever it may be, just do it. Write that essay. Sign up for that pottery class. Call your aunt. Send in that donation. Tell someone you miss them. Roll over that retirement fund. Fix the barn roof. Finally take T’ai Chi or read War and Peace.


I am not very good at all that. I am, however, way past the line of abundance–that time in life where friends are numerous and new relationships and experiences are ripe for the plucking. I need to invest better, I need to get better at all that. Because the plucking has become pretty sparse. The last of the older generation is gone, an aunt that at least I did go to visit. But that was the last of the old guard leaving me at the edge of the abyss with no one else ahead of me in line.


Many of my investments have not paid off. I review them regularly at four am. I am almost seventy so that highway of regret is long and dotted with many turn offs where I can spend a sleepless hour wondering what happened. When the ice and snow melted this May after a long and brutal winter that started in October, the barn roof had collapsed, a storm window blew off the house, the pine and the elm are beyond repair. Not really sudden but brewing. It’s the brewing.


During the long winter three more neighbors died. One does not bother me as I intervened, saved his cats, and that is a chapter in the book I am trying to write. But the other two bother me. One is a woman I wanted to interview for the book, and the other a neighbor we’d had an altercation with a decade ago and have not spoken with since. I look at myself and ask, what kind of person doesn’t forgive? But I have yet to send a condolence card to the spouse and I likely will not. I will put it off.




I had a coworker in 1990, Linda, an LPN and case manager for our mental health Crisis Team. It was an innovative program and I was the first Clinical Nurse Specialist hired for this job, it was important to succeed and important to keep all these patients in crisis out of the Emergency Department and out of the hospital because they were too expensive and there were too many of them. I know now that Linda and I were somewhat exploited in terms of expectations, but we did not know that then. We were enthusiastic and compassionate and sometimes we even lied a little to get our patients the level of care they needed.


My father died suddenly. Linda made sure I got flowers at work. As personal and professional crises abounded, as they do in life, we happily trashed everything that was not going right in our daily team meetings. Bad things never seem quite as bad with people like us around.


One day Linda locked me in my office and shoved the phone across the desk. “You aren’t going anywhere till you call your obstetrician.” I was forty, first pregnancy, and Linda was a bit of a mother hen. I hadn’t been feeling well and was not dealing with it. I described my symptoms to the nurse at the OB-GYN office and she told me to come over immediately. I was put on bed rest and did not see my own office again for five months. (Actually I never saw it again as after maternity leave they’d given it to someone else and I was placed in an old janitor’s closet with no window and no panic button.)


During bed rest a day did not go by that Linda didn’t call me. I became more depressed and didn’t want to answer the phone if she called during the soaps or Geraldo Rivera. She helped host a baby shower, and her boys, then about ten and twelve, made me cards with candy pasted in them. They named the baby “Skittles.” I hope Linda knows how much I appreciated her kindness.


I left Crisis Team, we gently fell out of touch. I eventually moved to Vermont and Linda to Florida. Last I heard from her she was happily working as a nurse in a tennis camp and had a new boyfriend.


Fast forward eighteen years to Facebook and her grown son with whom I am now friends. This is how I find out that Linda has dementia, and yesterday I see that she is on hospice. I can’t help but think that if I were on hospice, I would want Linda to be my nurse.


I still have the card with the dried up Skittle. And I will pass through our hometown next week and stop and say hi. I will. I swear I will. I’m teary and can’t stop grieving for those days of energy and abundance. And kindness.


But today the winter’s wood is being delivered, it needs stacking. There’s no putting that off.







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Another Opening Another Show, UNBOUND IX at Artistree Gallery, Pomfret, Vermont

“Unsent”…porcelain pages bound in rusted wireNina Gaby Art (Web Ready) BDP-1623

“If Counting Could Betray Disaster”…slip rolled porcelain scrolls bound in gravel and vintage boxNina Gaby Art (Web Ready) BDP-1636Nina Gaby Art (Web Ready) BDP-1638What do we owe to inspiration? Happenstance? Several years ago–six, seven, we lose count at my age–I came upon a book arts show outside of Woodstock, Vermont at a then small gallery (it has since moved to a beautiful building with a barn and theater) I’d never been to before. “UNBOUND (maybe V, maybe VI)” was up, their annual show. That voice in my head that I know so well, the “I want to do this” voice, rang out loud and clear. It’s happened before–holding a baby when I was young and hearing the voice convince me I wanted to have one someday. While considering my options for the future (I was in therapy at the time) the voice encouraged me to become a therapist myself. While devouring a book I realized, “I want to do this myself,” and I became a writer. And the first time I touched a mound of clay in the art studio in high school–”I gotta do this”–followed by looking at contemporary porcelain emerging as its own art form while I was a student at School for the American Crafts. And then seeing the show at Artistree Gallery–the many ways narrative could take form. BAM. I was at a low point creatively, was in a job that was less fulfilling than I’d hoped, and reeling from the financial and emotional disasters of the still recent past–and I got to work and my mixed-media-loosely-called-book-arts pieces were accepted the following year. A year or two after that I won First Prize. I owe so much to that moment of happenstance coupled with inspiration.

In the past, as an artist, I was lucky, hardworking, had many shows at galleries across the country. Galleries clamored for me, it seemed so easy. The wonderful art community in Rochester, NY and the Shoestring Gallery, the Memorial Art Gallery, pieces in the permanent collections of the Smithsonian and Arizona State University–I was embraced as a young artist. An old friend warned me back in 1977 that I “self actualized” too early, and it would be downhill. Certainly these recent years in Vermont have been more difficult at times, nonetheless, at the risk of sounding like a Hallmark card, rejection makes acceptance that much sweeter.

Yesterday at the clinic I was working with a patient who, while struggling with depression and anxiety, has some exquisite moments in their studio. We paused together and celebrated that lucky crapshoot of creativity and the amazing energy it can bring if we pay attention. What would happen to us if those moments were made unavailable by funding cuts and the disappearance of brick-and-mortar galleries, museums, bookstores? A subject for another day.

UNBOUND IX opens tonight. It’s always a fun time.

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“Breaking Omertà” interview with Alexandria Goddard, whistleblower in the Steubenville rape case

In 2015, crime blogger Alexandria Goddard agreed to write an essay for my collection of women’s stories about being dropped by their close female friends, and Goddard allowed me to interview her for the anthology. Had it not been for Goddard, the rape would never have made national attention and the award winning documentary “Roll Red Roll” would never have been made. Given the nature of the town of Steubenville, Ohio, a town devastated by the loss of jobs and self esteem, we see how it turned to its high school football team, the only source of pride it had left. We see a classic situation of shredded male privilege and the anger that accompanied it when that privilege is called into question. Goddard had been sued, threatened, and when she mentioned the essay in my book, people from Steubenville threatened to sabotage me as well.

Nancy Schwartzman’s documentary “Roll Red Roll” is now airing on PBS this month, starting in many regions tonight.

Editor’s note:

Sixteen-year-old high school student “Jane Doe” was raped in August of 2012 by Trent Mays and Ma’lik Richmond, high school athletes, in the foot- ball town of Steubenville, Ohio. She was unconscious at the time. The athletes and others documented the rape and degradation on their cell-phone cameras. The photos went viral. Crime blogger Alexandria Goddard, who had once lived in Steubenville, brought it to national attention on her blog and was instantly vilifed and discredited, as described in this article by Katie Baker from, “We Wouldn’t Know About the Steubenville Rape Case if it Wasn’t for the Blogger Who Complicated Things”.

The Steubenville story, in all its complications, was picked up by the New York Times, 20/20, Dr. Phil (“Football, Booze and Bad Behavior,” 1/17/13) and later by Rolling Stone in the article “Anonymous vs. Steubenville” by David Kushner, on 11/27/13. In April of 2014, Brad Pitt bought the rights to make a movie about Deric Lostutter, a member of the hacker collective Anonymous, who along with Goddard had originally pushed this story beyond the small-town attempts at cover-up and into the national consciousness.

Some might say the whistleblowers have been judged and treated more harshly than the rapists themselves. Much of the town considers itself the “Big Red Nation,” the fan base of the football team in a town that has fallen on hard times and has little else for residents to a liate with. At the time of this writing, Lostutter faces more jail time than the convicted boys. Goddard has been sued, and her reputation and safety have been repeatedly threatened, as she describes in the blog post on her site: prinnieed., 1/14, Why Steubenville Matters. 

And she was betrayed by one of her oldest friends. As a preface to her essay about this friendship, I interviewed Goddard:

Alexandria, I started following you when you were speaking out against the injustices of the rape case in Steubenville. When you spoke of losing friends because of your commitment to bring national attention to this crime, I knew I had to have you in my book. What prompted you to take this risk?

What prompted me to take the risk was the absolute outrage I felt at some of the online discussion regarding Jane Doe, which started almost a week prior to the arrest of the two juveniles. I was disgusted at some of the comments being made about the victim, and the number of individuals who immediately began making accusations that the only reason this was an issue was because it involved Steubenville High School athletes. It seemed everyone in town was talking about this, and the chain of events was documented on Twitter, yet no one had called the police themselves to report it. It was only reported after Jane Doe’s family was made aware of the online evidence. The absolute absence of bystander intervention shocked me, and the victim blaming tore at my heart.

You speak in your essay of the code of silence, the omertà, but did you ever think that it would ever happen that your friends would turn on you?

I always felt that I was taking this risk, but I thought that those who knew me would not be surprised, as I was always someone who voiced my opinion—whether it was the popular one or not. I was honestly very surprised when I started seeing posts online directed to me from people that I once considered close friends.

As I reread these articles and blog posts describing what you went through, I am struck by how much the attacks on you parallel how quickly the public jumps to condemn and blame the victims in cases such as this. I wonder to what degree that a ected you?

The online attacks by family and friends of the “Big Red Nation” have been very traumatic at times. Not only have I been maligned and harassed, but also my family has been subject to bullying, and worse, as I talk about in my essay. There is a parallel regarding victim-blaming and condemning the victim

for speaking out. The actions of those who victim-blame and condemn others who speak out are based on the desire to silence voices that refuse to be silent.

Who besides the friend you write about in the essay—let’s call her Kathy—dumped you? Was Kathy the worst? The least expected?

Yes, Kathy was the worst. There were two others who were equally as shocking—especially an older woman who I was once very close to. I looked up to her and valued her opinion as an elder. Both of their behaviors were very hurtful. There are a few anonymous Twitter accounts who claim to be family of some of the boys, who they claim were “innocent.” They have made it a point to use intimidation. One account had a banner that used my nickname and said Run Prinnie Run. When Kathy posted my address on Twitter, I was absolutely shocked and as a result packed the car and my two dogs and headed for Ohio. I have come to the realization that allowing them to intimidate me gives them power, and I have decided that I don’t care if they know where I am. They would be really stupid at this point to try to harm me.

What other losses did you experience as a result of what I would consider true bravery on your part?

I left California in a terror. That to me is the ultimate loss, because I loved the desert. I do plan on moving back to the desert eventually.

Can you tell us about the lawsuit and the silencing? You do not seem a woman easily silenced.

When I was sued for defamation of character, I was advised by counsel to stop speaking about the case and not to do interviews. I still used Twitter, but I didn’t speak of the case. It was diffcult to do because I had a lot to say about the Saltsmans [the family of one of the tweeters who posted photos of the victim, but was not one of the rapists] trying to silence people about the case.

You were mentioned in an article in Rolling Stone about Brad Pitt optioning to buy the Steubenville story. What is new with that? And did you ever think you would be connected to a Brad Pitt project?

I have not had any conversations with Brad Pitt or Plan B Entertainment.

I never in a million years would have believed this case would have the social impact that it has. I always thought that this would end up a Lifetime movie, but never dreamed that Brad Pitt would be interested in the story. I hope that bystander intervention becomes a discussion in the movie, as I believe educating the public to be an “upstander” rather than a bystander is very important.

Has there been any reconciliation with Kathy or any of the others?

No, there has been no reconciliation. With all that Kathy has done, I’m not sure that I could ever consider her a trusted friend again. I don’t hate her, but I realized that I obviously have nothing in common anymore with the person that she has become, and I’m okay with that.

Would you do it again?

Absolutely. I will never stop standing up for what I believe in. It’s my nature. Sometimes it doesn’t make me a very popular person, but I’m okay with that, too.

Alexandria Goddard is the creator and editor of and is noted for breaking the Steubenville, Ohio rape case story. She has worked for over twenty years as a legal assistant with experience in fraud analysis and risk management. She is a former volunteer guardian ad litem-court appointed special advocate for the juvenile court system and the owner of Xander Business Group, Inc. which provides consulting services based around the monitoring of jurors, witnesses, and testimony impeachment, using social media as an investigative tool in the legal process. She has donated hundreds of hours to educators and others to promote awareness of bystander intervention, and assists veterans groups in the investigation of military stolen valor.

Dumped book cover


This interview and Alexandria Goddard’s essay by the same name appeared in Nina Gaby’s “Dumped: Stories of Women Unfriending Women” published by She Writes Press in 2015.


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New Pieces for “Faultlines” Exhibit at Studio Place Arts, Barre, Vermont Opening 5-16, closes 6-29


I love summer in Vermont. The ice and mud is gone for a while and the art opportunities are here. Each year I show in the Book Arts Guild annual exhibit in Burlington, and I always submit to “Unbound,” the annual artist book arts exhibit at Artistree Gallery in Pomfret, outside of Woodstock. This year the season starts with Studio Place Arts group show exploring the divisions in our social network. Art New England did a little preview.

Also exciting each year is the themed show at the Old Church, Kent Museum in Calais. This year I’ve put it out there that I’d love to be invited to participate. The Hall Art Foundation in Reading is one of the largest collections of contemporary art in the US. Each summer they transport a themed group of works up to Vermont and fill the refurbished barns in this tiny town with quite amazing stuff. Worth a trip.



Nancy Drew, Sibley’s and Me

Speaking of books, actual books, (the smell, the feel, the crack of the spine) it’s Nancy Drew’s 89thbirthday and I’m gonna go all nostalgic because May is my 69thbirthday month and that’s what old people do. We do nostalgia and we do it well.


Back in the old days, the 50’s, we had actual adventures. Not the kind where you hit send and in two days you get your new book delivered to your door, or even quicker if you go the e-book route.

Buying an adventure book required an adventure.

We lived in Rochester, a small but busy city in New York state, famous for Kodak, Xerox, George Eastman, and now, Wegman’s. It had a real downtown with your choice of real department stores. The biggest was Sibley, Lindsay and Curr, although people had their favorites, maybe Edward’s or McCurdy’s. B. Forman’s for the elite. I could wander around any of them forever, depending on my mood. The toy department at Sibley’s was especially magical and included books. Series were big in those days, all lined up under the glittering lights, organized by volume. (Sibley’s also had a gourmet food department and as a child I became fascinated with exotic foreign cheese, a fascination which remains active to this day, requiring a statin.)


I got a dollar every week as allowance. (I have no recollection of what I did to earn that dollar. Maybe I babysat my younger sister. In the old days nine year olds could babysit five year olds.) I was also allowed to take the city bus from the corner of our street. Alone, for one shiny dime, the No. 11 bus took me right to Main and Clinton and the Sibley, Linday and Curr. (Walking through the brass revolving doors always gave me the same thrill that I was, a decade later on a much bigger adventure, going to experience the first time I walked through the Damascus Gate into ancient Jerusalem, again all by myself.) In it’s heyday, all shiny and brassy with it’s huge clock and polished granite floors, Sibley’s was the largest such store between New York City and Chicago. It set my sights high, my expectations for a big and brave life. Just Like Nancy Drew.

Nothing bad ever happened to me on those trips downtown. I was warned not to talk to strangers unless they worked in the stores, and not to go farther than Sibleys, and Levis Music store a half block east on Main, where I could choose my piano music for my weekly lesson.

Soon I wandered a little farther both east and west. Scrantom’s Books and Stationary fueled my life long passion for office products and the feel of fine paper. The Planter’s Peanut Shoppe fueled my passion for hot, salty nuts (see “statins” above.) Fannie Farmer chocolates on the corner gave me the same migraines then as chocolate gives me now, but oh the smells co-mingling from the chocolate store and her neighbor the peanut shoppe. And I could get whatever I wanted! Both my father and uncle worked in office buildings a few blocks beyond but I never went that far and they would not have known what to do with a little girl popping in as this was long before ‘Take Your Daughter to Work Day.’ And I would not have wanted my independence compromised with reminders of hierarchal relationships. In those hours I was my own boss. Eventually I even crossed the street to Midtown Plaza, where as an adolescent I would jump, high on cough syrup, into the fountain and get hauled outside by the police. But that was after a certain loss of innocence and nothing Nancy Drew would have ever have condoned.

My early life was tactile, sensory. I took the bus and wandered through aisles of books, I touched each one, my weekly Nancy Drew in the order I expected it to be, always crisp and perfect.

Don’t get me wrong, I know my parents were glad to get rid of me when they could. Girls like me, we are never easy. I stayed out way past dark. I rode my blue Schwinn two-wheeler wherever I wanted, to the edge of woods where I could jump off and explore creek beds, wondering how far they would take me.

My independence got the best of me for a while, but never so badly that I was changed in the ways that women often are changed. Now-a-days I huff and puff up to the edge of the woods and I don’t go too far in, although I think about it. I want my 70thbirthday to hurry up and come so I can get it over with. I’ll be a relic just like the grand dame Sibley’s and the soon-to-be 90 year old Nancy Drew.











Liminal Spaces


Liminal Space 2 Gaby

“Liminal Space” mixed media, Nina Gaby 2019

I am working with a student one day a week at the clinic. She is already a seasoned medical nurse practitioner who is now studying for her second certification in psychiatry and I mentor her on Thursdays. At first I was anxious, as while I know the psychopharmacology, in my practice I use a lot of intuition and experience. I match symptoms and medications (or maybe no medications) and try to “get” the person before I make recommendations. I’m not one to ponder long on the functionality of a receptor site in the brain or the half life of a molecule. I want to know what the patient wants out of this experience, what has worked in the past, and what their insurance (or the generosity of a pharmaceutical rep) might cover. And then it’s on to the next patient because it is always a busy day. Is this even going to begin to answer all a student’s questions?

So it is a great surprise to find that, at the end of the day, she and I can actually explore the “beingness” of our patients. That instead of rushing through my documentation alone in the now quiet office before jumping in the car to commute home, sometimes a little teary or anxious about all the stories I have heard that day, I can actually sit with a brilliant colleague and ponder the bigger questions. Some of them pretty existential in nature. As my Kundalini yoga teacher said to me yesterday, “You guys sit in the belly of the beast.” And as I like to think–we stand staring into the abyss, holding hands and containing what we can. Feeling honored by the process.

And then I go into the studio or sit down at my laptop and try to transform what I have learned from the process into something meaningful that reaches people through words or images. Art is a beautiful antidote, and here is a link to my latest published essay on Randon Billings Noble’s journal “After the Art”:


Detail, “Zetsu #8” by Nishida Jun, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston-permanent collection

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Nina Gaby: “Ways to Tell a Story,” interview by Shirley Dawson; Ceramics Art + Perception, #111


art-perc-pg-1-e1552927074461.jpgArt Perc pg 3


To read more by Shirley Dawson, go to:

To order Ceramics Art + Perception:



The Not So Young and Restless

Neil and Dru

Kristoff St. John was found dead in his home yesterday. For many of you it will just register as a quiet “who?”

If you know me you know that I have been a Young and Restless (Y&R) fan since the first day it aired in 1973. (I’ve been a soap opera fan since the days when I sat on my Grandma’s lap and watched Young Dr. Malone on her black and white TV while chicken soup simmered in the kitchen.) That was followed by As the World Turns (ATWT for those of us in the know) and Guiding Light and the one about the Irish family in NY, and so many others. I was not, however, a fan of Luke and Laura, although I did appreciate that their drama brought the soaps into the mainstream. Back in the days when I was in my studio cranking out production porcelain for 60 hours a week, the soaps kept my ADHD brain satisfied from 12:30 to 4 pm (focusing on two things at once helps) and then I switched over to All Things Considered (ATC) from 4-6 on my boom box radio. The psychological underpinnings of my addiction is beyond the scope of this blog, but Katherine Chancellor did get sober shortly after I did and I cheered her on every step of the way. It was like I had my tribe right there in the studio. And sick days when I was little? My soap opera family drowned out what my real family was doing. And it got me through two months on pregnancy bedrest and the subsequent post-partum depression.

I’m not going to pretend that I liked Kristoff St. John’s character, Neil Winters, on Y&R. He was the ultimate mansplainer. But when he fell in love with Drucilla in 1990, a ballerina (a black ballerina) the show took on yet another social thread. And the tension between the bad girl and the good boy was delicious. And then the story line quietly wove him in as a black CEO (or something similarly important) and in typical soap opera fashion, the narrative was way ahead of the rest of TV.

So yeah, I cried yesterday when I heard that Neil Winters, I mean Kristoff St. John, was found dead in his home. And that his real life son died by suicide a few years ago. And I’m DVR’ing the show today so I can see how his televison son is doing, because he’s going through a lot. And Neil’s daughter is in jail. And Billy Abbott stole the company jet without asking Neil’s son so he could visit Neil’s daughter in jail. And that’s just half of it.

For more on writers and their soaps, check out Suzanne Strempek Shea’s:


Anniversary note–be OK


A year ago today I walked out of a beloved job. I just want this to be a reminder that things do get better. Much better. I quit the job that I loved because a corporation bought the business and created a hierarchy that I could not live with. This was not my fault but I took it on as though it was, this maladaptive but typical defense that we use to give ourselves an illusion of power and control when power and control do not exist. And in this corporate world with its greedy governments and destructive institutions, we have less control that we even imagine.

I quit without another job lined up. So there were months of hoodie/PJ bottoms Facebook posts and appeals to Unemployment (“yes your situation was bad [dearie] but not really that bad”) and catching up on Young and the Restless (ok yes Bold and the Beautiful as well). (OK, Game of Thrones.) The ‘dearie’ is mine, Unemployment didn’t say dearie, and the judge denied me any recompense for my pain and suffering. But that was a year ago.

After I walked out of my office for the last time, I drove to an opening at a gallery in another town with an artist friend. It was a good way to end the day. Fewer tears since I had my mascara to think about.

The winter unfolded, and the friend and I fell out of touch. The relationship devolved. (Like I lost a limb.) I had an iffy CAT scan and my primary care provider quit and there was no one to tell me what was going on. This, as one can imagine, added to the desolation of the winter. In these parts, winter can hang around till May.

Anyway, I had a soft landing. That’s the point. I do not have cancer. I have a job in a clinic that is the type of clinic that should define health care. Tonight that friend and I are going to an opening at the same gallery, a gallery that offered me my own show last September and for it I produced work that I actually had some time to do since I wasn’t working and was no longer desolate. Today’s hoodie is the powder blue one but I’m wearing it because I’m heading for the gym and the TV is off. I still check in with my soap opera families occasionally, but basically I am OK.

So. Give it time. Be OK.

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“Denial-Deviation-Perfusion (as Unrelated to Donald Trump)” reprinted from VOX, the Rock&Sling inaugural journal, 2016

Us creative types, when we can’t sleep we write. When overwhelmed we try to make some sense of it by creating our own narratives. But I don’t have to tell you that. I watched Oprah on TV last night, campaigning, reminding us that NOT voting is disrespecting our ancestors. A great-grandmother I never knew inspires me in this piece. And here we are, on the eve of the midterms. I am repeating myself to comfort myself as I did when I wrote this piece in 2016, still in shock. It happened right here.

Vox cover.JPG



THE NIGHT BEFORE I VISITED the clinic for the last emergent appointment available that week, I had the rabid squirrel dream (the one where I rip them apart with my bare hands as they puncture me with pinpoints of venom) and even though I lay safely under my high-thread-count summer blanket, my pulse was erratic and the pressure on my collarbone was punctuated by the dull airless thuds of skittering squirrel toes. I had been diagnosing these symptoms on my own for two months as anxiety, humidity, heat and Donald Trump. No more than any normal sensitive person’s reaction to the politics of the summer of 2016. It is summer after all and my tiny office, where I work as a psychiatric nurse practitioner amid my many careful relationships, is missing an AC vent. I am more worried about the vicarious trauma truffle in my brain than any missed squeezings from my heart or the struggle to pass air into my lungs in what I describe not as vertigo, not as dizziness, but as a sense that I am simply going to drop. I decide that I have reached maximum saturation from work and worry and that I have to tough it out because that’s what people like me, pink bunnies and women in pantsuits, do.

So I wait until the very end of the week to schedule my own appointment so that I don’t have to cancel any of my patients. My trusted nurse practitioner has retired after indicating to me that maybe it’s time for me to, as well. It is the last appointment of the week for the clinic where some provider who will probably look twelve years old (probably a Bernie-or-Buster because we are in Vermont, or maybe a rural of the old Take-Back-Vermont ilk who means well but whose family has always been Republican and why stop now) will check my blood pressure sitting, then standing. The youngster will glance at the picture of Hillary’s proud bicep pinned to my chest, will tell me to drink more water, stop working so hard, exercise more. Relax. Maybe get a quick rhythm strip. There may be a hint of condescension. Because of my advanced age, my weight, my politics. I think I already know how this will play out.


“So it’s a thing.”

“Yes,” agreed the kindly gray haired male physician. He could have been a healthy- my-age or an exceptionally well preserved decade older. Not the youngster I anticipated, whose clinical reasoning I could have ignored. This guy was Norman Rockwellian. He tipped the glossy red and white graph paper of my EKG towards me.

“So, like, it’s not stress. Not the heat. The humidity?” Not even the stupidity I thought but didn’t say because I was batting back big sloppy tears and nothing here warranted

humor. Certainly not the kind expression on this Marcus Welby’s face, and I am over- whelmed with gratitude for this. “Not Trump?”

“No. Not stress. Not Donald Trump.”

As I leaned forward I tapped my hand over my sternum. As we spoke my platelets sticky with fibrinogen slid along as they had always done, plasma propelled by the electrical current of my now suspicious septum.

I refuse to go to the hospital.


It gets worse, doesn’t it. Now that it’s November, wrapped in similarly high-thread-count sheets, seasonal flannel, but with the same element of privileged catalogue acquisition as my summer ones. The air has changed. It is no longer humid. The world has tipped off -axis, like the left-leaning deviation of my now not-to-be-trusted heart. Nothing is recognizable here. As if my lungs don’t understand oxygen, even though I am told by a host of cardiologists and beeping machines and documented values that I am stable. It’s nothing I did, with words like “inherited, idiopathic.”

“Lucky you,” my leading men say. I am “supremely sensitive” to the beta-blocker, says the one who reminds me of Omar Sharif. “You’ve taken good care of yourself.” Another assures me that my chance of sudden cardiac death is under one percent as he smiles and suggests I buy those odds. But I do not feel perfused. I am choking. Dropping. Everything is wrong. The cell phone on the nightstand tells me it’s 4 AM and the election is over, the floor listing under my feet. These are not my slippers. Not my squirrel toes. Not my Golden Retriever who trips me in the pre-dawn gray hoping for a treat.

There must have been a moment when my great-grandmother in Russia woke with a weight of anticipation, thinking to herself, “something’s really wrong here.” As the weight that she would slowly, one by one, say goodbye to her family as they left to escape the Pogroms settled in on her in one dark morning. A weight that maybe made her feel for a moment that she would drop, but maybe she couldn’t. People like us don’t just drop. Maybe she stumbled outside for one last look at a vegetable garden or clothes hanging on the line. Tripping over a dog, slapping away a squirrel.

I take some Tylenol and wonder if an extra Metoprolol would help despite the one percent risk of more nightmares. I pull the flannel covers back over my head and commune with her, this great-grandmother whose name I never knew, who died in a suspicious fire soon after sending her youngest daughter to America. Whose anxiety follows me through generations, gnawing at my septum. A sudden shared geography.