September 11th

This past weekend, television helped us remember 9-11, not that the day fifteen years ago isn’t imprinted on our memories. As with most tragedies, we know exactly where we were when we heard the news. I was in my doctor’s office waiting for the mammogram technician. I’d brought a book (as usual). While I was reading, I became aware that a news report was coming through the intercom. What I was hearing didn’t make sense. The tech came in, and we expressed the same confusion. Then the report said another plane had hit the second tower.

Stunned, I couldn’t wait to get home and watch television. A message beeped on our answering machine. Hubs had called saying turn on the TV. I already had. Confusion, fear, horror. I tried to make sense of what had happened. I couldn’t.

I remember being so upset (what a wimpy word) for days that I couldn’t write, couldn’t even read messages from online groups. I couldn’t understand why this event affected me so. I lived in the Midwest, nowhere near Manhattan. But for days I felt like I was in a fog. I watched news shows to learn more. I needed an explanation. A reason for this horrific act.

When I finally went back online, I realized I wasn’t alone. Others felt the same way. There was comfort in that knowledge.

I’d been to New York City three times before 9-11. I went back in 2003 (for a conference) and noticed the difference. The police were everywhere, yet not in a threatening manner. You could tell they were alert despite their casual stances. People were friendlier, including restaurant servers, their storied rudeness replaced by smiles and helpfulness.

For years, I couldn’t watch the remembrances. Too soon. Too raw. I still haven’t watched the movie World Trade Center. Again, too soon.  Now I watch the programs on the anniversaries. I don’t want to forget. I imagine my parents felt the same way about December 7^th. My grandchildren were born after 9-11. We should make sure they, their generation, and generations to come never forget we were attacked on our home soil. Not by a nation or a religion, but by narrow-minded extremists, fanatical suicide bombers more deadly than those that attacked Pearl Harbor.

Many things changed afterward. Heightened security, especially at airports. Fear paralyzed us, but not for long. Quickly, we learned that giving into anxiety played into the hands of the terrorists. They would win again. As a nation, we proved our resilience. We went back to work, went on vacations, carried on our daily routines. We might (and should) be more alert, but we weren’t cowed by the attack.

We are survivors.

credit: Alamy stock photo

#IWSG: Blacklist

It's the first Wednesday and time for the Insecure Writers Support Group, whose mission is to share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds! IWSG is the brainchild of Ninja Captain Alex J. Cavanaugh Thanks, Alex, for starting this group and keeping it going. And thanks to this month's awesome hosts:  Tamara Narayan, Tonja Drecker, Ellen @ The Cynical Sailor, Lauren @ Pensuasion, Stephen Tremp, and Julie Flanders! 

Photo credit: Wikipedia

I just watched Trumbo, the bio pic of the screenwriter Dalton Trumbo. He was one of the Hollywood 10 who were blacklisted in the movie industry. Why? They were accused of being communists by the House Un-American Activities Committee. This was during the Cold War when we saw communists behind every bush, and fear was rampant.

Trumbo kept insisting they (the Committee) had no right to question them about their political beliefs. That the Constitution guaranteed them certain rights. As happened then, and has happened recently, when America feels threatened (by terrorists or anyone) Constitutional rights are swept aside.

Fear makes us do things we wouldn’t normally do. Fear produces mass hysteria. Fear can also freeze us from doing anything.

What amazed me about Trumbo’s life was his determination to keep writing. Obviously, he (and his family) needed the money. Because of the blacklist, no movie studio would hire him. So he gave other people credit for his work, or wrote under pseudonyms. He couldn’t even accept the Oscars his writing won. He could have found another line of work. He could have given up on writing.

Why keep writing?

That’s a question not answered in the movie. I wish I could ask him what motivated him. What motivates any of us? What keeps us going? When things get tough, why don’t we give up?

Question of the month:

What was your very first piece of writing as an aspiring writer? Where is it now? Collecting dust or has it been published?

Mine was a romantic suspense that’s on a 5” floppy disk somewhere. The printed copy is collecting dust. I found out the hard way that rewriting is harder than starting from scratch, so it won’t be published.

Click here to find others on the Insecure Writers Support Group Blog Hop. Or go to IWSG on Facebook to see who’s blogging today.

The Eyes Have It

A comment Lucy Kubash made to last week's post really got to me. In fact, I mused on it most of last week. She mentioned that a disease robbed her mother and sister of their sight. I was so sorry to hear that. But she triggered my worse fear. Being blind.

Okay, there are worse fears. Nuclear attack, earthquakes, tornados, alien invasion. I know that people who are blind can live normal, fulfilled lives. People cope with disasters and loss. Not sure how I'd handle aliens unless they looked like the hero in Switched. (He could abduct me any day.)

Somehow, loss of sight frightens me more than anything. Being totally in the dark. Does anyone remember the movie Wait Until Dark where a blind Audrey Hepburn is terrorized? I take a nightlight with me on vacation . . . so I can find the hotel bathroom at night. (That's my story and I'm sticking with it.)

Fear made me put off having a 15-minute operation until I absolutely had to. Consequently, I put up with ever-thickening cataracts for way too long. My well-meaning family and friends thought they were helping with comforting words like: "I had it and it was a piece of cake." Or, "my mother/husband/ grandmother had it, yada, yada." Hah. It was my eyes. The only comforting thing anyone said was "aren't you kind of young to have cataracts? My mother was way older." What a sweetheart.

Three years ago, I dutifully went to a specialist. He was very reassuring. I had to watch a video where the doctor explained the procedure. That wasn't too bad—at least, there were no pictures. At the end of the video was the disclosure of risk listing eighteen things that can go wrong. Eighteen, including blindness and death. And to make sure I understood all the risks, a voice-over read them. Old Murphy was jumping up and down waving his "if anything can go wrong, it will" banner. Blindness and death?

I freaked. Silently, of course. Doctors frown on patients who run screaming from their office. Bad for business. Rather, I politely said, "No, thank you. My eyesight isn't that bad."

Last fall, I knew my close-up vision was deteriorating. I had to ask my dear hubby to read things on the TV. I'm sure he got tired of me asking "what did that say?" but he was very patient. One of the things I've always loved about him is he never says "I told you so." He probably thinks it, though. Then, there was reading small print on over-the-counter medicine bottles. (Where did I leave that magnifying glass?) What put me over the edge was when the clues on Jeopardy were blurry. No Jeopardy? I don't think so.

I finally went to the optometrist's office for a check-up. Whoa. Did I get a slap upside the head. You know the test where they make you cover one eye, show you three lines of letters on the wall, and ask you to read the lowest one? I kept saying none and the lines moved up. I didn't realize the last three lines were the bars of the big E. Holy cow. I thought it was just another three lines. Mind you, this was with my glasses.

When I told my kids, they freaked. Sort of. My son felt bad because he thought I didn't see any of the marvelous Arizona and Utah scenery he and his girlfriend shared with hubby and me back in October. My daughter was worse. "I let you drive my children and you can't see!"

Hey, it wasn't that bad. Distance was never a problem. Everything was sharp and clear unless it required reading. And, the other eye was doing the heavy lifting. Besides, her dad did all the driving when we were with the grandkids. Still, I asked the optometrist what would happen if I still didn't do anything. I'd go blind.

My dad had an expression—damned if you do, damned if you don't.

It was time to go back to the specialist. I had to watch that video again. More fear. I told the doctor how squeamish I am about my eyes. Without a hint of sarcasm, he said he'd heard that before. (Gee, you mean I'm not the only scaredy-cat?) So, we set the appointment for the operation on each eye, two weeks apart. Yeah, both eyes. The one doing most of the work had a cataract, too. I figured if I didn't do them close together, I might wimp out and then where would I be?

You can't imagine what happened when I got to the surgery center the morning of the first surgery. My operation was cancelled. I'd finally gotten my nerves as quieted as they were going to get (without Xanax), steeled myself for this and it was cancelled? I didn't know whether to be angry or relieved. The explanation made sense. They didn't have a second lens and the doctor wouldn't operate without a backup. That didn't inspire a lot of confidence in the surgery center. Did nobody count the supplies?

I had a week's reprieve. I steeled myself again (why, oh, why didn't I ask for that Xanax prescription) and . . . it was a piece of cake. I was on my way home less than an hour after the surgery was scheduled. I think it took me longer to get my shoes on than the actual operation. Then, holy cow, I could read street signs before being on top of them. Without glasses. After the checkup the following day, I was told I was legal to drive. Without glasses. I could read the guide on the TV. Without glasses. (I picked up a pair of "readers" from the drugstore for close-up reading until my eyes settled down enough to get prescription lenses.) I could do everyday things, including reading the computer, without glasses. A week later, after the second eye was done, it was even better. No glasses.

Now, those of you who didn't need glasses until your forties (or later) probably can't understand my amazement. I have worn glasses since I was three years old. I never lost glasses because they were always on my face. I put them on first thing in the morning and took them off the last thing at night. I always wore glasses. Contacts? In my twenties, I tried them. Only hard contacts for far-sightedness then. Uncomfortable and too much bother. And now I don't need glasses anymore!

To be totally honest, I do need them to read. Another disclaimer: I was given the option to have a special lens that would also correct my astigmatism (lopsided eyeball—not a technical term but how I understand it). At my family's encouragement, I agreed, even though the pricey difference wasn't covered by insurance. The special lenses made such a difference.

Now that it's all over, I realize my fear was for naught. I let it blind me (pun intended) to doing what I should have done a lot sooner. I can't believe how long I allowed that fear to rule my life.

One thing I promised myself afterward. I wouldn't be one of those people who make light of what has become such a common-place surgery. Sure, it was a breeze—for me. Everything went well, beyond my expectations, actually. But, I still remember the fear, the anxiety that something would go wrong. I vowed to be sympathetic and listen to another's worries.

But, I would be thinking "hey, it's a piece of cake."